Kishore Singh: Confessions of a Drama Queen

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"I must," said my wife, "lose weight, or else I will not be able to attend our friend, the Drama Queen's sing-song." I refrained from telling my wife she was unlikely to lose weight in a day or two, but I did understand her concern. Our neighbour and dear friend (and not really a Drama Queen, despite the way my wife refers to her in private) had planned a Holi party, but it was going to be difficult to fit it "" literally so.

Last evening, when she called, the Drama Queen (according to my wife) said she was having anxiety attacks. And well she might. For she had invited almost a hundred people in a living room to seat no more than twenty at a squeeze, or stand twice that number. As a result, her husband was summoned to remove all their furniture and have it carted away to an empty flat in the neighbourhood.

"Then," wailed the Drama Queen, "I sat down to measure how much space I would occupy on the floor, and have found that if I stack people in back to back, I will be able to seat no more than forty-five, leaving no room for aisle space." Because she was on the speaker phone, my wife, who had been listening in, piped up: "But what about if we want to get up and dance?" "You cannot dance," I admonished her, "because even though it is on the eve of Holi, it is a serious party where only those who know authentic folk songs will be allowed to perform."

My wife lapsed into a sulky silence, so I asked the Drama Queen (though I don't think she is one) why she had invited so many people. "It's like this," she sighed, "I called a mobile number expecting it to be Vijay, and invited him and his wife for the evening's function "" only it wasn't Vijay on the phone after all, but Verghese. Since I had called Verghese, I could not leave out Abhay, whose friends they are, or Pillai or even Raju, and now they have all accepted, and I don't know what to do."

I could see it was a problem, but even that did not explain the extraordinarily high numbers that were adding up, even given the Drama Queen's (not my name for her) large family. "If you must know," she said spitefully, "since I needed to invite your friend, who is a good singer "" and it is only such people that I really wanted "" then I could not exclude you." I might have said I thought she would want to invite me for my company, but she hastened on, "Having invited you, I had to call the other neighbours too, which is why I now have more people (that I really didn't want) than I can squeeze into the flat."

"Perhaps," I suggested dryly, for, of course, I was upset, "if you were to tell your guests that it will not be a fun party, they might not want to come after all, and then you would be able to get in the singing people you really want." But my cutting remarks seemed to have little effect on her. "I told Sarla that she must not sing Freedom", she explained, "but she said she did not mind at all. And when I told her husband that it would not be appropriate to serve drinks, he said that was alright, he'd be content with the bhang in the gujiyas, thank you."

Later, my wife said, "I do not know if I wish to sit on the floor to listen to some bhajan mandli. Why couldn't our friend just do things that are normal?" "Because," I suggested, she's a...a..." "Drama Queen," my wife finished savagely.