Kishore Singh: There are two kinds of Indians

There are," said my wife, "two kinds of Indians" - "and no," she addressed the children, "I do not mean us Indians and Red Indians" - laying out her premise that while one is exclusive to the Amalfi Coast, the other travels to Bangkok, and ne'er the twain shall meet. Even when their paths doth - sorry, do - cross, as we discovered in Florence, the former is likely to be found sipping an espresso underneath a floppy hat while observing the natives in its piazzas, while the latter clings together in groups and chomps on smuggled khakra. The one is bespoke, the other branded. If one orders risotto, the other's likely to be accompanied by a maharaj to serve khichdi. The first has a smattering of French and Italian, the second can't quite pronounce Hermes correctly. It's the difference between the south Delhi snob and the west Delhi brat; the privileged south Bombayite versus the brash north Mumbaikar.
 

Having drawn a fine distinction between those to the manor born, and those in waiting, my wife veered around to the reason for her discourse. "What kind," she asked the children, "are we?" For a moment, it left us flummoxed. Far be it for us to claim a heritage of snobbery by instinct, but to be considered part of the gauche arriviste - in status-conscious Delhi, that would be the equivalent of committing hara-kiri.

"My friends," my daughter hedged her bets, "are like us." "Not that odious Koel," shuddered her brother, "she drives a rattle can of a car." "Look who's speaking," retorted his sister, "your girlfriends are so vulgar." "Really," I said, "there's no need to get personal like the lower orders." "Oh, stop being a hypocrite," my wife said to me, and it wasn't long before family skeletons were being hurled around like wounding weapons, which, I tried to point out, wasn't a very dignified thing to do - but by then no one was listening. "You keep quiet," my wife - whose paternity consists of bandits in the clan - ordered, instantly silencing my protests.

The debate assumed critical mass with the ringing of the doorbell, ushering in my wife's best friend Sarla and her husband, and my friend Ronen and his wife, who insisted on joining the fray. "What fun," said Sarla, "to gossip about the have-nots." "You shouldn't laugh at your peers, dear," said Ronen's wife. "Peers-sheers," Sarla rebounded cruelly, "I know you're from a small town, which none of us can even find on Google Map." "Darling," Ronen's wife Trisha responded, "you citywallahs are all hybrid, while we Old Families from the provinces had jagirs bigger than France."

With considerable flak and clan histories being tossed around, I asked the staff to discreetly remove any breakables from their vicinity, for who knew when a pungent phrase might be replaced by a heavy ashtray, the accruing physical damage likely to outlast a verbal one. I needn't have worried, however, for when the drinks were requested, they all wanted whiskies of various vintages and blends, marking them as people of refinement and good taste. All but I, that is, choosing to stick to my peg of rum, which alone, I might add, was a shared heritage between us, their whiskies being a recent, acquired one. "I don't know," I said later to my wife, "whether we are the former Indians and our friends the latter ones, or vice versa, what I do know is that the twain do meet, even if not always amicably."