For every Fendi-clutching, Manolo Blahnik-tottering, blonde streaked ‘Dahli-ite’, there is a long-tressed wise Madrasi who orders Zara on sale from Baby Uncle in the US. And for every tight-shirted Delhite clawing his way up the Harvard Review there is a Madrasi who breaks a coconut at a Rajni shrine. It takes all types except the average Dahlite will insist his dad sups with Manmohan and his Mummyji does her weekly grocery shopping in Paris. The average ‘Madrasi’ can only feebly wave her dad’s Phd degree and colour–coordinate her mum’s pattu saari collection.
It’s a losing battle; we cannot match up to the Dahlite’s standards. We cannot dream of purchasing Bentley convertibles
So what hope do we have of meeting the Dahli boy on his turf? So what if we can discuss rocket propulsion and the finer nuances of a Monet in the same breath. Or Jayalalitha’s gold bathroom fittings and the latest Sun TV serial for that matter - We can’t flash the cash and that’s that. Unless you count our big fat gold weddings…..