I stood outside the NCPA building, at the tip of Marine Drive, surveying the Arabian Sea as it sparkled under the brilliant afternoon sun.

It was day three of the five-day Lakme Fashion week, the exact mid-point of the extravaganza. I'd seen half the collections, met half the models and filed half my interviews.

Looking both backwards and forwards, I saw nothing but silhouettes and stilettos. Fashion had consumed me.

With an hour to burn before the next show, I'd ventured out of the posh, air-conditioned environment in order to gain some perspective.

At the building across the street, a group of security guards drank from a giant thermos of chai.

They sat in a semi-circle, their eyes fixed on the entrance to NCPA. Hondas, Mercedes and other luxury vehicles moved past in a procession, depositing groups of well-scented, well-dressed socialites. The guards pointed, they laughed, they spoke bemusedly. I wanted some chai.

As I approached, two of them immediately sprung to their feet and offered me a seat. The rest warm-heartedly smiled and shook my hand, happily wiggling their heads from side to side.

The easy reception and booming laughs startled me. For three days, every person I'd met had either assumed an air of superiority or grovelled shamelessly, including myself. Every joke, laugh and smile I had shared suddenly rang hollow.

I declined the seat, grabbed a chai and struck up a conversation.

"So, what do you guys think about fashion week? Is it nice?"

A tall and lanky man named Satish, who was sprawled out in his chair, scratched his chin and cleared his throat.

In perfect English, he responded, "Well, baba, this is all very nice and very flashy, but it's not good for Mumbai. Everyone here has an agenda, and not one of them includes helping my people ' the Maharastrians." The rest of the group nodded in approval.

Fascinated, I asked Satish to continue.

"OK. So, the people who are running this event, what will they say? They say: this is good for Mumbai because so much money is being spent here. They say money will come down." He spoke the last two words ' come down ' with shocking venom and malice.

"No money comes down, sir. Look at who is making and selling the clothes: parsees, gujaratis, kashmiris, North Indians. Look who is buying them: sindhis, Punjabis, goras. The money stays in those communities. People say, "The economy is booming.' So what does that mean? Property becomes even more expensive. Subzis and duud become more expensive? But what about Maharastrians? Do we get any of this money? No!"

I tried to tell him that I had met many Maharastrians at the event, including an entire platoon of exceptionally wealthy businessmen. Before I could finish, he interrupted, "That is a wonderful thing to hear, baba. But do you want to come meet real maharastrians? I'll take you. But don't think you'll be seeing any of this," he said, gesturing towards the crowd of people outside smoking cigarettes: suits, dresses, skirts, Gucci, Prada, Lois Vutton.

A taxi pulled to a stop near us, hidden from the entrance to the NCPA building. Four young girls, about 18 years old by my estimation, quickly filed out while exchanging whispers. They collectively gathered themselves and strode around the side of the building, into the limelight.

"They do not want people to be seeing them in the taxi. They are Jai Hind College girls. They think taxis are dirty," One of the other guards said, in broken English, before laughing and slapping my arm.

"What about you, gora? Why are you here?" Satish asked abruptly.

"Mera naukri Mumbai hai, bhaiya." "Mera nam gora nahi hai. Me Hindustani hu," I said quickly, the first Hindi I'd used in the conversation.

Jaws dropped, looks were exchanged and guffaws ensued.

"Arre va! Kya hai! Tum hindi acha bolti ho," Satish said with a smile, before switching back to English.

"You are an investment banker? You are a manager?"

"Nope. I'm a reporter. I work for an Indian company. I'm the only gora there."

"You are the big boss?" Satish asked, wrinkling his brow in obvious concentration.

"No, in fact, pretty much every one there is my boss. I write stuff and post it on the Internet. But I actually have to run; one of my bosses wants to speak to me." I replied, showing them the missed call on my mobile.

"Your phone is very faltu, yaar. I had this same model two years ago," Satish said, pointing to the low-level Nokia in my hand. They all seemed stunned at my state of privation.

"Yea, I told you: I'm a reporter. I don't make lakhs and lakhs of money, bhao" I answered, using the respectful Marathi euphemism for brother that I'd been taught.

"A gora speaking Marathi! With an Indian boss! Maybe Mumbai is changing!" He shouted, clapping me on the back.

"Go then! Gora Reporter! Go to your Indian boss!"

I bid them adieu and headed back inside. When the door opened, 15 different perfumes competing for air space smacked me in the face.

Expensive dresses dripping with embellishments brushed past me. Beautiful eyes belonging to beautiful faces followed my chubby form while I bounded up the steps in decidedly unfashionable fashion. What was I doing here?

As I took in the scene upstairs, one line kept repeating itself over and over in my head:

"Everyone here has an agenda…"

Event organisers directed and scolded, intoxicated by their own power and importance. PR agents flocked around media types, promoting their unheralded clients. Members of little-known media agents swarmed to well-known celebrities and models, begging for interviews. Models sought established media-members, delivering prepared sound-bites with ease and grace. Wealthy couples stalked by, looking at the media contemptuously for existing. Designers politely denigrated the work of the peers, while humbly promoting their own. Buyers made an ostentatious show of purchasing a few garments.

Even I fell victim, eyeing the buffet spread across four tables ' aloo gobi, assorted Indian breads, dahi and murg afghani.

It's true: everyone has an agenda.

Just came across this two-week old article and had to cringe.

Budweiser in India?!?

Ugh. I spent many nights, aged 16-21, sneaking Budweisers from a cooler or a hidden twelve pack in the closet. Budweiser is like Miller is like Foster's is like King Fisher ' crappy, pale pilsner/lager that puckers the face and constricts the throat of true beer aficionados.

Once I reached legal-age, however, I could stroll leisurely through the beer cooler at the grocery store. The once impenetrable 'Fine Beer and Wine' shop, notorious for taking fake IDs and sending kids to holding cells, became my play-ground.

No more chugging cheap beer for a cheap buzz; I'd moved onto bigger and better things. I found a bar near my university, aptly named 'Brew's', and dove head-first into the sudsy delights of expensive beer.

First, it was the American micro-brews ' outrageous concoctions to say the least. There were maple syrup beers; there were India Pale Ales; there were ultra-thick stouts with double digit alcohol percentage.

This was followed by the German beer craze. Heffeweizens, Dopplebochs and others filled my glass — all exceedingly delicious and exceedingly hard to pronounce.

Through dogged Internet research I discovered the Holy Grail of beer ' the Belgian Trappist Ale. Apparently, Flemish monks have spent centuries perfecting the art of brewing exquisite beers in the name of the Creator. They only use the finest spring water, the finest natural ingredients and the most carefully kept recipes. These beers are like liquid gold, they cost up to 10 dollars for a 330 ml bottle.  

I decided that getting drunk wasn't my cup of tea; I preferred enjoying my four beers as opposed to chugging twelve. I happily drank my beers, in moderation, for approximately two and a half years.

Then, I flew to India.

Ever since, it's been bottles of King Fisher by the boatload. Given their high content of glycerine, which is actually palpable to the taste buds, you drink them fast and forget to savour.

Now, this latest announcement has beer-drinkers in a tizzy. "Budweiser?" They say, "That's the King of Beers!"

"No." I quickly rejoin, "That's the King of Marketing".

No wonder that I've contemplated giving up the hops and malts entirely. And because I can't stand hard liquor, or it's amusing but destructive after-effects, I've settled comfortably into Indian wines.

And no, I'm not a pretentious, high-society snob. I don't even own a pair of leather shoes. My girlfriend picks my outfits, just to make me passable. I'm far more comfortable at a house party than at one of these absurdly expensive night-clubs.

Still, every time I finish a King Fisher, I find myself asking the waiter, 'And what are your reds?'

As for the Budweiser, I'll happily pass.

In the meantime, I'm going to forge a strategic alliance between Belgium and India – Beers for mangoes!

So, with the first of fifteen renditions of the title track, I shifted into a decidedly unpleasant mood.

The seconds took hours; the minutes took days. I became intimately acquainted with the minutiae of the leather seat in front of me.

A co-worker rapped my shoulder, presumably to check for rigor mortis. Thankfully, this roused me from my slumber and allowed me to truly take in my surroundings.

It was beautiful! I'd lived in a concrete jungle for months, but now a true jungle stared back at me through smudged Plexiglas.

Gorgeous mountains, densely coated in vibrant green, surrounded the vehicle as we blazed our trail through rural India. To my dismay, we started blazing less and climbing more.

While I was happy to enjoy the splendid scenery from a distance, I hadn't exactly anticipated becoming part of the landscape myself.

Thankfully, the engineers had made the necessary provisions; and despite my worst fears, the road continued around ridiculously hairpin turns and up steep inclinations.

The magnified view afforded me the opportunity to examine the topography up close and personal. I was left wanting breath – the lush foliage contrasted brilliantly with the slate black rock.

And everything was freshly awash from the rain, though the clouds had broken. Waterfalls angled through the forest and poured out into little reservoirs and what looked like rice fields. I fancied that a rainbow started where the horizon ended, but it may have just been sunlight refracting through the window.

Anyhow, the delightful mountain vista slowly morphed into grey sogginess and lack of visibility. Now, I was left to confront my fears – the second half of Jhoom Barabar. I'll spare you the sordid details.

I should mention that we stopped for a late lunch sometime around this juncture ' granting me my first opportunity to assess the roadside toilets. Their cleanliness was a prime concern, and of profound interest to me, while this trip was still in its developmental stages.

Not guided by urgency so much as curiosity, I poked my head around the corner to find – a normal washroom! Unbelievable! Everything was spic-n-span and of the highest quality. My appetite intact, I ordered pav-bhaji and picked up sundry snacks for the long haul ahead.

The rest of the ride amalgamated unease with boredom – a most horrible combination.

Boredom arose from the lack of a view – it was pitch black – and the indecipherable Hindi blaring from overhead speakers, that were, as the name suggests, directly over my head.

The unease owed to the narrow, winding road that required acute turns of our oversized, ambling bus. The road looked barely wide enough to hold us, and the lights twinkling some 5,000 feet below hardly looked inviting.

Then, to my utmost dismay, I realised that other oversized buses were making use of the same road, only they weren't ambling. Instead, they hurtled down the mountain, towards us, at breakneck speed. Obviously, some code governs driving behaviour in these parts, but it's a language I don't understand.

As the rain, our altitude and my blood pressure simultaneously increased, I noticed that half my fellow travellers were peacefully sleeping. Incredulous at their lack of concern, I curled into the fetal position and rocked myself back and forth, hoping to achieve some measure of relaxation.

Finally, we reached the wrought iron gates of our resort; the deluge kept the compound shrouded in mystery. We walked, a procession of multi-coloured umbrellas, inside and crowded around the receptionist. The workers seemed positively frightened by my presence; though I'm sure many a Raj official had graced the area some century ago.

Key and bags in hand, I traversed the water-logged path to building '3' and found my way into the room. It was clean, spacious and not lacking amenities. Certainly not the Marriot, but then again, I hadn't expected it to be.

The first casualty occurred some ten minutes later, when one of the larger vacationers slipped on the slick tile and crashed down on his shoulder. This cast a decidedly negative shade on the proceedings, an inauspicious beginning to say the least.

Determined to enjoy ourselves, and not knowing what else to do, a few colleagues and I scoped out the facilities. There was a phenomenal pool – which I had no intention of entering – and a disco room.

The first night gave me the opportunity to enjoy the company of my co-workers along with a beer or three. It was great to see them outside their natural environment and having fun. Iconic journalists sitting around and talking about day-to-day life ' it was great!

The following day, we were given the opportunity to ascend a mountain-face in order to walk atop the 'Flat-Table', a mesa of sorts. I decided that I preferred the flat ground surrounding the resort, and declined.

It was a great day, though the food left much to be desired. For some reason, no matter how little I ate, the heavy khana stuck to my ribs for hours. I'm a fan of Mughlai food, but was absurd! Paneer saturated with ghee, mutton swimming in oil and parathas literally damp to the touch – eww.

Anyhow, the night featured bad music and bad dancing, both fuelled by the alcohol flowing freely at the bar. Not being much of a drinker, I became a sort of wallflower. My colleagues were perturbed, repeatedly asking why I danced more in the aisles at office than on the dance-floor. I was not to be convinced, however, and maintained my relatively mute status, for the first time in a long time.

The revelry went on and on, deep into the night and the following morning. Before I had time to fully gather my wits, the calls for packing and room keys rang out through the resort's hallways.

In my haste, I almost forgot my cell phone charger; it was grabbed at the last possible instant. I lugged my bags behind me and plopped them at the front counter, handing over my keys with an air of resignation – it was over.

Of course, the bus was a good two hours late, giving the end of the trip an anticlimactic air. The return home was unremarkable except for another visit to the public loo ' my worst fears were realised. Doors torn from hinges, excrement splattered on the floor and the overwhelming stench of urine. It was too much to handle and I resolved myself to hold it for the remaining four hours.

I slept for most of the ride.

I awoke as we re-entered the metropolis, lights shining and horns blaring. The taxi ride home was a cacophony of sounds, sights and smells. I was back in 'Maximum City' for the foreseeable future.

I realised what exactly the trip meant to me – peace, silence and tranquillity.

Who knows when I'll enjoy their luxury again?

PS. I’ll start using the Rediff photos application soon!

Well, I'd been four months in India and still hadn't ventured outside the comfortable confines of South Bombay/Santa Cruz/Andheri. To make matters worse, I'd never been East of Aurora theatre in Matunga, and that too on an assignment. Essentially, I'd quarantined myself to a 20 or 30 square mile area.

So, when the opportunity to scuttle off some 200 kilometres into central Maharastrha arose, I leapt.

Of course, as the day of departure neared, I pondered the possibilities. These were my main concerns: the quality public restaurants and toilets along the way, the quality of the roads, the quality of the drivers, the quality of the vehicles, the quality of the resort and the quality of my health upon return.

Being a company picnic, I wasn't concerned about the entertainment. I knew my merriment would be relative to the alcohol imbibed. Judging by the order placed the night before we left, my joy would be unbounded.

With tinges of trepidation, I packed my bag that fateful morning. 1 gallon Odomos, check; 14 schedule H drugs for various illnesses, check; 8 sets of clothing designed to handle nature's wickedest designs, check; David Copperfield, check. I was ready.

I reached early, lugging my shoulder bag, an umbrella and a giant suitcase. One coworker sidled past, giggling and gawking at my struggles. I noticed the extent of her packing: a 'cute' backpack and an umbrella that folded into itself. Right, hopefully others had exercised as much caution as me.

I lumbered inside, knocked a few chai mugs to the floor because of clumsy manoeuvring, and ended up at my desk. That's when the laughter started. 'You imbecile, we'll be gone for two days, not a month.' And on and on.

Ok, so I over packed. I get it.

Anyhow, after successfully diverting attention to co-worker who couldn't make the trip, I wrote a few final e-mails and prepared to go.

The bus was scheduled for a noon pick-up, which meant two. Unused to this Indian eccentricity, I tried rallying the troops several times to no avail. Everyone but me seemed to be doing things 'aram se'.

Finally, after an unearthly wait, the bus was reported to be parked outside and awaiting us. I lugged the aforementioned baggage, creating quite the spectacle, down the stairs and out the door. As I emerged, our watchmen, a Christian, bellowed out, 'Praise the Lord', a habit he'd developed over several weeks.

I don't know what exactly I expected from the bus, but my impressions were favourable. For some reason, I had been anticipating the four-wheeled equivalent of the Mumbai local train. While the rest of the party complained, griped, and in general, voiced displeasure, I was pleased.

It was air-conditioned, had a television screen and the seats reclined. What more could a man want? The first of many bags of Lay's was opened and passed ceremoniously, the bus sputtered to life and we roared off into gridlock. Right, I had forgotten we were in the middle of one of the world's most congested and poorly conceived cities.

So, not the romantic disembarkation I had envisioned, but we were well on our way. Blissfully stuck in traffic, we made our first stop for sou-sou after an hour, and we hadn't yet seen any greenery

Finally, ultimately, inevitably, we departed Mumbai and entered the vast wilderness, rumbling along. I took this time to survey my earlier criteria: roads, surprisingly nice and refreshingly open; driving, ridiculously dangerous and downright irresponsible; vehicles, an interesting medley of luxury and decrepit.

While I was lost in these musings, staring out the window and swatting the occasional fly, a sudden ejaculation from the speakers caused me to bolt upright and spill potato chips all over the bus-floor.

'JHOOM BARABAR JHOOM BARABAR JHOOOOOOOOOM!!!"

Good god, what was it? Had some strange cult commandeered the bus and started their satanic chants? Had some sick, twisted mind plugged in a microphone so that any bloke could try his hand at karaoke?

No, actually. In fact, the children on board managed to finagle a Jhoom Barabar DVD into the bus multi-media player, and as a result, the ride took a drastic turn for the worst.

More tomorrow.

I initially intended to discuss Cheeni Kum today. Instead, I was lucky enough to earn the assignment of a lifetime ' I covered the opening of Sivaji with Rajnikahnt.

Here's the article I wrote.

I have so much to say apart from the slideshow; it'd be a disservice to rush through it in twenty minutes. 

Tomorrow, I'll discuss Cheeni Kum AND Sivaji.

Have a nice weekend!