Kishore Singh: Sure you want to eat that?

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When the papers wrote that the government was filing a case against Maneka Gandhi for disbursement of funds, I said to my wife, "It's a witchhunt" without knowing what it meant. "You're just saying that because she invited you to her exhibition," pointed out my wife. "She calls every time she has a fundraiser," I shrugged, "but I think the important thing is that she has no hang-ups." "That's because she's not in government," my wife snapped, "otherwise the only time you'd get within any distance of her would be on TV."

I could have argued with my wife, only she was right, of course. Maneka Gandhi used to anchor a radio programme on pets, only she'd bite the heads off her listeners who wrote with questions. If someone wanted to know how to avoid a dog shedding over the sofa, she'd snap, "If you're so concerned about the sofa, why keep a dog?" And this when she was only mildly remonstrative; in her element, the lady was best avoided.

"She doesn't suffer fools gladly," I pointed out to my wife. "And still she phones you," marvelled my wife, signalling that the conversation wasn't going anywhere concrete. "Anyway," I said, "you seem to have taken quite a shine to her sister." Ambika Shukla is what the Concise Oxford English Dictionary describes as a "celebutante", someone who is famous simply for being famous. No one quite knows why she should be invited to every party in town, but she is.

For all that, Ambika is extremely easy to talk with, and laughs a lot, even though she isn't very polite should she sits next to you when you're trying to eat your dinner. "What's that," she'll ask, as she chews on some healthy-looking green leaves, pointing to a dab of paste on your plate. "That's pate," you'll say, "try some." At which Ambika (who knew all along what it was) will puff up and say: "You know how pate is made?"

Whether you do or not doesn't matter, because by now Ambika is in full flow about how geese are force-fed so their livers become diseased, and it is this that is now on your plate. "Here," she says helpfully, "have a carrot."

My wife, of course, has never sat next to her for a meal, but having partnered her at the buffet a couple of times, I can tell you what to expect. "Are you sure you want to eat that?" she'll point to the chicken on your plate, before launching into a passionate diatribe on the living (and dying) conditions of the animal before it became food on the buffet. Meat? "Let me tell you how they kill goats," she starts off, so you can no longer look at your kebab. Fish? Mussels? Lobster? She's got gruesome stories about them all, certified to turn you green for at least the evening, and guaranteed to have you glance over your shoulder every time you're guilty of the pleasure. (Please god, you whisper to your conscience, I don't want to remember what she said about those sizzling, golden-brown sausages that, thanks be, I'm about to have.)

Nor is her neurosis restricted to just flesh. Having said (a reluctant) no to the prawn curry, you think Ambika might let eggs pass muster. Alas. What about a helping of paneer? Some cheese? A glass of milk? "You're snatching away some calf's food,"Ambika wags an admonitory finger. No chocolates? Caviar? Coffee? Ambika's face is like thunder. "I think," says my wife stepping in, "you should have the spinach before someone decides that plants and grass have been murdered for your dinner."

Strange, now that I remember, at every party where Ambika has been a guest, I've come back ravenously hungry.