Coming Home
Close Encounters of the Beautiful Kind....
It's probably the cold that does it. When I arrive at the party, I am completely unprepared. Here I am, in the midst of about a hundred of the topmost BPs in Dhaka, and I can't handle it. I feel as though something is missing. As though there ought to have been something more.
Okay. Let me begin at the beginning. What are BPs. BPs are Beautiful People, (BP for short). Every city has its own BP community, of course, and so it is not surprising that Dhaka has BPs too. But frankly, I had no idea there were so many in this city nor, for that matter, that they were so skilled. At being BPs, that is.
You see, you can't just be a BP because you want to be one. No sir. You have to be of a certain ilk, part of a particular crowd, cut from a special piece of cloth to qualify for the title of BP. That Dhaka has produced so many BPs is therefore no mean feat.
My host, for instance, is very much a BP. How do I know..? Well, for one thing he welcomes his guests with a sword in his hand and a turban on his head. Not to mention a Mongol robe on his back. (BPs believe that first impressions are important). Indeed, my host looks like he's floated off the Seventh Voyage of Sinbad or something. (This BP makes more than a first impression, I must confess). I must also confess that although he is a sight to behold, the BP in him is so well-ingrained, so to speak, that he does, eventually, carry his entire appearance - sword, turban and Mongol robe -- off with aplomb. (BPs also believe implicitly in themselves).
Our hostess, in turn, is also a BP though perhaps less flamboyant tonight than her partner. She is youthful looking, bedecked and bejewelled in traditional garb, smiling and thanking her guests for their good wishes on the occasion.
Yup. It's a BP occasion. It is the couple's 25th Wedding Anniversary. BPs, I might add, celebrate anniversaries in a big way and 25th wedding anniversaries in a really big way. That's because a typical BP couple is always married, and remains married, happily ever after. Single people can be BPs too --- but only if they are filthy rich, underweight and stunning looking. (Which rules out guess-who...).
While on the subject, let me tell you something more about BPs. First of all, as you might have already guessed, BPs are, to put it plainly, rich. Very rich. Not only are they unlikely to worry about freezing to death when a cold wave affects the country, but also they are unlikely to worry much about anything that affects the country. BPs do okay, no matter what happens to ordinary people.
Consequently, BPs usually own their own home(s), normally in posh areas like Gulshan, Baridhara and so on, though many BPs also live in Dhanmondi, I might add. Their homes are cool in summer, warm in winter, dry in the rainy season and always secure 12 months of the year. They travel frequently, on work or for pleasure, always business or first class, never economy. BPs have approximately 2.5 children per couple, on average, whom they send to expensive local private schools, followed by expensive international universities.
BP children grow up to be typical BP adults, returning home to work with their successful BP fathers and proceeding, in the fullness of time, to enter into marriage with BP youngsters born of BP parents like themselves. Young BP couples proceed to emulate senior BPs at work and at play. As a result, the BP species continues to perpetuate itself without any problems.
"Oh-my-gosh! You look great, how are you, where have you been ?" gushes this female BP with manicured teeth and long brown hair which she flings across the back of her low-slung blouse as she pecks the air in front of me.
Hello, nice to see you too, I reply. To no one in particular.
She's gone, you see. The female BP with the manicured teeth is gushing at everyone else in the room as swiftly as she has just gushed at me. This, I might explain, is a typical BP pastime: to gush. Gushing entails a peck in the air, a series of sweet sounding words and a huge bright fixed smile, delivered without batting a single BP eyelid. It is a sight to behold, particularly when discharged skilfully.
"Hey, where have you been, you look great, nice party, must talk more," gushes a male BP, a young professional, who plants a peck near my cheek. BP men, like BP women, never really commit themselves to a real kiss. When they do, it is usually a slobber about which, believe me, the less said the better.
I've been away, on holiday, I open my mouth to explain. Once again, to no one in particular.
My male BP has gushed at me and gone. I can see him gushing his way across the large gathering, eyes glazed, lips fixed in brilliant smile, hands clean and manicured. BPs are great looking people, there is no denying this. So good looking that they give others, less outstanding in that department, a hard time.
"Hmm. Put on weight, haven't you?" says another female BP, smiling sweetly at me. She is reed-like, has gorgeous skin, not a blemish or a sag on her face. She gushes past, looking tauter by the second. I feel a fat attack coming on.
"Why haven't you been writing? Had a row with the Star?" exclaims another female BP, as she, too, pecks the air in front of me, and gushes rapidly past me.
"Nonsense! I don't believe a word they say about your writing! I like your style!" chirps yet another BP, this one of the male variety.
"You look great I agree with him I don't believe anything they say about you either..."
"Your pieces are fine don't let criticism bother you..."
"Good to see you, by the way why do you write about traffic all the time.."
"You look great I'm told you are fond of cricket right...."
I open my mouth to explain. Excuse me, will you listen to me. Stop for a moment and listen, please. I went on this holiday, you see. I was away for three weeks, had a great time. Yes, I may have put on a few pounds. Yes, the Star Sports Desk wants to skin me alive. No, I haven't had a row with the Star. My piece appeared last week. Criticism doesn't bother me. I love cricket. Traffic affects me, too...
"You ought to try the shrimps," suggests a large-looking BP, an unusual member of the species in that he looks like Godzilla and walks as though he's just been circumcised. (He's filthy rich, I am told, that is why he qualifies).
"Excellent food!'Godzilla chirps, sending flying flurries of rice out of his mouth -- some landing on my silk saree. Which is all I need, at that stage: A silk saree christened with flying rice flurries, to round off my entertaining evening.
And it has been entertaining. As I head home later that evening, I realise how fortunate I have been. I have had a glimpse of the BPs of Dhaka city. I have been entertained by them. BPs have pecked at me. BPs have spoken to me. BPs have smiled at me. BPs have even spit rice flurries at me. Beats me why I feel there ought to have been more.
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