With everyone packed up and gone for the summers to cooler climes, those of us who’re left behind in the city have to make do with whatever entertainment comes our way. For some of us, it seems to consist entirely of flipping the pages of the dailies to see who’s been throwing pool parties for which the invitation seems to extend only to those who (a) have abs, or (b) can model a bikini, but never the two together.
To address my wife’s curiosity about who throws or attends these parties, I have devoted myself to considerable research on the subject, but all I have come up with so far is that the guests seem to spend all their time outside the pool rather than in, both men and women sport artificial tans, and everyone seems to be named either Tania (if they’re female), or Neil (if they’re male, though just to confuse you there are also women Neils, but never male Tanias). Having a tattoo seems to guarantee admission, which is a good thing since no one is sure who the host is. But the pity is that the guests don’t eat, or drink, much because then they would no longer (a) have abs, or (b) be able to model a bikini, disqualifying them from the next farmhouse pool party.
For everyone else who isn’t either Tania or Neil, and has a gut from drinking too much beer, this limits the options to non-pool parties, which means shopping in the luxury malls, of which there is only one in Delhi. This means that you keep bumping into all those people to whom you’d said you were leaving for Paris/London/Miami the very day your maid returned from her junket on a cruise ship (which is where you had to book her when she mocked the Sharmas and the Mehras for being downmarket and sending their help only to Bangkok). Of course, no one shops at the luxury mall (other than the provincials, who come in their sports utilities with bagloads of cash) because it’s so much more sophisticated to buy the same thing in Dubai, or New York.
The lunching ladies, finding themselves thus separated from their kitty groups (who’re probably lunching in Sydney, or Wellington), must find fresh prey on their menu, which is the reason I’ve not been carrying lunch to office this entire month. “You’re out a lot for business meetings,” my wife said to me the other day. “Er, sort of,” I muttered in explanation, though the auditor would take more convincing about credit card bills claiming tax breaks for lunching with Sarita on Monday (who ordered herself a grilled fish but had most of my lamb chops), Padma on Tuesday (you’d hardly imagine that she could have a seafish salad, a tuna crepe, a second tuna crepe, and a chicken teriyaki all by herself), Sheila on Wednesday (three types of salads and a tiramisu for dessert), Mohini on Thursday (who pretty much extended herself over the carte de jour of the new restaurant) and Gauri on Friday (we shared a cheesy pasta, a starchy risotto and a rich helping of spaghetti).
On Saturday, my wife, who has been fooling herself by eating a small portion off her plate but large portions off everyone else’s (hoping, no doubt, to slink into a bikini) joined me for lunch, to see why I was putting on weight instead of building abs, but having succumbed to the pleasures of the table, decided that it was all right if we weren’t invited to Tania’s – or Neil’s – pool party any time soon, as long as there was biryani on the bill of fare.
