The party

But in the cacophony of horns blowing behind me, and shouting police inspectors waving batons and announcing that the PM was about to arrive, I had no option but to follow the drivers through interminable dark lanes, writes Pradip Narain.

It was going to be the wedding party of the year. Present would be the who’s who of politicians, diplomats, bureaucrats and my minister host’s own ole’ boys league — Doon School, St Stephen’s, Cambridge. And I was going to be there — by virtue of being the mathematics’ masterji to the bride’s eldest sibling.

HT Image

Not having worn a suit since my wedding, I pulled out my cleanest shirt — one without ink or ketchup stains — got into my old, faithful Maruti 800 and drove off to Akbar Road. I had hurriedly wound up my coaching class, and skipped lunch in order to do justice to the wedding feast.

The queue was a mile long. Each chauffeur-driven limousine stopped for five seconds in front of the gate to 14, Akbar Road, the backdoor was opened by a darban, and out glided the gilded memsahibs and their sahibs. After unloading their precious cargo, the cars sped away, guided by wildly gesticulating, whistle-blowing policemen to an unknown destination. When my lone self-driven Maruti landed in front of No. 14, the backdoor was mechanically opened. But when no sahib or memsahib emerged, the policeman angrily waved my car away. I tried to explain that I was my own chauffeur, a guest and needed….

But in the cacophony of horns blowing behind me, and shouting police inspectors waving batons and announcing that the PM was about to arrive, I had no option but to follow the drivers through interminable dark lanes, opening out to a dhobi ghat-turned-car park. I parked my car and decided to run back to the main gate. But even that was not to be. A police cordon had been thrown around No. 14, and no one could leave the ‘car park’ for the next hour.

I retraced my steps to my new fellow travellers who had by now crowded around a small dhaba doing brisk business. They had flung off their caps, and had settled on rickety benches with cups of steaming chai and bun-omelettes. They welcomed me back as one of them — albeit of lower status since I had no uniform and drove a mere Maruti 800! In between much guffawing, thigh slapping, slurps and winks, we exchanged stories about our memsahibs.

We could have gone on… had it not been for the shriek of whistles amid which the PM’s cavalcade left. As I bid them goodbye, I almost felt sad. The party had been enjoyable. In fact, I hadn’t had so much fun in a long while.