Belles jingle, dudes self-drive their BMWs — why give the chauffeur his five minutes of fame on Page Eeeee? — flutes of bubbly are immediately offered as if on a business class airflight, and zilch happens right till the wee minutes of the morning. Party hearty guys, it’s that time of the season.

An Xmas tree taller than three Amitabh Bachchans put together is alit in the foyer, lights blink, come on chill, you’re reminded, and you waltz into the mood alright — but hey when will this two-decade-old word ‘chill’ be discarded? Very uncool.
From December 20 to the New Year’s eve, Bollywood’s in the chirrupy after midnight mood. Arjun Rampal had invited me to his shebang (shouldn’t that be hebang?) at a long-distance hotel ballroom, warning me, “Don’t you dare turn up on time.” Which is? “Elevenish,” my dudey friend had unspecified.
That meant I had to read a book patiently at home, for once be grateful for the mega-traffic jams on the way and reach the venue fashionably late: 1 am.
I must be late, there would be no standing or sitting room. You must be kidding, I was the first to arrive, and rushed to the darkest corner not to be noticed. Very wannabe if you reach a party early or in this case, prematurely late. Sajid Khan, the comedian, surveyed me from top to toe, as if I were a drainage system, and he the inspector, “Are you...?” he gasped. “You’ve lost so much weight, you look like a rich businessman from the Gulf.” That’s the only compliment I’ve received — or was it an insult? — from Mr Khan or anyone else. Heart Full.
Generally, at any movie party you’re a wimp if you don’t down ten tequila shots with Chunky Panday (ayyyya). You’re a traitor if you praise any other actor except the one you’re conversing with. And you’re dotty if you pin a director down for a confabulation because he is there essentially to network. Will SRK, AK or SK — SRK and SK don’t co-mingle but that’s another epic — sign up on the dotted line? It’s never dotted really, but then, so goes moviespeak.
Suddenly wall speakers explode. No one dances to the deejay thump till a tequila-toasted minor guest burns up the floor. Female stars fob off requests with the standard line, “But there’s no choreographer here to show me the steps.” Haw, haw. Male stars stand on the floor, moving their heads to the right, then left, as if looking for highway directions. Or they can be decidedly different like Shahid Kapur dancing as if he were washing a window pane. Shah Rukh Khan, of course, is a ballistic dancer, and currently occupies the status of moviedom’s Party Host No. 1. If you haven’t jazzed at Mannat you’re a nobody. Glory be everyone has, even Amar Singh in his hail Caesar salad days.
To be fair, there’s something wonderfully quaint about the evening soirees conducted by Salim Khan on his apartment’s terrace enclave. No music, no fuss, only kilos of biryani, dozens of desserts and conversations which have to be comprehensible to the assorted collection of former cricketers, former cops and current sensational heroines. It’s an open house, total strangers are known to have supped there, thanked Salim Khan profusely and left with a goodbye hug. Christmas to New Year is peak time on the terrace, but the action has shifted to a Panvel farmhouse, much too far for the former cricketers and former cops.
The party season has kicked off this time with Riteish Deshmukh’s birthday, then a Farah Khan housewarming. There’s a bigger one every day. Only I’m sleeping because I would do that anyway in the darkest corner of the party hall. Truth be told, I cannot stand the idea of Sajid Khan mistaking me for a rich businessman from the Gulf.