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   I have yet to find out what to do at a fashion show... (October 28, 1986)

I have yet to find out what to do at a fashion show.

For instance, yesterday, at the Garden-Vareli show, I did not know whether to look at the models or at the material with which the clothes were stitched or listen to the music or the jokes that the emcee was telling and politely laugh at them.

So I sat there I the dark of the Taj Ballroom, a glass or whisky-soda in my hand (my friend, Farid Currim, who in some unexplained way was connected with the show, had in misconceived enthusiasm mad it very strong), and tried to look intelligent and fashion conscious.

I must say that the girls, with one exception, were all very attractive. The tow male models, with no exceptions, were not attractive. But then I have never gone for male models, except if it is the Nawab of Pataudi or Russy Karanji modelling om GFP. Though not my friend Pritish Nandy, the only time he modeled in the same magazine, he looked like Bengali settled in Orissa.

And the models were all big names, Garden always gets the biggest names. A lady sitting next to me identified them for me everytime they came on the stage in a different set of clothes. There was Anna Bradmeyer, Shyamolie Verma, Sangeeta Bijlani, the lovely Iona Pintoís daughter, somebody called Lubna, very charming, etc. No, Persis Khambata was not there.

I can never distinguish between models, they all look the same to me, like a garden of pretty flowers or like the members of the Punjab Police hockey team used to look. Except, perhaps, Anna Bradmeyer, I think I can make her out from her front-faced walk, conscious, definite strides, firm thighs.

The clothes were interesting though not many of them could be worn anywhere except on the stage of the Taj Ballroom. In some of the set pieces, they were wearing turbans, or what looked like turbans. And I could see the models were all professionals, the way they were swinging on and off the stage, now from the wings, now from the centre-rear, in twos, threes, four abreast, not like in one of those Only Vimal fashion-shaows, where most of the time you do not know whether they are coming or going, unless your are meant not to know.

I also enjoyed the audience, there were several elderly commercial reporters sitting next to me, applauding. At least they knew what to look for in a fashion-show.

I did not applaud. Not because I did not want to. But it is difficult to applaud when you are holding a glass of whisky-soda in one hand.

 
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