Delhi was, in a phrase, Fashion Siberia. In Mumbai, Parmeshwar Godrej continued to work the stuff. Whether it was old buddies like Richard Gere or the ditzy, all agiggle Goldie Hawn, Godrej kept the line-up of limos to her sumptuous Walkeshwar pied a terre buzzing with the energy of a hundred well-dressed bees. She did it in style—low lights, candles, sit down dinner quite nearly on the sea, and then she’d hop a flight and jet off. The only one who matched this glamour was Samajwadi Party leader Amar Singh, whose Hollywood meets Bollywood via De Mille parties had all the flashbulb-popping drama of an Oscar night.
Finally, for anyone who had seen it all, there was only one thing to do—go watch polo. That dusty game of yore came into its own with mega-sponsorships, High Teas high enough to make a queen keel over, stands jammed with Prada-packing socialites screaming for their favourite stud and with many Polo Balls to follow there was just nothing for the poor girls to wear. Still, it closed a season of yawning dullness with a modicum of elegance. Never mind that no one understood the game.
