My mother has had a lifelong habit of sleeping with a pistol under her pillow - it's what has kept her offspring, and lately their spouses, in some measure of check. You do not mess with a octogenarian who carries firearms, especially when old age might cause her to take potshots at the slightest provocation. I'm not sure she travels with her pistol, but her grandchildren treat her with the respect their parents, as peaceniks, have rarely enjoyed. "Wimp," my son has been known to refer to my face because I refrained from punching his best friend's father's nose over allegations of purloined cricket gear.
My wife hardly bothers with her husband's wardrobe, but will fuss over pocket kerchiefs to "finish" my appearance, and her go-out line is "No guns, darling," which, if more couples cared, would have caused less grief given Delhi's propensity to shoot more than just their mouths. Friends, families and lovers have been known to target each other at weddings, over parking spots, the misplacement of a few hundred crore rupees, or because someone dared toot at their carriage at a red light. The city is trigger-happy, violent and angry, and nothing aggravates this more than a drink or two under the belt.
A party can hardly be considered a success unless some kids in posh accents bawl each other's dubious lineage, though, alas, the accusations are rarely followed up by the intrepid Page 3 media that prefers reporting on who wore Hugo Boss or Ermenegildo Zegna to the party. I don't know if the women who always lug extra diamond earrings in their clutch bags also tote revolvers; certainly, they don't mess around calling each other names like the boys, preferring the potency of Chinese whispers to cause devastating damage, a well-timed sotto voce campaign proving more lethal to reputations than any openly hurled accusation.
But, mostly, it is when older men quarrel that the ugly face of the capital's sophisticated set is laid bare. They're given to a colourful turn of phrase in the local vernacular that is extraordinary. Having grown up with a deprived vocabulary, my wife has been known to ask the chauffeur for the precise meanings of phrases, sometimes causing him to drive strangely thereafter.
We were recently witness to an altercation between two silver citizens at a tony cultural event with overseas hosts where the well-heeled were sipping champagne, the atmosphere was hushed, when the electric sound of resounding slaps echoed through the convivial chatter and laughter. The two grizzlies, barely in their cups, exchanged knowledge of each other's families that was not previously known. "You're a thief," shouted one. "You're a dacoit," accused the other. "You dared slap me," said the first. "You punched me," hollered the second. Whisky may or may not have been flung at each other's faces but the charges flew thick and fast. It was a while before the hotel staff separated the two - their well-wishers were having too good a time to want the brawl to end.
Amid feigned gasps of mock shock, the party ended - officially, that is. The chattering glitterati moved to the hotel lobby to better communicate the latest social outrage. Mobile phones were whipped out to disperse texts widely. Did anyone have a photograph to WhatsApp? Groups formed, some drifting to the coffee shop, others to the bar, there to review the latest scandal in the city, causing more damage to the two citizen's health than my mother's famously unused pistol.
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