Kishore Singh: Gurgaon's bucolic ways

The good people of Gurgaon have some peculiar habits. Chief among them is the provincial custom of inviting guests home at teatime — for dinner. “Reach by eight,” they’re likely to text admonitory messages, which causes those of us who live in urbane Delhi an inordinate amount of stress, not to mention the strain of planning and coordinating the acceptance of such summons. “You take a half day from work, and I’ll postpone my afternoon meeting,” my wife sighs, “Oh, why do people have to live there?”

The moot point, of course, is why people in Gurgaon have the need to fraternise if they can’t do it at a more sophisticated hour. The earliest that civilised people anywhere make a dinner appearance is 10 pm, and that’s when the traffic is smooth and there have been no untoward hiccups to throw the schedule out of gear. But 10 o’clock in the Millennium City is late; it’s when restaurants are taking the last, not first, orders; when families are tucking themselves in with a nightcap; when the lights in its skyscrapers are blinking off, turning it into a ghost city.

By now we’re past hands at planning a Gurgaon dinner rendezvous with all the meticulousness of a vacation: Ice box? “Check,” confirms my son, lining up the beer bottles. Emergency kit? “I don’t know if the sandwiches will suffice,” worries my daughter, adding packets of chips to the tuck bag. My wife supervises the packing of the suitcase: not wanting to arrive in a state of dishabille, she has planned to change and do her make-up at the Leela Kempinski, while the rest of us grab a coffee, or cocktail, at the coffee shop. Laptops are loaded in, the children’s because they want to watch movies on the way there, and swap them on the way back; mine because I have this column to write. Finally, with eulogies to the gods to keep us safe en route, the chauffeur takes off — only to have to return (“an ill omen,” he mutters under his breath) because my wife has left her nail polish on the dining table, and then return yet again (“which should cancel out the bad luck,” my son grins at the driver) because she picked up the wrong shade in the hurry.

Nor is it just the arrangements that make it seem like we’re off on a holiday. My wife calls the servants to remind them to switch off the lights, take the dog for his walk, make sure the taps are not running, the milk has been put away in the fridge, and what to prepare for breakfast for when we’re back. “Don’t be such a nerd,” she snatches the book I’ve brought along to read, before settling down with her phone to gossip with friends. “It’s work,” she tells me in between calls, when I protest, “I’m setting up meetings.” “For lunch,” I point out, but she shrugs as the next call goes through. “Such a bore, yaar,” she says into the phone, “we’re having to go to Gurgaon….”

Despite the meticulous preparation, we’re late by Gurgaon’s bucolic standards when, at 9.30, we walk into our hosts’ drawing room and conversation ceases as everyone looks pointedly at their watches. “It’s okay,” my wife says defiantly, “we’ll make up by going back late too,” which must be the reason the good people of Gurgaon request our presence so rarely.

But invite them home and there’s another problem — they just can’t get it that you can’t come to dinner at 8.30, not unless you want to surprise your hosts at that infant hour, long before they’ll even consider getting ready for their guests who ought to come — my wife points out — “at 10.30 or after”.