A Surprise Party.

         My son’s anxious face peered up into mine, “It is OK, right mom?” he inquired plaintively. He had torn up the garden path in his anxiety to get home and divulge his 'breaking news'. He leaned against my legs briefly before stepping back to observe the effect of his announcement.

         I promptly pasted on my “Happy mom” smile and tried to infuse a breezy carelessness into my voice. “Of course, darling. I’m so happy all your classmates will be coming.”

         My muttered ” It’s just that the idea was a surprise to me,” seemed to have been unheard by him

         A smile slowly rose into my son’s face dispelling his nascent doubts, like the rose-tipped dawn heralds the end of dark night. He gave me a wide gap-toothed smile secure in the knowledge that Mommy never let him down. “Oh Ma! My colony friends will be coming too, I met them at the playground yesterday and told them.”

         Busy with all his preparations for a grand party, my innocent six-year old had forgotten to inform me of his intentions. The bombshell had been dropped just a moment ago, upon his return from school. The shrapnel was still flying, with the stepwise extensions of guest list.

         We had recently had a lavish birthday celebration in our little township. The party was thrown by an affluent family, that boasted of a useful commodity, live-in help. The affair was notable for the phalanx of matrons dripping diamonds from ears, neck and arms. If there was a master of prestidigitation, a professional conjuror, to amuse the children; the adults were treated to a well known crooner who sang soulful melodies.

         The sumptuous repast had included ‘child-friendly’ items like pizza and chips. I remembered individual shaped jellies for each little gourmet; choice of chocolate or pineapple cream cakes and the Pepsi flowing like champagne. The adults hadn’t been stinted either, I recalled that just the salads were five in number and the varieties included a macaroni salad as well as one of tropical fruits.

         My darling Ravi had boundless faith in my abilities to arrange something on similar scale. No doubt he had pleasant dreams of Mickey Mouse coming to the party. He dumped his satchel just inside the door and kicked off his school shoes, one disreputable discard in each corner of the hallway.

         Nanni made her sedate way into the house, having neatly deposited her still gleaming shoes in the rack before coming in. Her neatness was a vivid contrast to his exuberant and disheveled look. Even their faces reflected their natures, her hair was always brushed back with matching hair-clips, her habits were steady and reliable; he had curls tumbling onto his forehead and had to be reminded and cajoled into normal things like sitting down for breakfast.

         Nanni made her way to the table in the dining room took her books out of the satchel, ready for homework. She hung the satchel from its peg and went to wash her hands and face before changing into 'house-wear'.

         Ravi skidded full speed down the corridor to his room; I automatically deposited his scuffed shoes onto the rack, collected the half-open satchel and followed him. He was rapidly passing his hands under a positive geyser of water, oblivious to the drenching of his uniform. Having given cursory passes to face and arms, the restricting uniform was shed in haste.

         Dragging on a blue T-shirt, back to front, he pulled out the first pant he laid hands on, a virulent green wardrobe mishap, a gift from his aunt. Ignoring my inarticulate protests of the colours not matching, and resisting all attempts to right his Tee, he pelted out the front door again. Anticipating my question, he threw blithe explanation over his shoulders, “ I forgot to call Panther, Bahadur and Rocket”.

         These were his canine buddies and of course any number from their owner families would turn up. If I knew my son at all, he would be expansively inviting even their chance acquaintances who’d dropped in to say hello. No, I wrong him, he’d be insisting they attend, and one look at his wide guileless smile and they’d all troop in bearing large gifts to assuage the guilty feeling that they might not be regular invitees.

         I juggled numbers in my head ...at least ten of the children lived too far away to be able to come at short notice. Eight lived within two blocks and it was likely they would be dropped and collected by the parents. But of those eight, two were the whiny type who needed ‘minders’; and another two had younger siblings who might insist on coming along! There were the dog-owners and his township friends, some of the parents were my friends too, and would conceivably come over...Ten and eight, or ten again, and four, then four and six..no eight...

         So, I had probably twenty to twenty-five children and at least a round dozen adults coming over. They could arrive at any time, the effusive host not yet having learnt to tell time. He would have given them anytime that popped into his head, probably six-thirty since he knew that as “Jungle Book” time on TV.

         Throwing horror-struck glance at the clock, I realised I had a scant two hours to tidy the comfortably untidy house, prepare mouth-watering delicacies, arrange entertainment and get myself and the kids dressed.

         I quickly dialed Sabita, my rock of dependability, and my shelter in a storm. “Sabi,” I began my involved explanation. The undercurrent of desperation in my voice was obvious to my friend, and she quickly reassured me, “ Don’t worry Jyo, I’ll be there on time, I’ve made sure the kids napped in the afternoon and we’ll be over at the dot of six-thirty.”

         Et tu Sabi, I placed lifeless phone back in its cradle. So this was the meaning of the sotto voce interaction I had witnessed yesterday between Sabi and Ravi, when I had returned a borrowed book. At least I was sure of the time now.

         I cast a frantic eye at my depleted shelves. Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was well stocked compared to mine. I shopped mainly on weekends and today was Saturday.

         Even the Fates were conspiring against me, today was the weekly holiday for the market near our house, so there was no question of just ‘popping down the road’ for a quick buy.

         The fridge mocked me with its gleaming interiors, the shelves boasting of only two loaves of day-old bread. The door showed faint mercy, twelve white saviours stood proud and tall in the egg rack. There was only a mere remnant of butter in the butter dish, but the sugar bowl sparkled at me, nearly full.

         The vegetable chiller or ‘crisper’ as it was grandiloquently termed, showed wilting offerings...one small cauliflower, three bell peppers, some limp beans and a couple of carrots. The glass tray above sported decoration of one dozen plump tomatoes from our garden, and the freezer yielded half a packet of frozen peas. The mainstay of any cook, potatoes and onions, reposed in stolid confidence in their wire baskets.

         Mind whirring in solution, I chopped vegetables with flair. The potatoes bubbled and danced in their pot of boiling water. The onions having been sautéed first, the vegetable pieces were upended into a ladle of oil sputtering in a cauldron. Having thoroughly cooked the vegetables, mashed potatoes were added, then the tomato puree was poured in and the whole allowed to simmer.

         I made use of all the spice powders in my rack, relying on the aroma arising from the vapours to give me an indication of what was required.

         “ Ooh, something smells good Mommy,” appreciated Nanni, a connoisseur at nine. I invited the budding chef to give me more input as I handed her some cashews and raisins.

         “Just break up the cashews into little bits and check that the raisins don’t have any stems clinging to them, will you Nanni?"

         Little hands became busy, as did the little mouth, from what I could guess. However, I had anticipated decimation of the stock and given her a large pile with which to work. In no time at all, she proudly displayed to me a modest pile of each item.

         I scraped out the butter into a large pan and gave her the nearly empty butter dish and told her to roll first the cashews and the raisins in that dish, before keeping them back in their plates.

         I kept a wary eye on her to ensure no further depredations on the cashews as I trimmed and quartered the bread slices. Tossing the bread slices in the buttered pan, I let them crisp until golden brown, I deftly slid them onto a shallow serving dish, the largest I could find. I arranged the slices neatly. I then scattered the dried fruits, lightly browned in the same pan, amongst the bread pieces. 

         I opened two cans of condensed milk that I had bought to make fudge. I thinned the sweet glutinous mass inside to a flowing texture with about an equal quantity of warm water and poured it over the bread slices. One dessert ready.

         I rounded up all the steel cups and bowls I had of similar size and caramelized a spoonful of sugar in each. I wielded a whisk energetically in nearly two liters of milk and twelve eggs, and a soupcon of vanilla essence, until I had a frothy creamy yellow mixture. I carefully poured this into the bowls and set half in a water-filled tray in the oven, at one hundred degrees centigrade for twelve minutes. The remainder were carefully inserted in two layers into my pressure cooker, but without the weight valve. Twelve minutes after the steam started to hiss, I gazed at twenty-four perfect caramel puddings.

         My admiring reverie was broken by the apologetic half-chime of the doorbell. Surely that can’t be any of the guests so soon, I worried. Reluctantly I made my way to the door and peeped through the opening crack. How can something so ludicrous be so welcome? It was my husband, juggling four paper bags as he attempted to get protesting elbow to the doorbell. I relieved him of the burdens and attempted to conceal my grin.

         “I tried to ring with my nose first, but that didn’t work so...” was the sheepish explanation in a tentative attempt to ward off ridicule..

         “You could have rung it with your toes and I couldn’t be more appreciative.” I said, trying the soothing oil to dress wounded pride. In fact, he was a life saver, the six dozen bread rolls that he had picked up from a shocked baker on his way home would perfectly accompany the spicy vegetable mixture that was famous in my native Mumbai as Pav-Bhaji, yet a delicacy to my Bangalore friends. I could picture the shocked expression on the bakery counter assistant's face as my husband bought out their stock of bread rolls.

         We both broke into relieved laughter, and he disappeared into the bedroom to dress. I sent Nanni off to dress herself too with a quick warning not to use my ‘good’ perfume.

         My father-in law had in the meantime, pottered around the living room deftly kicking toys under the deep sofas and straightening the furniture. I assisted him by dumping all the telltale reminders of a child-full house into a basket. The sketch pens, the odd socks, the knitting needles and half done scarf, the spare jacket behind the door, the helmet, the cricket bats,  the skates, the puzzle pieces and the crayons...all ruthlessly jammed into the receptacle.

         A damp duster gave a lick and a promise to any ‘supposed to be shiny’ surface.The worn spots on the sofa covers were disguised by whipping on the second best set of lace ‘throws’, giving the room a look of almost-elegance. That’s as good as it gets, I thought.

         “Draw that slightly torn curtain back, and tie it,” advised Jeev, walking out bath-fresh and resplendent in a new shirt. Nanni scampered in behind him, looking adorable in gathered skirt, lace blouse and garnet beads.

         Before I could panic about Ravi’s continued absence, the little devil slid into the house. Collaring him firmly I led him off for our respective ablutions.

         “Have they come?...Where are the gifts...and the return gifts?”

         He almost wriggled out of my grasp as I attempted to make him presentable, the more important issue of “return gifts” reigning supreme. My expression of ludicrous dismay made him let out loud wails.

         Nanni, rushed in to comfort her little brother and assured him she had every thing under control. What? signaled my eyebrows.  It’s OK! she smiled back, before making her determined way to the cupboard in the corner.

         Ravi trusted his sister completely and let me finish refining his outfit to my level of satisfaction. He whirled around as soon as he was released and ran to his sister, kneeling before the open bureau. She had a little pile of assorted pencils in her lap, maybe two or three dozen, and about fifteen scented erasers. I always bought stationery in bulk, Thank God. She also had some fridge magnets, which she adores to collect. You owe me big-time her expression said.

         I pulled out a large tin of coffee chocolates and in no time at all we had thirty neatly packed Ziploc bags.

I shooed them all out while I made wet wipes and cologne substitute for a long soak. I changed quickly into the first set of matching garments I found, all the while mentally rehearsing the welcome and serving. Uh-oh!What about drinks?

         Aunt Seema came to my rescue, not literally, the poor lady lived a thousand miles away. With admirable forethought she had given me some of her famous homemade gooseberry fruit squash on her last visit. This was just about equal to ambrosia in quality, so I should get Brownie points for originality as well as taste.

         A scooter stuttered to a stop in the road. The party began. The guests were warmly greeted with outstretched hands, Ravi’s greedy eyes on the gaudily wrapped parcels.Only we knew the hands were stretched more in avaricious glee than cordial warmth.

         The children merrily ran through the living room. I made up some games on the spot, giving each child some task and a prize.

         The child who volunteered to recite a poem got a large slab of chocolate."It would have been too fattening anyway."said the voice in my head. The one who imitated three animals in gait and noise got a beaded bag. I'm glad I saved whatever I made in that two-week craft class. The first one to correctly name our present and past presidents got a small pack of six crayons.A free gift with that packet of a new brand of biscuits.

         The games were a huge success as everybody won something. Even Missy, who had wailed throughout the conjuring tricks at the last party, was jumping in her excitement at receiving a papier-mâché ashtray. My one craft skill, papier-mâché, our house overflowed with those trays and bowls.

         The main dish and only course was hungrily devoured, no fuss made by the children, when they saw there was no other choice. The individual caramel puddings were spooned up with relish by the sweet-toothed horde.

         Even fussy Mrs. Mukerjee couldn’t refuse the Royal delight, as I had christened the milk pudding. I gently informed her that I knew she didn’t eat eggs on Saturdays, so this was made especially for her. Thank God, I remembered that just in time!

         The last hand had been pumped in thanks, the last Goodbyes waved. I collapsed backwards onto the sofa, ignoring the sticky mess of spilt pudding at my feet.

The beaming smile on my son’s face told me that tomorrow I’d maybe be glad I’d done this. I repeated a previous remark in weary undertone, the one about it being a total surprise.

         Ravi displayed remarkable retention of events and acute hearing as he turned to me and asked “Yes, wasn’t the party a lovely 'surprise' Mummy?”

         Yes my son, it was. I just hope I survive your unique interpretations of such terms as a 'surprise' party! 

Word count:2694