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Paris
Couture Collection A Personal Diary By Nina Rajan Pillai Formula One Fun After my awful real-life experience one would think I had been immunised for life against being taken for a ride again but NO! There I am in all of nature's vestal trust-me instinct, ready for the next roller-coaster ride to Paradise and fun is to be had by all, if not on the swings then surely on the roundabouts--child's play this trust thing! Racing against a non-existent clock ticking to the `Time Bomb' of our next rebirth, I happily jolly life along in the karmic belief that `All's well that ends well'--loony tune, yet, no cartoon is this wondrous thing called Life. Now, all of this moan-whine syndrome must surely have been precipitated by an incident--NO! It is the result of all the lovely people and places I have whirlwinded through this past fortnight in Europe.
Yet, the genius of one man and his quiet, efficient army keep
the tills ringing from China to the subcontinent, through Europe and USA. India is but a
small fledgling market, but if the march of past success is anything to go by it should
soon be a major player. The Indian arm is headed by
The service was mmmm `nonchalant'--friendly but oops, I forgot. Can you dish out your own sharing portion and pour your own wine? But most of them were on a drop-dead good-looks yardstick, so one tended to forgive and forget a la `Buddham Sharanam Gachchami'. What a name and place. Great ambience. Blondes have more fun by the plateful, and being there and being naughty was de rigueur. Hemi Bawa (of Delhi) and I had, sandwiched between us, a six-ft, five-inch, two gigaton of a muscle giant Made in USA hunk. He worked for the local Disneyworld as Buffalo Bill. By the end of the night smart Alec moi had him rapier sliced into Sashimi morsels, the final assault of a lobotomy being unnecessary. People waded, wafted, waited, wined, whined and generally wasted away. It seemed almost like everyone at the `BB' had an affliction of the grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side-of-the-fence, as we all constantly looked at the denizens, gremlins and goblins on the near and far side of the restaurant. I was bandaged into a Herve Leger dress and being so mummified, visions of my sons and Lord Buddha kept me on the straight and narrow. Three in the morning seemed a good time to retire from the festivities at the `Buddha Bar' for a quick exit and chant of suprabhatam to my Lord Balaji. I didn't fool Him that night but I hope I did you folks with my piety. The following day, a Sunday, we went to witness the awesome talent of Alexander McQueen at the haute couture show of Givenchy. Hemi and Inni Bawa were my charming companions en route to the show. We had excellent seats in the Russian Amazonian jungle circus theatrics at the venue. The show was quite spectacular, seated as we were in the amphitheatre of the Amazonian jungle, waterfalls, birds, foliage, monkey squeaks, etc. The fashionable, rich, shop-till-you-drop ladies of the international jet set were the front-row occupants at the show. They made as much noise greeting each other as the bright, plumaged birds of the jungle. The fashion show itself had `Lady Godiva' near naked on a horse as the opening act. Enough to get all the audience atwitter. Thereafter, the show was spectacularly dramatic but mostly unwearable in its show splendour, in that most of the ladies would have liked it lengthened or changed from daring and baring to wearing everyday.
Actually, Ruby made it all look so easy that yours truly of six arms, a dozen feet, triple eyed and grinning from ear to ear, dared to step on the dance floor. Perfect foil for me by the second `Sherezade' number and her careful, practised, learned, almost divine, minimalist movement of the belly and hip conveyed the maximalist (does such a word exist? Imagine it anyway). One of our male guests, I hasten to add, indulged in the luxury of Viagra. His virility no one doubted either before or after, but his true confessions and blatant propositions brought many a blush, purplish tinge, perhaps due to the cocktail, eh! Gigabyte fun was had by the buffs and non, and when another dawn was blushing her way through the Parisian skyline, we kissed our darling Ruby ``good morning'' and thanked her, mouthing all the banalities that a morning after a night of fun brings. The following day one did feel the glory of the days of the good, old Railways as Galliano had the rich and poor rub shoulders in the smouldering heat of the railway station. Once on the platform, the stifling heat was forgotten as one was transported back in a passage of time. A real train burst onto the platform unloading a cargo of breathtakingly beautiful models in the most gobsmacking splendour of the unreal and unwearable. The naughty boy of fashion was quite irreverent to ``wearable'', but the show had its share of gasps and gawks, seated as we were on ottomans or old Vuitton trunks, cheek to jowl with each other. An incumbent desi had this preposterous question: ``Whoever buys these trunks in this day and age?'' Only to be set, monogrammed and matched with the answer: ``All our clients have private jets, Sir.'' Paris, the next few days, was the culmination of every girl's dream wardrobe and places to wear it to. At the lunch hosted by Princess Ira Von Furstenberg at Baccarat to which Olivier and I went, there were Betsy Bloomingdale, Chrysanthy Lemos and a host of other surnames. Unfortunately, we were on an `eat and run' mission. For the not-to-be-missed `Chanel' show I had got two prized front-row seats, thanks to Laurenz Baumer who makes the fine jewellery for Chanel. Joy Henderiks, the director who had actually arranged and had my tickets delivered, is en route to India and definitely heads my favourite-guests-to-have-home list, as does Laurenz and his fiancee, Astrid Kohl (yes, the Chancellor's daughter no less!). Coming back to the future the Chanel show was a Zen minimalist dream of wearable, elegant-into-the-millennium splendour. Naomi, Linda and all the top models in state-of-the-art fashionwear, wore the pared-down, no-gold-buttons new look. After the show, Hemi and I were guests of my friends Astrid and Laurenz at a fashionable-now Japanese restaurant, a perfect foil for the before and after of the show. Lacroix, that evening, was done traditionally at the Grand Hotel. The models walking down a runway. What an elegant, wearable, no frills, yet, all `mode' show it was. The show was one loud round of applause that culminated in the red carnations given to each guest being rained on the Statesman of Fashion that Lacroix has graduated to. The competing spirit between the two young-at-heart fashion geniuses at Dior and Givenchy may have all the showmanship of an Act, but fashion's senior at the house of Lacroix has been through the enfant terrible grind and matured into a classic claret dream merchant. Cheers! To what in my opinion was the most worthy show from the stable of LVMH. That night Olivier and I dined in the fashionable Costa Hotel--Priya Paul and Tarun were all trying to connect later but it came to naught. The thrill of being in Paris at the centre of the fashion universe was unbelievable. A definite `must do' even if once in one's lifetime. A charming friend from New York, Edgar Batista, hosted a lunch again at Costa with his lovely sister Marina, her husband Herve and a few other friends. It seemed as if all the fashion editors, models and agents worth their salt were at the restaurant of fashion! That evening Olivier escorted me to the Museum of Fashion for a grand champagne reception where we met all the in and now designers, Olivier being on first-name basis with all of them. I thoroughly enjoyed my half an hour with Suzy Menkes of the International Herald Tribune, fashion's own high priestess, who recently spent a month in Tamil Nadu. Beat that! With promises to visit Kerala and me soon! Azzedine Alaia and his `muse' Farida were my real favourites, hands down, on the designer front. The shy, gentle, gracious gentleman-designer gifted me the most beautiful chiffon with a copper-wire embroidery scarf the next day. Again, they, Azzedine and Farida, top my can't-wait-to-reciprocate-when-you-come-to-India list. I met Claude Montana, Christian Lacroix, Gaultier and the irrepressible Ivana Trump on the arm of a handsome beau, lisping: ``How are you? Must come to India soon.'' Exhausted as we were, Astrid's not-to-be-missed summer party at her dream-come-true home that night was the culmination of a week-long melange of haute fashion, gourmet food and velvet wine enhanced by the warmth and generosity of the true Parisian. The party was hosted by Astrid in the lush garden of her in-the-heart-of-the-city home. Crystal champagne flowed like the holy river. The Moroccan band, the candles and the ambience created by the hostess with the mostest were a thrill to behold. When it rained around midnight, an awning, as if by magic, salubriously extended to give us shelter. Time was of magical and mystical irrelevance as we laughed and trilled, ate and drank like long-lost friends on the karmic journey of friendship. I wished, for one moment, that we could have been caught in the time warp of forever enjoyment. But the realisation of how ephemeral is a period of good karma and joy, and how long and arduous is the journey called Life, I know, it's a more familiar path than the other, now. A formula one for fun is but a temporary antidote to the pain of losing a loved one who loved the good life and the good people in life. My racing days are well and truly over. I've retired my racing colours forever! A pit stop for fun is fine but only in Paris once every blue moon! VIVE LA FRANCE! |
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'There's one
born every day'! Sometimes I feel like one, every
single day and it almost seems like I will never learn, keen as I am for
Punishment. Trouble is that the folly of loving seems almost to have been cornered by the
young and uninitiated. Yet, the elixir of my best years is spent in the twilight zone of
falling in love--with places, restaurants, cities, hotels, discotheques, shops, homes and,
of course, the people inhabiting this vast cohabitation zone! Men and women, past, present
and millennium to come. 
Let me explain. The flavour of the month,
nation-wise, was definitely France. The surprise World Cup victory rocked the sporting
world especially as Brazil barely put up a fight. The French capital was awash with pride
and euphoria even the following weekend when I arrived. I'd been invited by LVMH, the
French transnational, transformed dramatically by Arnault, its dynamic chairman, into a
household name in every continent. Its interests range from Louis Vuitton luggage and
luxury goods to champagne, cognac, the fashion houses of Dior, Givenchy, Lacroix and Kenzo
and, of course, the Grand Met bid which had the whole of corporate Europe agog last year.
Some stable this! 
the
young `royal' Turk Tikka Shatrujit Singh. It was the gentle but warm persuasion of Tikka
that had a clutch of Indians in the fashion capital for the haute couture shows. His deft
social jugglery had one and all of us feeling as important as the Queen. Hats off to him!
From being met at the airport in Paris to meeting up with the `charmed' Indian circle of
old friends and new acquaintances, it was a delightful experience. We stayed at the
charming Bristol Hotel, you had a choice of accommodation as you paid for your own
accommodation. We were hosted for dinner at the to-be-seen-in splendour of the Buddha Bar
the first evening. Seeing is believing and this one had all the trappings of Lord of Grace
and Favour coupled to denizens with a ton of `moolah'. There is a gargantuan Buddha seated
in the vast amphitheatre of the restaurant-cum-nightclub. His omnipresence is such that
all us insects (just a size comparison) take quick ``I'm OK! You OK, my lord?'' glances at
him ever so often. 
The music is a mix of techno, Moroccan,
drum and base, and house. The Eastern nine-veil syndrome is echoed in all the diaphanous
next-to-skin bits that pass for clothing in Paris. Black was the colour of choice, heaving
cleavages from minor to major, and languorous can't-hear-you-but-love-you looks of passion
the order of the night. The food was delectable--one of our desi group had salmon curry
and drooled about it till the next day. Check that out! 
That night, the team at
Givenchy led by the charming Caroline hosted a dinner in a ``summer celebration'' yellow
marquee at the lovely restaurant Laurent. Olivier Chaudemaison, my friend, who is the most
creative genius and a girl's best friend had me seated at his table. His is the hand that
makes the face to launch a thousand ships. He is the creative director at Givenchy, the
man who decides what colours a woman will wear on her face next season and then, if you
are someone terribly important or a friend, shows you how it's done. When the honour was
bestowed on me I felt like a trillion dollars and `age', that dreaded witch-spell word,
had been tricked away by his magic touch with brushes, colours and potions. Later that
night, Ruby, one of the most generous hostesses in Paris, had us to her home. She is a
dear friend of quite a few of my friends there that night, Tarun Tahiliani and Tikka, but
it was so graceful of her to pop Crystal and entertain us `desis' with typical eastern
hospitality. Ruby was such a great sport. While Angad Paul made lethal
you-touch-me-with-your-lips-and-I'll-turn-you-purple-green cocktails, she whizzed me
around her comfort zone back of the bar: there was a sauna, steam and a humungous jacuzzi.
Ruby has my old body as did all the ramp models at the shows. Truth be told, I never and
will never ever have such a great Bod! Reality check. She is a belly-dancing aficionado
and the two real diamonds in her belly button only tempted one to dirty dancing and dirty
thinking. Her belly is as flat as Changi Airport, taut and movement attuned without flight
controllers. Every convex, concave, sensuous, Bismillah motion had all the men salivating
like Pavlov's dogs and the women going lime green like Angad's cocktails. After the
fabulous four-course, sumptuous, gourmet dinner at Laurent and doing a
Cinderella-into-a-pumpkin act, from sari to dress had seemed a great concession but once
at Ruby's we wished we had all just starved like refugees and belly danced ourselves to
decent `Navel' proportions. Salute. 
