Coke Tales
The arrest and interrogation of a peddler in Delhi reveal that at glitzy parties in faraway farmhouses, money and power go on high with the kick of cocaine. It's the haute drug for the stylish people in black. A peep into the world of the cocaine-users.

Invisible Dialogue
Vajpayee has promised a solution by March next year. But who is he talking to? Nobody knows.

Gunning For Arun
Jaswant Singh's special adviser is again at the centre of a controversy. This one though is not of his own making.

New Metro Hotspots
Establishments combining a rash of activities have taken over from the one-dimensional discos in urban India.

COVER STORY: CRIME

EYES WIDE SHUT

The drug-peddler is de rigueur at parties now, more indispensable than bartenders, caterers and disc jockeys

Angeldust, some call it. Or Shit From Heaven. Coke, the most popular nose job of the capital's haute monde is also its uberhigh now. With cell phones speed-dialling friendly neighbourhood drug peddlers, engines of Lancers and Hondas forever idling to pick up those little white packets as the weekend nears, party slaves have found the ultimate nirvana. Have cell phone, will snort, natch. Drugs have always been part of any night circuit since the 1960s, the sweet, cloying smell of marijuana or the soporific heaviness of hashish-smoked or put in cookies-was a secret all knew about, but only a few actually participated in. There are those who even now grow their little Mary Jane patch in suburban backyards; Woodstock lives on.

Nishit Saran, a young Delhi filmmaker, drawls, "In the old days, drugs were part of being a rebel. Now the idea is to simply get high." In Delhi's partyland, there is no rebellion, only money. New industry moolah and daddy's export cash with which any non-achiever in a Merc could hit Djinns or Pluto; only, clubbing no longer means booze. And coke no longer means a cola, it's "the happy white stuff which makes the party go on," sometimes stretching through the weekend. Bend towards the soft, white powdery lines and snort, or sniff; the head throws itself back as the explosion of ego rockets the brain cells, the shoulders square back, the eyes are bright with sudden cocaine-light. The snow lines are usually on glass tables or mirrors, both in bedrooms and basement coke rooms and the Rs 500 nose funnel is considered tacky, unless you dress like Akshay Kumar. There are some who do too. Especially the pushers who are as regular on the party circuit as the guests. Just as a DJ used to be de rigueur at most farmhouse parties, the pushers now come first in the hierarchy, before the bartenders and the caterers. They are amiable and cool eyed, lurking outside on the lawns or the balconies, mobiles attached to their ears. Most wear designer shirts every night, carousing in their clients' cars, their gaze constantly seeking rendezvous with familiars. Call them Khalid, Ali, or Sid, they are ubiquitously popular-even the stewards at Djinns or Ricks salaam them.

"Coke is about power," a Delhi party animal purrs, "it makes you feel like the most powerful person in the room, the most significant. But all you do is schmooze senselessly-babble on all night."

Babble all night, in between half-hour fixes. Take a downer when it's dawn to sleep. Then a paracetamol to take the heaviness away. And if you swipe your finger along the marble of a lavatory washstand, what comes away can make the gums freeze. But it's likely you will find the washroom door closed. A girl giggles from inside, like glass falling. Her companion mumbles and draws a sharp breath. I sniff, therefore I am.

—Ravi Shankar

MetroScape

Looking Glass

Delhi Restaurant:
Kootub Restaurant

Delhi Dance Festival: Abhinaya Sudha

Delhi Restro-bar:
Buzz, Get It Here

Bangalore Exhibitions: Cinnamon