12th August 2007
"So what do you think of the party?"
"It's okay. Makes no difference to me."
We were sitting at one of the tables in Barista off Colaba Causeway.
"And your observations are?"
Well I had observed a lot. I had nothing much to do there anyway. I did not know the host, I did not know the guests, and I did not even know why the party was thrown. So I did what I do best on such occasions: I got myself a drink, looked around for a seat, and - well - sat and observed.
My friend knew all - even the ones who came to cover the party. So as and when I needed a confirmation, I asked him.
"So, is that so and so?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Oh she looks horrid."
"Well I think she looks good."
"But that dress!"
"That dress is good. She looks nice in it."
"What are you saying man? It looks horrible. She looks like a baby."
"No no, she looks good. It's just those shoes she's worn. What made her wear them?"
"Well what made her wear that dress?"
"It's a nice dress!"
"Yes it is. It does scream so well for help. It's a pity I cannot run to the rescue!"
But before he could react, I struck him with another question.
"Is she wearing a wig?'
"No but could be. She does wear wigs."
"Well, she shouldn't wear those clips for sure. She looks like Alice in Wonderland!"
"But they make her look cute!"
"Cute?"
"Yes, cute as in Sweet? Nice? Loveable?"
"Yes yes, I know what cute is I said testily. It's just that she looks more stupid than cute."
"No no, she does look nice. She's a nice girl."
She might be a nice girl, but that is no license to dress like a kindergarten tiny tot. I wanted to say as much, but my friend had decided to think her cute even if her dress were to file an FIR against her. So I smiled and let my eyes catch another specimen.
"Oh oh look look, who is this?" I asked him.
"Oh that is so and so."
"I see. He looks so much like Albus Dumbledore."
"Albus?! Well, this fellow is falling apart. Dumbledore doesn't look like that in the movie."
"Well, anyway, in case the fellow playing Dumbledore snuffs it, we can send this fellow as an Indian replacement!"
"Hehe. Oh yes we can. Come let's go get a refill."
And off we went to the bar. The bar had a tantalizing set of human flesh wrapped around its serving table. The men - handsome, suave, etc, etc - did their best to balance their liquor and the women. And the women - beautiful, sexy, flirtatious etc etc - did their best to look less drunk than they were. Of course, all that flesh at the bar did manage to appear sane and even healthy. How they did that I have no clue.
"It's so full of smoke," I heard myself say.
"It's so nice and cool here."
"Yes, but it's stuffy too."
"Alright, we'll go out in a bit."
Well, the 'bit' inside the bar lasted for quite a while. I saw a few chandeliers, a lot of smoke, and a number of glasses tinkling. I also happened to hear a lot of useless conversation: Half of it was on who is doing what, why what is not supposed to be done, why who is doing what should not be doing that, and why that is what who is not doing.
By the time we got to the other half of the conversation, I had lost all my patience. So, I dragged my friend out into the balcony and began to observe the guests again.
I realized that the party comprised two sets of people: the ones who defined style (Set 1), and the other (Set 2) that followed that style but behaved as if they did a favour by doing so. There were the borderlines too - the ones who began to define style, but left it halfway to follow Set 1. But they were few in number and did not matter much, either to the host or to the other two sets.
Set 1 was quite at ease, mingled around, smiled the most genuine of smiles, and made for some genuine light-hearted conversation.
Set 2 was quite at ease doing just the opposite. They tried to smile, tried everyone's patience, and more or less threw their weight around. So I wasn't quite surprised when one such specimen from Set 2 walked up to us during lunch and decided to throw us tidbits about her work, her intellect, her designs, and a lot more.
"I am doing this and that there."
"Is it?"
"Oh yes, And that there is much better than this here."
"Really?"
"And those there aren't much competition to mine there."
"Oh okay."
"They aren't intellectual you see."
"Ahh that we see. Yes, we see."
"Not as much as I'd like them to be."
That I sure did not want them to be. Of course, I did not say so. I merely smiled, excused myself and went to get some ice-cream. By the time I got back, she was gone.
"She," my friend said as we walked to the exit, "is one of the best of Set 2."
"Oh you mean she's the worst of the lot?"
"Oh worst, best - as you like it. If you like to have reasons to hate people, she'll give you a list of reasons to hate her for. If you like to hate people for no reason, she'll help you do that too."
"Oh man, then she is the best."
"Oh yes," said my friend as he got into a taxi, "But remember that's what all of Set 2 is all about: Being the best at being the worst. And that set is very very infectious."
"Well, they might be," I said as I decided to go home by train, "But you know they really cannot infect me."
"Oh theirs is a pretty infection."
"But not one that can sicken me."
And I smiled, waved a pretty little goodbye, and walked off to Victoria Terminus.
"So what do you think of the party?"
"It's okay. Makes no difference to me."
We were sitting at one of the tables in Barista off Colaba Causeway.
"And your observations are?"
Well I had observed a lot. I had nothing much to do there anyway. I did not know the host, I did not know the guests, and I did not even know why the party was thrown. So I did what I do best on such occasions: I got myself a drink, looked around for a seat, and - well - sat and observed.
My friend knew all - even the ones who came to cover the party. So as and when I needed a confirmation, I asked him.
"So, is that so and so?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Oh she looks horrid."
"Well I think she looks good."
"But that dress!"
"That dress is good. She looks nice in it."
"What are you saying man? It looks horrible. She looks like a baby."
"No no, she looks good. It's just those shoes she's worn. What made her wear them?"
"Well what made her wear that dress?"
"It's a nice dress!"
"Yes it is. It does scream so well for help. It's a pity I cannot run to the rescue!"
But before he could react, I struck him with another question.
"Is she wearing a wig?'
"No but could be. She does wear wigs."
"Well, she shouldn't wear those clips for sure. She looks like Alice in Wonderland!"
"But they make her look cute!"
"Cute?"
"Yes, cute as in Sweet? Nice? Loveable?"
"Yes yes, I know what cute is I said testily. It's just that she looks more stupid than cute."
"No no, she does look nice. She's a nice girl."
She might be a nice girl, but that is no license to dress like a kindergarten tiny tot. I wanted to say as much, but my friend had decided to think her cute even if her dress were to file an FIR against her. So I smiled and let my eyes catch another specimen.
"Oh oh look look, who is this?" I asked him.
"Oh that is so and so."
"I see. He looks so much like Albus Dumbledore."
"Albus?! Well, this fellow is falling apart. Dumbledore doesn't look like that in the movie."
"Well, anyway, in case the fellow playing Dumbledore snuffs it, we can send this fellow as an Indian replacement!"
"Hehe. Oh yes we can. Come let's go get a refill."
And off we went to the bar. The bar had a tantalizing set of human flesh wrapped around its serving table. The men - handsome, suave, etc, etc - did their best to balance their liquor and the women. And the women - beautiful, sexy, flirtatious etc etc - did their best to look less drunk than they were. Of course, all that flesh at the bar did manage to appear sane and even healthy. How they did that I have no clue.
"It's so full of smoke," I heard myself say.
"It's so nice and cool here."
"Yes, but it's stuffy too."
"Alright, we'll go out in a bit."
Well, the 'bit' inside the bar lasted for quite a while. I saw a few chandeliers, a lot of smoke, and a number of glasses tinkling. I also happened to hear a lot of useless conversation: Half of it was on who is doing what, why what is not supposed to be done, why who is doing what should not be doing that, and why that is what who is not doing.
By the time we got to the other half of the conversation, I had lost all my patience. So, I dragged my friend out into the balcony and began to observe the guests again.
I realized that the party comprised two sets of people: the ones who defined style (Set 1), and the other (Set 2) that followed that style but behaved as if they did a favour by doing so. There were the borderlines too - the ones who began to define style, but left it halfway to follow Set 1. But they were few in number and did not matter much, either to the host or to the other two sets.
Set 1 was quite at ease, mingled around, smiled the most genuine of smiles, and made for some genuine light-hearted conversation.
Set 2 was quite at ease doing just the opposite. They tried to smile, tried everyone's patience, and more or less threw their weight around. So I wasn't quite surprised when one such specimen from Set 2 walked up to us during lunch and decided to throw us tidbits about her work, her intellect, her designs, and a lot more.
"I am doing this and that there."
"Is it?"
"Oh yes, And that there is much better than this here."
"Really?"
"And those there aren't much competition to mine there."
"Oh okay."
"They aren't intellectual you see."
"Ahh that we see. Yes, we see."
"Not as much as I'd like them to be."
That I sure did not want them to be. Of course, I did not say so. I merely smiled, excused myself and went to get some ice-cream. By the time I got back, she was gone.
"She," my friend said as we walked to the exit, "is one of the best of Set 2."
"Oh you mean she's the worst of the lot?"
"Oh worst, best - as you like it. If you like to have reasons to hate people, she'll give you a list of reasons to hate her for. If you like to hate people for no reason, she'll help you do that too."
"Oh man, then she is the best."
"Oh yes," said my friend as he got into a taxi, "But remember that's what all of Set 2 is all about: Being the best at being the worst. And that set is very very infectious."
"Well, they might be," I said as I decided to go home by train, "But you know they really cannot infect me."
"Oh theirs is a pretty infection."
"But not one that can sicken me."
And I smiled, waved a pretty little goodbye, and walked off to Victoria Terminus.
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