Reporter's Diary

OTHER REPORTER'S DIARY STORIES Indo-Pak Summit Royal Massacre Coke Tales India Fashion Week 11 September The War In Afghanistan Kumbha Mela To Sri Ravi Shankar The No Ministers Gujarat Earthquake Ball Tampering

I left the saltspray smells of Mumbai from the Arabian Sea behind at the great glass swing doors of the Taj Mahal Hotel,where the cologne began. It was the Fashion Week where skins were as smooth as the devil's tongue, bangs cut across high cheekbones swung and caught the highlights from crystal chandeliers and laughter tinkled like Swarovski falling. High heels chattered to one another on the marble while their owners purred and stretched their red, lacquered claws. The week was all about looking good unless you were Rohit Bal and couldn't care. I would always find him schmoozing with passing friends and acquaintances in the lobby, at ease in cutaways and beach sandals, wearing shirts which appeared slept in. Bal is one designer whose chi is the art of cool. He was the Pied Piper of the evenings, accompanied everywhere by fawning fauns who giggled nervously each time they were insulted.

Randhawa

A lot of mandatory grooving went on that week: Mallya and Singhania, Queenie and Dhody and, of course, the Finale bash where the corpses of those who died trying to get in without invitations were quietly taken away by Taj housekeeping. Tarun Tahiliani's man size puppet with breasts had obviously escorted the curvaceous Achala Sachdev whose library has a vast collection of jokebooks if her Tora Bora laugh is anything to go by.

There were plenty of totty at the party which was the general idea at a fashion event. I saw Jesse Randhawa lounging against a peach wall in a Gavin Miguel dress, looking down with benign understanding at two acned boys with pectorals standing on tiptoe and whispering to her. Of all the ramp vamps, there is none who rules those few floodlit feet like La Randhawa does. A perfect body made even more perfect by an imperfect, fascinating face-the slightly Neanderthal jawline and the Egyptian smile with unexpectedly pixie hair-separates her from the impeccable profiles of Shonali and Yana or the camel-walk of the dusky Carol Gracias. Of course the art of posturing is part of being beautiful, and the really practised ones can bring a breezy casualness to even the most banally raised eyebrow. Jessse would do that often; those dark, knowledgeable eyes suddenly widening as she caught an acquaintance passing her on the stairs, a female Bogart with lanky oomph, and the haute monde of Mumbai in their designer kurtis and silks paused in their stride knowing a professional beauty in casual denim had more static to her than a summer storm in June.

STAR CAST: Zinta (left) in her little floral something with Suzanne Khan and Roshan

THE FEMALE LOOK STRIVED FOR WAS XENA: sexy ycra, translucence, lots of cleavage and peroxide.

Celebrity also creates its demands to be noticed and cliches like Parmeshwar Godrej's decolletage were no longer enough. Indian style mavens have taken a serious departure from the fashion of their fathers-Yash Birla and Kumaramangalam Birla vied for the rockstar slot with leather pants, one in pale cream while the other had chosen to wear black. The female look strived for was Xena: sexy lycra, lots of cleavage, translucence and peroxide. In my opinion, the ultimate black went to Rekha in red, eternally the femme fatale, who bit her full red lower lip shyly as she passed the stalls, whispering, "Ooh, what's in there?" Bollywood was present as both kabhi khushi kabhie gham-Kajol bubbled, clapped and wowed Manish Malhotra while a lone Poonam Dhillon in an unnecessary shade of red surveyed more red clothes on the racks. Suzanne Khan was with Hrithik who was big on Wigleys, and Preity Zinta wore a little floral something with the right bit of cleavage which set off dimples one could keep goldfish in.

Of course, beauty was the theme that floodlit week, and while the designers strove hard to dress down outside their shows, those who attended were practically dressed to their cheque books. The accent was on being seen and it mattered with who. Godrej with Mallya, Shobha De in Spanish red with herself, Sunil Alagh and Maya, while Anna Singh danced with a rubber band seized from my pony tail. All the while the DJ played, Haute haute haute ...

As the great Roy Halston said, "Fashion is made by fashionable people. If Mrs Paley wears my hat it becomes fashion. If it hangs in the storeroom it is nothing."