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| Kishore Singh: What's the matter, dawling? |
| Kishore Singh / New Delhi Sep 12, 2009, 00:39 IST |
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Dawling!” the large woman said into the most smothering embrace of my entire life, “Where have you been?” Before I could extract myself and come up with a suitable reply — being not quite sure who she was to begin with — she had already sailed adrift to the gentleman standing next to me, quietly quaffing his drink. “Dawling,” she said to him as he choked over his whisky, “where have you been?”
“Who was she?” hissed my wife, who is not entirely partial to women she hasn’t been introduced to acting familiar with her spouse. “I’m not sure,” I admitted, for on recent occasions I seemed to have spent a lot of time identifying people entirely wrongly and didn’t want to fall into the trap again. “But she called you darling,” my wife protested. “Not darling, no,” I pointed out for purpose of record, “she said dawling which, as someone with a keen interest in social anthropology, I mean to point out, could mean anything from a friend to a competitor to a stranger.” “Really,” said my wife, “but how do I know I should believe you?”
“Trust me,” I assured her, “and watch.”
She didn’t have long to wait for it was an elbow-jogging party where people seemed to spend all their time snogging each other as they said hello or goodbye, with no time left over in between for any conversation. “Maybe they have a speech impediment,” whispered my wife. “Maybe they’ve forgotten how to speak,” I said to her, since these were people who appeared to surface only at night for the express purpose of greeting each other before disappearing into their burrows to hibernate the day away.
“Oye, durrling, I have not seen you since the party yesterday,” a Jane-come-lately latched on to a fashionista while we ogled. “My dear, dear daarleeng,” the fashionista was snatched out of her hands by a fashion designer, but she cut him off with an abrupt, “Bye darl, I have to rush to the loo,” only to be snatched up en route by an upcoming rom-com author, who said, “Oh Dee, not leaving already, are you?” “She must be someone well known,” said my wife, who had been watching in fascination, “now I can tell my friend Sarla that I met a famous model named Dee.” “Oh no,” I explained to her, “the writer called her D, not Dee, and that,” since I know about these things, “is short for darling!”
“Mwah,” the air smacked next to my cheek, “mwah! Darlin’, it’s been forever,” said someone who, by the time her words floated back, was already air-kissing somebody else across the room. “Oh my god,” said an impressively dressed man, his tone all la-di-dah, “look at you dahling, aren’t you the best!” “Me, you daaarrling doll,” riposted the admired one, “I think my answer, and you can lock it, would be to” — long pause for suspense to build up — “agree!” “Oh dear,” said my wife, who combines a provincial head with a searing tongue, “I think I’m going to be sick.” “Not here, darling,” I pleaded, for I feared she might make a scene, “just thing of it as a greeting.
Besides, it’s convenient if you don’t recognise people, all you have to do is call them darling, and you’ll never have to risk being shown up for not knowing who you’re talking with.” “That’s if people would talk to begin with, daahling,” she mimicked, drawing a few tut-tuts from those around us for her mocking pronunciation.
But I need hardly have worried, for no sooner had I turned my head to look around, it was engulfed in a by-now familiar embrace. “Dawling,” said a voice — it could have been déjà-vu — “where have you been?”
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