Kumar wasn’t sure of what to expect. He had never been to a bris in his life, let alone heard of one. When he returned to his apartment after dinner, a very long dinner at that, with Stanley at Mykonos that Tuesday evening, he threw all the stuff he carried in his pockets on to his desk, changed his clothes and then pulled out his phone to get onto the internet.

By the time he had trouble keeping his eyes open, he had read everything there was to know about a bris ceremony, including the portion that brought tears to his eyes. By the end, as he turned out the lights and lay in the darkness fighting to keep his eyes open for a few more seconds, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be part of an audience who watched a 3 month old baby boy, in his view, being violated. He was glad Hindus, regardless of class, did not subscribe to that procedure. Shaving a boy’s head at the age of 11 in the Hindu religion was humiliation enough, at least it didn’t require what he quite aptly felt was surgery by any other name. Soon he was sleep.

After Stanley and Kumar finished dinner, though they both wanted to stay longer nursing their umpteenth cup of espresso, in the hope that time and gravity would work and the food which sat like concrete blocks in their stomachs would be absorbed, they got up from their chairs and made their way to the front of the restaurant where they waited for Steven’s car to arrive.

“Oh, my goodness, what am I doing!” said Stanley as he watched the traffic go by looking for the car he had summoned. Kumar immediately turned his head towards Stanley and away from the passing traffic, as he too was watching for Stanley’s ride though he wasn’t sure what the ride was, other than it was a car sent by the office. Stanley' touched Kumar’s shoulder and repeated his words and added, “Marjorie will kill me. I completely forgot to invite you to my in-law’s house next Monday as we are having a bris for the baby.”

Kumar steadied himself. He hadn’t been informed that Stanley was a father, though there was no reason for him to be included in that announcement. He also didn’t think he would ever have to meet the esteemed Rosenbaums again in his life, outside the possibility of Marjorie. He had dismissed what Stanley said about moving to India with her. Kumar had, though Stanley had not. Kumar wasn’t sure he was up to being surrounded by a room full of upscale Jews from Short Hills, New Jersey. Even though he was sure he had met some before. His instinct was about to kick in which would’ve meant him telling Steven he needed to think about it, but he overruled that and replied, “I would be delighted. Thank you for inviting me.”

They parted company when a few minutes later a sleek BMW pulled up to the front of the restaurant and Stanley recognised the driver. He shook Kumar’s hand and got into the back seat. As soon as he had, and the car was about to pull away from the kerb, it suddenly stopped. The window went down, and Stanley popped his head out briefly. “6pm,” he shouted waving his hand as the window went back up. Kumar began his walk to his apartment. He had been offered a ride by Stanley, which he had turned down. It was a beautifully warm September evening, and he didn’t live too far away, so a walk would help with digestion.

For the next few days, Kumar made best use of his Jewish classmates to prod them for any and all information on what to expect next Monday. Besides some humorous advice, he finally culled from all that a gift was usually accepted, but not expected. Here Mr Levy’s son, Barry, was most helpful with suggestions that ranged from a $100 cheque to a set of golf clubs. Neither of which could Kumar afford.

On Friday, when Kumar went to the office to catch up on what progress had been made regarding his suggestions about the charity work Mr Levy’s company had undertaken, on his desk was a small package with a label marked ‘Kramer Junior.’ There was also a little sticky note stating, ‘Do not open. Deliver to the parents or place on table if there is one.’ Kumar smiled and put the little box in his briefcase case. He promised to thank Barry when he next saw him but didn’t until after the celebration.

And what a celebration it was. Kumar showed up at the Rosenbaum residence a little after 6, and then with gift in hand rang the doorbell of 16 Rachel Road. He was ushered in by a man specifically recruited for that night, who showed him into the living room and then took Kumar’s gift and placed it on a table with the others. The room was already packed and there, in the middle of a group of overly dressed women trying to outdo each other with clothing from Saks Fifth Avenue, was a glowing Marjorie. As soon as she saw Kumar, she excused herself and with baby cradled in her arms gave him a kiss on both cheeks. Stanley followed her up with a firm handshake.

“What do you think?” asked Marjorie and Kumar looked down at the little boy dressed in what he thought was probably the right clothing for the brutal ceremony and smiled.

“He’s beautiful, what’s his name?”

“Richard,” replied Marjorie and then expanded, “Richard Kumar Kramer.”

Luckily for Kumar, the throng around him was so dense that if he had considered falling, he wouldn’t have fallen very far.

He recovered in time, “Kumar?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Stanley, “we thought it only fair.”

There was another sentence dying to come out of Kumar’s mouth, but he closed his lips preventing it from being uttered. Instead, when his brain reoriented itself, he said, “I’m honoured.”

Stanley, who was never lost for words probably because he was slightly older and had the benefit of knowing the name ahead of time replied with a genuine smile, “as will Richard when he grows up.”

After a few minutes of fumbling for words and Kumar had yet to ground himself completely, the Mohel arrived, and the formal ceremony began. After a few prayers and blessings from the Mohel, he took the young boy in his arms handed to him by a very shaky Marjorie. He turned his back to the audience and suddenly there was a short sharp scream which caused Kumar to panic and clench his thighs tightly together. He instinctively grabbed a drink off the nearest table and gulped it down. The man who’s drink it was noticed but did not care. He smiled at Kumar and whispered, “barbaric, isn’t it?” it was then that Kumar realised he had drunk the man’s Scotch and began to apologise profusely, but his attempts were waved away. “It’s ok,” the man replied with a twinkle in his eyes, “I have another just in case I needed a second!”

Everyone raised their glasses. The man reached over got another glass for Kumar, took away his empty one and with glorious shouts of “Mazel Tov,” the serious drinking began. Richard Kumar Kramer was snatched from the arms of the Mohel by his mother and whisked away into another room where she could calm him the best way she knew.