Tall, statusque, elegant. These oft repeated words by a fawning press, best described her. Diva that she was, if She graced a party, it meant that the host was to be counted amongst the elite of society. Her industrialist husband mostly basked in the glory of her aura, an indulgent loving man who recognised her intellect, and the sway She had over people. Besides ? Her image was good for his business too. Stylish She was, but individualistic in her tastes, the trend setter even if She was in her early sixties and a grandmother.
Amongst her close friends She counted the glitterati of the world. Cricketeers, Playboys, playwrites, authors, Hollywood and bollywood greats, often jetted into her home. She espoused many a charity, and with her name backing them, many a fashion house prospered too.
The biggest fahion house in Mumbai was showing their winter collection that night. All eyes turned to the door, as She strode in, husband in her wake, and was shown to the front row reserved entirely for her. Visibly excited, the young model strutting on stage was wearing a creation that was flimsy, but billowed behind her. Turning to acknowledge the doyen of society was not part of her walk, but who could help her instinctive reaction, the tripping of her heels as she careened across the stage, her dress slipping down her front, exposing far more than was desired. The model lay on the stage transfixed, her predicament bringing on a flood of tears to her eyes as she faced the crowd and the cause of her humiliation.
Swiftly She got up from her seat. The mesmerised audience let out a collective gasp, as striding up the stage, She whipped off her stole and bending over the hapless girl put it around her shoulders, helping her to her feet and waving her on towards the dressing rooms, in one fluid motion.
The showing that day got a prolonged applause. With a slight smile on her face and a graceful wave of her hand, She left the hall. She had always been the diva, from that day She also became the darling of the press.
Amongst her close friends She counted the glitterati of the world. Cricketeers, Playboys, playwrites, authors, Hollywood and bollywood greats, often jetted into her home. She espoused many a charity, and with her name backing them, many a fashion house prospered too.
The biggest fahion house in Mumbai was showing their winter collection that night. All eyes turned to the door, as She strode in, husband in her wake, and was shown to the front row reserved entirely for her. Visibly excited, the young model strutting on stage was wearing a creation that was flimsy, but billowed behind her. Turning to acknowledge the doyen of society was not part of her walk, but who could help her instinctive reaction, the tripping of her heels as she careened across the stage, her dress slipping down her front, exposing far more than was desired. The model lay on the stage transfixed, her predicament bringing on a flood of tears to her eyes as she faced the crowd and the cause of her humiliation.
Swiftly She got up from her seat. The mesmerised audience let out a collective gasp, as striding up the stage, She whipped off her stole and bending over the hapless girl put it around her shoulders, helping her to her feet and waving her on towards the dressing rooms, in one fluid motion.
The showing that day got a prolonged applause. With a slight smile on her face and a graceful wave of her hand, She left the hall. She had always been the diva, from that day She also became the darling of the press.
very nice..thought of something different and it ended differently..
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