You either love Delhi or hate it. Whatever I have seen of it till now is mostly unlovely but fascinating so I am yet undecided. My this time's visit was spectacularly unlovely despite being surrounded and smothered by certified beauty. There were only two patches of sunshine as I call them. Actually three patches. The first was the twinkling, long-lashed beautiful eyes of my little cousin. The second was her quiet brother's quieter love for music, only apparent if you care to glance at his mostly downturned eyes. The third was serendipity of the best kind. Sitting alone in Karnataka Bhavan and twiddling with the remote was getting to me when my hands automatically stopped at DD Bharti. There was, on the screen, Kishore Kumar in his element. Doordarshan was re-telecasting his concert, recorded oh, perhaps three decades ago. Kalyanji-Anandji were conducting the music and there was Kishore playing to the non-existent gallery -- before singing Kora Kagaz, he fished out a blank paper from somewhere; after singing Roop Tera Mastana, he stumbled, as if drunk on his own voice...

His thick spectacles and thicker smile; Kalyanji's obvious enjoyment and embarassment at his antics; the green-red-gray plasticky set; the we-are-happy-to-be-on-tv sincere orchestra...oh it was worth coming all the way. After the concert was over, I switched channels and was promptly back to 'Marjaani Marjaani'. Urgh.

As for the fashion show which actually took me there, well, read the next post! :)

 
 

Well, this is in Living but I thought it deserves to be here as well. So here we go.

Perfume attack
The air was drugged and there was no escaping it. Chanel No. 5 collided mightily with Elizabeth Ardens and more potently with Bruts and Hugo Bosses. Not to mention the odour assault of the mint-fresh and just-bought-in-Khan Market Gucci clutches and Bottega Veneta totes. The title sponsors’ generosity also further helped turn noses up (literally and otherwise). There were goody bags of shampoos, bath gels and soaps for everybody at every big ticket show. (Incidentally, some snooty socialites did not want to be seen carrying away such freebies and so they left them back at their seats much to the delight of back-benchers and the huge media contingent who grabbed it all.) Ah. How sweet smells the word free.
 
Page 3 surge
The build-up to ‘fashion’s rockstar’ Manish Arora’s show was terrific or terrible, depending on where you were standing. The Page 3 surge for the show was unbelievable…the show was as usual fashionably late, pardon the pun and so, PYTs with passes, TYMs (tall young men) with pierced noses and ears, alligator shoes and crotch-clutch pants, firangis (were they the elusive buyers?) clutching brochures and their designer stoles, journalists who had come out decked even better than the wannabe models and designers, skin show, high heels et al – were all breathlessly waiting to be let in by security guards who could not stop grinning eerily.
I was, incredibly, reminded of the last time I was stuck in a near-stampede in Tirupati. The stampede feel was similar except that I was surrounded by a nonchalant display of wealth and more nonchalant show of affectation. A well known designer with a six-inch needle in his ear who was standing on my right refused to let go of his partner’s hand (who incidentally, was standing on my left, so I leave my position to your imagination). He gave me one nasty why-are-you-coming-between-us look and whined ‘jaan, mere haath mat chodo’ to his six-foot high strapping, heavily-bearded partner whose reply unfortunately I could not hear.
 
Jungle out there
The biggest section of the audience comprised the media, which is saying something considering that fashion weeks are supposed to be serious affairs, held to garner business rather than eyeballs. The front rows of course were always reserved for the big media houses whose representatives hobnobbed with the glitterati, giggled and gossiped more than catching what was happening on the ramp. The photographers were like a pack of wolves, hungrily jostling each other, shouting at the models and pushing and shoving hapless “print media types” to be the first ones to enter the venue. The backbenchers barely knew what was happening. Sample this conversation between a newbie journo in a black cocktai dress and a PR halfway through designer Zubair Kirmani’s show:
Frazzled journo: Hey, who is this? Who is this?
Equally frazzled PR: What? What? What?
More frazzled journo: Whose show is this? Hey please, please don’t forget to give me the press release. I will get the press release right?
Somewhat relieved PR: Oh. The release will come only after two hours. Collect it from the media centre.
Now desperate journo: But darling, I have nothing to write! And I have to cover this designer. Who is it? Just tell me what colours and cuts have been used.
Bored PR: (Looks in the general direction of the ramp) Umm… I think he is using a lot of bright colours. And umm…the cuts are sharp.
Well, if you read this description of Zubair Kirmani’s collection in any fashion magazine, you know where and how the gyaan came from!
 
Goss from the big man
Sunil Sethi, the handsome and mustachioed FDCI head breezed in for Rohit Gandhi-Rahul Khanna show on Friday night and immediately went on a muah muah spree. Later, he was heard declaring to some highly blinged out friends that he will be organizing, for the first time in India, an all-men fashion week in July. Did somebody say the R-word? It seems for the fashion frat, recession is just another word that can be milked and converted into autumn-winter collections!