The Hutchbustle birthday party came and went. I went with perhaps my closest friend, Lady Lala. We first stopped in Main Market at Jalal Sons (a large shop recently in the news for a massive fine for mixing dye into their daal to make it appear fresher) where I bought a basketball and hoop and she bought some colouring markers and something else that I can’t remember.
Getting this wrapped took ages as four or five attendants stood around for a while staring at the basketball and hoop, wondering how to do it until Lady Lala and I took over and told them how.
The birthday party was at Hardees, and as we walked in we were hit by the smell that characterised it for what it is, a miserable US Midwestern fast food chain. Dim, grey lighting fought a losing battle against the shadows. The party was upstairs, in a function room where about 50 children sat lined up in chairs watching a magic show. They seemed thoroughly engrossed, laughing at the jokes and cheering at the tricks. It wasn’t my thing, but I am 38.
In the back was a row of women, the mothers, aunts and so on of the children. I knew a couple of them from my childhood, having seen them around Mrs Hutchbustle’s home, but they were all older now of course, but also bigger and more satisfied, and certainly more diamond-encrusted. I wonder if I look the same (aside from the diamonds), or if I would have looked the same had I stayed in Pakistan. I think probably not; this is not my social circle and the expectations are quite different.
The cake was cut and the burgers came out. We declined, using my dinner engagement as an excuse, and left soon after.
Dinner was at the Spice Bazaar. This is a desi restaurant by an uncle in the hospitality business and closely hews to to his signature style, with lounge covers of classic rock, linen tablecloths, Nestle yoghurt and lowest common denominator cooking. It was a family meal and over quickly. So back home and to bed.