Nostalgia perforates my memory as I remember that last hypnotic dance of my blessed teens .A smattering of cards on an exquisite platter in an otherwise doleful bed room , the delectable clink of steel on china ,a faint rumble of those crisp October leaves .Hold on….Things are probably getting a bit too effusive for one’s liking. That’s what reading, rather drooling over those schmaltzy ‘Love in the time of Cholera ‘lines can do to you. And somewhere down the line, in the god forsaken, now overly mawkish fragments of my heart, I feel pervasive empathy for those testosterone charged individuals whose heart skips a beat whenever the slushy topic of the Waves Ball crops up.
In American society, snobbish as it may sound, balls are remarkably fashionable affairs with one grandiloquent hostess and an eclectic congregation of people. High school proms though are more to do with what we call ‘sophomoric’ love, that indispensable part of our adolescence. Be it your confidante, next door neighbor, the girl you see everyday by the nearby cafe or your beloved inamorata, prom nights are sure to give you regular bouts of insomnia. Dance balls can also be ridiculously clandestine affairs. It’s almost a case of an overflow of juvenile adrenaline. People are seen speaking in hushed tones in desolate places, Man United aficionados seamlessly ranting on phones to their gawky Gabriellas even while Berbatov scores a scorcher for the Red Devils, not to forget those gallons of text messages that flow between two surging hearts.
Last Waves the prom caused quite a stir with costumes flying over from Panjim followed by a gripping craze to learn the nuances of Waltz accompanied by remarkably ‘absorbing’ tales of acceptance and rejection. And on those lines , we should expect a more animated gathering this time around .Amidst all the sardonic pleasure that people derive taking digs at the Waves Ball (writer included),one thing has to be acknowledged .It does serve an elegant prologue to an absolutely frenetic three days.
Whenever some one mentions about the ball, my encephalon sifts through half fading pictures of ballerinas, forgotten ballads of Tennyson and cranky numbers of a raucous Welsh heavy metal band ‘Bullet for my Valentine’. Heavy metal doesn’t quite go with the rather somber and mushy tones of a ball .But it isn’t a bad pick up line to ask somebody out. Is it?
(Published in the BITS Herald dated Oct 15 ,2010)
(Published in the BITS Herald dated Oct 15 ,2010)
