The Gallic faire des gestes

By

Randeep Wadehra

It was an out-of-the-world la celebration. I gawked. My chin dropped to the floor – almost. It doesn't happen often. But one is left absolutely flabbergasted at the spectacular sight of power and pelf locked in glitzy coitus. What used to be a guilty indulgence in the good old Socialist days is now a brazenly mundane affair. But, then, one shouldn’t expect anything less in New Delhi, this ancient land's mod-medieval capital.

Since it has become a fetish for the elite to experiment with cuisine and couture of different countries one must take such excesses in one’s stride. France is the latest flavor, as this party suggests. Fragrant French perfumes, sparkling French wines and delicious French cuisine triggered off orgasmic ooohs and aaahs. It was one of those parties where the famous and the infamous, the rich and the fortune-hunter, the power-seeker and the powerful meet to undo the popular mandate that, according to the naïve, makes our democracy work.

No matter which political party wins elections the same set of people have their fingers in the pie – the politician and the sycophant, the tycoon and the tout... It was here that I met my long lost acquaintance, nicknamed the VIB, or Very Important Busybee. Whatever the occasion, our man had the knack of being on the right side of the powerful. He could be wretchedly ingratiating or patronizingly disdainful while promoting himself. Chief Ministers came and went but our man could never be evicted from the corridors of power. The uncharitable found in him a limpet’s likeness.

Not that he cared.

Presently, he was exuding an exotic aroma.

"Hi! You are looking like a bouquet and smelling like one too" I complimented him.

"Aha, Mon Cher! It is so nice to see you after such a long time" he responded.

"Mon Cher?" I repeated, puzzled. Too much of the heady French stuff perhaps!

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