Moët, Hennessy and Me.

All great weekends start with a small drop of wine. Yeah, it’s my new saying. Self-proclaimed. A theory I love to believe and practise frequently. So the Hennessy group brought five top-of-the line winemakers from New World countries. I had an interview with Nicholas Lane, from Cloudy Bay in New Zealand. He sounded tired and “cloudy” himself (like a lost particle floating about), and with a checked shirt and corduroy jacket, I thought the shoot would flop bad, but photographer R did wonders with limited options and places to click in. The evening was well planned, sophisticated and free flowing like the waiters pouring iconic red blend into your bulb.

I’m told these are some of the finest winemakers in the New World regions. There was also Bernie Wood from Greenpoint, Diego Urra from Casa Lapostelle (I kept thinking of the saber from Ice Age, nice fella though), Nicholas Audebert from Terrazes des Andes and Jim White (the chatty and charming) viticulturist from Cape Mentelle. I told Diego about relatives in Santiago and Ikeke, and he said I must visit.The wines were pretty kickass, except a Shiraz that didn’t go down well with me. Foie gras with green apple on the menu, delicious smoked salmon bites, sushi, satay and the best prawn tempura in the world. They simply went to heaven in my mouth. The deep fried fuckers pile on the calories, but make me so happy.

Soon the night turned into a dancing medley of drinks and those sumptuous prawns, as my vision swayed. A fellow writer/steward/French teacher from a rival magazine became my company for the evening. We walked around experimenting and chatting with others. There was air kissing, dissing, and perusing done along the way. It was hilarious, as my giggles and refills didn’t stop. G, the marketing manager feels the need to greet and kiss a little more than usual, fellow journalist B drops a glass of water on my white shirt, and wears my glasses “for fun”. Journalist M is thoroughly hungry and is surprised with no dinner spread. Yeah, so am I! I met people who work with us and interviewed over the months. As I greeted artist Jaideep Mehrotra, a big, plump prawn crucified by a heavy fork slid down my quarter plate, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. He sure thought I was light in the head. In my defense, I was carrying a cell-phone, notes and a plate in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. I failed to juggle. Now I would’ve loved to run, but I sheepishly said, “Omg Jaideep, I could just die of embarrassment, I need to hide.” He laughs, bends down calmly, and picks it up, puts it on my plate and stashes it away. “Well now you don’t,” he smiles.

If people selling paintings worth 20 lakhs picking up my dropped hors d’oeuvre isn’t enough, then well, I had the whole underdressed thing going. A white icicle in a sea of proper penguins. People wearing gowns, saris and undecipherable contraptions were rampant. All in all, a lovely evening, and I think I’ve never stayed three hours at a press event. Needless to say, a harsh hangover brings you much unhappiness the next morning.

I watched Goodbye Bafana (2008) today. Made by Bille August, it has been adapted from a book by James Gregory and Bob Graham. Unfortunately, based on the memoirs of a racist white prison guard, the film becomes about him, rather than Nelson Mandela. One doesn’t really hook onto the struggle or feel what you should, for a revolutionary that was imprisoned for almost three decades. The actors were thoroughly mediocre. Mandela’s physical character was rather oversized. What happened to authenticated casting? A famous critic M, sat in the front row, repeatedly oscillating his thumb much to my annoyance, and running his arm hair over his face for half of the film. Ooh, caress me baby.

As I chugged home in the Borivali slow, three self-polished, ‘nouveau moderne’ women sat next to me. They critiqued every single woman in the train. At first I thought it was a passing comment. I was appalled at their shallow shit. I was waiting for a comment on me so I could bite back, but they didn’t. Another woman in our seating row was overcome by terrible hunger and opened her box of poha to feast on, albeit with grimy hands. Yeah, a little unhygienic, but who cares? The critiques couldn’t get enough. This is like three Khalid Mohammeds. They were shuddering at her uncouthness, and kept hissing. I wanted to slap them. So hard. These are aunties. Stupid fucking aunties, who use their hands in every damn thepla dough or dig their fingers deep in bhajiya batter in the kitchen. Consumerism brings about modernisation. I think not.

Man is still a goddamn animal, at the end of the day. When I was interning at the Indian Express, I remember returning from a non-stop blabbering South African musical director. Hungry and exhausted, I felt I wouldn’t survive six train stations. I then remembered I had a full meal in my bag (with salad), and I couldn’t resist. Washed my hands with sprinkles, laid my little feast in the second class compartment, and dug right in. All was chewy till this malnourished beggar child walked around, and the sight can seriously make you lose your appetite. He looked at me with the saddest eyes, arm stretched out for money. I motioned him to sit on the bench and nudged the tiffin boxes towards him. He wouldn’t eat at first, just stared blankly. It’s what hunger can do to you. Then I handed him a chapatti and said in my crappy hindi, “Arre khaa loh. Phir khaana kab milega, kya pata” (Come on, you never know when your next meal arrives). We were licking our fingers by the time Lower Parel arrived. Animal instinct.