And here, the equivocal family circle, eating an Indian dinner, sans waspy comments. No, the needles and daggers are saved for the mind, which converts them into subtleties, for later use as averted eyes, a careful phrase, an instance of unfortunate forgetfulness.

There is the young daughter, begging for affection with dopey eyes, hiding the mind of her own to appeal the better nature of a stone mother.

And shall the prodigal child not be mentioned? The intelligent, well-married daughter with one med student and one delinquent, smiles, thinking how great this family is. Sure, a fight, here and there, maybe a disagreement over God or money or place in the household, but hey, at least we don’t run drugs, harbor fugitives, or eat beef.

The yoga-preacher son-in-law of old, an accepted outcast into the family’s once-esteemed privy. He is the cool transfer student, the eccentrically amazing professor. Set into a tradition of changing traditions, he carries a lengthy diatribe on civil rights, equal rights, and human rights, stored somewhere in the part of the brain meant for mindless conversation.

But there is also the delinquent grandson, beer-guzzling, (occasional) smoking, motor-cycling, tank top wearing piece of stubble. The beloved problem of the family, he sits and smiles, knowing that the family is unfixable, unlovable, uncaring, and silently shakes his head at trauma, bursting for escape.

The elephant in the room is not there at all, and is not a true elephant, but rather, a platypus. The hippie-in-denial med student is out and around. A general idea is known as to her whereabouts, but truth be told, with her fancy teaching position at a boot-camp-esqe school, she has the money to move where she wants. Her boyfriend, a skinny computer engineer/tribal musician, is no doubt with her, and together, they entwine arms, thinking about Darfur and Bhopal.

Ah, but let us not forget the arch, the lintel of the proud little group. A haughty grandmother, hawkish to some, overbearing to most. She projects the image of a wronged innocent, lamenting in a pool of blood she made her self. When the finger is pointed, the drama begins, and is quickly quashed, for nobody likes a scene, or for that matter, nobody likes conflict resolution.

The grandfather, weak in his age, sees a little, but not all. Blissfully ignorant of many problems, he keeps the talk flowing with a question here, a comment there, political wit interspersing his words. But his shrewd mind barely cubes the iceberg’s proverbial tip, and his poor grasp of the family state is muddled by beer and spices.

And so, the scene arrives at a rather muddy image of a birthday party. Huddled around the cake made from Diet Coke and a pre-mix, the digital camera flashes, saving a little piece of everyone’s mask. The humor is barely present when the grandfather smears some cake on his brow, and the silence cuts the cake better than the knife. The TV blares about some hippie meds, and the yoga teacher watches, evading the family deftly and calmly. His son sits and reads Time, desperately looking for a way back to a computer, a big screen TV, and a cold beer. The sisters commune, talking about the gym, work, the next party, who’s getting married, and endless subjects. Something awkward comes up, and the pause is palpable for just a second, and then someone drops a cute line about college and the subject joyfully bursts into it, like a puppy out of a hot car.

And then, the party disperses. The cake is put away, the after-gossip begins, and in a red car roaring down the highway, the tears start to flow.

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