It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single Bengali in possession of a good fortune should fulfill his destiny by way of organising, chronologically, his bari, sari and gari. In Kolkata, baris are the subject of adda rather than ownership. Old houses, though, are being torn down to make way for modern flats, and in one such ancestral home, laced with enough alcohol to float a ship, the guests come and go, talking, alas, not of Michelangelo, but of the city's skidding standards of life. "I will live in my mother's house till I am too old to move out," a stranger high on Black Dog confides, "and then my son will live with me till he passes it on to his son." Okay, that does sound bleak: I need a refill.Time was when the sari meant marriage - perhaps to the girl of your dreams, or the chhoto bou's sister your mother found suitable enough to bring to the bari. Today, the sari represents nothing more than a symbol of disillusionment. It is spoken of derisively because it stands for

Coping with wealth in Kolkata

Business Standard

Souza's influence on Indian modernism is akin to that of Picasso on most artists

Souza's shock waves

Did somebody say the economy is in the doldrums? Don't be droll, man, pass me those prawn skewers, here have a Macallan. Carry it to the swimming pool, I want to show you the changing rooms. I'm unhappy, actually, because I'd told the architect I wanted a jacuzzi for a pool party, but apparently the equipment required for a jacuzzi that accommodates more than 20 people has to be specially ordered, which takes two months, which would have delayed Minty's birthday party. Anyway, I'll have it ripped out and replaced even though it's nice to sit in while sipping champagne.Which reminds me, the bootlegger called to say he can't supply me the case of bubbly I'd ordered, apparently the police have seized his stock or something. What a bore. Now I'll have to order it from the vend and pay extra. That's what happens when the economy is in trouble, I think. Do they think our money grows on trees?But, dude, I have to show you this new farmhouse I picked up in the foothills. Minty wanted our bedro

Weak economy? Give me a break!

This summer, the pickings were so lean - give or take a few weddings - that my wife and I greedily accepted invitations to that exquisite form of torture known as the fashion show. Now I know - though my wife disagrees - that these are intended to be business events, but end up being social occasions on a par with the opening rush of a Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster. There's a stampede for passes and reputations are built (and shredded) on the row you've been assigned. Having been away for a few years, I had forgotten how much this matters to the glitterati. But given the benefit of hindsight, I am glad to put together this guide for the uninitiated on what to expect from a fashion show.Thou shalt be late: This is what it probably reads on the back of your card: "The show will begin at 9 p m sharp. Please be seated 20 minutes before the show." "That means 11 pm," explained my wife. Since I hate being late, we compromised and arrived at 9.30 instead, only to be squeezed and jostled by guest

Fashion show survival guide

Portrait of a gentleman

Unlike Amrita Sher-Gil's feisty self portraits, Dhurandhar's are more sombre in comparison

The last cup of coffee, steaming hot and bursting with the aroma of arabica robusta beans, had been a mistake. Before that there'd been milk with the cereal, a glass of orange juice, and because I needn't to pop a pill and keep the skin hydrated, a glassful of water. Usually, this should not have been a problem, but en route to office the heavens had opened up, the blast of the air-con was chilling, and, well, when a man's gotta go, he's gotta go. That the roads were jammed and the traffic stationary didn't help. Any diversion to a hotel to use its facilities was impossible.As the cars inched slowly onwards, I spied a public convenience, one of several the government had imported ahead of the Commonwealth Games. Through previous experience I could have sworn it would be out of commission, but desperate times give rise to desperate hopes. Alas, it turned out to be locked, as did every one along that route, each of which I checked while getting increasingly wet.I could imagine my wife ch

Washroom with a view

There were five of them at the table, connected by their youth, probably students of a fashion institute in the neighbourhood and regulars at the cafe. Lunch hour at the huge restaurant was usually busy, but it was a quiet day, and though I'd carried along a magazine to read, my mood wasn't improved because the waitress said they couldn't serve my order of salmon panini because there wasn't any salmon. Actually, what she said when I ordered it with a side portion of mascarpone, rocket and capers was, "Okay, but let me check with the chef first." Five minutes later, I'd decided on a filling of parma ham instead in the absence of the salmon. "Okay, but let me check with the chef first," the waitress simpered again. Finally, I had to settle for tenderloin with mayo, and extremely chewy bacon, and because I was feeling hostile, I couldn't concentrate on the journal, so I spent the entire, regrettable meal staring at the table across from mine.There were three girls, two seated next to each

Upwardly mobile among friends

Auction house Christie's is betting big on the Indian art market

To bet or not to bet

"Two cups of tea for my visitors," requests a colleague, adding for good measure, "and I'll have a cup as well." The cup is actually a misnomer because the management's instructions are specific. Tea is to be served in mugs for office staff, though visitors are permitted the use of a cup and saucer, the same as for senior staff, while those next in the pecking order must make do with cups - but not, alas, saucers. Nowhere is the hierarchy of the Indian office more apparent than in the hallowed corridors of the pantry where the distinction between those on probation and others who have been confirmed is acutely observed. The fine balance between the bone china tea cup and the ceramic coffee mug might appear of little consequence, but there is no better reflection of one's professional status than the ritual of tea service in the Indian office.It isn't just the cups and spoons that merit distinction. The highest echelons of power earn you a tea bag accompanied by a dainty bowl in which t

Beverage hierarchy: It's a mugs game

Shah Rukh Khan may or may not have had a third child, he and his wife may or may not have conducted a gender test to check its sex, they may or may not have had the baby through surrogacy - but the subject is taboo in our family conversations because of a certain in-law who must never be named. Anonymous and his wife have not been able to arrive at the dubious distinction of parenthood, but they will not consider surrogacy for reasons unclear to my wife, who is a great keeper of its faith and would, no doubt, have leased her womb for the cause, had such miracles at her age been possible.All this secrecy has confused me so much, I no longer know who's had babies, and who hasn't. When I commiserated with an in-law on the woes of nocturnal parenting, I was met by frigid silence. Fortunately, my wife giggled instead of admonitioning me, which meant I had unknowingly trumped some trigger of family politics. "Darling," said my wife, "it's all about inheritance" - apparently, those with babie

Baby talk in family plots

Chefs are temperamental because of the pressure in the kitchen - orders delayed, spoiled, misunderstood can mar their reputation - so it's hardly surprising so many of them suffer from hypertension. Writers prefer their isolation no matter how much they might insist they write in the neighbourhood Barista. And artists? For them, their studios are sacred spaces, a place where paint and brush, light leaching in from a cleverly placed window, stacks of canvases, an easel resting against a wall, all become part of their artistic environment.Not everyone likes windows, though. Amitava has had the one in his third floor studio overlooking a patch of green in the heart of the city bricked up. The room is as spotless as a laboratory. To one side, he has recreated a scaffolding on which his canvases rest - this is where he draws and paints, working precisely like a surgeon.What a contrast to Madhvi Parekh's basement studio where natural light floods the room. There is a clutter of books, the wa

A room of their own

Room service was fast, the coffee mostly good even if served in paper cups, as for the frequent orders of doughnuts and angels wings, croissants and sandwiches, housekeeping was forever removing the crumbs and detritus before the next round of guests crowded the room with a view. Because he'd never intended to check-in, my uncle hadn't told too many people about his arrival in the hospital, so we'd been his only visitors on day one. By day two, his wife had broadcast a status update on Facebook, so the numbers swelled alarmingly, 107 at last count, which was a lot for a deluxe room with an occupancy of one. On day three, the floor guard was forced to complain that the file outside resembled an interview queue that could cost him his job. Every time there was a knock on the door, my aunt would herd visitors into the bathroom "for just a moment, sorry" before letting in the offending staff member. A nurse walking in unannounced found the room as crowded as a bar at happy hour. "One atten

Happy hours in hospital

Ministerial reshuffles, elections, BJP, Congress, a possible Third Front - since nobody appears to have a mandate for culture, does it really matter to artists who's in or out? As museums and art institutions languish, it's worth wondering: what happened to spending just a little to shore up our national art collection? Why is no government building us a Louvre? Aren't we worth a Tate? Are we so short of funds that we can't support even a few art institutions to fire the minds and imaginations of generations of Indians?Now that the summer holidays are ending, vacationers are returning from visits to the Venice Biennale and the Art Basel fair, having viewed the David on loan to the National Gallery of Art, and the Armory show and Chelsea galleries. Thousands of Indians, who queued up at Vatican City and in Florence to view works by Rafael and Michelangelo and paid their euro 11 to gawp at Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, cannot cease chattering about Chagall and Monet. Meanwhile, the Chin

Cultural drought

A few weeks back, my sister and her husband, on their way back from the boondocks of Punjab to the boondocks of Rajasthan, stopped over at a cousin's home in a town so small, it would be difficult to locate on Google Map. She - my cousin, that is - had apparently moved into a new house, so my mother had suggested that my sister might want to visit, since anyway the highway passed through the town so small as to be nearly nameless. "It will probably be kitschy," my sister had shared her anxiety ahead of the visit, "and embarrassing to say nice things without being sincere." I tut-tutted with her. People can be sensitive about their homes.This was a cousin, just for the record, who is on everyone's "did-you-know?" list. When family scandals get discussed at outings, she gets top billing. Our favourite is from the time we served a Chinese meal at my parents' home in Bikaner - well before Manmohan's Singh's economic reforms - when everything for their anniversary party had been carted from

Wealth off the beaten track

Faith in fakes

At McCafe, where I'd queued up for coffee and cheesecake, I was waved ahead to the front of the line, which I'd put down to respect for age till my wife assured me it was because I smelled like a malodorous perfumery, the result of an hour spent with my son at a duty free store in a Macau mall. We'd sniffed at Davidoff's Hot Water and Chanel's Egoiste, tested the YSL, argued over what constituted day and nuit after-shaves, and whether it was better to choose cloying scents or floral fragrances for Delhi's heat.The sales girls thought to resolve our differences by spraying strips of paper from the testers and waving them under our noses. But ever since a perfumer had educated me on each skin-type's ability to hold scents, I'd insisted on testing eau-de-colognes the way they ought to be worn - directly on the skin. Now, having daubed CK One and Aqua di Gio on my wrists, I insisted you could tell a perfume's lasting quality and true nature only after a few minutes, during which I tested t

Scents and sensibility

The jury's still out on which painting by V S Gaitonde was better - one auctioned by Sotheby's New York as part of the Amaya collection in March for Rs 5.4 crore (against a high estimate of Rs 4.5 crore), or by Christie's, same time, same place, for Rs 3.9 crore (against a high estimate of Rs 2.8 crore) - but already the next rollout is in place for June in London when the two auction houses will clash with more works by the master who, in 2013, is having a better year than most. He was the only Indian artist to be displayed by Christie's ahead of its auction of Asian art at a glamorous evening sale in Hong Kong last month, a lyrical composition that many imagined to be Chinese till they read the label. A 1962 work, Painting No. 4, is in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art in New York. And now, the Guggenheim is putting together a retrospective on the artist in 2014 for which curator Sandhini Poddar is sourcing works from collectors in America, Europe and, of course, I

Global Gaitonde

Time was when you could divide the world into those who'd been to Venice and those poor sods who hadn't - but the touristy, overcrowded City of Bridges met its match in a tarted up version in Macau a few years ago, even if the clone was tinselly and loud and loopily over the top. The audaciously imagined Venetian may not be what the artistic, or even the literary, soul craves, but it now stands at the centre of a new divide: those who adore it and others who can't abide it. Even so, as my wife wondered, "What's not to like about it?"True, it's easier to get around, the water in its canals is cleaner, and the women gondoliers know to say "shukriya" in chaste Hindi, but our first tryst had proved disappointing. My son had insisted on including Macau on our itinerary, wanting a flutter at the casino tables, against which my middle-class morality had proved no match. But where were we to stay? "At the Venetian, naturally," he'd pointed out. The casino? Apparently, yes, but with a hotel and

Venetian dreams, Macau-style

Lockhart Road is walking distance from our hotel, past the 7-Eleven, across the basketball court, over the tramlines and around the corner, not more than a few minutes by foot. But locating it is proving more difficult than we'd imagined because the Chinese in Hong Kong have a different name - and not just pronunciation - for every street, building and location. So, no, they don't know where Lockhart Road is, they don't know where the clubs are, they giggle over our maps and say "sorry, don't understand", till, finally, we decide to hail a cab. We tell the taxi driver we want to go clubbing, and he makes a glug-glug gesture and says "go Lae Kwon Fong", which I've been told is the other street party zone. But my son is hung up on Lockhart Road, which turns out not even to be worth the effort of getting into the taxi, it's so close after all. A magazine had mentioned the district as being a favourite of sailors, and from the citizenry it's easy to understand why, while we're obviously ou

Street retreat in Hong Kong

The Hong Kong event's contemporary format has brought together the good with the gimmicky, the ludicrous, the luscious and the predictable

Market chronicles

William and Thomas Daniell's aquatints get a new lease of life in a publishing co-venture

Kishore Singh