The evening began at 10pm at an art gallery opening. The group included a contemporary artist-couple, a gallery owner, some expat curators, a design guru and some advertising folk. Some 15 of them debated about where to go and ended up choosing Boombox Café, a bar in Khan Market. We all squeezed into a corner booth and spent the next couple of hours smoking fragrant sheesha and drinking everything that was on offer. Sahni, I learned, owned an eponymous design firm and was co-founder of Kama Ayurveda, whose products I use on my head in the hope of growing hair. I complained that his products were not fragrant enough. We debated the merits of fragrance versus benefits in Massage Oils; and the metaphysical question: Why do things that are good for you, such as Dead Sea mud and Ayurvedic potions, smell so bad. I am sure both of us made valid points—if only I could remember them. I was concentrating on grabbing the sheesha pipe that kept disappearing. We ended up outside Cibo at Janpath and were told that nobody would be allowed in. Paul and I seemed to be the only two women in the compound. Bal, who co-owns the place, held court in the open courtyard, offering drinks, discussing his fashion show and introducing the male models who surrounded him. One particularly handsome man introduced himself as Honey. Vodka shots were being downed; techno music that sounded like a heartbeat on steroids was being pumped through the sound system. The ladies room was taken over by men making out behind the partitions. An editor from GQ walked by, clad in a white kurta-pyjama, air-kissing everyone in sight. Listen to south Mumbai types talk about their city and you’ll know what I mean. I once refused to date a man because he made the mistake of dissing my hometown. After living in Bangalore for the last five years and learning to love this city, after exploring Mumbai and Delhi in a fairly intense way and learning to love their quirks, I’ve morphed into the kind of person who, I think, could be as happy—or unhappy—in any metro. Bars and restaurants close before Cinderella got home. To watch Delhiites revel way past our curfew time gave me Delhi-envy. I watched a Delhi version of what we Bangaloreans complain about every weekend. Chennai comes alive at 6am, Bangalore at 11am, Mumbai at 8pm and Delhi at midnight. They are glad you are visiting their fair city but you know what, they get immigrants every day, so have a great night, amigo. But get caught without a cab on your way home and the same Mumbaikar who appeared nonchalant, almost offhand, will insist on dropping you home with an equally casual, “Don’t be silly. The setting is magical—swaying coconut palms, the Arabian Sea, water that has been warmed by the blistering daytime heat to encourage skinny dipping, and lots of hard liquor. Chennai folks hold their drinks either very well or very badly. You sweat out your hangover the next day and build tolerance. Opus, owned by Carlton and the late, great Gina Braganza, is an old favourite. But none of them have the sprawling spaces that I saw in Delhi. The next stop in Delhi was Lap, where actor Arjun Rampal—still handsome—was spinning discs when we entered. People thronged the outside garden and everyone seemed to know each other. There was a line of pretty young things, clad in miniskirts, waiting for their cars. One 20-something said hello to Paul, who didn’t recognize her. The girl’s escort got into the driver’s side beside her and they pulled away, waving at us. How can you not remember a girl who owns a Phantom, I asked. And then I had my only-in-Delhi moment of the night. We have our nouveau riche in Bangalore too, but the new rich play it quiet in Maruti Swifts. Grey-haired grandmothers in Parsi-embroidered saris sat around tables eating chilli chicken. Bindi-sporting mothers held up video cameras to record their children’s performances. Square fathers shook their hips and tried to act cool. It was a world away from the edgy hipness of Lap but it felt like home. Massage Oil