The yearly dinner held at the Haters-Hate-Potatoes-Potate Lodge on 9 March was quite a grand one. On the occasion of Dr Shashi Tharoor's 62nd birthday, the palatial Lodge from the British Era was decked to look its festive best. The plush green lawns had at least 50-odd guests milling about, with presents in tow.
The music, a lilting, dreamy tune, reminded the guests of Mozart. And for those not familiar with him, it reminded them of manicured laughter and tinkling champagne glasses.
The man of the hour looked quite majestic in a neatly ironed Nehruvian coat and a light-blue kurta. In order to make things easier for him, the guests had formed tiny clusters.
Webster stood in a corner with an ease that is difficult to describe. Around him, gathered ceremoniously, was Britannica, Oxford and Collin. In another corner, stood Shakespeare, head bent, moustache twirled and preoccupied, deep in conversation with Wodehouse.
One could hear stray words like 'language', 'massification', and 'decay' every now and then. At the centre of the lawn, busy on their phones, was a group, occasionally exchanging pleasantries, tweets and internet articles about Dr Tharoor.
Seated right next to the entrance was Scholarship. In no mood to socialise and with brandy in tow, she seemed to be patiently waiting to go back home. Right next to the buffet, stood Intonation, Diction and Cadence, throwing back their heads quite frequently and haughtily laughing at jokes that seemed to be bothering the group glued to their phones.
The menu had a wide array of sumptuous words. Right from the entrees to the bigwigs, the guests were treated to all... ‘snollygosters’, ‘rodomontade’, ‘troglodyte’ and more.
The event was quite successful, one would say, save for the one instance when a Twitter-wielding well-wisher, after having drowned his sorrows in alcohol, jumped out of his chair and declaimed the ‘fraying remnants of the British Raj and its local cronies’. Dr Tharoor did rush over to placate the situation, but, by this point, the guests did not care.
Life was about imported whisky and the stars above. If one were to overlook this, one could easily say that the guests, despite their differences, relaxed, exchanged offensive jokes, demonstrated party tricks, and oiled the wheels of language in all its forms.
Later, they retired to a smoking room where Shakespeare was heard, saying that cigarettes are now held as accessories, not habits.
The event wrapped up at about eight in the evening, because Dr Tharoor had a plane to hop on to early next morning. Cattle Class or not, one’s got to be on time for an early morning flight, remarked an extremely jocular Wodehouse while hugging Dr Tharoor goodbye.
(At The Quint, we are answerable only to our audience. Play an active role in shaping our journalism by becoming a member. Because the truth is worth it.)