PENGUIN BOOKS AMONG THE CHATTERATI Kanika Gahlaut is an Assistant Editor with The Indian Express. This is her first book.

Among the Chatterati the diary of a page-three hack Kanika Gahlaut

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First published by Penguin Books India 2002 Copyright © Kanika Gahlaut 2002 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 9780143028239 Typeset in Gills Sans by Mantra Virtual Services, New Delhi

Printed at Repro India Limited This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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For my mother

‘All charming people have something to conceal, usually their total dependence on the appreciation of others.’ — Cyril Connolly ‘The superfluous is very necessary.’ — Voltaire

Contents

Death of a Singer, Birth of a Society Columnist

1

The Mad, Mad World of Hi, Hi, Hi, Journalism

19

The Society Columnist As Political Correspondent I Exist

51 75

Thunderbolt and Lightning

117

Love in the Time of Gossip–I

140

So, Miss Society Columnist, Just How Close Are You to Society?

160

Love in the Time of Gossip–II

199

And Stories Never End . . .

231

Death of a Singer, Birth of a Society Columnist

Though there is—arguably—some merit in the school of thought that says that no story in the world has an actual beginning (absolutely everything has a before and after), one of the first lessons of journalism is that you Must Begin Somewhere. Or else the world would be bereft of the Big Bang, and humankind of stories (and hacks of jobs). So, to begin at one of many possible beginnings: Aby the Society Columnist (SC) came into being, as most things do, with a series of accidents, one of them fatal. April 30, 1999 8.30 am The phone rings. An unfamiliar voice calls me darling. ‘Laurel? Laurel who?’ ‘Laurel, daarrling, remember…’ It’s Laurel, of Laurel and Hardy, the affable and gay fashion designers. It is not a call I expect, and certainly not at this unearthly hour. I have only met the duo once before in my life, while filling in for the fashion writer, who had upped and left one day to become a dotcommer. My brief was to cover

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an Art-Meets-Fashion fusion show, the architects of which were Delhi’s celebrated shirt-makers Laurel (in bright orange) and Hardy (in parrot green), who introduced themselves to me as ‘the partners who, with the aid of fusions such as this one, will revolutionize the way people look at fashion in India.’ (To be perfectly honest, but for their fluorescent shirts, they had looked like very unlikely revolutionaries to me.) It was at this show that I had made the mistake of giving them my number. ‘Do you know Rita Caur?’ asks Laurel. ‘Ya, ya,’ I reply. In fact, I haven’t a clue, in which case it is best to say ‘ya, ya’ a tad impatiently. Did some frantic fact-gathering later in the day and found out that Rita Caur was a model who, in the dying days of a modest career, had taken to crooning and conducting karaoke nights at socialite evenings. A perfectly legitimate occupation, except that the place she sang at, owned by a well-known socialite and self-styled charity lady, was illegal, since it served alcohol without an alcohol licence. In fact, to the world the venue was a harmless, faux arty place where people could come and relax: read Deepak Chopra, listen to tapes of Osho and have expensive coffee and snacks with fancy names. Laurel has called to inform me that the said model is dead. Late last night, when the joint, Neem Tree, was operating as a nightclub, Rita was shot at point-blank range while she was in the middle of the song ‘One Night in Bangkok’. Laurel and Hardy, who were at the scene, wanted to be

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responsible citizens and let the press in on this, and because they didn’t know any crime reporters (since crime reporters don’t hang out at fashion shows and fashion designers haven’t yet had a showing in jail—actually, not a bad idea) naturally they called me. ‘And daarrling, you’ve got to do something about this Monica Mastani,’ Laurel continues, sounding more like a Delhi fashion designer now and less like a responsible citizen.‘She’s really something! Instead of being worried about poor Rita, she’s busy trying to save her own arse!’ Apparently, the socialite, who figures, rightly, that a murder in a nightclub that wasn’t meant to be a nightclub is hardly likely to escape the notice of the press or the authorities, has been trying to do some damage control. Especially since after elevating herself painstakingly from the position of a mere socialite to that of a socialite-with-aconscience (with her auctions for charity) she now has her eyes set on politics: in a recent interview to a glossy, she has said that she wants to start a ‘Concerned People’s Party’, its agenda being to fight corruption at all levels. (In the light of the illegal bar, the interview now sounds unfortunate—even foolish.) Hence the desperate damage control measures, which, Laurel tells me, include calling up people who were at the scene of the crime to ask them not to tell the press that booze was being served: it was such a small matter, really, but didn’t they all know how things were in this country? Clearly Laurel and Hardy’s call, which includes minute details of the incident—and which will definitely go to other

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papers—is proof that the socialite is horribly off the mark in thinking that if people come to your restaurant, are rich and sexy like you, they are also your friends. After Laurel has related the whole story, Hardy comes on the line and adds quickly, ‘But please, daarrling, do us a favour—don’t tell anyone that you got to hear about this from us.’ 8.50 am I do what junior hacks in doubt are supposed to do: call the person in charge. ‘Rita Caur? Who’s she?’ Oh, so it’s okay I didn’t know, does not reflect on my general knowledge. ‘Monica Mastani’s Neem Tree? Really? Oh well, it’s a crime case, the bureau can look after it.’ 12.30 pm Blissfully unaware of the consequences the morning’s phone call will have on my life, I reach office at the usual time, to bump into In-charge hopping all over the place saying ‘Where were you? Where were you?’ and ‘Is this any time to come to office?’ Seems the crime reporter has no clue how to go about the story—the main angle is celebrity, with the restaurant owner a socialite, the suspected murderer the son of a politician and the girl who died, a model. ‘They can’t do it. What is a features department for? We’re supposed to know all celebs, we have to do it.’ He

death of a singer, birth of a society columnist 5

does a little hop around the place.‘Upstairs,’ he says, pointing to the top floor, which houses the office of the Editor-inChief, unofficially known as God, ‘is really keen that we get this right. Just imagine, what a story: glamour, guns and . . . and . . . andandand...’ ‘And gin?’ I offer. ‘And gin!’ repeats In-charge with another little hop.‘Hey, you’re born to the job! You know, this could make your career—I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime, be grateful. C’mon now, get cracking.’ 12.45 pm He doesn’t give up exploding in little bits around me saying ‘get-cracking get-cracking’, like a Diwali pataka gone haywire. I have no choice but to immediately grab the phone, open my diary and dial a number—any number, just to seem in command of the situation. But the diary is useless in the present situation. It is filled with numbers of hotel PRs, Bonsaimakers and pop psychologists, since my job, till now, consisted of filing stories for the features pages on ‘Do It Yourself Italian Recipes’,‘Home Improvement’ and ‘What a Man Wants from a Woman’. The only number that it makes sense to dial is of the original source, Laurel and Hardy. ‘Anything new?’ ‘The funeral is in the afternoon— she was such a nice girl, so much fun to party with.The poor family is heartbroken. And by the way—are you fixing the Mastanis?’ ‘I need to know exactly what happened,’ I reply, assuming a calm, official tone.

Cover photograph courtesy Outlook Cover design by Puja Parkash

MRP `450 (incl. of all taxes)

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