Column

I have been thinking of what one could call an endangered ritual. Calling on friends. We throw parties, host lunches and have people over for drinks, all planned and orchestrated. But impromptu dropping-in seldom happens these days.

In my childhood, both my parents’ and grandparents’ homes drew visitors like magnets. My grandmother held court most days. From relatives, vendors, tenants and old acquaintances to wandering puppeteers, they all called on her.

Over the years, my brother and I looked forward to these motley callers with greater excitement than relatives. How could a self-righteous aunt compare to a danseuse of indeterminate sex?

The dancer would greet my grandmother with an elaborate namaste, don anklets and break into a ‘jathi’ and then settle at her feet for a good chew of betel leaves while regaling her with gossip from the world of classical dance.

Or, how could any cousin compare with Vishalakshi, the drunk? The elderly lady was both a cadger and a free-loader, but she narrated the most macabre medical anecdotes.

By contrast, my parents’ guests were the epitome of suburban orderliness. There was nothing random or motley about them. My father would come home from work and announce that Mrs and Mr X would be calling on us that evening.

The guests would arrive at seven and leave at half-past eight. Very seldom did their conversation rise above the mundane, but there lay its essential charm. For in the absence of the extraordinary, the ordinary was treated in such a fashion that it seemed just as exciting as the danseuse or the drunk’s tales.

It occurs to me that our lives have changed so much that where we once had open doors, now we need to find a window to fit in callers, be it friends or the insurance agent.

While it assigns a certain control over who we wish and do not wish to entertain, I cannot help the lurking feeling that the impromptu caller also brought in more fun.

—Anita Nair’s new novel will be published in January.