Dressed in sarees, punjabis, and anarkhalis, 20 or 30 people danced last night on the roof of my apartment building until the wee small hours. The occasion? Halima's (my house mate)and Delwar's (her brother) birthdays, as well as Dipti's return from England after 6 months away. The official theme of the party was "Moghul," which I think actually means "very Bengali."
Who knew the Moghuls had such a happenin' era!
"The best part of the dancing," said Est with a laugh, "was the anything goes!" Dancing around in a circle, we wiggled our tushes, waved our arms, and bounced on our feet like natives performing tribal rituals. The music was a mix of Bengali traditional, hip hop, R&B, and dance. We let it blare until 1am, when the neighbors complained.
When I had finally scrubbed the khol off my eyes, peeled the bindi off my forehead, and undecorated my self of bangles and jewels, I fell into bed thinking thinking God had made a mistake and I was born in the wrong era. I should have been a Moghul.