Hogmanay

The family troupe stopped in Rajasthan to celebrate an unprecedentedly weird New Year. There were fireworks that exploded very close by into booms that sounded like they had been concocted in somebody’s garage. A man in a turban with a mighty moustache, the hotel major-domo, took advantage of the darkness to enthusiastically kiss my sisters and I a merry 2008. I bothered my near relatives with the plentiful, indeed, endless opportunities for self-help couplets the year 2008 offers: Motivate! Great! Higher state! Ameliorate! I don’t think they realised how much they’d missed me till then. All bodes well for a year full of lame puns.

Anyway, the details:
Where: In a sandstone fort outside Jaisalmer, ninety kilometres from the Pakistani border. Where: In a tent. Tents have been involved in previous NYE celebrations but none of them were hung with thousands of bright flags and lanterns.
With: Two sisters; one aunt; two cousins; one poor lass who has committed to marrying into my family.
Wearing: a Punjabi suit and bindi.
What doing: dancing, dancing, dancing to bhangra remixes of Ricky Martin, Shakira and the Backstreet Boys, being upstaged by my cousin who was invited up onto the stage to dance.
With: Random tourists and wealthy Indians.
Listening to: Eating: Selections from a ninety-nine course buffet, including no less than SEVEN pickles courses (ie. eight pickles).
Resolutions: Go dancing more; make a habit of wearing red lipstick; avoid buffets; pickle up. Amongst others.