In Delhi, it’s all about flaunting what you have
Are you going to Davos this year?” There are many ways this query can be tossed at you. The correct answer, of course, is in the affirmative, followed by discreet revelation of who you partied with, or schmoozed with, or how you got the dirt on the CEO of What’s-it-called Inc global conglomerate. You get the picture.
But, oh my sainted aunt, if you either ask What’s Davos? Or worse, having know of it, haven’t so far sloshed through snow in the Swiss Alps to listen to global leaders pontificate, amid all the champagne and business cards, on what ails the planet (lack of new markets, pernicious laws that frown on profit-making, short-sighted lawmakers—it’s obviously not concerns about the environment), you are met with a cold stare that pins you like an insect to the wall. You just don’t belong.
Okay, but how about lowering the sights a bit? Let’s talk closer home. What about the Goa AdFest? Or this Conclave or that Summit? Then cast a furtive glance at your addresser and spot the labels he’s sporting. Canali, Rolex, Tod…. You get the picture. But this is just the beginning of the story. The story of being branded by the brands you carry on yourself. The story of whether you are Old School or just a brash arriviste, keen on breaking into the magic circle.
Delhi’s high and mighty have always had ways to affirm their membership of the club that excludes everyone except themselves. After all, what’s the point of all that money and power if you can’t flaunt it? All right, so you have the mansion in a leafy Lutyens’ avenue, the expensive cars, the farmhouse getaway, or hillside cottage, the foreign holidays, the haute couture collection, the Razas or Husains… but that counts for nothing if no one knows.
So it’s all about getting noticed, being talked about, written about and photographed. Nothing succeeds like excess. Remember this is Delhi. When it’s Delhi, it’s all about flaunting it. So the constant eye out for a Page 3 flashbulb-in-the-face moment at a fashion show or gallery opening or simply a well-deserved let-your-hair-down party with one’s peers after exhausting money and deal-making and the strains of trying to get back to size in your basement gym.
You will know them from other signs as well. Their luggage is usually a brand once patronised by our Maharajas, but unlike the pretenders, the luggage is monogrammed and looks well used. But the thing with owning everything that money can buy is that any experience tends to turn mundane. So usual tourist traps are a no-no. Only an exotic holiday customised to one’s needs will do. And it’s sweeter still if no one in their circle has heard about the place.
Some don’t need frequent holidays to revive their jaded selves. Thanks to the wonder that is modern science, even Fate can be appeased. A bevy of beauty and youth-reviving regimens are now available that not just turn back the clock but seem to beget a whole new physique and persona. And I’m not talking of organ transplants here. But if the high rollers demand their pound of the social spotlight, there exists a smaller subset that thrives on low-key exclusivity. Obviously they belong to the school of thought that believes the less you are seen, the more social value you acquire. Which is why the idea of a “quiet, intimate dinner” began to look attractive. And, along the way acquired the ultimate cache of being more classy as well. Will this tiny ‘isle of calm’ survive or will it be overrun by the tidal waves of the boorish? Sociologists and cultural anthropologists are no doubt busy trying to work this one out.
Cherian is celebrity creator and sometimes a socialite trasher