The Story of a Night Party - Essay Example

The Party Nonita settled herself on the couch more comfortably, sinking into the welcome oblivion behind the lamp-shade. From her almost invisible position in the corner, she could observe the entire room. All the elated, half-intoxicated people bathed in that soft light. She smiled to herself; a warmth of gladness sweeping over her at finally finding some peace and time to herself. Her toes began to relax inside the tight, black pumps she’d chosen to wear tonight. She closed her eyes and felt her shoulders sagging, the stiff muscles of her face finally relaxing and setting themselves into her characteristic grimace. She moaned softly. Thank god for plush leather sofas, she said to herself. These parties always went on a few hours longer than they ought. People began to fidget, not knowing whether to leave or stay on, they stalled from minute to minute trying to decide whether they wanted to leave or stay on. The boisterous drunk trying to make conversation for everyone, the depressive ones staring stonily at nothingness, and the sober ones shiftily eyeing each other and the clock on the wall overhead; she smiled again, her lips curling up into that ironic twist that had made her so infamous around the office. The Snarky Bitch: that’s who she was. They thought she didn’t know, but she could tell. She could tell from the abrupt stop in conversations when she walked in, the knowing smiles they exchanged when she left, those infuriating little inside-jokes they would laugh about in her presence. She’d realized right away that she was never going to be welcome here, and had decided to make it her job to be as abrasive as possible. She wasn’t welcome, was she? Well, she didn’t want to be! She covered her eyes with her hands and tried to calm down. It had been two months here, she ought to have gotten used to it by now. Fragments of conversation began to float in. She froze and almost involuntarily, began to listen. “I’m telling you Shinde; that could not have been me you saw. I was nowhere near Tolly Club that evening! Ask your wife, na.” “You mean he didn’t even call after that? How could he use you like that!” “But of course, metaphysical poetry must necessarily be read in its contextualized framework of the period that is commonly called – but it is a gross error to call it so, although this is open to much debate, something I talk about in my last book, you know. Yes what was I saying? – The Renaissance. I mean someone like Donne, aspiring courtier, flamboyant in his romances –” Here the speaker paused to drain his glass, before continuing, “But of course, people like Rowling are very over-rated. I mean what has she really contributed beyond some copying and bringing together bits and pieces of a million fairy tales and adding some adolescent angst and growing pains to it?” Nonita groaned. Listening to them talk made her want to strangle herself. Why had she ever agreed to leave her little town and come work here? To make it BIG, Right, she reminded herself. Well I must be close to size blue-whale right about now. She arose from her seat gingerly and stepping over the pair of knees that had been resting right beside hers, made her way to the balcony, unnoticed. Shoving aside the soundproof, sliding door she stumbled on to the ice-cool railing. Leaning over on her stomach, she let go of her body, hanging like a mannequin across the railing, against the strong draught. She breathed in deeply and just lay there, unmoving for a few minutes. The biting cold wind cooled her frayed nerves. She touched her throbbing temples with her fingertips and flung her head up again, getting back on her feet. How beautiful this city looked in the moonlight. Why would they want to stay cooped up in that smoky, yellow room when there was this just waiting outside? Silver-tipped skyscrapers loomed up at her from every side; And beyond them, the glistening, moving surface of the lake. The trees stopped far below; black clumps of delicate lace. The only road visible from here weaved around the buildings like an unobtrusive, somber grey snake. It must be full-moon, tonight, she thought to herself. People go crazy on full-moons, don’t they? She laughed softly. She was up on the twenty-third floor; just a tight grip of the iron-grate was all it would take for her to swing over to the other side. And then, then to just let go. Those fingers, those greedy fingers that had been so eager for the city lights. She held them up, wide apart. Small and fragile, she used to think them. Sifting the moonlight so gracefully, like this is what they had been born to do. For how long would such delicate fingers hold up against the sheer weight of her body? She raised her head and breathed in the suddenly still air. “If I ever kill myself, it’ll be when I realize that there is no getting better than this. The day I make every dream come true, I’ll just walk off a pier somewhere.” Her own laughing voice rang in her head, speaking from so many years ago. Her dearest friend had been asking. Dearest friend whose name I can no longer recall, she spoke aloud softly. “Wouldn’t be Ishmael, would it?” She reeled around at the sound of that soft voice, almost unbelieving that it was anything but the wind. A young man, no – no, a boy – stood right behind her, in the doorway. She stared at him, realizing what a lunatic she must have looked to him, right then. Unable to reply, she turned away again and struggled to find something caustic to say. “I’m sorry, that was a terrible joke,” the voice continued, smiling. She knew he was smiling, and she could see exactly how that face must have looked smiling. Softer, kindlier, without the pursed lips or the terse, horsey grins that people usually flashed one another. “Was it?” she asked, whispering. “Yes. It’s a – never mind. Were you planning to jump?” She shook her head. “Oh thank god! You see the magic carpet’s a little late.” Nonita turned around and smiled, “Quite alright, must have gotten a little carried away.” “Yes, it is incredibly beautiful tonight.” She flushed, without quite knowing why. “Who are you?” she asked hurriedly, before he could notice. He was standing beside her know, hunching on the railing. She recognised his knees. He did not reply and she didn’t want to ask again. They stared at the lake for a few minutes before he spoke again. And even when he did, his voice merged into the stillness, like a half-sigh. “You’re not the only one.” “No?” “Absolutely not. Can’t you see my wings too?” She smiled again, happily this time. Her face felt warmer than it had in years. “I’m so glad you came.” “You see, I’ve always meant to come tell you, but never really –“ She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and felt a sudden jolt of warmth spreading through her entire being. They stood there without saying another word. It must have been nearly dawn when Mr. Shinde awoke on a terribly strange couch. What? Had he not returned home last night? Ye gods, what would the missus have store for him now? He tried sitting up, but his elbows stiffened and buckled under his weight. His sagging mouth dropped further as his confused, bleary eyes began to register the sliding door of the balcony. It was not the half-opened door, but what lay beyond it that made his buzzing head reel even more. Right there, on the other side of the railing of what he knew (or what he thought he knew, as he began to gravely doubt his sanity at this point) to be the twenty-third floor of a building, two pairs of enormous white wings were floating, suspended in sheer air. He could make out two bobbing heads between them, but not much else. Mr. Shinde passed out again. The others did wake up within the next few hours, but neither the stationery room boy nor the new secretary could be found anywhere. A pair of black pumps, which the pretty young stenographer swore belonged to that Nonita, was the only evidence of her ever having attended the party. As for the boy, they managed to find another the next day. Read More