An appetite for fashion

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Are our ministers getting younger, or merely trendier? On a good day, Pratap Rudy can give a run to the best, switching from designer kurtas to branded ties with an elan not earlier associated with his profession. And Subbirammi Reddy is more to be seen than believed, should his views on fashion be sought.

I'm not sure that sisters-in-law Ashima and Leena were seeking his assurance on the worth of their spring-summer collection, but Reddy would have his way anyway.

From the dais, he insisted on extolling their efforts with regard to the revival of "tradition and culture", though it's another matter that moral censorist Sushma Swaraj would have found plenty to gripe about the bare essentials of some of those outfits.

But that's no reason to disbelieve Reddy who, given his penchant for parties, could know more than most a thing or two about fashion. Which is why I did not know what to make of the gentleman seated on the neighbouring table who hooted, "Call that fashion?" I must admit I know very little about it, and what little I do know is undermined by my children who tell me I know nothing about the way their generation wishes to dress. But seeing for myself what was on the ramp, I could share my neighbour's predicament: Was that fashion?

Don't get me wrong, I offer no criticism, but seeing that the collection was inspired from Hyderabad, I did wonder why the choreographer had opted to play Rajasthani folk songs and given the models blue pottery from Jaipur to carry on the catwalk. But Subbirammi Reddy had said the clothes were good, so that was fine by me.

He might have said more, but by some sleight of hand, the mike failed and could not be revived again, and so we were thankfully robbed of the sponsors' speeches. But I have it on the good authority of my neighbour from the adjoining table that the sponsors had their revenge too.

"They've run out of booze," he complained. "Not true," I said, hailing him a passing waiter with a tray loaded with whiskies. "Thanks," he muttered, "but whisky gives me a headache; I prefer vodka." "Sorry sir, we're out of vodka," said the waiter, disappearing before our eyes like an apparition.

"Come, come," I escorted my enraged neighbour to the buffet, for truth to say I had come to sample the delights of the Hyderabadi cuisine on offer, not the clothes on the ramp, "let us have dinner."

Alas, that was easier said than done. The hotel had chosen to lay the food on a single row of tables that were soon swamped by people who, I can only assume, were just as inclined to eat as us.

There was the mother of all queues to reach the buffet tables, and if you were still standing once you'd reached the spot where you could pick yourself a plate, the paucity of lighting ensured you couldn't see the food anyway.

Not that there was a choice for, being the good citizens of Delhi, they quickly broke the queue, surrounded the tables, and a melee ensued.

"Let's jump in," said my neighbour, elbowing his way through thrashing hands. "Er, no," I said, "I think I'll head home." "They've done me out of my drink," said my neighbour, refusing to give in, "I won't be done out of my dinner too," and was soon swallowed up in the crowd.

Leaving the venue hungry, I saw Reddy being escorted to his car. Whether he got to eat or not, I do not know, but his early departure could only imply the minister had opted to dine at home too "" or maybe, like me, the fashion show had been enough to whet his appetite.