The event of the month – July, in case anyone has lost track, — was, without the trace of a doubt, the Annual Communication. On Saturday, the 23^rd. The evening commenced with the Annual Convocation. Among the notable changes were the promotions of Companions Dipendra Nath Banerjee, Nauzer M Batlivala, Kaushik Mukherjee, Raj Kumar Bharech and Conrad Dennis as the Deputy Grand Superintendent, 2^nd and 3^rd District Grand Principals, President DCGP and Principal Sojourner respectively. Comp Subir Datta was elected the Treasurer and Comp Gyanendra Narain Singh retained as the Scribe E.

A tea-break later commenced the Annual Communication. Here, unlike in the Chapter, the reshuffles were effected mostly in the lower echelons, the two exceptions  among the higher-ups, that of the Wardens, being conferred on Sandeep Rohatgi and Adnan Hassan respectively. The reports of the Presidents, DBGP and District Board of Benevolence, of the Treasurer, Secretary and Superintendent of Works, and  the audited statements of accounts of the District and the Fund of Benevolence for the year 2021-22 were duly presented and adopted. The names of the members elected and appointed to serve on the District Board of General Purposes and of Benevolence were announced. Past District Grand Ranks were conferred. The DGM’s address dwelt on a wide gamut of subjects: from finances, reeling from  a crippling blow dealt by the pandemic, to matters legal which appear to be heading in the right direction in so far as the evictions of the unwelcome guests, who have long overstayed our hospitality, are concerned; to urgently needed repairs to the buildings, — with the kitchen in imminent peril of the roof caving in, — and the prohibitive costs thereof; to a word of appreciation for all his officers who have rallied round in various  situations, sticky and otherwise; and finally to the phenomenal resurgence of the Montessori School from a tottering roll strength of two at the height of the pestilence to a turnaround muster of twenty seven, courtesy the tenacity and sacrifice of the entire staff led by the doughty Principal, Ms Archana Sudan.

The Ladies’ Night downstairs at Northampton Hall, in contrast, that is appropriately qualified stark, to the solemn ambiance – strange are the ways of the language, a vowel transforms the pronunciation from English to a transchannel, rhinal Gallic – at the Temples was a colourful affair, one that assumed  a vibgyorish  palette. From the illumination of the Hall to the ladies’ frippery. Adorned in their finery and matching co-ordinates, the fair sex – sidestepping the controversy surrounding the attribute and its oft-used comparative, though solecistic, inflection — complemented the men in their dapper dark suits, some sporting dicky bows.

The proceedings commenced, as is the custom, with a string of toasts. And a gaffe. Of banana-skin proportions. The Director of Ceremonies (DC) admonished, in no uncertain terms, the electrician for not turning on the tannoy and in the process, making his, the DC’s, solemn announcement, — the loyal toast, no less — inaudible across the breadth of the commodious Hall. The Deputy DC, a man for all seasons,  promptly sidled up to him, the DC,  and, in an undertone, pointed out that the low decibel level  stemmed not from any negligence in handling the baffle on the part of the unfairly-reproved technician, but because the implement he, the DC, was holding to his mouth was not the microphone, but a  bottle of beer. Chastened, his momentary nonplus turning to red-faced realisation – if a brown skin can chameleonise to erubescence, that is  —  the DC plonked the offending bottle on the table, beyond harm’s length, and resumed his solemn pledges, this time with the proper amplifying gadget. That DC, who had stepped in following the just-reinvested DC having been SOSed home, was someone who has been notorious for his faux pas, this last in prolific plural. Yours truly, who else.

Pledges over, it was  the crooner’s  turn to take over. Her renditions were complemented by the terpsichore, Surajit Datta. In a display of stamina and kinaesthesia that belied his three-score-and-ten years, the man charmed one lady after another to the  dance floor. That, in the process, he was fortunate enough not to have incurred the frowns – to put it mildly — of his doting wife, could be attributed to one reason marked by its distinct convenience: the lady was bed-bound, nursing a viral that, mercifully, did not have the sting of the transhimalayan variety.  

The dinner earned general approbation, that of the epicures in particular,  murmurs of discontent among a few notwithstanding. Could the carp be attributed to a genuine failing on the part of the chef, Prasad, or a blunting of the gustatory perception from a peg too many?  No such polemic cropped up, though, at Bro Thapar’s  belting out his signature number, his capella, Chori chori, banka chori,  that drew applause and, thereafter,  the curtains on the long evening.