Kishore Singh: Partying for a rainy day

There's an icebox in the boot of my car. Twice a week, the driver is obligated to replace the ice melt with fresh ice. My wife uses it to cool bottles of water for whenever she borrows the car, which is often. She also likes to carry a small larder with her, of bread, some dips and pastes, bowls of cut fruit to appeal to her palate, crisp iceberg lettuce, some salami and ham - enough, in fact, to organise a kitty party on the run. My daughter uses the same icebox to store her creams, lotions and nameless unguents as part of her power wardrobe for office. She and I commute together, so I am familiar with her process of "putting on a face" that emerges from the depths of the icebox en route to work. My son likes to borrow the car in the evenings, so a stock of beer pints is obligatory, and woe betide the driver if his brand is not in stock.
 

It's funny how people manage to let a little rain play spoiler when it comes to an evening out. In Mumbai, where it's been raining something terrible, apparently its citizens like nothing more than to retreat home to blankets and hot soups and television sets. Party-poopers all, they promise to arrive at a soiree but fail to show up "because of the downpour, darling" - something I experienced recently when only a few people petered in over the course of a long evening's entertainment. It was akin to being the only occupied table at a restaurant, thereby drawing all the unwanted attention of an army of fussy waiters.

Mumbai might have proved conservative, but Delhi is not the country's party capital for nothing. Not, that is, till the rain started playing dampener over here too. What's a little wet on the roads, a little flooding of underpasses and honking traffic to hold up celebrations? And yet, designers at the couture week were embarrassed because front-row invitees were diverted by a surprise thunderstorm. Luxury cars apparently have low air ducts that draw water into the engine causing damage that is not covered by insurance underwriters, and since the glitterati prefers sedans to SUVs - they're easier to step out off before the paparazzi - it's not the ideal time to party in the capital.

"Sissy," my wife objected when I suggested we sit out a nocturnal bash in view of reports of heavy rain. And when neighbours expressed apprehension about joining us over the revelries, she had a fit. "I will party at any cost," she told them, "and you're coming, ready or not." It was a squeeze accommodating them in the car, and predictably we made slow pace on the roads. "Never mind," consoled my wife, "if we can't go to the party, the party can come to us." The unfortunate chauffeur was ordered out to double as waiter under an umbrella, ferrying bits and bites my wife had thought to secrete in the icebox for just such an emergency. He fetched us wines and champagne as aperitifs. There was a jug of mojito that had managed not to spill, and another of sangria, though she was upset she hadn't thought to pack the correct glasses. So, if by the time we reached the party to find the celebrations had wound up, it didn't matter much because, on the journey back, we still seemed to have the ingredients for our own party - on the road.