The party I didn’t throw

I dread Saturdays. Not because of work. In fact, I often work through them, at least, in part. But because Saturdays have somehow become the unofficial day for social obligation. The kind that arrives via polite group chats, gentle nudges, or photos of themed potlucks you weren’t part of. You don’t decline anything, but somehow, you’re already behind.

My husband and I are both bureaucrats who recently moved to Delhi. He joined a badminton group at a Delhi club, a lively mix of serving and retired officers. From what I hear, it’s not just a game. It’s an event. They play, they laugh, they celebrate birthdays right there on the court with samosas, cake and spirited group selfies. There’s a WhatsApp group where the energy continues long after the match is over.

I’m not in that group. I’ve never met most of the people involved. But I hear about them often. The jokes, the birthday rituals and the casual expectation that we’ll host something soon.

To host or not to host

Lately, those “gentle reminders” aimed at my husband have morphed into cheerful bullying. All in good humour, of course, the kind that expects you to take the hint.

My husband, who considers 10 p.m. a reckless hour, looks angsty every time the group teases him about not hosting. “Let’s just host something and get it over with,” he says now.

And so, here I am, facing the question: to host or not to host?

I haven’t said yes. Not because I dislike people. But because I dislike pressure disguised as friendliness. The kind that insists we all participate equally in a rhythm we didn’t necessarily choose. The kind that implies you owe something to the group even if you’re not part of it, simply because your life now brushes up against it.

What complicates it further is the deeper social script many of us carry, especially women. That we must be warm. Welcoming. Up for it. That if we don’t host, attend, coordinate, or celebrate with sufficient enthusiasm, we’re somehow failing at community. That being seen as boring or “not a sport” is worse than being tired or uninterested. And so, many of us end up hosting evenings we don’t enjoy, cooking for crowds we didn’t invite, spending precious energy on performance — all because we don’t want to seem like the only one opting out.

Quiet Saturdays

But I’ve reached a stage where I’m done performing.

I have a demanding job. I have children in intense academic years and a home that, like most, runs on invisible labour. I don’t have an empty weekend to spare. And even if I did, I might just want to do nothing with it.

I also know myself. I like quiet Saturdays. I enjoy my own company. I have a small circle of close friends who are calm, intelligent and not in competition over how often we meet or how well we host. I don’t need a group to feel included. And I don’t think social obligation should masquerade as belonging.

If I ever throw a party and I might, it will be because I want to. On a weekend that feels like it belongs to me. With people I genuinely want to feed, not impress.

Until then, I’ll be at home. Drinking tea. Reading something I didn’t need a group to recommend. Taking a nap that I won’t apologise for. And no, I will not be hosting anything next Saturday.

The writer is a commissioner of Income Tax and presently posted as spokesperson, Central Board of Direct Taxes.