Turbulent Twenties

The party held outdoors was romantically lit up with diaphanous white curtains floating in the icy wind. The night was black but you could actually see stars, a luxury for Delhiites. A dramatic flower installation of a peacock decorated the entrance. Behind the bar stood two fashionably thin, 5’10” blonde girls handing out drinks with a stylish flourish. “They’re not even skilled enough to make the drinks,” the photographer pointed out to me, gloomily. “They look fabulous. That’s their skill,” I told him. Besides, the host looked pleased as punch with them. He clearly felt he was getting his money’s worth. “They’d never hire an Indian girl for this,” continued the photographer now looking outraged at the unfairness of it all. That’s because the Indian girl will have a father or uncle who’ll say serving drinks is sleazy or some such nonsense, I told him. So the girls from Ukraine or Tajikistan come in and sweep away jobs in hospitality, the same way Indians grabbed BPO outsourcing from the Americans.

When it got too cold we went indoors to the dining area. Another gorgeous girl dressed in a Russian red gown was playing Lara’s Theme, heartbreakingly beautifully, on the cello. The crowd, old enough to be familiar with Doctor Zhivago, cheered loudly. Her companion, dressed similarly in an old-fashioned Victorian outfit with a tiara to match, took up a flute. She began with Pehla nasha. Then Yeh raat bheegi bheegi. To our utter amazement, for the next two hours she played hits by Kishore Kumar and Mohammed Rafi. Her repertoire was simply astounding. The surreal irony of listening to Aaiye meherbaan played on a flute by a blonde Ukrainian girl in Tehri Garhwal was lost on no one, judging by the appreciative claps and whistles from the audience. “Maybe she’s faking it,” suggested the travel writer hopefully, but it was live for sure. The flautist got a standing ovation and her Indian manager clinched five more gigs for her that night itself. If this is your competition in music I would stick to clicking pictures, I told the bespectacled photographer who looked very mournful by now. “It’s a quadruple whammy. Not only are they better looking, they’re more talented, much harder working and cheaper to hire,” added someone on our table.

The downfall of being part of the global economy is getting trounced at your own game. The world is much tougher than when we drifted into careers aimlessly 15 years ago, more by default than by plan. Mercifully, this generation of formidable youngsters from East Europe are still not proficient in English. We journalists are safe — for now.

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