Gutter Bar feels strangely bereft of familiar faces. You don't bump into anyone gup-shuppable with as you wander around looking at entries. A handful of us make our subdued way to maharajahs but suddenly the spice seems missing from life. (The Lions aren't coming in as readily either.)
Seems like barring the jury and press, there are hardly any desi boys and girls. But life goes on and so too the festival. Great work wins. Heroes are born. Legends fade away. And alcohol numbs the senses or triggers off the excitement as appropriate to the occasion.
Only I cannot help feeling that the toast is incomplete without a thickly accented voice saying "chalo yaar, daaru-vaaru pilao..." mera Bharat kahaan?
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