Clubbing

Somebody up there do not want me to club.

It has been one experience that has eluded me despite my multiple visits, that has brought as much excitement as me sitting in a meditative pose.  This is all the more interesting because my intention was simply to get a feel of it, and not kickstart a career as a party animal, that would either way not work for a person who dared not even to dance in the shower.

Perhaps  though, it is not the circumstances, but the person to blame. I should have known I was not the party kind the very first time I set off. As I was tying my shoe laces, my father would politely enquire where I was going to. “Going to club”, I responded.

“What? Like a community club?”, he carried on.

I am not the most superstitious of persons, but when you are about to do something, it has to start off on the right tone. There and then, my father set the expectations of me, and all the stamps I received on my waist before entering the club became but somebody’s divine disapproval of my adventurous spirit.  That day, a private event in the club meant I had to wait an extremely lengthy two hours, and therefore I left, with my only impression of a club being the two big guys in black standing in the front.

My next shot at it was as part of Engineering Bash in university, where at least an entrance was guaranteed.  This time though, it was entirely my fault. I forgot it was held by the Engineering faculty and when I walked, I saw more sausages there than one would find in at Oktoberfest. Left, right, up, (but not down), all you saw were guys, all there for the experience. Finding a girl in that room, was like finding a remote island, surrounded by an ocean of guys. The name of photo album would excellently explain that night, “When MacDonalds is way cooler than Supper Club”.

And then I came to Stockholm, where the nights are longer than the day, which mathematically increased the probability of a more vibrant nightlife.

But probability never had any substance beyond keeping statisticians employed and everyone guessing. Do not get me wrong, yesterday night, the music was great. It was live and booming and I could not help but shake my head rhythmically. Though when I looked around me, by simply nodding my head, I was contributing more to the art of dance than the numbers around me who simply stared at the band in deep contemplative thought, as if in an art film. My friend turned to me, "Why are they not dancing?"

Divine intervention. What else can I say?