It’s that time of the year, when you’re constantly accosted by people you barely know at parties. I hadn’t even got myself a drink, when the question was tossed at me by a man togged in black from head to foot (the 40+ degrees outside notwithstanding). “Where are you off to?” he asked. “Nowhere, I’ve just arrived,” I answered, sure that he’d mixed me up with someone else.
“I’m not talking about this evening, silly,” said my new friend, throwing back his head for a guffaw. I kept quiet, still confused, since there had been nothing remotely funny about my response. An uncertain moment or two later, I got it. The gent was being matey, trying to show me that he knew how to take a joke. Because he was quite sure I knew what he meant.
But just in case, he elaborated: “Where are you going for the summer?”Aah, so that’s what he meant. I should have guessed; there’s nothing that Delhi people like to talk about more than their summer travel. I considered emulating one of my closest friends, who hates telling people where she’s going, and spends evenings spinning incredible stories about make-believe cities in little-known countries.
The man in black was still waiting. I knew his question was just an ice-breaker. He didn’t have the remotest interest in my plans; he just wanted to tell me where he was going. I looked at him with narrowed eyes and considered. I’d encountered him in the past at large parties, muscling his way to the front of the bar, demanding to be served first. I knew the type: he’d ask people where ‘they put up’ at the first meeting, and call all males ‘Bro’ or ‘Buddy’, unless they were barmen or waiters, at which they’d become ‘Chief’.
Putting on my profiler hat, I tried to guess what would be his choice. It couldn’t be Turkey or Greece; those were so 2014. Scandinavia would be too antiseptic. He was too old to be going to the US, for the kids’ graduation. No one else had mentioned a cruise, and he, for sure, wouldn’t go alone with his wife. It was the wrong time of the year for Bali. Thailand would be too déclassé to even mention. It had to be Europe, but nothing too classical or too expensive. (Not that the man wasn’t loaded, but what’s the use of spending big bucks where people you know can’t see?) And of course, there would be London, playing global Mughalsarai, the mid-point junction.
I decided to go for it. “Forget me. Where are you off to? Romania, Ukraine, Serbia?” I asked.
He was gobsmacked. “Man, you’re a genius. My buddies and I are dropping off the wives in London and going to Bucharest and Kiev. Did someone tell you?” he said.
“No, I just took a guess. I thought you would be attracted to their beauty,” I said, trying to smile disarmingly, pushing away thoughts of the much-vaunted gorgeousness of East European women.
Before he could say anything else, two of Delhi’s most photographed ladies joined us. Much air-kissing and outfit appraising later, the younger of them turned to me, “So, where are you off to this summer?”