<b>Kishore Singh:</b> Mumbai's after-party slog

Would we like to attend an after-party? "Yes," said my friends, even though I demurred - I had an early morning flight back to Delhi - but people in Mumbai are not easily deflected from parties, after-parties, and after-after-parties. I'd been ready to drop dead between being social to strangers and fielding calls from my wife. "Are there any stars yet?" she wanted to know. Word was that there'd be A-listers present, but I didn't know Bollywood celebrity from Bollywood elite. "Is Arjun Kapoor A-list?" I fielded. "Yes," she said, "I want to speak with him." "Does he know you?" I asked in surprise. "Of course, not," she snapped, "but you can tell him your wife wants to say hello." I mumbled that the connection was poor and I'd call her back. The phone rang just when the actor was being introduced to me, but I refrained from answering it, and can't understand why my wife doesn't appreciate that I mentioned she is a fan.

There were others from the Bollywood fraternity and a fair sampling of Mumbai's glitterati, and though I knew I ought to know them, I remained ignorant of their names. When I WhatsApped surreptitious pictures to my wife, she hissed that I was a chump, and could I go shake their hands instead? Because I still didn't know who they were, and didn't want to seem foolish, my wife had to do without engaging in long-distance chit-chat, so she messaged to say I was a wimp and a wet poop.

By now our party set had moved to a restaurant where a crop of younger actors were hanging around. I recognised Ayushmann Khurrana, who didn't seem to be having a good time, so I asked my wife if she'd like to speak to him. My wife said I should consider boiling my head, she had no time to spare for wannabe actors, so I got myself a glass of wine and was content looking at Mumbai's night set. But by now everyone else was restless, it seems the party was not "happening" enough, so I found myself jammed into a car and driven to another party junction.

Mumbai is schizophrenic, working hard by day, partying equally hard by night. That's when the luminaries come out, the heroes and villains, the heroines and vamps, writers, photographers and socialites, preening for the paparazzi, ready with a byte. And it isn't just the fashionable people who do it. Standing on a terrace previously, overlooking the Arabian Sea, surrounded by skyscrapers, I counted dozens of parties all around with streaming lights, the scream of laughter, loud music. Neighbours clearly have a higher tolerance level in Mumbai than in Delhi, where the police is never far away should you trespass party time limits.

"Who's there?" my wife asked, while I lingered on the terrace. There were artists, but she wanted to know if there were "interesting" people - the kind that appear in the society pages of glossy magazines. "No," I said, "it isn't that kind of party, though I can recognise some television actors in the house opposite." "You're always in the wrong place," my wife grumbled.

And now at this night's apres-apres-gig, Bollywood was having a blast on the table beside ours. These were actors I knew from magazine covers, and though they looked friendly, it seemed a shame to break up their party just to get them to say hello to my wife. So I passed. After all, what she doesn't know won't hurt her - or me.