Georgia’s Khabar Magazine features what I found to be a humorous little account by KALPITA C. SARKAR, of what happened when a group of South Asian women (some visiting from India), who are perhaps a little too old to be going to da clubs, let their hair down in an American one:

As someone visiting from India, I had done all the routine stuff. Gorged myself at exotic restaurants, danced all night at private parties, even splurged on some expensive clothes and accessories at the Mall of Georgia. It should have made anyone deliriously happy. But I felt like doing something different. Something bold?something I had never done before?

Emboldened by the seemingly outgoing gang of friends including my host and sister-in-law Maya, I voiced my adventurous ambitions. I soon discovered that such aspirations were on the minds of the others too ? though no one had voiced it. But it was there ? a nagging, taunting inner voice that said, “You are another year older. You are over the hill, past its fascinating peak. The view from now on is only downhill ? a devastating, frictionless slide that will gather momentum as you hit the bottom?”

We were eight women; all over thirty, some over forty. Married, with kids, and coming from fairly conservative, middle class backgrounds. Each working, with decent jobs. University lecturers, software engineers, legal secretaries and a physiotherapist. And we were all Indians. The only difference was that the others lived in Atlanta while I was visiting.

So what happens once they finally get to the club?

Five dollars per head ? no tickets ? just a stamp; we coyly put our wrists forward. You can get it stamped anywhere on your bare skin, I hear. IÂ’m reminded of the Kaanta laga video where the girl gets it on her breast. A big guy asks for our licenses. I cringe. Do we look like we are below eighteen? Take it as a compliment, winks Prema.

Inside, at least fifty people are dancing shoulder to shoulder in an elevated, lighted dance floor that is barricaded by a sort of railing. All around folks are standing and watching. A bar on the right is doing brisk business. Skimpily clad waitresses are doing the rounds with drink trays balanced in their hands. The roof is high with funny cages hanging from above. I even see a few people dancing in the cages. The place instantly gives me the creeps.

All of us stand for a moment wondering what to do. Heads were turning and we begin to see why. We look like a group out on a school picnic rather than one at a nightclub. Naiveté and curiosity are writ large on our faces. It is warm inside and we have all these bulky jackets and big purses with us. We realize suddenly that we couldn’t dance carrying them. We keep the jackets in a chair. “What if someone pinches them?” I ask suspiciously. “Don’t be a FOB. No one pinches clothes here!” I get rebuked.

We hold on to our purses though. “Girls, let’s not waste time twiddling our thumbs, come on,” Shelley leads us to the dance floor. The rest of us squeeze in gingerly. The whole crowd is doing a synchronized number ? two to the right, two to the left, shake it all about ? something to that effect.

And of course the sharks begin to circle our hapless heroines:

…turned around to find a huge hulk who drawled, “Anybody bothering ya, lady?” That almost did me in.

“No, no!” I said vehemently and turned back. ‘Let’s leave,’ I whispered to Maya. All of us were getting increasingly uncomfortable and the suggestive winks and whispers were growing. The men were closing in, trying to talk to us, dance with us. We picked up our bags and left the dance floor.

“Are you guys from India?” someone asked from the crowd. “Hey, ladies, can we take your picture?” A big guy raised a camera. “How about your number?” said a voice from behind.

We looked the other way. We tried to be as blasé as possible but it was difficult. “Are you on a girls’ night out without mama?” someone jeered. It was the last straw. We turned tail and made a beeline for the door, grabbing our coats. As we stepped out, our hearts ticking like racing pocket watches, a man at the door called out, “Take care ladies!”

The story in itself is nothing new but the perspective sure made it amusing in that I kept picturing what would happen if some of our moms showed up at the clubs we sometimes go to.