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Biceped Bartenders and a Terrific Tango
Text by Vinod Advani and Illustration by Farzana Cooper
Published: Volume 15, Issue 5, May, 2007

Leggy lasses swaying their hips to trance music, designers hobnobbing with fashionistas and models pouting for shutterbugs. Vinod Advani rewinds to Fashion Week shenanigans

No one can understand a model's life. With legs that go on forever, in a career that clearly doesn't, models can party till roosters herald the dawn. Where do they get their energy from? Another question. Can they, like cheetahs, see in the dark?

One of Lakmé Fashion Week's celebratory parties was held at Privé, the SoBo nightclub, where the very privileged smoke Cohibas. Pinafore pixies were packed like sardines in a tin can. Stolichnaya, the world's most desirable vodka was being served in cocktails by biceped bartenders. Around midnight, as if on cue, everyone started bobbing up and down. Pogo-ing, yo-yoing to house or trance is now called dancing. How did our leggy lasses not fall into the water canals calling out to their silvery spiked heels? Conundrum.

No one can understand a restaurant owner's life. Especially if you are regularly featured in a paid for Page 3 newspaper with a desirable nymphet as arm candy. The dandies were out at Wendell Rodricks and Narendra Kumar's joint party at Taxi. One minute, models whom we shall diplomatically name anorexica, anorexico and anorexicu were posing next to me with very slightly pouted lips. The next, they were leaping about for the paparazzi in a fashion that can only be described as flying insect having bitten their firm bottoms. Is that a cockroach we see? Stomp, stomp with a smile on their face and eyes straight at the camera. Je ne comprends pas.

The fun you can have at a Fashion Week party for free. Same evening. Same party. The beyond gorgeous Sabina Chopra and I are drinking Chivas-on-de-rox and 'gossing' about how the day's events went. At the next table, Dino Morea sans Nandita Mahtani is 'gossing' with two flip-flop fashionistas. Their friend, a very sleepy firang, suddenly wakes up, reaches into his whatever, takes out a box, looks at us accusingly for spoiling his sunshine moment and then promptly goes back to sleep. Gosh, that was fun to watch. Sabina and I go back to our Chivas. I still don't understand it.

No one can comprehend a fashion designer's life. One of the most talked about collections was that of Neeta Lulla. Junta came in expecting marquee kitsch and got an impeccably structured, sophisticated coloured collection, centred around concern for the girl child. At Tetsuma, Jacob's Creek sparkling wine was raised in a thousand toasts to Neeta's matter. Then, once again funny things started to happen. Someone in a bear's costume walked in carrying a gift box for Neeta. Lots of hoorahs. Half an hour later, an acrylic stand collapsed in the sunken water-filled pond and there was a mad scramble to retrieve the diamond choker which was designed for a modern-day Cleopatra. In walked Malaika Arora Khan, Amrita Arora and Usman Afzal to photographers shouts and shutter clicks. They kissed Neeta and Wendell, posed some more and left without even tasting the sushi. Then, Reshma Bombaywala with a chopstick through her hair, started dancing. Neeta, tired as hell, but always with a smile, told me she had so little time left to design Ash's wedding clothes.

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