But what if you are given power to corrupt people by getting them to adopt a lifestyle of indulgence, gluttony and debauchery?
They acknowledged me as King last Saturday, and gave me three days of sovereignty to sanction just such abandon. These merry people of the Karnataka Goans Association, Bangalore made me King Momo and granted me stewardship over their Carnival Celebrations!
A couple of days prior, I racked my brains on how to dress for the occasion. My 6 foot 3 inch frame is made for the role as far as altitude, but sadly lacks latitude! So I prevailed on my ever obliging parents to rush me my gold and white ‘art deco’ bedroom curtains, and those Christmas chains, from Goa. The night before was then spent conversing with a wonderful tailor, who replied in rustic Kannada (of which I didn’t understand a word) to my regal English (of which he didn't understand a word). Between the two of us, and a few amused passersby, I got the divine regal costume ready.
D-day dawned!
The royal robes packed, I rushed to the venue with the rest of the troop. The architect of the event, the lovely Lady L, who tried hard to convince us that she was as threatening as she was charming, was waiting, arms akimbo, to have us rehearsed and ready. All was fine till it dawned on my thick head that I seemed to be walking alone. My Queen was late! I spent the wait watching everyone deck themselves in preparation for the parade. We had Spanish dancers, kunbis and an assortment of lovely people. My Queen arrived, gorgeous as expected, to light up the night with her dazzling gold attire. I tried to reflect her glory with my massive robes of gold net and white lace! A few kindly ladies tried to upgrade this poor bachelor’s rugged face with a generous application of that abomination called ‘foundation’, and that wretched thing called ‘rouge’. I thanked them profoundly and walked to the next room and washed it off! Ladies, you girls are the sweetest, but I’d rather use distemper or oil paint than that terribly complex coloring that you all use with such comfort. My apologies to Lady L, and another Lady L, who had to tolerate my insufferable squeals and outbursts as they tried to get me ready.
The astonished guests gaped and revealed their sometimes not so white pearls as the parade poured out of the changing rooms and into the venue; the band playing the Carnival tune, the first batch of little children dancing walking along the pathway carpeted around the venue. Then again, followed by another, and yet another, troop of brilliantly dressed and dancing children, and youngsters, and not so young youngsters, in different role-plays. My entourage, consisting of 3 adorable children, 4 princesses in pink, and the Queen and myself waving to the jubilant crowds, brought up the rear. For obvious reasons, my chest swelled 12 inches, and I found myself gleefully trying to win the hearts of my so called subjects, all attired in a themed red and black. When I eventually made my way to the stage with my royal companions, it was my task to pronounce ‘the edict’, of which I seem to have done a fairly good, perhaps loud, job of, judging by the response from the excited people. In short, they acknowledged me as King, and my decree granted them 3 days of eating, drinking, and making merry under the resounding cries of ‘Viva Carnaval!’
My job done, an attempt was then made at some sort of dance routine which we soon abandoned, due to the multiple times my billowing robes almost tripped me up and endangered the lives of my fair Queen and the divine princesses! We then strolled into the welcoming crowds where these good natured people, plebeians and patricians alike, got themselves photographed with their King of three days.
These last formalities complete, I relieved myself of the weight of my regalia and slipped into something far more comfortable, albeit with a mask on. I spent much of the evening saying hello to everyone, looking for friends, making friends, and generally being a nice fellow. Did a bit of footloose dancing with whoever would have me as a partner or kept spending time introducing myself to the sweet gentry of Bangalore. The evening wound on with much dancing! I had to play a game where I had to pick people blindfolded from the crowd. Amidst all the jocund push and shove and naughty butt pinching, I finally finished the ritual and got myself a drink.
As with most parties, here too, you may have many people but few types of people. I take a clinical interest in this, and paid equal amounts of attention to all:
There are those divine families who come and park themselves at their table. Their skill lies in being able to entrap the attentions and conversations of anyone passing by, but God forbid that their often prosperous ‘behind’ leave the comfort of the chair.
Then there are those healthy groups of friends who will pull and join as many tables together so that they may not be separated. Once done, they indulge in the mirth and silly humor that is the privilege of youth, till everyone around has formed a broad ‘No Man’s’ zone around them.
You also have those fresh lovers, generously bathed in deodorant and perfume, to whom the rest of the gathering is non existent and to whom there was not enough time at home to recite those lovers’ rosaries that must be incessantly whispered into each others ears.
Next you have the stags whom you will spot sitting or standing on the periphery watching the happily paired and the available but inattentive (to them) damsels on the dance floor. This is a very harmless species that can spend hours with a beer can in hand and an empty vacant look on the face.
You also have the critically hungry whom their well wishers probably direct to such gatherings to save themselves. They will spend the evening sitting uncomfortably but will be miraculously resurrected by the patron saint of the dining table (whoever that is) as soon as dinner is served. They will promptly gobble their food and rush home, the purpose of their existence having been fulfilled with the satiation of their taste buds.
Speaking of food, however, I must confess that the food had such a lovely flavor, of Goa, that gastronomical delight was very apparent on all faces. My command to indulge not only fell on their ears, but also on their stomachs, as they dug into the pork, beef and other dishes that are the ‘Festachem Jevonn’ of the motherland.
And then a fancy dress session was on; children, teenagers and adults. While plenty of teenagers and adults participated, for some strange reason there was just one participant in his teens. I am yet to comprehend this biological and statistical wonder, and so are many of us. Great disguises were seen on stage, but the King’s favorites were the little terrorist boy who spoke of ‘Pork’istan, and the young man who was dressed as a cook and who wore authentic Goan ‘Rosary Sausages’ around his neck, in all their fragrant glory.
Both the MCs did a good job, paying every attention to the details; the smartly dressed lady even asking around for the correct sound of ‘Carrr-naa-vaaal’. Lady L and my friend, Lady S, faithfully haunted the place to give away prizes. Mr. Club President kept watch from the sidelines of his event, that was a runaway success. There were many others but my partly drunk memory allows only so much recollection. I faintly recall getting back to the club, and back home, to continue dreaming and enjoying that wonderful evening on the comfort of my pillow.
Truly is this the stuff dreams are made of!
