Saturday, 8th February 2025, Day 3

Read about Thursday and Friday here. 

The day begins on a note of despair as I wake up with a (well-deserved) hangover that is exacerbated by the morning’s headlines. I schlepp across town to return Nishad’s suit before he leaves for the airport; and end up getting stuck in a horrible jam on Mathura Road – courtesy of victory celebrations of the governing party’s workers. I make it back to the NSIC grounds just before a sign goes up indicating that the fair is at capacity. I’ve been coming here since 2015, and never before have I seen this happen on any day the fair is open to the public. 

As I ride in on the buggy (too lazy to walk the 200-metre stretch at the general entrance), I eavesdrop on a male and female gallerist. While the man blusters about how he’s had record sales this year, the woman (who has had an equally lucrative fair) sheepishly admits that every time she sells a work, it still feels like a miracle. 

The non-VIP denizens of Delhi have come out in full force today, so I’m compelled to limit my viewing once again. I gravitate towards the works on display by some of my favourite artists: T Venkanna’s egg tempera paintings featuring female bodybuilders, Jignesh Panchal’s gold leaf and watercolour collages, N S Harsha’s cosmically-minded ‘Infinite Voyages and Everyday Gravity,’ Arjuna Gunaratne’s quixotic oil paintings teeming with brooding faces and lush plant life, Sanjay Barot’s detailed, Escher-esque paintings of grand hallways and rooms converging into family portraits, and Ketaki Sheth’s ‘Those Filmy Days’ – a series of black and white photographs featuring film stars of yesteryear. Concerning the latter, I never thought I’d come across Sunny Deol at an art fair. Even more unbelievable was the extent to which said photograph, featuring the actor looking unusually introspective, moved me to bits.

Later, in need of a coffee, I step outside and get unwittingly enlisted in ‘Ingredients of Encounters: Dismantling Site Lines’ a performance piece by Ayesha Singh and Jyothidas KV. In front of a gaggle of curious onlookers, I am given a pamphlet to read out– detailing a litany of ecological calamities, after which I unburden a fellow performer and hold up a plank of wood. This is one of the more surreal, beguiling experiences that I have been counting on this weekend to deliver.

As the sun sets, I am officially fair-tigued. At the food area, I steal Tarini away from a legion of adoring art students and her Banh Mi sandwich, and we head to the Swedish embassy for the Bodice Party.  As we enter, we are greeted with a haunting image of fluttering white outfits on a clothing line – bringing to mind the last scene of ‘Widows,’ an Ariel Dorfman play. In the main hall, while everyone marvels at the installations made by Liactuallee with leftover materials from Bodice’s atelier, I gaze out at the embassy gardens. The Mumbaikar in me (can I call myself that after only living there for 2 years?) is envious of ALL THE SPACE. 

Much like the cocktail menu, the party has the most eclectic mix of people I’ve ever seen in Delhi. In one group conversation alone, I speak to an Indian-American hip-hop producer, an Indonesian architect, a French cultural attaché, and a very distant relation to the Norwegian royal family. At the stroke of 9 pm, everyone heads to the Italian Embassy for the next event. I am informed that my name is not on the list (I forgot to RSVP), and I’m too fabulous to grovel, so I decided to call it a night. As I wait for a BluSmart (this is not a flex, I have a perilously low rating on Uber) to take me home, I get a call from a dear friend, Simran, exhorting me to accompany her to “The Art Party,” which is taking place in a mansion in Chhatarpur owned by a well-known art dealer. I am easily convinced.

The modernist farmhouse has sprawling tentacles emerging from the roof. An actual party monster that is a sign of things to come. I’m unsure whether the theme of this party is art as much as it is wanton excess. The air is thick with smoke, the strobe lighting is harsh, the techno music is loud, the libations are flowing freely and everyone is either intimidatingly attractive or looks disgustingly rich. It’s like the last days of Rome.

After scoping out the house and getting the lay of the land, I post up on a sofa in the living room right opposite a large sculpture of a cow skeleton propped up on bone-coloured stilts. The piece, which is made to evoke a dinosaur fossil, is an instant signifier of the owner’s taste. Over the next few hours, every single person I’ve known in Delhi, friend, acquaintance or otherwise (most of whom have nothing to do with the art world), circulates through the living room. A very nice waiter keeps refilling my tequila and soda (my idea of Party Smart) as I spend a solid five-minute catchup session with everyone I know, one by one – like clockwork. Time on the couch slows, while the rest of the party moves at triple time. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to living out the “In the Waiting Line” drug sequence from Zach Braff’s ‘Garden State’ (if you don’t know, you don’t know). At some point, I find myself seated next to Anoushka Mirchandani, a San Francisco-based painter whose work I adore. To her credit, she suffers my shameless attempts at flirting with wry amusement.  

My night ends at 6 AM. I glance back at the house as I walk outside. The sunrise is bathing the tentacles of the party monster in a warm, ethereal glow. 

Sunday, 9th February 2025, Day 4

I spring out of bed a few hours later, still in the fuzzy throes of inebriation, and head to The Imperial for a wedding lunch and reception. Since it’s the tail end of shaadi season, the grass on the hotel’s lawns has been trampled into non-existence, and the heat is positively searing. I recognise quite a few faces from the previous night, all in varying states of distress, all at the bar clamouring for their drink orders. God may have rested on Sunday, but monsters don’t.

I carb-load at the too-extensive buffet like a professional athlete, in anticipation of the night ahead. A last mile-stretch to end the marathon.

I was assuming that the tempo of the Raw Mango soiree would be somewhat curtailed, given that it was taking place on a school night instead of its marquee Saturday night slot. But the party is every bit as boisterous as I remember, with the added benefit of being cosy and less crowded compared to previous years. The night kicks off with a ‘Kanhaiyan Dangal’ – a song and dance performance by Rajasthan’s Gurjar community featured in the brand’s series of films for its Garland bridal collection. After this rousing bit of theatre, the rose-petal-laden dance floor starts with aplomb, with the DJ alternating between Classic Bollywood and 2000s hip hop – a combination that absolutely slaps. I pause mid-flight during House of Pain’s “Jump Around” to tell Bharti Kher how her life-size resin sculpture of a whale’s heart gave me Stendhal’s syndrome when I saw it at Bikaner House in early 2020.

The party ties a fitting bow to my trip, as everyone I’ve met at the fair over the past few days converges on the dance floor. As the tunes get more raucous, I take a break from what can only be termed a mosh pit to grab a drink in the supremely grassy courtyard. I spy Mira Nair copping a moment to herself and I take the opportunity to continue our conversation from the first few moments of the fair. Reader, there is nothing truly vertigo-inducing as getting one-on-one time with an idol.

Our conversation ranges from everything from Denzel Washington’s first day on the set of ‘Mississippi Masala’ to antique furniture to Payal Kapadia’s very promising future. As she gets up to leave, she hugs me and says, “Bye Dilsher.” My heart skips a beat.

As the night reaches its dénouement, I find myself snuggled amidst Sagarika, Kaveri, Sagarika’s husband Ben (fresh off a DJ set at another party), Than Luu, a musician, and Nupur Dalmia, a collector and curator. We are trying to take a group photo and failing miserably. I deem the blurry result to be the weekend’s final piece of art.

I think of all the wonderful people that have come into my life – and have stayed in it – because of the art world. I feel warm and loved and full inside, surmising that there’s no point attempting to top this experience next year (but secretly relishing the opportunity to try).