The+Dinner+Party+Remake


 * "The Dinner Party" By Mona Gardner - THE ORIGINAL STORY**

The country is India. A colonial official and his wife are giving a large dinner party. They are seated with their guests - army officers and government attachés and their wives, and a visiting American naturalist - in their spacious dining room, which has a bare marble floor, open rafters, and wide glass doors opening onto a veranda. A spirited discussion springs up between a young girl who insists that women have outgrown the jumping-on-a-chair-at-the-sight-of-a-mouse era and a colonel who says that they haven't. "A woman's unfailing reaction in any crisis," the colonel says, "is to scream. And while a man may feel like it, he has that ounce more of nerve control than a woman has. And that last ounce is what counts." The American does not join in the argument but watches the other guests. As he looks, he sees a strange expression come over the face of the hostess. She is staring straight ahead, her muscles contracting slightly. With a slight gesture she summons the native boy standing behind her chair and whispers to him. The boy's eyes widen; he quickly leaves the room. Of the guests, none except the American notices this or sees the boy place a bowl of milk on the veranda just outside the open doors. The American comes to with a start. In India, milk in a bowl means only one thing- bait for a snake. He realizes there must be a cobra in the room. He looks up at the rafters- the likeliest place- but they are bare. Three corners of the room are empty, and the fourth the servants are waiting to serve the next course. There is only one place left- under the table. His first impulse is to jump back and warn the others, but he knows the commotion would frighten the cobra into striking. He speaks quickly, the tone of his voice so arresting that it sobers everyone. "I want to know just what control everyone at this table has. I will count to three hundred- that's five minutes- and not one of you is to move a muscle. Those who move will forfeit fifty rupees. Ready!" The twenty people sit like stone images while he counts. He is saying "...two hundred and eighty..." when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cobra emerge and make for the bowl of milk. Screams ring out as he jumps to slam the veranda doors safely shut. "You were right, Colonel!" the host exclaims. "A man has just shown us an example of perfect control." "Just a minute," the American says, turning to his hostess. "Mrs. Wynnes, how did you know that cobra was in the room?" A faint smile lights up in the woman's face as she replies: "Because it was crawling across my foot."

**REWRITES FROM A CHARACTER'S POINT OF VIEW created by students**
“James, John, hop into the car! We’re running late, it’s nearly six!” I slammed the door quickly, trying my best to not let my maroon colored, designer dress get caught. As I settled myself into a more comfortable position in the limo, I couldn’t help but wonder the number of times I’ve been to these kinds of prestigious events. Bustling through the busy streets of New York, fluorescent lights, concrete jungle, speeding cars, everything that has nothing to do with the humble country of India, I recall the time when I was just a young girl going to a dinner party just like this one, only, it was not just an ordinary dinner party. My thoughts were interrupted by James and John’s discussion of which edition of the ninja turtle action figure was better. When Tim told them to lower the tone, they surprisingly listened. I stared into the snarl of cars and glanced, annoyed back and forth at my watch. James and John, being only 8, could not stop fidgeting. An unpleasant expression ran across Tim’s face. When the traffic halted altogether, I cut out the now awkward silence, deciding randomly to tell my family the story of what happened that night, at the dinner party....back in India. Exceptionally, the boys were attentive and Tim nodded his approval. “So there was actually a cobra, Ma? At a dinner party you attended? Like the big, slithery lizard that eats rats?”, James described. John followed, with, “GROOL. I want a pet cobra!” Glad that the boys actually listened until the end of the story, Lisa gave a tiny assuring giggle that seemed to clarify the boys’ doubts and requests. “Where did you say you were that night, Ma? The colonel’s house? With awesome people, right?” James questioned. Lisa nodded, her beautiful dangling diamond earrings shook in rhythm while she described the dinner party’s location. “It was grand and sophisticated. I had dinner in their spacious dining room, and I remember the house, floored in exquisite marble. It had open rafters and a wide glass door opening to a veranda. I hadn’t seen anything quite like that, really.” James continued, “Oh, and so there were government attash--”, “Attachés, dear. Yes, officials and naturalists attended the party as well.” Lisa briefly pressed play on the memory in her head again. She remembered that the night started off pretty roughly. She was a rebel; she was a girl of 16 that argued against the colonel. She recalled precisely that her discussion with the colonel was due to her disagreement on the fact that he had insisted that women cannot control themselves. She believed that women have outgrown the jumping-on-a-chair-at-the-sight-of-the-mouse era. “He was a sexist, the colonel, a stubborn kind of guy, Tim.” Lisa explained, describing the colonel to her husband. Lost in a sea of thoughts, Lisa was pulled back to consciousness by John’s tugging, waiting for his mom to answer his question. “Well, from what I remembered, the one who found out about the cobra, was this American man, a naturalist. He was very observant.” Lisa’s eyebrows slightly contracted. “This American, he knew that a cobra was in the room because he saw a boy placing a bowl of milk on the veranda, a balcony. But being a naturalist, he knew exactly what this meant; it was a bait for a snake. Intelligently, afraid to cause panic or a scene, the American naturalist tricked everyone into playing a game. It was to hold still while he counts to three hundred, and those who move, will have to give up 50 rupees.” The boys stared at their mother cautiously, not wanting to miss a single word she said. Even Tim was now caught up in the story. “So what happened next? Did everyone scream and shout? Did the cobra kill anyone?” Lisa patted John’s head and managed to stifle a smile. “No, dear, the cobra was lured into the veranda. Regretfully, though, some people did scream.” In the dim light of the car, Lisa could almost see Tim’s face expression droop in disappointment. Before she could make further conclusions, Tim murmured, “All that shouting and screaming, that must have proved the bloody colonel right, about women’s lacking capability of controlling themselves!” “Hang on, Tim, who told you I was done?” “Alright, so what did actually happen?” Tim said, his eyes filled with confusion. “Well, turns out that the cobra was crawling across Mrs. Wynnes, the hostess’ feet,” Lisa smirked. Under the dim light, this time, Tim’s face seems to light up. “We’re here,” the driver exclaimed. The boys impatiently ran out of the car, and Tim and Lisa walked together, hand in hand, entering the banquet. “Well, never underestimate ladies, then colonel,” Tim said right as we went up the red-carpeted steps. Lisa let out a quick laugh and entered the hall, her chin held up a little higher than usual.
 * The Dinner Party Rewrite**
 * By: Chelsea Ng**


 * The Dinner Party Rewrite**
 * By: Jenna Cordisco**

I hate dinner parties. Completely detest the bloody things. Not that anyone would care what I thought. No one ever cares what I think. It’s always the same thing, every day; “Jayatsen, go do this”, or “Jayatsen, go do that”, or “Jayatsen, go wash that mouth out with soap, boy, can’t have the Brits hearing you say that!” To most of the Brits, I am an invisible servant. Indeed, I am. I try hard to be when in their presence, out of their hearing range though, I tend to use some well chosen curse words that I’ve picked up to describe some of them. Why, just the other day... “Jayatsen,” Ignoring. “Jayatsen!” Dash it. I quickly peer down at the piece of silverware I’ve been “polishing” to find it surprisingly brighter than I expected. I guess anger does that. Jumping up, I hand the gleaming knife to Saaras, who of course promptly drops it. It clatters onto the slick marble of the dinning room floor. “You stupid boy!” she bursts angrily, spittle flying onto my face. I stoop, pick up the knife, and give it one final swipe with my rag. She snatches the blade from my hands, pressing the sharp side deep in my hand, drawing blood. I say nothing. Inside me, however, I have to use all of my self-control not to let the tears run down my face, or my face screw up in pain for the cut feels deep, running from my wrist through the ends of three finger tips. My hand runs with blood, hot and sticky. I know she has done that to me on purpose. Saaras does it to all the servants. Bruise, she caused it. Starvation or sleep deprivation, caused by her. Occasional torture, once again, caused by her. However, Saaras gets the thoughtless, mindless servants her Mistress wants, so most everyone just turns a blind eye. I got used to it by my eighth year, eventually we all do. “Now look what you’ve done! The mistress’s best silver knife covered in vermin blood.” The blade has a wide streak of crimson blood, my blood, not vermin, running from hilt to tip. I bite my tongue. Saaras holds the knife out in between us, gesturing or rather stabbing at me, with each lie she utters. Sometimes I wonder if Saaras remembers she is an Indian at all. Well, half. She’s a typical case in these parts now-a-days. Indian mum, British dad, the Brit’s wife out of town. Sometimes those British women can be so stupid and cowardly. Before I was separated from my family, I remember all the times my Pa would bring home scorpions from work and teach me and my older sisters how to kill them. My sisters were the best of our villiage. Sometimes I wish Saaras was her true form, something like a rat or rabid scorpion, then I could take care of her the old fashioned way. “You will be punished for this latter” she hisses. Tucking the blade away into the lumpy folds of her hideous bright pink British dress. “Right now I need you to go handle the door for the guests. Then report back to the dinning room for further instruction.” Saaras turns on her heel and tries to flounce off down to the servants quarters. I hope she breaks an ankle in her ridiculous high heels. Sighing, I straighten up from my hidden stool in the far corner in the dining room and saunter towards the high windows that overlook the patio. The night air smells wonderful, as it is probably the last I will smell of it before all the heavily perfumed ladies ruin it till morning. I ignore my hand for now, running my uninjured hand along the wall as I walk down the length of the long dinner table. The blood continues to drip but I care naught. When I reach the end, I see the mistress’s seat be decked in brightly colored Indian festival cloth. I know that cloth. It’s from my village. I clench my fists, both of them. My left hand spurts more blood onto the floor. My mother had made that piece, the gold and blue tigers and the red elephants. She died years ago. Anger clogs my brain; I want to rip it from the chair and kick almost, almost every single Brit out of my country, for good. It takes no more than a minute for Saaras to leave the room till I am broiling with anger. Unfortunately, It takes me two minutes to calm down ever so slightly and continue with my duty. I am late to the door. The Colonel stands impatient on the front steps, his carriage idling behind him. “You’re late.” His voice sounds just like his uniform, the sort of tone that says: I-am-more-important-than-you-will-ever-be-and-I-make-all-the-ladies-swoon-because-I-am-brave. I bow and hold the door open as he strides into the foyer. “Oh, my dear Colonel, how nice it is to see you!” Whipping around, I see Florence. She glides down the tall banister and into the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. It’s as green as the jungle vines with wisps and patterns of gold. Her red hair is curled and pinned up and I swore she was wearing make up. I make a face at her from behind the Colonel’s back; she winks. Florence, or as I call her, Paris, is my age exactly, 14 years, 3 months, and 7 days. Her parents want to marry her off soon, they’re hoping a colonel. On the contrary, Paris hopes for no one just yet. Our friendship is strange. She is probably the highest socially ranking 14-year-old in India and she is British. She should be like the others, but she isn’t. I don’t remember exactly how we became friends. It was probably six years ago, after I was separated from my family, and I vaguely remember being out in center of the maze in the courtyard practicing //śastravidyā// with some fellow servant boys when Paris dropped out of the tree canopy above us. All the boys ran but me. No one knows that were friends, best friends really. I taught her how to fight, she taught me about the world. Soon, we knew everything about each other. No one knows, that would be too dangerous. I would die; Paris would be humiliated. The Colonel thinks Paris is winking at him. “It is a wonderful to see you too my dear, you look lovely.” He kisses her hand, failing to hide his examining look as he takes in Florence’s dress. “Thank you very much, kind Sir, may I escort you to our lovely dining room?” I know the look on her face, she wants to murder him. I don’t pity him in the slightest. “Yes, I would like that very much,” he drawls and drags Paris towards the dining room. I spend the next hour engaged in opening and closing the door. My next job is to stand by the dinner table and help any of the guests that need anything. I hide my hand behind my back; the blood had dried, but I don’t want any punishment. The only thing that keeps the meal entertaining is watching Paris argue with the Colonel about the bravery of women. “A women’s unfailing reaction in any crisis is to scream, And while a man feels like it, he has that ounce more of nerve control than a woman. And that last ounce that counts.” the Colonel declares indignantly. The mistress’s husband, a retired Colonel, joins in the conversation. Paris’s father, loudly and animatedly, tells the guests about how a woman could not have survived during his days in the army. Florence fumes. I hide a smirk, remembering when I had been sent down to the Colonel’s estate to invite him to this party, only to find him screaming and swatting at a moth. Colonel, control? Yeah, my bloody ass. Paris retorts with her customary witty comeback. The guest of the dinner party, the American naturalist is watching the argument like I am. His bald head twitches back and forth and back and forth and back and... The Mistress’s back stiffens. Turning very slowly, she looks back into my eyes and gestures for me to lean closer. Her face is contorted and is as white as a ghost. “Boy, there is...” she breaks off, terrified, “there is, a, a, cobra on my foot. Can you get rid of it?” My eyes go wide. Bloody hell, this is not good. It’s in a quiet whisper, but the American seems to look right through the Mistress. “Yes, Mistress. Sit very still and don’t move a muscle.” She nods and I move back from the table calmly so as not to disturb the cobra. The Mistress is a brave woman. Even to us natives, the cobras are terrifying. Then I see the trail of blood. My blood. There is a big dried pool of it near the Mistress’s chair, and little drops that lead straight to the patio doors. The snake is my fault. Leaving the room swiftly, I run down to the kitchen, pour milk into a bowl, and dash back to the dining room. Once inside, I move with efficiency so that I won’t draw suspicion. I stretch my hand out as I near the Mistress, flexing my fingers; the wound on my hand reopens and new blood starts to splatter to the floor. It works. A small trail of blood droplets follows me to the center of the veranda. I place the bowl of milk on the floor and look up to see the American's curious eyes looking into my own. Drawing my eyes to the floor I move back inside, to the far corner where I had been polishing the knife, careful not to drop any more blood. The American makes his first contribution to the conversation at the table, confirming my suspicions that he knew about the snake. “I want to know just what control everyone at this table has. I will count to three-hundred-that’s five minuets- and not one of you is to move a muscle. Those who move will forfeit fifty rupees. Ready!” I know what he is doing. Nothing happens till two hundred and eighty when the cobra makes its move. It makes a beeline for the blood, slithering right though it and out onto the veranda. The American leaps up and shuts the doors. Everyone is screaming, except me, the Mistress, the American, and Paris. Paris’s face conveys ultimate pain as her Colonel is screaming straight into her ear. The people quiet down after a minute or two. “You were right, Colonel!” The Master says, “A man has just shown us an example of perfect control.” All nod. The American looks slyly at his hostess. “Just a minute. Mrs. Wynnes, how did you know that cobra was in the room?” My Mistress smiles softly as she replies, “Because it was crawling across my foot.” Paris’s face breaks out in the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. “Take that, Colonel!” She cheers and punches him on the arm, hard. And then I too let a small smile stretch across my face.