(From top to bottom): Revellers live it up at Tantra and a pole dancer gets into the groove at the same venue; an action-packed evening at The Taj Bengal; lounge lizards chill out over a drink at the Prince of Cal at Sourav’s; models enjoy a go at the hookah at Shisha — who says Calcutta isn’t catching up!

A city with magic comes alive at night. Like London or New York or Tokyo, Calcutta too rises and shines during its darkest hours. I?m not talking about the vagaries of the hammer and the sickle that?s suddenly gone ?designer?. I?m elucidating on perceptions. And how urban dwellers react to change. Where its denizens go crawling ? or perhaps sashaying and gliding ? when night crawls up without prior warning, reflects the dynamics of a city?s savvy and lifestyle.

Calcutta is no different. It has had a whopping nightlife almost from that stormy, rain-drenched afternoon when Job Charnock left his boot marks on the banks of the Hooghly. He set a trend, actually, smoking his hookah in the open, under a banyan tree. Today, the jetset emulates him by crowding our hookah bars. Not just local smoke bombs or their native boyfriends originally from Rajasthan. But umpteen popular and genuine outsiders as well. Ask Abhishek Bachchan or, for that matter, Rahul Bose.

Going up in smoke is no big deal, baby! The city has done it since times immemorial, when the trendy Begum Johnson threw caution to the winds, married for the fourth time and hosted her private whist parties at her residence near Chowringhee and served up a variety of aromatic tobacco in sexy hubble-bubbles. Or when Raja Nabakrishna Deb of Sovabazzar, a quintessential bon vivant, invited his English acquaintances to lavish celebrations that invariably ended with cigar-sharing and watching performances by stunning nautch girls imported from Lucknow, Murshidabad and Agra.

Today, it?s item numbers, even as the thorn of contention pricks conservative conscience-keepers, digging deeper when local discos resound with the cacophony of Kanta lagaa...! Yesterday, baijees sang tappas and thumris at private soir?es and seduced their audience with a pair of flashing eyes and their charming harkats, crooning Saeeyan, moh se na karo barjori...!

City discos and pubs run full over weekends and remain unrelenting in their unleashing of special events even on busy weekdays. Even clubs have spruced up their act. Entertainment committees now sport young members with fresh ideas. Weekly bar ?nites? are pass?. It?s easier looking for Negar Khan remixed under your sofa. And if sleek pole dancers from East Europe are not your special variety of aphrodisiac, what about Bollywood bimbos imported regularly to get local libidos overflowing? Masti has replaced musty. And how!

Park Street ? that enchanted highway to pleasure ? has been a wonderful, quick-change artiste, adapting to contemporary needs and existing preferences. Take your pick. The bands are still playing, with or without Usha Uthup and Pam Crain. There?s a whole new breed of entertainers strutting their stuff. If you have the time, they certainly have the inclination. Just beware of the sting!

Big spending is certainly ?in? and much of it squandered on nocturnal high jinks. But even as adventure gallops through public eateries, discos, pubs and lounge bars, you don?t have to be a lizard to be noticed. Personal parties have been Calcutta?s forte. And even today the city hosts and boasts some of the most unique entertainment held in private homes. Currently, there are many more options than what Robert Clive would care to remember. His residence at Dum Dum served the best ?goat curry and Madeira? that was followed up with ?an excellent leg of mutton, guinea-fowl?s eggs, potatoes and turnips washed down with a bottle of Rudesheim?. Today, society hosts and hostesses have latched on to single-malts and multiple partners. Yes, it?s great if you can swing both ways. Night shikar is not limited to just Royal Bengal tigers. You could fire with your eyes as well. Much, of course, depends on your preference.

Winter is certainly the season when the city hots up to some of the coolest parties. Nowadays, nobody really cares whether the dress code is strictly red or green. The wooing is subtler. The Raj is over and done with. Yet memories linger. Come Christmas and in some of the old homes waiting to catch the avaricious eyes of wily Sindhi builders, the last set of Mappin and Webb cutlery and the last six Limoges dinner plates are laid to rest on Irish linen. It?s a sit-down, for godsake, even though Mr Chandru Hiranandani is on the guest list, invited to a candlelight repast with his Missus, shimmering in her ?Hang-Kang? synthetic lace sari.

?Can?t sit more than eight at my table,? chimes the hostess. ?But do come on time, darling! Dinner?s at a quarter after nine.?

Like Anne Boleyn?s vulnerable neck, our hostess protects hers with a designer nakshi-kantha scarf, ready to go to the guillotine and give up her mansion to the rapacious Hiranandani as soon as the year is over. But Christmas is here and the goose is getting fat. And she doesn?t yet ? the poor dear ? want to put her last shreds of dignity into Hiranandani?s hat. So, precisely at seven-thirty the guests arrive. Over mulled wine and delicate nibbles the conversation veers towards the good old days. The last of the vintage butlers wait silently but efficiently. The hostess presides. At the table sit another odd couple ? the Sens from Keshab Chandra?s mothballed cupboard ? (?Ayeesha may belong to Jaipore but she?s still very much our girl. Haw! Haw! Haw!?) and a spinster, well past her days of wine and roses. One chair is empty like a false pregnancy.

The food arrives on old silver trays. First comes the potage, all creamed up and potatoed and slightly sour. With the flourish of a matador, Mr Hiranandani unfurls his napkin and tucks it around his neck. Mrs. Sen?s eyebrows take a walk and go looking for her hairline. The hostess diverts attention and points to the last malmaisons in a Ming vase. Perhaps they?ll bleed to death next winter under Hiranandani?s onslaught. Mr Sen can only bark, ?I?ll be damned!? and spill a spoonful of soup all over his shirt. It is time now for the crepes and more mulled wine.

In a sudden spate of inebriated enthusiasm, the mistress of the manor, while it is still hers, produces a rather sullen-looking husband, slightly underdone, and a robust T-bone steak, having checked previously if all her guests are bovine-friendly. Conversation, like the wine, is classic sixties. Mr Sen is disgusted with local politics. He?d rather have the bands back on the bandstand. The spinster drops her saree pallu, slightly tipsy. Mrs. Hiranandani undoes a hairpin and sticks it vigorously between her molars. The candles flicker ominously. But my dears, my dears, Calcutta is still such a vibrant city! Nothing changes here except change!

Next evening, the scene shifts with the speed of summer lightning. Mashaals burn. Diamonds glitter. Ear-pecking is refined into an art. Yes, you?ve guessed it. It?s the big bash at the Jhunjunwallas.

The guests range from the locally trumped up society belle of the hour to the more sedate bureaucrats, diplomats, corporate lions and foxes. A smattering from the world of art and movies makes the crowd fashionably eclectic. A bearded portraitist gives Society Belle a ?come-hither? look. Society Belle, however, is learning the art of not ringing for empty pockets. A little away, the latest Tollywood hero grins at the marvellous tableaux. A corporate Sardarji comes along and winks at Shriman Hero rather saucily. His wife knows about his little forays, yaar. So ki fark pehnda!

Elsewhere on the lawns, where fairy lights twinkle, another charade is being played out over rousing music. The Father of the orchestra is dead and gone. But his musical gifts live on. As the last flourishes of Mozart?s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik are being tenderly described by a spate of violins, Mrs K, high on her sixth Pina Colada, grabs Mrs B?s emerald encrusted wrist. Does the latter want mukti? Peace of mind and chhutkara from her husband?s tortures? Mrs K recommends just the right Reiki course for Mrs B before she becomes more B-minded. Mr K, in the meanwhile, is busy munching dahi kebabs. His grey safari suit stretches severely across his ample paunch. But he is on the verge of doing nakki and saltaoing a business deal. Soon the array of tables start piling up with faux fettuccini and the real fun begins. A spate of bahus who have recently learnt to give up Dhakkai and Jamdani saris for more international classic rich-girl slacker gear invade the scene. In white jeans, Dolce & Gabbana belts, layered Juicy Couture T-shirts and Manolo Blahnik leopardskin flats. Jaws fall below the belly button as the babes get into action!

And you asked, ?Does Calcutta have a nightlife??

Photographs by Rashbehari Das and Pabitra Das