BY BIKRAM VOHRA
So I came home with these two tickets to a very popular sold out concert and my wife had that look of reluctant admiration well married wives have for their husbands when they do something extraordinary and rare and my tickets were just that. Row A 16 and 17. Smack right dab in the centre of things.
I, I said loftily, have connections.
She spent the day telling our friends about the lucky break and how we were so looking forward to a great evening, might even meet the stars, some sort of après event get together, very exclusive. Finally after discarding an Imelda Marcos selection of saris, she got all dressed up and off we went, hiring a chauffeur for the evening because it would be so much more convenient. With confidence oozing from every pore we passed the great unwashed and marched up to the first gate where this silly, ignorant usher glanced at our tickets and said, back, back, back.
These, I said with a curl of the lip, are A row.
Yes, he said, back, back, back and pointed his finger in the region of the wilderness where the wildebeest roam and the tiger hunts at night.
At Gate 2 much the same scene occurred with the lady telling us to enter from the front of the hall because it would be easier for us and we would not have to walk so much.
That was the only ‘front’ in the evening. The rest was all affront and my wife, by now, had stopped speaking to me. It seems after the security circled VVIPs came the mere VIPs (Are there any IPs?) in the first six rows and the Reserved signage on the next five there were special invitees and dignitaries, sponsors, co-sponsors, associate sponsors, support sponsors, family members of the organisers, very rich people who only attend if they get freebies, friends of all these people, distinguished guests (as compared to the undistinguished rest) and then Rows AA, BB,CC, yes, you get the drift.
We were finally seated in the thirty third row and if we rubbernecked we could see 70% of the stage and little human dots scurrying about the place. So much for 26 letters in the alphabet.
This, said my wife, in a voice that can best be described as glacial, is so embarrassing, even the Rai’s are ahead of us and I told her this morning we were in the front row, mortified does not even begin to express how I feel.
Dash it, it’s A Row, I said, what was I to think.
Perhaps, she said, her voice skating on ice, you need to rework your connections.
At which point a man well over six feet came and settled down in from of her in Row ZZ. The stage shrank from 70% to 55.
Let, she said, us, she said, go home.