Kishore Singh: Calling Mika

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Because everyone is away from Delhi on their summer breaks, there have been fewer parties than usual, which "" according to Sarla "" is a good thing. Not that Sarla isn't a party person. If she could have her way, she'd party every night, but what with the children having grown up and all of us having greyed considerably, it's somewhat of a strain to keep grinning long after midnight when the conversation has drifted to the asinine.

There was a time that would be when Sarla would be in her element. Midnight did something to her. She'd whip out her cellphone to share the latest dirty jokes that had been sent to her. She'd gossip about the neighbours. She'd insist on switching on the music for everyone to dance to. Challenged by other guests, and several drinks down, she'd step out of her heels to do a headstand and "" because there was inevitably someone who hadn't seen her perform her circus act "" she'd do it all over again. People came to our parties especially to meet Sarla. She was the local tourist attraction.

But yesterday Sarla was in combative mode. "All these parties," she said, "are getting out of hand."

My wife took her pulse and checked her forehead: Was this really Sarla who was preaching?

It was. "It isn't safe any more," she said, "you never know who might be waiting to land you a smooch when you least want it." Clearly, she'd been shaken by newspaper reports about singer Mika Singh kissing dancer Rakhi Sawant and then denying it, so I hastened to tell her that it wasn't normal for any of us to keep such low company. After all, if one were to come face to face with Rakhi Sawant at a party, what would one say to her (presuming, of course, that she speaks at all)?

(Later, for the record, after Sarla had left, my wife said there wasn't much you could converse with Sarla either, but seeing how she's her best friend, that must count for something.)

Besides, said Sarla, there's no point going to a party if you wore clothes the way she, or my wife, or their friends did. "What does that mean?" I asked, since all of them seemed to spend a considerable sum of money constantly buying clothes.

"It seems to me," said Sarla, "that it no longer matters what you wear, but how little you wear."

Which was true if you wanted to be on Page 3, I explained, but presuming that none of them had aspirations to be seen in the company of the likes of Mika Singh, it was highly unlikely that they would make it to the society pages of the local press. "That's exactly the problem," sighed Sarla. "All of us think we're smart and savvy, but who does the press cover? Not us, that's for sure."

"It's just a mid-life crisis," my wife patted her comfortingly. "It's a mid-career crisis," said Sarla's husband. "It'll pass," I added to the general comforting din. But Sarla wasn't listening to any of us. "Didn't we go to discos when we were younger?" she asked. We nodded in agreement. "Didn't we have great birthday parties, great music?" she persisted. "The best," we assured her. "Didn't we dress well, weren't we hip?" she continued. "No one better," we added by way of chorus.

"But now," said Sarla, "there are all these people who have better parties, better music, wear better clothes."

"It only seems that way," I sympathised with her. "It's okay," sighed Sarla, "if no one wants to see me do a headstand any more, but just once I wish someone would greet me like Mika... instead of a silly peck on the cheek."