India Rising: Tales from a Changing Nation by Oliver Balch

Author:Oliver Balch [Balch, Oliver]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571259274
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2012-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

Delhi

Ashdeen’s knickers are in a twist. The opening show is running late. Nina will be beside herself.

He pulls a tissue from his handbag and dabs his perspiring forehead. A dribble of sweat escapes, edging down his shorn sideburn. It is heading towards the folds of his neck and the collar of his navy satin shirt. He double-dabs. The sweat bubble is caught.

‘I mean, it’s just all just sooooo amateur, don’t you think.’

The pronouncement floats across the chattering table. The words are directed at no one in particular and they die away on the current of fashionista blabber.

‘Dyed. Yes, definitely dyed. What was she thinking?’ a thin-hipped fashion editor at the far end of the table snipes.

‘Well, it’s better than those,’ her plain-faced colleague replies, gasping in mock horror at a middle-aged brunette a couple of tables away. ‘I mean, if you’re going to get extensions, yaar, at least make sure they match.’

In their early twenties, both women are equipped with upper-class St Xavier accents and posh salon haircuts. Their summer dresses – both floral, both crimped at the waist and both ever so slightly flounced at the shoulder – shout style. Throw in a discreet gold necklace, a silver butterfly clip in the hair, designer heels. They are cool. They are Elle.

Ashdeen hovers on the edge of the group. He is wearing crisp white boating shorts and a newish pair of steel-grey Converse.

The twenty-nine-year-old Parsee embroiderer crosses his legs nervously. He twitches his head from side to side, uncharacteristically tense. The fingers of his right hand begin drumming on his kneecap, like a trumpeter going through his practice scales.

‘Rumour is they’ve closed the gates. I mean, it’s a complete dii-saaa-sterrr.’ He is speaking into thin air. Flapping his hand, he reaches for a Diet Coke.

He takes a small sip and places the glass back on the table. He fears a full bladder as it’ll mean having to use the venue’s public toilets.

We are sitting in Olive beside a knee-high wicker gate. Within minutes of Delhi Fashion Week opening, the high-end eatery has been designated as the place to be. Ensconced on its white iron-framed seats are rows of bottoms wrapped in gorgeous silks and printed satins. Bony fingers reach greedily for tomato bruschettas topped with shavings of imported Italian Parmesan. Chilled Californian Chardonnay washes against expensive dental work. Circular, oversized dark glasses bob at one another in visual monotone.

We’ve ordered drinks, and now refuse to move. Like soldiers in our bolthole, we have staked our claim and will defend our territory tooth and varnished nail.

‘Fashion is like war,’ opines Julian, a colourful Brit dressed in tartan trousers and a voluminous bow tie. ‘There’s lots of sitting and waiting around for the action.’

The opening midday show is already half an hour late. Where better for a fashionable delay than a fashion event? Yet Ashdeen’s predictions seem to suggest something more serious is afoot. The evidence begins to mount. Ant-like assistants carrying walkie-talkies are pacing frantically up and down the venue hall.

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