Kishore Singh: All dressed up for F1

I’m not coming back home,” said my wife, sulking long-distance in Pune, “unless you can arrange for me to be at the biggest parties in New Delhi.” It wasn’t revelries in Pune that had taken her away from the capital, but her mother’s ill-health, though that might have been a ploy for my mother-in-law to settle old scores with me. “Cheers, son-in-law,” she crowed from the intensive care unit when she found her daughter had rushed to her bedside without the benefit of a return ticket.

Because she was missing out on the gambling bashes in town, my wife wasn’t entirely happy in Pune. “I could report on who wore what,” I said to her, but she was inconsolable. “You cannot be insensitive and go out partying when my mother is unwell,” she said over the phone, so I cancelled all my plans to sit at home and babysit the children — who, though, weren’t around for the caring, having opted to stay away from a moping father.

Just a few days gone, my wife was aching to come back, but making a virtue of it. “All the great card parties will be over by next week,” she cribbed, though I assured her that we were expected at some in the coming week where the guests could at least be expected to gamble away fortunes — but not, alas, their penthouses, or spouses, our acquaintances being too boring for such excitement. “I don’t want to come back for just some stupid teen-patti,” my wife sniffed, though she wasn’t above a little flutter herself. “I could arrange dinner at home for some friends,” I suggested, “Pooh,” she said, “who wants to have a party at your house?”

There was, I pointed out, Diwali – the biggest party in town – but my wife laughed and said she wasn’t a child any more to be entertained by lights and crackers. “And gifts,” I pointed out. “Don’t you open any,” she screamed at me, “I want you to keep them away so I know what Sarla gave us, and to make sure Manju doesn’t return the Diwali gift we gave her last year, as she’s been doing for the last three years.” I promised her I wouldn’t even peep inside the packets, but if she wanted, I could get her first-day, first-show tickets for Ra.One, now that I had the mobile number of someone who is close to Shah Rukh Khan on my speed dial, and could hope to swing that for us at the very least.

“I’m not coming back for some stupid movie,” said my wife, “I will come back, though, for the F1,” she purred. “Really,” I was astounded, “I had no idea you were interested in motorsports.” “Cars-shars,” my wife snorted, “I don’t want to see them race, silly, it’s the after-parties I want to be at.” “It’s true,” I said, “I had invitations to some post-parties, but I didn’t think you’d care to go.” “Oh, but I do,” she said, “you’d better not give any away to anyone else.” “Too late,” I said, for already the children had grabbed the invitations, using them as bargaining chips with their friends, and had been shopping for party clothes.

“You mean,” shouted my wife, “you gave away your Lap invitation?” “And Kitty Su,” I nodded, “and Hype, because I thought you weren’t coming back.” “You stupid fool,” she said, “I bought leather pants and a jacket especially for the F1 parties.” And just so she can come back to Delhi and wear her leather togs, does anyone have any Lap invitations to spare?