Kishore Singh: Art comes alive, and how!

PEOPLE LIKE US

For a moment I thought I'd wandered into a wedding reception instead of the art auction I'd meant to attend. "How is the baby?" asked a woman in a halter top that displayed a generous swathe of tummy, to someone with streaked blonde hair pulled back over dazzling diamonds in her earlobes. "How's the "" what?" muttered back Blondie distractedly, as she tried to catch the eye of Toy Boy a couple of rows ahead. "The baby," emphasised Halter Top. "The what?" Blondie was still preoccupied. "The baby!" shrieked HT. "Oh, the baby," sighed Blondie, collapsing into silence.

Halter Top moved on to talk to Bling Bling. All around, women dazzled in sarees that would have been eye-catching even at a Lakshmi Mittal reception. Next to Blondie, another woman in needlepoint stilettos had teetered up, but clearly she was still not in the mood for conversation. "How's the baby?" asked her friend in the killer heels. "The who?" lisped Blondie tiredly.

By my side, the conversation was considerably livelier. "I'm here to bid for Souza," said the man in a powder blue jacket. I looked up interestedly "" it's not every day you sit next to someone willing to drop Rs 1 crore and more on a painting. (For the record, Powder Blue did not bid for Souza, or any other artist, but spent the whole evening arguing with his wife about her lack of understanding of art.)

On my left, a young couple was talking about Don and why it was such an exciting movie, and Amitabh Bachchan surely couldn't have done a better job than Shahrukh Khan. Behind me, a row of youngsters chattered on about the shopping in London, and the new Bvlgari hotel in Bali, and did you know you could get a Chanel bag in China "" or was it Indonesia? "" for a hundredth of the price of an original, and who could really tell them apart really?

I felt a pang of guilt because I had refused to let my wife accompany me to the auction. "You'll have to sit still," I cautioned her. "But there'll be cocktails before, or after," she insisted. "No," I said, "no cocktails, no drinks, no snacks, not even a cup of tea or coffee. Auctions are serious business." (Beside me now, the man was telling his wife a joke about how you can tell a North Indian bride from a South Indian one.)

"At least I'll meet some people and talk to them," said my wife. "No, no," I admonished again, "you cannot talk at all during an auction. The only one who is allowed to talk is the auctioneer." On the podium, the auctioneer paused while taking bids, to glance at a lady in the rows behind. "Is that a bid then, Mum?" he asked chummily. Unable to interpret her nod, he continued, "Is that a yes or a no, then?" And, finally, surmised, "Oh, just having a little wave then "" that's all right, wave away."

In front of me, Toy Boy had now turned around to speak to Blondie. "How's the baby then?" he asked her, while the auctioneer droned on. "If another person asks me about the baby again," retorted Blondie, "I'll scream."

I went out into the entrance hall to call my wife and apologise. "You could have come after all," I said contritely. "You mean there's wine and stuff?" she asked sharply. "No," I said, "but there's lots of conversation about movies and boyfriends and shopping for fakes." "What else am I missing?" she asked longingly. "I don't know," I said uncertainly, "but it seems it's not politically correct to talk about babies." "Babies," screamed my wife, "why would I want to go out at night to talk about, urgh, babies!" Er, right.