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Published
in Gulf News, March 13, 2007
Punctual is
the
new premature
I'm
the sort of person who's 10 minutes early to everything, except
social occasions where I'm either on time, or unfashionably, five
minutes late. My wife is less pathological and knows the value of
a good 30-minute social margin. But when we were recently invited
to our neighbour's baby-naming ceremony, we decided that a 15-minute
delay was good middle ground, just in case it had a scheduled start.
When
our neighbour (let's call him Muthu) answered the door, he looked
so surprised to see us that we wondered whether we'd got the date
wrong. He recovered and ushered us in, where we found his wife in
her nightie, emptying something out of a blender. Our arrival resulted
in general chaos and embarrassment for about five minutes after
which everybody, Muthu, wife, wife's mother and baby disappeared.
It's hard for three and a half people to effectively vanish in a
one-bedroom flat, but they managed quite well, leaving us surreally
alone in their living room, alternating between watching the flashing
lights on the new crib and the Grammy awards on television.
Ten
minutes later, the bedroom door opened and Muthu came out carrying
the baby, which he deposited in my wife's arms and vanished again.
His faith in us was both touching and alarming, especially since
this was his first child, and barely two weeks old. Maybe it was
still under warranty. Even so, when my wife asked if I wanted to
hold it, I politely declined, acutely aware of being in the land
of legal accountability for your every action, especially accidental
investigation into the etymology of "bouncing baby boy".
About
40 minutes after the appointed hour, the first guests arrived (we
were merely the first nuisances). The hosts didn't emerge when the
doorbell rang, so I took it upon myself to welcome them in. The
women outside showed no surprise at seeing this stranger at the
door and didn't even acknowledge my cheery hello. They walked in,
relieved us of the baby and formed a huddle. There was still no
sign of Muthu. It was finally 7.30pm when he came out washed, brushed
and lightly powdered, a full one hour late in his own home.
Then
the polarisation that is so common with Indian gatherings set in.
The women all went to the bedroom and cooed over the baby, and the
men stood in a circle in the living room and talked about cars and
traffic jams. My wife and I were the only renegade couple who not
only stayed together, but said more than one word to each other
the whole evening.
In
contrast, the ceremony was warm and meaningful. The baby was set
in its new crib and heard its name for the first time from its father,
who bent over to whisper it in its ear. Then the guests came up
to give the baby gifts, putting them briefly in the crib and then
setting them beside it on the floor.
One
could look at Muthu's relaxed hospitality as utter disregard for
our time and space. But a better way is to understand that we were
accepted into their home unconditionally: their living room was
our living room, their baby was our baby. For instance, just as
it was perfectly acceptable for the host to be an hour late, it
was also fine for a guest to sit in a corner and watch television
the whole evening.
Perhaps
Muthu thought it boorish of us to come a mere 15 minutes late and
not understand basic etiquette: that to be punctual is not to be
on time, but to be at least one hour late.
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