'Wither' the page 3 party?

The dirge for the page three party was sung some years ago - or hadn't you noticed? With obese beauty queens, political spouses, has-been starlets, ageing writers and hangers-on populating the party columns week after month after year, it had become as tiresome as deciding what to wear to the next gig in town. No one was fooled any more by the fake camaraderie and air-blown kisses. Besides, the Big Party was so last century. True, brands and corporate houses don't mind paying a guest manager to send out invitations to other socialites to put in an appearance for a launch by the swimming pool amid hired "extras" in poolwear for a three-column splash in the papers, but the price - late nights, greasy food, bad wine - has taken its toll. Enough, at least, to send the city A-listers temporarily out of sight.

If not exactly hiding, at least they're no longer being held ransom to the hypocrisy of partying amid strangers. Remember the farmhouse revelries where no one knew anyone but drank themselves silly anyway? So, okay, you remember the hangover if not the party, so many of them were similar, clouded with a miasma of hashish and passed out people in the toilet block. Was it boredom that drew the curtains on Delhi's propensity to celebrate, or the cops playing spoilsport while insisting on a licence for the bootlegged booze and putting a stop to the music? Or was it because decadence in the time of recession was making them look out of sync with the times?

If it's wannabes and young kids looking for freebies who turn up at corporate events these days, what of the real, swinging Dilliwallahs who've gone underground - literally? Their parties have shrunk in size if not in frequency. Most people actually know each other when they meet, and even talk post the mandatory hug that's replaced the handshake as the greeting of choice. Their voices can be heard over the music. There's less food on the table, or at least less that goes waste, though the extravagance remains undiminished. Celebrity chefs serve at the table. A hired band, or a singer, might perform for a bit. The paparazzi is barred, and privacy is as secretly guarded as the next rave in Bombay or Pune.

Alas, you can't entirely stop the gatecrashers - not when they turn up with other guests who're actually invited. The gasbag from TV's talk shows, the sleazy diva, the ill-bred entrepreneur, all of whom want to network on the city's party circuit but find themselves increasingly on its periphery. The inner circle is tight-lipped about where they're meeting next, or when.

Oblivious to their secret life, the city, meanwhile, rocks to its own party beat. In bars and lounges at popular night spots, the rupee is something to be spent, not a topic of heated discussion, especially since it's notional anyway as long as you hold a piece of plastic, not cash, in your fist. Swarms of middle-class rich kids will spend their earnings and their family's savings on these outings before being driven home by chauffeurs on hire. Elsewhere, the socialite and the star are mwah-mwahing for the photographer's benefit, having forgotten each other's names but not their social manners. Their pictures will be in the papers, they know, they bribed the photographer to ensure that he selected them in his final cut. A far cry from the true-blue celeb who also sweet-talked the photographer - to leave him out.