The A-list at the B-scene

I thought the expatriate community in Florence was small but good god does Hyderabad give me new perspective. There seem to be a good handful of clubs and lounges but the 'going out' contingency is only so big as to keep a limited number of them 'happening' on any given night. Of course this contingency comprises both expats and locals, but the locals are of a very narrow stratum: not only very progressive but also very well off (drinks go for Manhattan prices). That said, the buzz somehow permeates and everyone ends up in one of three places. I'm told the clubs have been known to stay open 'til 2 or 3 but I have yet to be in one that does not usher everyone out at the stroke of midnight, if not prior! Lights go on, music goes off, and a heady mix of intoxicated rhythm and abandon instantly dissipates - poof!

This weekend was fun. I've started to meet some people who are here on their own steam: studying, volunteering, freelancing, interning. Not to say that I'm not here on my own steam; it just feels a little more like borrowed electricity. There are expats, and there are expats. I seem to want it all: the respect/security of corporate life and the free-spirited adventure and hard-earned accomplishments of the independent traveller. Anyhow, I've been inspired to make Hyderabad more of a home. Step one: am determined to get my bearings. At the moment, though, road no.s. 12, 36, 1, 7, 2, 10 and 3 appear to have no distinguishing charactersitics nor any discernible order. They merge and morph into one another without notice or turn, so much so that even those whose profession it is to navigate the city are often at a loss. I have a new found understanding for gridded Pondicherry's pervasive supplication: "Please help to keep our well-planned city beautiful."

I've also started to rock the boat. Scaling pad-locked gates long past midnight and suggesting the use of autorickshaws instead of the provided 'luxury' vehicles. I may have just turned 25 but in some respects I suppose I'll always be 16. Classic rebel without a cause.

On Saturday night, as one set of plans fell through, another came together with startling ease. In need of a last minute driver, I was received rather unpleasantly by the driver coordinator. It was too late, there was nothing to be done, very sorry, and the line went dead. I phoned back, asking about alternatives. Was there a cab company I could call? If not that, surely I could just step outside and flag down one of the dime-a-dozen autorickshaws? And with that, I happened upon the magic word. Forget please; the slightest hint of an autorickshaw, and the impossible becomes possible. Within 15 minutes, I was on my way to the Sheraton, ensconced in four-doored AC protection.

I was a little apprehensive about waltzing into an invite-only fashion show sans invitation, despite having been assured that the colour of my skin would grant me unfettered admission to all page 3 (society column) events in hokey Hyderabad. I wasn't sure I believed it - just last month I couldn't even get into the Redwood Room at The Clift! But the concierge could not have been less surprised when I nonchalantly queried, "fashion show?" So with an inflated sense of privilege, I watched from the back, amidst a small group of other tacitly invited latecomers. Within seconds, awe gave way to amusement; the show (dubbed 'fashion theatre') was an amateur array of struts and waddles, scowls and Miss America smiles, models engaging in on-stage chatter and can-can dancing. The commentator, all hyperbole and alliteration, was a riot. The show, vacillating between ostentatious beauty pageant and alarming performance theatre, was in the throws of an identity crisis and really very good fun.



Jokes aside though, I did feel a twinge of guilt about taking part in the ridicule. My initial desire to laugh was only half-formed, and I had yet to choose between derisive critique and cultural appreciation, when the former was given the edge by a neighbouring, "Haha, you've GOT to be kidding me; what IS he doing?" Despite the collusion, I planted myself between the two extremes: detached involvement. I took to studying the invited crowd; the upper echelon of Hyderabad society. I was pleasantly surprised when Monday morning, an Indian colleague set the record straight: "Oh, my dad had tickets to that; he said it wasn't really a very serious event, so I didn't go." By no means professional, the atmosphere was jovial and the crowd spirited, and I really enjoyed the more traditional ensembles:


all photos by Rebecca Lee, freelance photographer

I'm sure the sycophantic 4th estate gave the evening a riveting write-up.

Almost fogot, en route to the fashion show, the driver asked me not only if I was married with children but also how much I earn! Apparently 100% socially acceptable...interesting coming from a place where there is SUCH economic disparity.

Sunday round-up:
-Take-aways from the brunch buffet at the Taj Krishna: art nouveau decor slightly incongruous with hotel name; buffets are a necessary expat evil
-Birla Temple: my new favourite sensation is walking barefoot on cool white marble
-Golconda Fort: crumbling but still quite grand, ex-stronghold of the Muslim dynasty, but we are more of a tourist attraction than the fort itself; some people ask us to pose with them for pics while others just follow us not so surreptitiously and take photos 'when we're not looking'

Suffice it to say, I feel a little like a celebrity.