Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIII

It's all in the brotherhood

We may be into 2010, but all modernism evaporates when we are accosted by some old hag

12 o'clock is always my Cinderella hour. And it doesn't change even on the last day of the year. Or on the first. As the seconds hand inched towards midnight, a sudden hush fell in the otherwise really noisy party. Everyone took deep breaths so that they could shout their loudest when 2010 finally arrived. So we all did that, the whole routine -- the "woo hoos" and "haaappy new yeeeear guys" and the hugging and the drunk "oh people, don't go back to Delhi (or wherever else), we miss you sooooo much!"
But the moment the digital clock flashed 12:01 -- no, things did not change drastically, the music was still on, we were doing the wild dance, and glasses were clinking endlessly; but still, the moment it was past 2009, the thrill we were all waiting for had come like an mischievous nymph, who teased us for a while, eluded us and slipped away. The Cinderella hour was gone, the magic was over, life was going to be back to normal.
Absolutely back to normal is what I mean. A few more minutes, and I was giving my friend J a tight, emotionally-charged, happy-new-year hug. That was it -- the last straw for Mrs Nair auntie, who had been spying on us from her balcony all the while. She knocked, and I was so pleased to see this otherwise superciliously preachy and uninteresting lady coming to wish us at the right time of the night.
"What do you think you are doing?" she said in a stern voice. The question was intended for me, and although I am nearing 30, I whimpered like a school girl, clueless, "New year party. Why auntie?"
"You drinking? You making noisy music, we did not say anything. Everyone sleeping, and yet you do all this, we did not say anything," her livid voice was rising in a crescendo above the loud music.
"But, do you have husband or what?" she screeched at me. The question sounded to me like whether I have an iPod, or the plate in which she had given us gobi sabzi last week. My vodka shot filled mind was utterly at a loss -- why was she asking this when my husband was standing right beside me? "You hug another man like that! How, how...phht?" So scandalised was she that she was at a loss of words.
I could have, and should have given it back to her. But, I had to redeem my goody girl image. "He is my brother auntie." Well, J is a blonde American, so Nair auntie's suspicions rose. So, "My uncle married foreigner. He is the son," and I gave her an entire choclate cake as a new year's gift, and sent her off while she keot on saying, "Oh beta, what's the need for this? You enjoy, enjoy..."