In Delhi for Diwali, I walk down the street as the chaotic launch of fireworks  continues for hours from every direction.  One of the most popular directions seems to be “five feet from the foreigner’s leg.”  After the first hundred or so, I cease to stop, drop and roll at each explosion.  But I do wonder if Bush ever considered calling the “Shock and Awe” campaign “A Beautiful Fireworks Display for the Liberation of Iraq From The Oppressor Saddam Hussein”  I think that this must sound and feel exactly like Baghdad at the beginning of the invasion and also that I would possibly be a great White House Press Secretary.

My escort into the world of the urban elite of Delhi during Diwali is named Kartik. He regales me with the legendary exploits of Sean Shelby and Kartik’s cousin Saurab, two Roundarch co-workers of high esteem whom he showed around a few years ago.

We start at an empty basement kegger around 9:00 PM and I’m happy to know that recent college graduates are the same around the world:  they never show up when the party starts and they like drinking beer in their parents’ basement.  The hostess talks about moving to Mumbai soon to work on Bollywood films in between text messages asking her friends “where the fuck r u?”  You don’t really see many single Indian women around, so this is the first one I’ve spoken to for any time and she curses quite a bit more than I would have expected.  I guess it’s all part of our corrosive Western influence.  Kartik and I drink a couple beers over a couple hours as a couple people show up and then he lies and says we’ll be back soon as he whispers to me that “we probably won’t.”

We’re off to another party and I’m wondering when dinner will be.  I haven’t eaten and I was warned that dinner would be late.  Indians eat late, maybe around 9 or 10 when I would normally eat at 7.  I assume during Diwali maybe it’s 11 or 12.  As we enter the house party on the 12th floor of a high rise apartment building, the clock has passed midnight and all I can see are chips and snacks.  I hate drinking on an empty stomach…

It seems to be an Indian tradition to play poker during Diwali, so at this party we play rounds of a strange three card variant as shots are taken and beer is passed.  By 4 AM, I’m up a good chunk of money (I’m used to five cards.  This is child’s play!) but I’m also having trouble speaking words that have meanings.  Then they bring out the food which has been hidden in the refrigerator the whole time.  They ordered from a local place and the food is incredibly spicy.  Most of the Indians can’t eat it, but I scarf it down, impressing them wildly.  I try to tell them that I lost all feeling in my face hours ago but instead I curl up underneath their air conditioner and fall asleep.  I wake up two hours later feeling fabulously refreshed, play the last few rounds of poker, collect my winnings and we head out around 7:30 AM.  When I finally fall asleep at Kartik’s place, it’s 9 AM.  I don’t think I ever stayed out this late in college or in New York.

The next day, or more accurately that afternoon, is devoted to recovery for the night which is more of the same on a larger scale.  We go to a small pre-party of Kartik’s friends from high school.  One of the girls here is an anchor for a cable news station, and I start to think that Kartik may be well connected about the media elites.

The real party is a beautiful outdoor event with an open bar, waiters in tuxedos, men and women in colorful dhotis and saris, and round tables with white tablecloths where everyone plays poker again.  I’m taking it easy on the alcohol and I feel a little out of place.  The night before had been smaller so everyone spoke English for my benefit but here most of the conversations tend to Hindi.  I focus on the universal language of poker domination.  I’m really a terrible poker player, but I’ve gotten on streaks both nights.  I’ve more than doubled the money I put in play.

Late in the evening, I find myself playing a game of “imagine one” among four people.  In this game, you get two cards and can imagine a wild card which will become any card you want.  In three card Indian poker, the best hand is three of a kind and I’m looking at two kings.  Since I failed statistics in college, I fail to calculate that the chance of one of the other guys having two aces is only about 1 in 42, meaning it could actually happen, and I assume “I CAN’T BE BEAT!!!”  I bet the house and of course, since I’m telling you the story, I lose to the guy who matches me and has two aces.  I’ve had a lot of time to think about this and I still don’t know if I got cheated.  Losing three kings to three aces feels unlikely but I guess it happens.  Regardless, my taste for poker has soured, even if I only lost 20 bucks.  I start wandering around the party looking for people who aren’t playing poker and want to speak English.

I’m not successful for a bit, so I’m standing forlorn, when a round dude at a table seems to take pity on me and calls me over.  I sit down and he starts to ask me loud, drunken questions in front of his friends who seem to think it’s funny.  Then he asks if I’ve eaten and I say I have and he tells me to eat more and I say no thanks and he says eat and I say no thanks and he says eat and I say no thanks and he says eat and I say no thanks and he says eat and I say fine.  So I start eating and he has the waiter bring me more and more things, finally asking me if I want chilis as though a puny foreigner like me couldn’t possibly want chilis.  Remembering my victory over spice the night before, I grab a chili and eat it whole to show that I’m not a man to be trifled with.  As his friends laugh and my face turns red, I consider telling him about what my country did to Baghdad when a fat, sweaty douchebag there was pushing people around, but I know that if I open my mouth I will start to scream like a little girl.  As his friends drift off, he comes around the table to talk to me and I realize that he’s just drunk and actually a decent guy.  He really thought he was being friendly and that’s what his friends found so funny.

We return to Kartik’s after the sun comes up.  The amount of swerving cars at the departure is frightening, but Indians aren’t particularly picky about which side of the road they drive on when sober, so I imagine that everyone will get home safely.  Loud round dude is of course the worst offender, nearly driving his car into a tree in the first five meters, but when I ask Kartik about him the next day, he tells me he is still alive and unharmed.  I wonder how come Indians still believe in Karma when it so obviously doesn’t exist. Kartik assures me that the main festivities are over and I will finally be able to get to sleep at a normal time again.

Unfortunately, I have no pictures for this entry because my camera is too damned big and expensive looking to carry around to parties. I’m thinking of buying a smaller, portable one, but then I’m thinking I already spent too much money on the big one.