The event was supposed to be organised by the NTU/NUS Sikh social and cultural society. Though I have enough Sikh friends to know that Sikh culture and society does not gravitate around Bhangra and Whiskey, these two societies certainly seem to think so. Appreciation of Sikh culture and society is liberally used as an euphemism for rave parties and embezzlement of hard liquor. Needless to say, I was going into enemy territory.
The event was supposed to go from 6pm to 6am, the poster exclaimed "Bhangra all night long!" Of course, since we have been living in Singapore for the past 5 years, we knew better. We reached there at 10pm after a quick bite at Delifrance, quite like how Ganguly turns up for a toss. We were, for want of a better word, appalled. There were hardly any people there! Hmm... the word fashionably late had just taken a new meaning. Making the best of a bad situation, we ordered our drinks, relieved that we did not have to meet the heavy rush that really makes the bartenders earn their pay.
At about 11, the people started pouring in, and what people, girls with RQs skyrocketing through the roof, accompanied by swaggering hulks of muscle and bone with the brains lost somewhere therein, some with rags tied to their heads in a feeble attempt to look Sikh. The dancing frenzy followed subsequently, and I must say, the DJ did belt out some good numbers in the beginning. There wasn't a single person or couple that dominated the dance floor, as they show in the movies usually, there were too many people jammed down there. Oh, and yes, Sholay was being screened on a gigantic screen just above the DJs head. Some of us preferred to watch the movie as the rum hit the bloodstream.
We had stocked up on fags before we went in, knowing that the alcohol was going to be really expensive. Almost everyone lit up, and soon enough, I felt like I was at the Bada Bing, as the females on the dance floor were trying their best to outRQ each other, one female in particular. The DJ deteriorated exponentially somewhere after midnight, having run out of his stock of good Bhangra and Bollywood songs, apparently, because he was repeating songs. Also he had this irritating tendency to stop vocals and sing, rather, bray it himself from time to time. There was this chap who brought in a authentic Punjabi wedding style Dholak and beat the living hell out of it for 20 minutes or so, but, apart from that, there was nothing much going on as regards the to the music scene. But the people were getting more and more interesting. Cypher raised the L-alert somewhere just past midnight, just as the house specialty, the Tequila man, a guy that went around giving people shots of tequila for s$5 each was being announced by the DJ for the nth time.
Apparently, there was a lesbian couple in the house, and the dyke was getting unfashionably drunk. Some equally drunk loser was hitting on the lipstick, and then the dyke lost it. It was Jerry Springer on tour, almost, and it took three guys to restrain the dyke from pulping the bamboozled flirt.
I had a very lucky night, running into three teetotalers, two of whom voluntarily offered me their drink coupons, the bartender forgetting to take my coupon on one occasion, and overturning my almost empty glass on another. Of course, the overturned glass meant that I got another drink, on the house, which meant that I had almost 6 drinks for the price of 2. As we sat down on the couches, smoking, talking about nada, we discovered this Vulcan jelly, that was hyper-inflammable. After some exploratory pilot testing in the ash-tray with an orange peel, Cypher and I made a mental note of flick two cans of the jelly while leaving, but it seems we lost that note somewhere.
When we finally signaled time-out, we were really dehydrated, thirsting for water, sweet, plain, simple water. But our miseries had just begun. Some idiotic firangi, whose low IQ was miniscule IQ was completely obscured by the RQ of the firangins accompanying him got onto our bus and realised that he was on the wrong bus only after about 20 minutes, so we had to take a detour and drop him off before we headed home. The bus driver, some old shakkar chap, was playing really forlorn songs, though they were a tad better than what the DJ was playing. By the time the bus turned into the campus, we were at our nerves' end, so the first thing that we did after getting off the bus was to head for the coolers. We sat and joked about the student recruitment policies of the Singaporean Scholarship Disbursement Authority, after which I was too tired to carry on, so I changed and went to bed.
Ankit's playing rock music now, and that sounds like honey to the ears, after all the abuse that they have suffered yesterday. I would like to extend my apologies to all Sikhs for attending this 'Bhangra Extravaganza', though I wouldn't mind going back to the Embassy pub again, the bartenders are forgetful and they know how to make their drinks. Or rather, my drinks.