I am not a big Holi freak and have had an aversion to bhaang-adulterated thandai ever since I had a nasty experience with it during my college days. For three days, every time I would lie down, my bed seemed to shrink. Well, I don’t miss much when I give Holi revelry a skip, except the women in wet tees. But hey, thanks to Facebook, I didn’t miss that either this year.
The morning after Holi when I logged on to Facebook (a de rigueur for most of us), there were these images of painted faces and I couldn’t resist clicking on them. It was some random guy’s photo album who happened to be at the city’s hottest Holi party and man, this guy had the eye for the most titillating stuff. There I was going through it all and wondering, “Is this Facebook or some X-rated stuff that I am browsing through?” There were pictures of women soaked to the skin, which hardly left anything for a fertile mind’s imagination. Even the late Raj Kapoor’s Ram Teri Ganga Maili looked clean in comparison.
There was a picture of a prominent socialite, famous for her pouty lips, in her wet tee — the photo could easily have won her the Miss Wet Tee contest. Another pretty woman was clicked flashing her inners as she mopped her face with her T-shirt. I am sure none of these ladies knew there was a camera focused on them and somebody putting their modesty at stake by flashing the pictures on Facebook.
Good lord! By the evening, the whole city was talking about Pouty Lips and Miss Flasher. Delhi’s libido-fired men even MMSed them. I pity those ladies and am sure they can’t do anything about removing those pictures from public domain. So here’s a word of caution, ladies — beware of those snappy fingers that might be clicking you unaware. I remember an incident where an acquaintance of mine was clicked clubbing with a hot number while his wife knew he is at office for that important meeting. Next day, the wifey sees the picture on Facebook and all hell broke loose.
Well, the city is now in grips of fashion week fever and so the trivial pursuit of fashion’s front-row politics has begun. If a socialite is spotted in the second row, she’s fashion roadkill. I, courtesy my job, manage to plant my derriere on the coveted front-row seat. But the triumph is short-lived as it’s near impossible to wedge into such a tiny space, cramped with socialites who would rather squeeze in their not-so-petite frame than sit comfortably in the row behind.
Year after year I have seen front-row stylistas dying to be there but not graceful enough to sit lady-like in short skirts. Beware lady — your not-so-fashionable picture flashing inners might just land up on Facebook for the world to see. Fashion’s front row can be a real pain!