Kishore Singh: Manhattan melange

If you've grown up reading copies of your father's trashy Erle Stanley Gardner novels, are currently in New York, and your colleague tells you, "There's a bird in the gallery", you could be forgiven for thinking that a lady of, er, questionable virtue had strayed into the opening of the exhibition. But it was definitely more amusing that the "bird" in question turned out to be a flamboyant cockatoo dressed, if you will, in a kimono, and quite the socialite as it preened and posed for pictures atop its owner's shoulders. Among the few hundred who mingled at the opening was a tiny dog, somewhat larger than a Chihuahua, that kept itself amused chasing its tail while, all around, people sipped champagne and, quite literally, talked of Michelangelo.

You'd imagine dogs are a New Yorker's best companion, more steady then their passing love interests, accompanying their masters and mistresses everywhere. From being walked in Central Park to being wheeled down Fifth Avenue in perambulators because the poor mites are too pampered to walk, and from occupying their own seats in fine dining restaurants to turning shopping companions, they're the Big Apple's most obvious sight. They're singularly friendly, happy to be patted and photographed, never growling even at each other, better bred and mannered than most people I know in New Delhi - though I'm sure there's an archaic law somewhere than forbids such comparisons and might even invite a prison sentence.

Nor are fish and fowl the only things that catch your attention in Manhattan. Assisting us at the gallery was a splendid specimen of the female species who in all the days we worked together never once changed her outfit (unless she had multiple versions of it) consisting of a bowler hat, shorts and boots, revealing arms and legs completely inked with tattoos. Even though it's heading for fall, shorts are a common sight, even among men who wear them with formal jackets, exactly like suits, to work. I wonder what sexual harassment committees back home would make of such "distractions".

Gallery openings - and there are several in the city on account of the Asia Contemporary Art Week - offer a representation of NY's dazzling denizens. You have the faux glitterati in their gowns and pearls and rouged cheeks, who teeter in on killer heels and spend their time sussing out their peers instead of looking at the art. There are the self-promoters and artists, who now refer to themselves as "advancers of culture", so who needs a mere artist any more? And there are the millionaires and billionaires who are the quietest of the lot, toting their own bags, shod in walking shoes and weather-proof jackets, anonymous but for the flash of discreet carats that gleam in their lobes.

But there are the freeloaders too who will call in advance to ask what wine we're serving, and whether there's food. When the receptionist confirmed there would be "cheese and fruit", he was dissed for passing off fromage as fare. Just as back home, the spongers are never far from the bar, soaking in the alcohol, and even pocketing cans of cola as a take-home present (apparently it's all right to have such guests turn out their pockets). The minders at the gallery are strict about such deviants, but they were more generous with the bird, which was allowed to peck at the fruit, and even carry away a bunch of grapes. Clearly a case of being more reputable than several humans present at the venue.