This week has allowed me a peek into very different worlds. On Tuesday it was Pecha Kucha, the Japanese fad that has viraled world wide. Wednesday night at Batu Caves exposed me to the colour and fascinating rituals of the Hindu faith. Last night, I explored the meaning of life as a Christian, through the Alpha course. And tonight, I allowed a different kind of spirit pass through me, at Rootz, the most exclusive and expensive nightclub in the city. Tomorrow morning, I had thought of joining a group that gathers each week on a rock in a forest… to read and contemplate a book, A Course in Miracles. But lazy bones here would probably not be able to wake up.
The invitation for tonight came from my friend Derrick, who on discovering I had not clubbed in the metropolis for eons, felt the need to provide me an opportunity to let my proverbial hair down. He had a four-person pass to a cigarette launch organised by Grey Worldwide, the agency I had just applied at for a job. Further provoked by the promise of a free flow of booze for the night, I figured, why not?
Rootz nests on the charming sky garden at Lot 10, in the centre of town. I had been on the rooftop once, but for a very different reason–to attend a play. I had then wondered what it would be like to party on this rooftop, and was glad I got this chance to satisfy that curiosity.
Today, as we walked down the red carpet leading to the club, flash bulbs fired nonstop, from the scores of photographers flanking the walk. Well aware of my ‘nobodyness’, I thought the scene over-manufactured and completely ridiculous.
Promoter girls paraded the new line of cigarettes, chest out, like proud peacocks trying to lure a mate. One of the girls came up to me, and I bought a pack, just so I could shed the guilt I was at the time feeling–that I was free-loading. I have to say, this new cigarette has a really cool feature. If you pinch the filter, you’d be able to feel a little ball embedded in the soft material. Press it harder and the ball pops, and it is the most pleasurable sensation. More addictive than popping bubble wrap, in my opinion. The hidden orb, once burst, releases the mint element of the cigarette.
The interior at Rootz was rather grand; high ceilings, baroque artwork, antique-finished walls, velvet sofas. Having arrived at an early hour, the place had yet to be packed with people, and we were able to secure a table right in front. The waiters patrolling the floor seemed to be on a mission to de-sober us in the quickest possible time, and efficiently shuttled free whisky and beer to our table. As the club filled up, the music got progressively louder, and more spit gathered on my ear each time someone tried to tell me something. As the DJ pushed the music to a higher tempo, people started to dance all around me, and I gaped at their fluency. Unschooled in modern dance methods, I felt like a rigid obelisk in a sea of fluid anemone.
I had a ball of a time observing. Observing the faces, the fashion, the body language, the hemlines. Oh, and I learned something new. You know that song, Fly like a G6. G6 is actually a plane. I was probably the last person in the room to know that. Been feeling a little too school for cool these days.
My throat was completely raw by the time we called it a night at one. I really enjoyed the music, the people I were with, watching the DJ do an amazing job weaving in and out of songs. This was the funny thing though. It wasn’t until I got into my car and drove through the city that I felt a relationship with the night. It reminded me of this Volkswagen ad.
Acknowledging that nothing could sound as good as the music at Rootz, I opted to not turn on my car radio, to preserve my memory of the club. As I drove, I took in the deadness of the sleeping city, the whir of my four-cylinder, the blur of lights flashing by. I experienced an unmatched solitude as my car gracefully curved and glided through the Smart tunnel at 120. To cap off the symphony of emotions I felt from connecting with the night, I made myself some scrambled eggs when I got home.
After I satisfied my belly, I walked into the bedroom, changed into my bed clothes, and scissored off the wristband the club had cuffed me with. I pondered on things for a bit. And I realised, that life truly is a journey. A search for that sense of place, to discover where you belong. I settled at my desk, my place, and started to write.
