Social Forum

The provocation for these 500-odd words was my first Page 3 party at Vie, in Mumbai’s hoity-toity suburb of Juhu. My first peek into a world of blahs and Blahniks, vanity and wine, and networking and empty niceties.

I didn’t have to worry about whether I would be wearing Armani or Tahiliani that evening, since I don’t have either.

Ultimately, I landed up at the party in a—as society hacks would put it—a bright maroon shirt with subtle floral print, slightly faded denims, and Lee Cooper syn-rubber sandals (a really chic ultra-casual touch).

I suppose I was very fashionably late. Everybody who was somebody was already there. Simi Garewal, still in virginal white, Urmila Matondkar in a red rouser and Ramesh Sippy, though I forget what he was wearing.

I stood there nursing my Tom Collins. The club’s terrace was filled with all kinds of chatter that came at you in waves like a snare roll. Empty, envious, networking and pompous chatter, while the occasional air kiss flapped through the atmosphere like an invisible homing pigeon.

A big mouth clackety-clacked to my right about some stupendous show it had performed in South Africa, while another corporate gent was regaling some nattily dressed ladies (at least, he thought so) about his latest act of workplace oneupmanship. Yeah, yeah, tell me about it.

Finally, I found the colleague I was looking for—someone more familiar with the crowd than I was. And she put me on to some of the pretty people around.

Urmila Matondkar was icily reticent. Oh well. Right next to her was Sarika, much, much more accommodating, and another chiquita whose name escapes me. Though her face is indelibly imprinted on my memory. Sarika, in a denim skirt and a black number, looking like all of Bill Gates’ net worth, told me that she would make some time once the three finished their giggly get-together.

Hmm, not all P3 types are arrogant airheads. But I drifted away into the crowd, chanced upon Shabana Azmi and complimented her on her frizzy hairstyle, apparently for one of her new movies. See, I was getting there.

Met up with Subbirami Reddy, too, who told me, even though he didn’t know who I exactly was, that he was thoroughly enjoying the party. If I were a social climber, I would have waited for his invite to attend his upcoming wedding anniversary bash, looking into his eyes like a pleading puppy.

But that was just the moment I met Sameera and, in the words of Vernon God Little, was slain.

We chatted for about two minutes, my colleague and I, about her strappy dress designed by so-and-so and how she was feeling ‘goood’. But just what do I do with this information, huh?

Tom Collins number 3 helped me overcome more inhibitions and I was feeling more like a regular, who smiles beatifically at all comers and hovers around important cliques, hoping to get snapped. The stars kept coming in. Hrithik Roshan with papa, some other eminently desirable women, and some more directors. But Tom Collins 4 speared in the darned futility of it all. Just how do you chat with our folks here? They know the questions and you know the answers. Everybody is pre-programmed. Pretty pointless, actually, unless, of course, you really want to network.

As the night aged, I realised I had more important things to do the next morning, like work. But for my svelte, gorgeous and in-with-it friends, tomorrow was probably another do.