hush gave way to a burst of applause as the lights went down.
When the lights rose again, a glittering final tableau featured Lord Dagenham and Gertrude on thrones, Amina at their feet. On the steps of the stage and the floor, the dancers were arrayed, now wearing gaudy necklaces and sparkling headscarves. Alec Shaw, as Vizier, was holding out an open box containing the shotguns; Roger, standing at attention, saluted the royal court. On the scrim behind them, a sepia photo showed the same scene. The Major recognized, with a sting of emotion that was equal parts pride and pain, the photo his mother had hung in a dark corner of the upstairs hallway, not wishing to appear showy.
A series of photo flashes exploded in the room, loud Asian pop music with a wailing vocalist blared over the loudspeakers, and, as the audience clapped along, the female dancers broke into a Bollywood-style routine and spread up and down the edges of the dance floor, picking men from the audience to join them in their gyrations. As he blinked his dazzled eyes, the Major became dimly aware of a small man climbing onto the stage, shouting in Urdu and reaching for Daisy Green’s microphone.
“Get away from me, you horrible little man,” cried Daisy.
“Isn’t that Rasool’s father?” shouted Dr. Khan. “What on earth is he doing?”
“I have no idea,” said Mrs. Khan. “This could be a disaster for Najwa.” She sounded very happy.
“Ooh, let’s go and dance,” said Mrs. Jakes, dragging away her husband.
The doctor got to his feet. “Someone should get the old fool out of there. He will make us all look bad.”
“Please don’t get involved,” said Mrs. Khan. She did not place a hand on her husband’s sleeve to stop him but merely gestured in that direction. The Major had often noted this kind of shorthand between married people. The doctor sat down again.
“My husband is always so compassionate,” said Mrs. Khan to the table.
“Bit of an occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Khan.
Mr. Rasool Senior had the microphone now and was wagging his finger in the face of a shocked Daisy Green. He was shouting now in English, so loudly it hurt the ears to hear his voice cracking and sputtering at the limits of the sound system.
“You make a great insult to us,” they heard. “You make a mock of a people’s suffering.”
“What is he doing?” asked Grace.
“Maybe he is upset that the atrocities of Partition should be reduced to a dinner show,” said Mrs. Ali. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like bhangra music.”
“Why would anyone be insulted?” asked Grace. “It’s the Major’s family’s proudest achievement.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Ali. She pressed the Major’s hand and he flushed with a sudden shame that perhaps she was not apologizing to him but for him. “I must help Najwa’s father-in-law—he is not a well man.”
“I can’t see why it should be your responsibility,” said Sadie Khan in a malicious voice. “I think you really should leave it to the staff.” But Mrs. Ali had already risen from the table. She did not look at the Major again. He hesitated, but then hurried after her.
“Let go of him before I break your arm,” said a voice from the stage as the Major thrust through the crowd. He was in time to see Abdul Wahid at the front of a small group of waiters, advancing on a couple of the male dancers, and some band players, who were holding the senior Mr. Rasool by the arms. “Show some respect for an old man.” The men grouped themselves like a defensive wall.
“What are you doing here?” the Major thought he heard Amina ask as she tried to grab Abdul Wahid by the arm but maybe, he thought, he was only lip-reading over the continuous crashing of the music. “You were supposed to meet me outside.”
“Do not speak to me now,” said Abdul Wahid. “You have done enough damage.” Dancing couples, taking notice of the commotion, began to back away into tables.
“The old man is crazy,” said Daisy Green in a faint voice. “Someone call the police.”
“Oh, please, no need to call the police,” said Mrs. Rasool, collecting her father-in-law’s arm from a scowling trombonist. “My father-in-law is only a little confused. His own mother and sister died on such a train. Please forgive him.”
“He’s a lot less confused than most people here,” said Abdul Wahid in a voice that carried. “He wants you to know that your entertainment is a great insult to him.”
“Who the hell does he think he is?” said Roger. “It’s a true story.”
“Yeah, who asked him?” jeered a voice in the crowd. “Bloody Pakis.” The waiters swiveled their heads and a pale, thin man ducked behind his wife.
“I say, that’s not on,” called out Alec Shaw from underneath his teetering turban.
The Major knew, even as he witnessed the event, that he would be hard pressed later to relay the details of the fight that now erupted. He saw a short man with large feet shove Abdul Wahid, who fell against one of the waiters. He saw another waiter slap a male dancer across the face with his white arm towel, as if to challenge him to a duel. He heard Daisy Green call out, somewhat hoarsely, “People, please remain civilized,” as a riot erupted in the middle of the dance floor. Things became a blur as women screamed, men shouted, and bodies hurled themselves at one another only to crash to the ground. There was much ineffectual thumping of backs and indiscriminate kicking.
As the music segued into an even more raucous tune, the Major was astonished to see a large drunken guest whip off his turban, hand his hookah pipe to his girlfriend, and throw himself across the heaving mass of assailants as if it were all a game. The Vicar waded in to grab him by the trousers but was kicked backward and fell on Alma. He became tangled in her green sari in a way that made Mortimer Teale look quite jealous, and was rescued by Alec Shaw; he dragged them behind the bar, which Lord Dagenham and Ferguson seemed to have commandeered as if for a siege.
“Oh, please, there is no need for violence,” cried Daisy as two combatants spun out from the crowd and landed on a table which collapsed in a heap of gravy-soaked plates. Several of the fighters, already looking winded, seemed to find it more effective to kick someone else’s opponent while clutching their own with their arms to prevent being punched.
Most of the guests had been pressed into the corners of the room and the Major wondered why those nearest the door did not just run out into the night. He guessed that they had not yet been served dessert and were reluctant to leave before parting gifts had made an appearance in the vestibule.
The fight might have organized itself into something actually dangerous had not someone found the appropriate switch backstage and killed the music. In the sudden quiet, heads popped up from the heaving mass of bodies and punches hesitated in midair. Old Mr. Percy, who had been staggering around the perimeter of the melee, whacking indiscriminately with a stuffed chicken, now gave one final blow. The chicken burst in a wave of polystyrene beads. Combatants soaked in gravy and now covered in white polystyrene seemed to realize that perhaps they looked foolish and the fight began to lose steam.
“I am terribly sorry,” said Mrs. Rasool to Daisy as she and her husband held up the elder Mr. Rasool. “My father-in-law was only six years old when his mother and sister were killed. He didn’t mean to cause a fuss.” The old man swayed and looked as faint and translucent as parchment paper.
“He’s ruined everything!” shrieked Daisy.
“He’s obviously quite ill,” said Mrs. Ali. “He needs to get out of here.” The Major cast around for an easy exit, but combatants were still being pulled apart and the crowd, no longer held in the corners, had swelled into all the spaces not covered with gravy.
“Mrs. Rasool, why don’t we squeeze through and bring him to the porch?” said Grace, taking charge. “It’s quieter out there.”
“Is there something wrong with the kitchen?” shrieked Daisy as he was led away.
“It’s probably dementia, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Khan asked her husband loudly.
“Oh no, Daisy is always that way,” said the Major without thinking.
“I guess we call it a night and get a cleaning crew in here,” said Lord Dagenham, surveying the damage. Five or six overturned tables complete with broken dishes, a palm tree cut in half, and curtains down in the entranceway seemed to be the only major damage. There were spots of blood on the dance floor from some bruised noses, and several sets of dirty footprints.
“I’ll get the parting gifts and send people home,” said Gertrude.
“Nonsense! No one’s leaving until we have dessert and then make our presentation to Major Pettigrew,” said
