Saturday nights are not exactly what they used to be. For instance in our days Saturday nights we used to go to the moves have a cone icecream and two mutton samoosas during the interval and live it up.
Now, I notice I was invited to a place called. The Cavern, in the bowels of Rekha's SeaRock Hotel I the once sleepy and distant suburb of Bombay.
The Cavern is a discotheque. For those of my generation, and a few generations after that who may not be familiar with a discotheque I will explain. It is place where a 100 school children probably more stand on small dance floor and listen to loud and somewhat jarring music under bad lighting. Sometimes, the young people, hop about a little sometimes they wave a hand or clap most of the time they just stand and listen.
The invitation said it was going to be a demostration of breakdance sponsored by Banjara Herbal Cosmetics, and as I descended underground in to The Cavern I expected neat rows of tables and chairs men and women sitting on them ordering dinner, occasionally looking at the breakdancers and appreciatively applauding them. I was wearing a shirt and trousers, and for a minute I won dered if I was too informally dresed.
The actual scence was a little different. For some time since I had come in from the lights upstairs I could not see anything. The management was evidently saving on the electricity bill and there were only multi coloured strobes flashing then going off then coming on again.
There were no tables and chairs like in other restaurants only little dark corners with stools. And I realised I need not have worried about being informally dressed. All the other customers members I was corrected were dressed in the kind of outfits I would not wear at home at bedtime, when I would be alone and not expecting any visitors till after the weekend.
On the dance floor, the 100 odd people who were standing and occasionally hopping, waving hands etc., were younger than the youngest I have ever been.
A waiter dressed in French sailor suit, or what I presume actors in Hindi films playing the roles of French sailors would wear with white shoes handed me drinks card. Then he took out a torch and lit the card for me, so that I could read it.
Out on the dance floor the break-dancers had appeared revolving on their necks and generally trying to kill themselves. One of them named either Amin or Karim was moving so fast that most of the time he looked like there were tow of him. Optical illusion I suppose.
Everybody evidently had a good time. As for myself I was feeling so old that I thought I was already dead and buried in a cavern deep in the earth at Land's End Bandra.