Gee whiz! Celebrities drive up in photogenic cars to utterly camera-friendly gates of villas, penthouses and 100-BHKs. The paparazzi click the gorgeous guests, the photos are speed-splashed in the entertainment pages as extra nourishment to go with your muesli in skimmed milk. And if you’re a film journo, you’re quizzed, “Luckee you must be going to so many of those Bollywood parties! Enjoying a lot no?”

NO. Simply because B-parties have an agenda: to hype a film’s opening three-days’ cash collections. Imagine from 25 weeks, 100 days, 50 days and 30 days, the magic number has come down to three. If it’s the still-toddler-at-heart Ameesha Patel, the event’s to usher in her birthday (age undisclosed). Or to fete Akon, Paris Hilton, Will Smith. Eeesh, really whatever happened to good ole hearty-partying? So, all ye envious guys, do be consoled that you’re not out there at the tinsel soirees, throwing attitude that’s more bizarre than Lady’s Gaga’s wigs.
Sensibly, most film journos avoid these parties the way vegans scoff at a lobster thermidor. Yet a decidely different event does have its allure. Take this evening congregation I sprinted to lately, after removing my moth-balled (ahem) Armani suit from its crypt. I’d been emailed that I was one of the 30 ‘intellectuals’ who would discuss the future of India with an army chief at the Sun ‘n’ Sand Hotel. Flattered, my grey cells danced deliriously.
Who could the other 29 be? How would I outsmart them, before the army chief, with my recommendations for India Supershining? That meant homework: mugging up eye-opening statistics, re-reading the French semiotician Roland Barthes, and generally keeping as cool as a cucumber salad. Must look and talk mature, maybe with an Amitabh Bachchanesque timbre in my otherwise squeaky voice.
Evening arrived. So did I, armed to the teeth with erudition and public speaking pizaaz. Rain poured, lightning thundered. No issues, dramatic gatherings must have the apt sound effects. I reached the Sand, fashionably late by 40 minutes. Stupid idea, I was the first to show up. Still, mustn’t be rattled.
I breezed past Shekhar Kapur in the patio cafe, devouring a cheeseburger taller than... er... Bachchan. “We shall cross mental swords,” I sniggered, certain that Shekhar was among the Thinking 30. With a Bandit Queen-like snarl, Shekhu responded, “Are you nuts?” Apparently, the most brainy dude in showbiz hadn’t been invited. Tsk, poor chap, evidently I was more bheja-endowed than him.
Inside the hallowed hall, I almost broke into tears. Drinks would not be served till the army chief arrived. Time c.r.a.w.l.e.d. J.P. Dutta exchanged savoury notes, upset that the army had not yet green-lighted his next war movie. A TV honcho, who had quit his channel, laughed, “There are so many soaps nowadays, we will have to make shampoos.” Ha ha. A peppy lady from the media group, which had hosted the thoughtful event, announced for the umpteenth time, “Our chief guest has been held up. Mumbai rains, you know.” We nodded grimly. “Mumbai traffic,” she added to honk at our drinkless spirits.
Evening darkened into an indigo shade like they do in those Twilight vampire movies. Director Vipul Shah quit, mumbling, “What’s this? I have to attend another party.” In another hall, Ehsaan-Shankar-Loy were celebrating their gazillion years together. Still no chief. My Armani wrinkled, the delay was making me age gracelessly.
In the lounge cafe, Shekhar Kapur was slicing his third ‘burger. He smirked, “So intellectual. How was the party?” Ouch. If I was a Bandit Queen, you know what I would have done to him. And then I would have shot myself with the same bandook for being a dumbo. Partying is such sorrow really.