Incidentally

No INCIDENT happens, has happened and despairingly will happen without an acrimonious incident, or two. Incident is like a swashbuckling bashful party that the rich kid around the corner of the street throws once in a while. It's loud, obnoxious, derlirious, heavily intoxicating, but you have to go because he's got the best booze, the best chicks and the wildest dramatics in town.
No party jives up without interesting characters with their interesting antiques. This party has its fair share of interesting characters, if not an overdose.
The locos are the decent chaps in the party, who'd print the invitations, and who'd come to the party dressed in elegant formals seated quietly, engaged in conversation and light-hearted laughter in an inconspicuous corner of the room. They'd ask the DJ to tone down the music. They’d have an eye on their watch wanting to attend the following morning's classes.
The mallus are the uninhibited lot, subject of public outcry, who'd headbang to a Kannada song, who'd not give a damn if anybody's watching. The elegant locos would smirk at the mallus antiques and would at best describe them as obnoxious. The mallus would only be encouraged by the comments.
The tams would have their eyes on the girls from the first instant. They'd neither be too loud, nor too docile. They'd slowly, but steadily mingle with everyone in the party, giving the girls a very personable and amiable impression. Before anyone would notice they'd be at the girls table trying to work their magic.
The biharis and the mps would arrive in a big bunch, already slightly intoxicated, swanking their big numbers, bustling everyone on the dance floor. They'd moan if the DJ played any English score, and go wild on the dance floor for every bashful Hindi number.
The Bangalore guys would arrive at the party singly, dressed in a jersey and jeans, not acknowledging each other, giving a condescending attitude to everyone around. They'd drink quietly at the bar counter discussing what Liverpool did wrong, and how tool has redefined contemporary progressive rock.
The Manipal hips would want to make their presence felt. They'd arrive in thunderous bikes and enviable cars. They are like the neighborhood kids, like the close buddies of the rich kid whose organizing the party, wanting to see what the big fuss is all about. They'd drink and dance like there's no tomorrow and would pass out halfway through the party. The locos would help them get back to their homes after they pass out.
The Nit girls are like the homely girls who would have been the eye-catchers of the evening had it not been for the neighborhood Manipal chicks. They'd arrive in one big group quietly dispersing in separate parts of the room, some mingling with the tams, some cozying up to the Dasas, some trying a drink or two for the first time.
The Dasas are like the people who would groove into the party early, experienced at animal partying; dancing, drinking, talking and sharing. They'd brighten up the party by introducing limbo dancing, absolutely striking a chord with everyone. They'd be neither too drunk, nor too sober, nor too classy, nor too wild.
The NKs are like the guys who'd head straight to the dance floor. They'd trash the place; bully the DJ to play songs they like, dancing wildly, and drinking straight from the bottle. They'd make sure the rich kid runs out of whisky. People in the party would not instantly take to them, but they'd be the self-proclaimed bouncers, man-handling people who'd cause a ruckus. If it weren't for them, the Manipal kids would have vomited all over the place. They’d see what limbo dancing is for the first time, and by 4 in the morning they'd have mastered it, beating even the Dasas who'd introduced them to it in the first place.
The Incident party is one which is misgiving, overwhelming and yet admittedly very entertaining. The hangover stays for at least a week, the one party that is a one stop for all that is exciting and delirious.
There is stiff competition each year for who organizes the party, elected by their ilk and peers. They say that, if you want to get a friend in politics, get a dog. Politics is downright ugly, devious, and abominable to say the least. You may like it, you may hate it, but you definitely cannot ignore it. Perhaps, for the first time, a politician with breasts gets elected. Let’s hope this party doesn’t see any blood on the dance floor.