Kishore Singh: Guest of horror

What do you do with an awkward relative on an extended visit to the big city who wants to gatecrash your social circuit and partake in the “good times”? You could – like I tried – hibernate, declining invitations on the pretext of work, but then find yourself having to spend the cold night slaving over the computer to prove to the ancient relic that you weren’t shamming in the first place. Besides, as my wife said in the privacy of our bedroom, “If you must entertain your guest anyway, why not do it at the cost of someone else’s whisky instead of your own?”

Even though her argument made perverse sense, it was because of his desire to participate in the capital’s high life, and because I’d run out of all options, that I warned hosts that for some while I would be ferrying a house guest along — not that extras at Delhi parties, where success is measured by the number of gatecrashers at any event, is ever an issue. “Look lively,” I told my uncle, “take out your gladrags, let’s party tonight.”

It was all downhill from there. “No leather jacket,” I admonished him, while he was having his sorry apology of hair gelled for a night out on the tiles, “and no, you can’t wear red shoes either” — forcing him into a more conservative attire. At eight, he said he was ready. “Hush,” I said, “Delhi parties start late, relax, we’ll leave in a while.” “Can we go now?” he asked fifteen minutes later, and at 8:30 he was pacing the living room floor. At nine, my wife served him a little snack though he kept protesting he wanted to eat only at the party, and by the time we left at ten, he was on edge: “There won’t be food left, there won’t be people left, there won’t be” – big sigh – “booze left!” while I assured him there’d be plenty of everything.

He was thirsty, he said, when we finally got to the party where, despite the heaters, it was very, very cold. He told a waiter circulating with a tray of drinks among the guests to stand right next to him while he fortified himself. Others moving with the canapés were lined up in a queue beside him because, he said, “I’m diabetic, I need food, or else I’ll faint.” “Hello,” my wife waved to someone in the distance and put distance between her uncle-in law and herself, staying out of reach for the rest of the evening.

I tried to hedge away from him but was less fortunate. He introduced himself to everyone I spoke with and chanted, “Good times, very good times” in a satisfied tone. He wanted to meet the single ladies. He belched. He cracked racist jokes. He made sexist remarks. By the time the evening had worn on, I had joined him in downing Scotland’s finest — to hide my acute embarrassment. He tipped the waiters to get him choice portions from the buffet. We went home with a goody-bag he’d organised of desserts in one hand, and “one for the road” in the other.

So, forgive me Delhi as I unleash him one last time tonight and spend the evening lurking behind some potted plant. I’ve seen a confirmed departure ticket with his name on it — just cross your fingers and hope that the fog doesn’t play spoiler.