My wife likes to drag me to parties where sometimes we're not sure who our hosts are, and are rarely any wiser by the time we leave. I have to admit that these are sometimes the best gatherings because you don't have to be nice to anyone since it's probably stage-managed by somebody else who isn't likely to know you either. Our names probably found themselves on some database and were cleared through a random process, which is why my wife insists we ask a bunch of friends along without whom, of course, such parties would be a crashing bore.
Almost all guests at these bashes are nodding acquaintances, people you meet at other such revelries but would be loath to spend an evening with, so you mwah-mwah cheeks and press hands and promise to catch up before too long, and then try and recall their names. At least I do since I can never match faces to names, but as long as you're not introducing one unknown acquaintance to another social stranger, no one is the wiser. It would probably be terribly dull if it weren't for the forethought of friends my wife was clever enough to insist we "invite" to these bashes.
"We owe the Sharmas a dinner," my wife will inform me ahead of a forthcoming social, "I'll ask them along to the farmhouse party tomorrow." "You can't just take other guests along," I used to protest - this was when I was naïve - but have since learned not to argue when my wife's mind is made up. Sometimes, of course, my wife will also ask the Mehtas along, making a group of non-invitees who she's made sure to summon as her guests. "Join us for dinner," she'll insist, failing to inform them that it isn't our party, as a result of which we've saved ourselves the trouble - and expense - of inviting the Sharmas, the Mehtas, the Raichands and scores of others home while still "returning" their hospitality.
There was a time my wife would take her best friend Sarla and her husband along, but Sarla dislikes being tucked away into a corner, preferring the limelight to anonymity. She'd demand that she be allowed to sing, dispensing with the unfortunate crooner and taking over the floor. She'd wave currency notes in the air to catch the attention of the waiters, who would then keep the table supplied with a stream of hors d'oeuvres and drinks. She'd insist on telling off-colour jokes loudly, catching the giggly attention of tables around ours, and starting off a round of gags read off mobile phones. "When you're gatecrashing a party," my wife told me later, "you have to remain unidentified," thus ending Sarla's outings at these celebrations.
Hosts and guests might remain unacquainted in these merrymakings, but you'd at least expect intimate parties to be helmed by the people who thought to invite you in the first place. But, clearly, Delhi society moves in strange ways - which is what we learned when, looking forward to a cosy tete-a-tete with old friends, we were informed of our hostess' absence by the staff who said she'd gone to bed because "Madam does not meet Sahib's friends." Sahib, meanwhile, surrounded by a bunch of freeloaders, wasn't the least bit disconcerted at our discomfiture, merely thinking to inform us, "Next time, bring other friends along, there's no shortage of food, or booze." "I think," said my wife on our way home, "we owe the Ghoshs a dinner…"
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