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.

In reviewing previous posts, I notice that there is nary a mention of monsoons. This is a deplorable oversight.

First off, the strangest thing about the monsoon is its utter unpredictability. It’s absurd. At least 30 times during the past few months, I’ve made a conscious decision to leave the umbrella at work or at home, certain that no rain was coming. Roughly 20 of them proved to be bad decisions.

Within minutes of leaving home, the blue skies turned a sickly green-grey, and the heavens opened. Running down SV with my shirt soaked through, exposing intimate details of my anatomy, may have seemed funny to the chaiwallahs and those awaiting BEST buses, but I assure you, it wasn’t.

The monsoons forced me to reconsider and redefine the entire concept of rain. What once would have qualified as a ‘drizzle’ has become ‘irrelevant’. What was once a ‘torrential downpour’ has become a ‘morning shower’. And finally, what I once considered a ‘Category 4 hurricane’ has become ‘it’s raining pretty hard, nah?’

But oh, if you only knew the pain and agony which accompanied this transition.

How many times did I leave in a blur, genuinely forgetting or blatantly leaving my umbrella? Only neighbours and coworkers, who have seen my drowned rat impression, can tell.

How many times have I splashed about the city, socks soaked and feet breeding fungus? Only the taxi-wallahs, who have listened to my curses and moans of self-pity, can tell. 

How many times have impromptu moats barricaded me, forcing me to construct impromptu and ultimately unsuccessful bridges? Only the slum children, who give me strange looks before happily wading knee-deep in god knows what, can tell.

My footwear during monsoon season tells part of this tragic tale:

First, I strapped on a trusty pair of Adidas running shoes. By mid-July, they were kallas, hogia, finished. Once they took on the appearance and smell of sewer water (my bai refused to touch them) I had to trash them.

Determined to overpower the elements, I next went for a pair of thick boots. Hah, I thought I had bested nature when I paid 2,000 for those babies. They didn’t last a month. Water-logged and rapidly decomposing, I couldn’t give them away and was forced to abandon them next to a dumpster.

Countless times during this adventure, I’ve given up resistance and gone with the flow. This was one of those circumstances. Because what ended up being my saving grace? Why, none other than a pair of modest chapals, machine-made and crafted from the finest plastics (Rs 100).

It didn’t take long for my chapals to get traction. The very day I bought them, the rains fell heavy. Heavy as in sheets and buckets and pools of water, for hours on end. I stayed at office late, hoping for the rain to lull. 8 o clock passed. 9 o clock passed. And before I knew it, it was 11 pm. I was either going home, or sleeping in the gym. I gathered my stuff and prepared to leave.

Throughout the day, the sound of the rain falling had progressed from pitter-patter, to dull roar, and now, it was at fever pitch. One of the security guards, sitting miserably beneath a small sliver of the overhang, looked at me strangely as I tested the strength of the deluge with my hand. He pointed to a rusty umbrella, laying on the ground at his side. The sheer overwhelming power of the rain had destroyed the little umbrella, turning his insides out and bending the steel components. I gripped the wood-carved handle of my industrial, executive umbrella and stepped out into the wilderness, my eyes trained on a black-yellow blur on the other side of the road.

The taxi-wallah beckoned to me, across the mighty river. The level 3 and 4 white-water rapids hurtled debris (read: dead animals, human waste, pizza boxes, giant chunks of the street) past me at an alarming rate. It’s foolish to say now, but I was legitimately frightened.

Finally, I pulled up my trousers and stuck the tip of my right foot in, rapidly pulling it out and checking to see whether I’d grown a sixth toe. Surprise, all was well. And so I entered, hailed the taxi, and found my way home.

Update tomorrow and every day! Including much more on the rain; I’ve only just begun.

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!