Fast-forward to 2009. You and your spouse live in the city, yuppie careers in high gear. You have two cute kids. November rolls around and it’s time to plan little Parker’s fifth birthday bash. Before you know it, you’ve rented the community room at the golf club you just joined. You’ve had invitations printed up. Now you’ve got to hire the caterer and track down that live animal guy who your neighbour had at her kid’s party last month. Then there’s the piñata, the party favours, and the cake that Parker insists must be in the shape of the Millennium Falcon... Isn’t there a recession going on, people? Then why are kiddy birthday parties so out of control? And this isn’t just an American phenomenon. It’s a global crisis. A few months ago, we moved to India. The American economy was tanking, and my husband was offered a dynamic new job in Delhi. India! How radically different that would be! And how wonderful for our two daughters, who would finally understand that there is a vast world outside the calm, tree-lined streets of Boston’s Back Bay. Delhi is a vibrant international city. At our local grocery store, I can find just about anything the girls might miss: Kraft Mac n’ Cheese, Rice Krispies, Oreos. But at the least, I thought, I had escaped excessive toddler birthday parties. Oh, how naive.

In the three months we’ve lived here, we have attended seven or eight birthdays for the children of upwardly mobile Indians. Toddler birthday party inflation has Delhi firmly in its grip. In fact, the parties of Boston and Newton can’t hold a candle to the epic extravaganzas of Vasant Vihar, New Delhi. Once you enter past the guards and the ushers, through the arcade of balloons, you are greeted by a buffet of Bar Mitzvah-like largess: dim sum, sushi, pasta, salad, Indian food, kiddy junk galore. There are cakes that rise on remote-controlled elevators, lit by rings of sparklers. There are chocolate fondue fountains, ice cream sundae stations, and endless Indian sweets. As for entertainment, the more, the better: elephant, horse, and camel rides; magic shows; face painters; temporary tattoo artists; train rides; fireworks. Each child attends with an entourage: One mother, clad in designer jeans, heels, and shades, her make-up heavy. She makes a beeline for the lounge area where she’ll air-kiss her girlfriends, then gossip for the remainder of the evening. The occasional dad shows up, still in his business suit. Besides the children, it’s the ayahs who constitute the largest segment of the birthday population.

Over the last decade, as India’s economy has boomed, Indian society has seen the emergence of a new entrepreneurial flashy-class. This Mercedes-driving, world-travelling segment is garishly replicating the worst excesses of yuppie life in America: designer T-shirts, SUVs, expensive private schools, elaborate spa treatments, and, of course, extravagant birthday bashes. Their money is fresh, and they flaunt it. When you leave one of these birthday bashes, everyday India assaults your senses: the darkness, the haze, the stench of burning garbage and cow dung. You get in your car, side-stepping a family of squatters by the side of the road. Though they live side-by-side in their slums and mansions, the garbage-picker and the businessman will never exchange ‘Namastes.’  We came to India hoping to expand our children’s worldview. So far, however, the view seems pretty much the same: the rich are getting richer; and the poor, well, they’re still dirt poor. And the birthday parties, they’re extreme.

Kate Darnton is a writer and editor living in New Delhi

©  IHT