It’s sunday morning and my Blackberry’s chiming. It’s Pradeep Hirani. “Hello dear,” he coos. “How’s your fashion week line going? Hope it’s wearable.” What Hirani hopes is that it has lots of gaudy colour, excessive embroidery and busy prints, or else the Juhu memsahibs his swishy store sells to won’t think it’s VFM.

The sad thing about fashion is the people who drive the industry, the people with the big bucks, are not fashionable at all. I hate colour, I hate embroidery. I almost never show it on the runway. But I always make an alternate line, to feed myself and fund my next collection. And Hirani, the country’s biggest fashion spender, is the man we all make money from.

It’s usually my karigars who put the commercial line together. They keep it dressy and safe; Hirani loves it and it’s always sold out. Imagine paying all that dosh for an outfit designed by an embroiderer.

“Yes, it’s all kosher; it’s all in place,” I lie. It’s six weeks to fashion week and I haven’t a thought in my head.

FIVE WEEKS: Inspiration’s been eluding me, and so is Viren, my powder finger. I can’t afford the Columbian stack he’s just brought in, and he won’t supply on IOUs. Not since the Bandra models OD-ed on the stuff, called it fake and refused to pay up the next day. Models need drugs to look skinny. They’ll walk for less money if you hand out the talc. It keeps them awake for the after-show parties and fresh for next morning’s rehearsals.

... contd.