Kishore Singh: Clubwear at a Viennese ball

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A ball," asked my wife, "at your age you want to attend a ball?" "It's not just any ball," I explained, "this is the Viennese ball, and it's accompanied by the Viennese Chamber Orchestra."

"Orchestras always put me to sleep, so let's go because you want to," said my wife, "but let's make it" "" she peered at the card "" "when the dancing begins."

Looking more closely at the invitation card, we realised that, for a change, the dress code, instead of being "smart casual", specified "formal".

"Not that anyone will be in formal clothes," my wife dismissed it immediately, "Delhi never dresses formally." Even so, I fretted about what I should wear.

A kurta at a ball would look out of place, and even I shuddered at the thought of an achkan since, in all likelihood, the guests would be togged out in jeans and tees.

In the end my son had all the right solutions: he loaned me a "club shirt", I borrowed his belt and shoes too, and with a pair of slightly moth-eaten trousers that I was able to dig out of my cupboard, I was all set to waltz with a final spray of after-shave (my son's naturally, even though he doesn't shave).

"Wait," said my wife, eyeing the clock, "we don't want to be early," so even though we were expected at eight, and it was already nine, we waited in our living room for another half-hour before setting off to the ball, hopefully to arrive at Delhi Standard Time.

Only to find that Delhi had been unkind to us. As the last couple in, we couldn't find space in the "ballroom", and so had to sit it out in the ante-room, to watch the proceedings on a screen that was put up for the purpose.

"How was I to know," my wife defended herself, "that it would begin in time when nothing else ever does?" But the indignity of being in the waiting area was nothing compared to the humiliation of finding that I was the only guest who wasn't togged out in a formal jacket and bow-tie.

People wore black jackets with ties, or black bundgullas, and diamonds dazzled at earlobes and throats, on wrists and fingers. Even the waiters were in formalwear, which is more than I could say about my clubwear.

"Maybe we should go back," I hissed to my wife. "You wanted to come listen to the orchestra, now you sit quietly and listen to the orchestra," said my wife, who was clearly not in a mood to be done out of dinner.

We watched, therefore, as the debutante couples made their way to the floor "" so what if many of them looked far from their debuting stage "" and opened the ball to a sea of guests who had come to waltz.

They dipped and turned and swirled and curtsied, while I hid miserably behind the pillars every time someone stepped past. "If they ask you to leave," said my wife, "you can wait for me in the lobby?" "Because you don't want to be seen leaving with me?" I was appalled at my wife's treachery.

"No, silly," she said, "I don't see why I should leave early just because you're so poorly dressed, so I'll join you once I've had dinner."

Things, fortunately, did not come to such a pass and so, in the end, we were able to attend the ball without having to dance the ball "" which suited me just fine.

At home, my son asked: "Were your clothes a great success? "I'm not sure about that," I admitted honestly, "but they certainly made me stand out at the ball."