The title is a pun in a book filled with neon prose and pulp fiction. Charlie, who prefers to be called Seth, has his girlfriend distastefully OD on him just before a party. Charlie being Charlie, he abandons the body to his Chinese manservant as he flits off to his evening at the Jogis.
Charlie dodges kisses and dubious wheeling dealing only to stumble upon another corpse in the Portaloo. Unfortunately, he has no alibi since his hosts cannot tell when he arrived at the party and the girls he glimpsed on his way have vanished. The policeman Nik has an axe to grind, because Charlie has never invited him to a party and is determined to arrest him for something or the other, despite Charlie’s line to the commissioner of police. A mysterious femme fatale who smells of Shalimar appears and winds her tendrils around Charlie’s heart.
Etteth cocks a snook at the high life in Delhi where Moet et Chandon is inferior champagne and only drunk by social climbers in a world where forgettable women chase after Lamborghinis. He specialises...
THIS ARTICLE IS PRICELESS...
To read this piece, and more such stories in India's most exciting and exacting magazine, plus get access to our 25-year archives goldmine, please subscribe.
