Sad to say, I was not invited to the season's most happening party-Mayawati's Rs 3-crore birthday bash in Lucknow. I wasn't invited to Sharad Pawar's multi-crore dinner either. As for socialist Chandra Shekhar's super-extravaganza, what can I say? I was completely ignored.

However, indefatigable partywallahs in Parliament, namely Shri Subbarami Reddy and Dr Vijay Mallya, have me on their lists-along with 5,000 other invitees. Amar Singh's cards arrive regularly (birthday, twins' birthday, friend's birthday). I guess that should make me feel better. But the truth of the matter is, it surprises me. I am amazed to find myself on anybody's party list. The reason being, I'm not the world's best guest. I don't drink enough. I never dance. I hardly speak. And I see too much. That ought to disqualify me from featuring on any sensible host's list. But hey-you know what-a few misguided folks continue to be kind. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

"Connectivity," said Richard, giving me the full Gere Gaze. "It's all about connectivity." In India, we still call that "networking". In Delhi, it is better defined: contact-making. The Gere sound byte happened in a particularly lush setting, an opulent home by the edge of the bay. Assembled on the candle-lit patio were India's most influential-industrialists, filmstars, corporate heads, and opinion-makers. Modestly, the hostess had described it as a "small, exclusive dinner". Well, I guess you could call it that by Mumbai's over-the-top standards-no more than 150 key people. The ones people say "count". Nothing had been left to chance-it was a personalised, impeccably-orchestrated evening all the way. And "connectivity" at its most electric was on full display. "It's all about hustling," a movie man said to me, adding, "the bottom line is we are all hustlers, everyone of us. Someone wants money, someone else wants fame, at the end of the day, there's something in it for everybody."

Twenty years ago, there was something in it for me as well-there was fodder. The phenomenon that was "glamorous India", "Richie Rich India" fascinated me. I would devour parties (and the party people) as voraciously as guests devoured the foie gras. The pecking order in high society was still being established. It was a wild and wonderful free-for-all, with bejewelled grande dames scrambling rather inelegantly to make it to the top of the precarious heap. Rules were still being formulated, Scotch was smuggled and Donatella Versace was not even a bleep on the fashion scene. In that slightly gauche and uncertain environment I enjoyed playing voyeur-there was much to observe, much to learn. The brazenness came later.

Today, there are no real parties, there are only super-productions. Event managers handle it all with impersonal precision-from the guest-list to the decor. It is they who decide what the bar will stock and which chef will preside over the menu. There are codes for everything-dress, music, mood, conduct. And everybody is expected to conform-even the guys paying for it all. For a fat fee, anybody can throw a party-even that sleazeball next door. What's still more astonishing-everybody shows up, perfect strangers, all.

Throw in a movie star (part of the pricey deal), a disgraced cricketer, an anorexic model or two and, bingo, you have yourself a party. "It rocks," is the compliment most craved by those who want to hijack the all-important Page 3 slot. And given the heady mix of sex, drugs and techno, sure, most parties "rock", even those where the hosts themselves are absent and sadly nobody notices or misses them.

"I only invite important people. I am not interested in nobodies," a dazzling hostess told me a couple of years ago. Bluntly put, but very accurate too. Alas, the world is cruel. Today's somebody is tomorrow's nobody. That's how it goes. The poignancy of that statement was underlined by a recent phone call. The voice whispered hoarsely: "Forty-seven, darling, forty-seven." I didn't understand. "Bouquets, flower arrangements ... I received 47 of them on my birthday this year." Wow, I said. That's fantastic. The person was crowing ... and I wanted to cry. I had gone to the party, and had a lousy time. Yet again. The same faces were moving their lips in the same way and saying the same things ("you've lost weight ... you're looking great ... love what you're wearing ...''). I'd glowered and cursed myself for being there. Fact is, I'm bored. Bored to death.

I wish Mayawati would invite me to her party.

I promise to behave myself. And not make eyes at Kanshi Ram.