We are at a party. I don’t know why.
Outside our host’s beautiful (not one crayon scribble on the wall!) home, the supermoon is unusually fierce, just like our family tonight.
The women are in one corner, dissecting demonetisation like they would a best friend’s crush. The men are talking cricket.
And here we are.
My husband in one corner, his grey hair (he saves money on hair dye and calls it fashion) standing up in frustration as our older child insists on riding up to the supermoon in a metro train.
I stand in another corner, throwing a nervous smile or two at the women, who are offering travel tips to one of them who is flying to some exotic East European country on a solo vacation. Come join us, one of them says, as my younger colicky child cries like she has swallowed the moon itself.