Rajiv sat cross legged on his sofa, arguing vociferously with another friend about the physicist who was trying to disprove Einstein's theory. There was the usual banter of impending promotions, prospective brides and recipes going around. It was a typical saturday evening in Detroit when Indians flock together like the birds of the same feather.
When his friend got up to refill his glass, Rajiv stretched his legs and as the ideal host, dutifully joined the group which was discussing the naunces which make the difference between carnatic and hindustani music. He smiled to himself. How people associated themselves with a vengeance to anything Indian - be it Kareena Kapoor's line of cosmetics or the rituals of a hitherto unknown festival, never failed to amuse him.
For a moment, he could no longer hear the sound of voices around him. Everything around him stood frozen for a minute. And as he looked at the stand still faces, he felt as if he was walking in a silent art gallery , looking at caricatures drawn on canvas. He was moving from one picture hung on the wall to the next in the gallery. The first picture was Mrs Verma who was looking questioningly , with her eyebrows arched and head bent low at whispering level. Probably telling the story of her neighbour's mother in law. The next painting on the wall was Kavya caught in a moment of girlish laughter , but her eyes were looking elsewhere. Probably looking for Rahul. The next one on the wall was his colleague Kannan who was adjusting his spectacles and laughing nervously. Probably listening to the joke narrated by his boss for the tenth time.
And when Rajiv was walking over to the next picture, he found the entire gallery dissolving , with all the colours and caricatures coming to life. And he joined them.