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   Saturday, night, I found myself at a party... (July 10, 1996)

Saturday, night, I found myself at a party where the thinest girls with the Skinniest legs in the world, all dressed in black, the miniest of mins, were dancing by themselves.

There were now men on the floor, except one, but he was a little dicey. I mean, I am aware that men wearing earrings means nothing these days. If I could pump up enough courage, I would like to wear one myself (a small stud, almost invisible), but I cannot help having occasional doubts about men in earrings. Especially if they are wearning one earring, in the left ear lobe or right I forget which.

The music was coming from speakers, loud and booming. You could hear it on the road. It was a good thing the party was being held in a neighbourhood which was understanding and sporting, if it was held in one of those localities where they have dandiya-ras, the police would have been there (‘because old people cannot sleep’).

A word about the speakers. In the old days, the bigger the speakers were, the more noise they made. And it was prestigious to have large speakers, filling up your house with their size. I myself had the largest Cosmic speakers I could find at Precious Electrics, I used to play ‘We All Went In A Yellow Submarine’ through them. But now, the smaller the speakers are, the louder the sound they make.

To return to the party, I was told that most of the girls there were leading models. Being a model is a new profession. They wear clothes, which nobody in the long run actually buys, and walk on a ramp. It is known as a show, and they get Rs. 40,000 per show. That’s the normal models, the bigger models get more. It’s a good profession.

I could spot a few familiar faces among the models. Though most of them look so alike that I cannot be sure. And, in any case, the lights were dim. I could just make out black dresses and brown legs. Yes, the knees. Shobha De would have called them dirty, but knees, as a rule, are dirty, no matter how much you wash them, they look dirty.

The dancing was very good. I must say so, quite vigorous. I suppose, that is how they keep themselves slim. One or two girls were dancing with each other, some were dancing with the walls, or their shadows on the walls.

The whole scene was very informal. The door of the apartment was open. The music directed me there. I walked in and walked out. In between, somebody introduced me to the host, who poured a stiff whisky for me and told me where I could find the next one. There was a pile of plates, but at 2 a.m. nobody was still eating.

As I was leaving, Malavika Sanghvi whispered in my ear: “Twenty years ago, you had written about a similar party,” I think, it was 30 years ago. But if she had 30, it would have revealed her age.”

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