A Sunday afternoon

“I can’t believe the state of the world economy. I think we have to be careful about how we spend our money for the next year at least. By the way, did I tell you I just bought a Bentley?”
Fashion soirees and society schmooze-fests have their own weird internal logic, which often seems as mysterious as time travel. How else could you explain this train of thought in a not-so-prominent industrialist and Page 3 figure?
As a rule Sundays should not be spent by the poolside of a posh old five star hotel, especially if the conversation there is so deadly boring that you feel the urge to rush off to a Polo (polo!) match at a sprawling farmhouse (polo in a farmhouse!!) that you have been casually invited to by a beautiful woman in a summer dress. But you must resist, focusing instead on the sushi and the white wine, and go chat with the chefs.
There are three ways to survive such soirees without your day ruined- go there stoned, go there with someone who has a sense of perspective, and find yourself a hot and intelligent (older) woman to talk to. Once these three pre-requisites are fulfilled, then you’ll find that the afternoon has taken on an airy, vaguely Mediterranean (because of the swimming pool or the tans or the floral dresses?) summery, floaty quality where the scene is populated by aliens- is it the massive sunglasses (?)- who exist to sate your curiosity. Where else can you get edifying nuggets about wiring your loo for sound?
And believe me, I was mighty curious. Here were a bunch of people- insiders in the fickle world of luxury- who admittedly dress beautifully, but seem to derive absolutely no joy from it. They flit about air-kissing, their massive Guccis and Pradas in tow, while some of them seem to be in the process of disappearing. Really, where else outside of sub-Saharan Africa, and parts of our own countryside can you find a bunch of people so emaciated and mal-nutritioned? Why, at a five-star sushi counter! Who, among the people you know, could give you an accurate insight into the jungle that is Delhi traffic? Why, the one who lives a five minute walk from the hotel in the heart of Lutyen’s Delhi!
On the whole, the women still hold their own. There is, after all, an innate sense of gracefulness which often tides things over. You could say that’s because they’re programmed to be duplicitous, but if duplicity is what it takes, then lemme have it over the “direct” men any day! Especially on a Sunday afternoon by the poolside! The men, talk, they sport their fashionably grey-streaked hair, they slag off rivals with a polite whisper and never get the irony that despite their specially-abled features they can pull anorexic beauties solely because they have the money. Indeed, they’re damn pleased when you comment on their “sense of style.”
That is the business side of it. The models are a different proposition altogether. A particular male model- attired in designer ripped t-shirt, skinny jeans, ugly-as-sin crocodile leather shoes- was so taken by the Luis Vuitton “man-purse” that he was carrying in his back-pocket, that he was, most of the time, conversing with people with his back firmly turned towards them. A much lionized fashion designer, meanwhile, loved his models so much, that he hid himself in the middle of a veritable forest of pumped-up brawn. Other middle aged slobs dressed in younger-than-thou Ed Hardy t shirts just nodded their heads with the vapid crap that the live band played, followed by the even more bland piped Bryan Adams songs, and ogled the women.
Finally there are the “white people”. They’re always there at any such do- fashion, movies, wine launches, marriages, anything. The older men dress in drab white and blue shirts with chinos, the younger men all wear polo shirts and have a crew cut. The women wear tans and little else, and tower over everyone on stilettos about a mile high. Who are these people? Where do they come from? Maybe I’ll find out eventually.
What I make of it all is this- luxury is an attempt, at the same time aesthetic and economic, to give form to and put a price tag on a high civilisation’s self conscious idea of beauty. It is a fine line to walk, and the West- which anyway drives the trends- has digested this attempt as a way of life and is suitably understated about it. Unfortunately, this deepening of sensibilities is far off as far as India is concerned. Therefore, you get Sunday afternoons by the poolside.