Dear Ramola Bachchan,
A big hug from my son who says no one throws parties like you do, and for acknowledging that I must be the coolest dad ever to be invited to – get this – “the sexiest after-party in the universe”. Coming from someone who spends a lot of his free time checking out the watering holes in town, this is – despite his youth and lack of adequate exposure to hotspots outside Delhi and Bombay, Bangkok and Singapore – no faint praise. Usually averse to publicising his whereabouts, this time he posted his status to read: “At LAP Buddh circuit — unbelievable!”
Unbelievable or not, he wouldn’t let me take a picture on my mobile phone to send to his mother, or sister, to show them what they were missing. It was especially unfair since others were videotaping the performances of the pole dancers, or those doing acrobatics above our heads, which my son said was “disgusting”.
As an idea it had sounded fine, the two of us together at what promised to be a hip party with live international performances, but in reality this is how our conversation went, “Dad, stop staring,” only because I’m myopic and had to gaze a little to see through the dim ambience. “Don’t you think you’ve had too much,” he reprimanded when I wanted another drink, even though I wasn’t driving — he was. “I think you ought to sit down,” he scolded me when I wanted to dance, even though that’s exactly what everyone else was doing.
I tried to weasel past the security cordon of bouncers for a bit of celebrity spotting but he asked me not to be gauche and embarrass him. I said I loved the trance music, but he corrected me to say it was house music. When I asked one of the waiters to request the DJ to play something a little more popular, my son said, “Dad, that man is Roger Sanchez,” in the tone the religious might reserve for miracles at Lourdes. He wouldn’t let me eat (“puhleeze,” he said, when I waved to a waiter, pinning my hand back), he wouldn’t let me walk around, he didn’t even allow me a trip to the washroom, urging me to “feel the music”, which isn’t very helpful when you’ve got to go — and by the time we did make it to one, the queue was so long, you’d have thought it was for the dinner buffet.
We met lots of friends, of course — but he’d melt away if I wanted to introduce him to mine, and ignore me when he met his. When I shouted over the music in protest, he said “Dad, it’s not cool to hang out with your old man, so do me a favour and pretend you don’t me if you meet any more people you recognise,” which was uncool since I overheard a friend’s wife say, “How pathetic to try and pass off as a single at his age.” (So if you don’t see Sarla and her spouse at our next party, you’ll know I was hurt by that remark — and yes, I do hold grudges.)
In the short while that I managed to give my son the slip, I managed another drink, gawked at unfamiliar faces, shook hands with the bouncers, threw my hips about, even managed to video a grab of the Fuel girls dancing — so a big hug, Ramola, this one from me, for hosting India’s – eat your hearts out Mumbai, Bangalore and Goa – most happening party in the world. And next time I’m coming alone.
Yours etcetera…
