Delhi, the city that at most times has something for everyone — fails miserably on one count — transportation. While this issue has been oft debated, the government questioned, and many promises made, visitors and residents await a concrete backbone. To say the least, the current state of affairs is embarrassing — a national capital territory with no steady public transport network to speak of? The metro rail — however good and widespread — can never cover the entire city, and the same argument goes for the low-floor bus system.

Some will argue that both these systems will take some time to fall into place, perhaps around the start of the Commonwealth Games — but that is quite besides the point. Why has it taken this long to even get to this point? An effortless basic commute is the least a big city (forget being a globally important capital city) should be able to offer its residents and visitors. And what about those who are willing to pay a little more for an alternate transport to buses and the metro — what about cabs and autorickshaws? On any given evening, practically all cab companies report they don’t have free cars to send, and as far as hailing an auto rickshaw is concerned, oh, well, that is nothing short of a mammoth task. What kind of growth and development do we keep applauding if we cannot even get from one part of the city to another without having to struggle? It’s almost as if you are punished for not owning a car!

Autorickshaws, as we would all have experienced, are troublesome in any city — in Delhi, however, it’s a unique scenario. Not only to they demand a high price for any distance of travel, 60% of the time they flatly refuse to take you anywhere! It almost seems as if their sole destination is either to return home (and you are lucky if your own home falls on the way to theirs), or the CNG station (which on an average takes half an hour to 45 minutes in the queue to fuel up). Infact, it’s more likely that you will find jumping into a bus at peak hour easier than being able to convince an autorickshaw to take you to your destination.

Honestly, I don’t blame the autorickshaw drivers for their standoffish behaviour. Theirs has been a long time rebellion of demanding better rates on the meter which has been far from addressed in a fashion that can put this issue to rest. Instead of tackling the issue of fares head on, the transport department preoccupies itself by introducing schemes such as smart cards which in effect does nothing to solve the basic problem at hand. Officials continue to say the problem will be resolved once they introduce more autos on the road — if only it was that simple!

Time for movie lovers to cheer! After much speculation, ifs and buts, Osian’s annual film festival – Cinefan — opens this Saturday in Delhi. I, for one, am thrilled that the time of the festival has been moved to breezy October from stuffy July, and that the lineup certainly seems more streamlined. There are fewer films this year than the upwards of 100 that are usually selected for screening, and hopefully, a smaller number would mean better quality of films. In the last few years, Cinefan — whether to boost the number of films or to make some filmmakers happy, I don’t know – has screened too many films at too many venues; not all of them good, and some absolutely terrible  — there have been a few that I kicked myself for picking over others that I had to forgo.

While many of us at film festivals are in the habit of watching and leaving, or, in my case, hopping over to the next screening of the day, this year, I may just take it easy and savour some of the interesting panel discussions on offer. Clubbed under the term ‘Osian’s Learning Experience’, the lineup this year (a mix of a bunch from East Europe, a significant number from India, with a focus on ‘new cinema’) will be supplemented by the efforts of filmmaker Mani Kaul (the festival’s newly appointed Director General) and the festival directors to add weight to ‘in depth’ discussions that usually tend to get rather mundane at film festivals. 

But few will turn away from a discussion that will bring together a bunch of exciting filmmakers in Hindi cinema – Vishal Bhardwaj, Anurag Kashyap, Zoya Akhtar, Imtiaz Ali, Raj Kumar Gupta and Dibakar Banerjee will speak on ‘new cinema’ and what makes them part of this supposedly new category of filmmaking. A few film scholars from JNU will also get the opportunity to present a paper on some of the key films at the festival. A varying perspective of this sort from speakers of different scales in the field could make an interesting package. For a film festival to grow and flourish, weaving in concrete material on cinema to heighten curiosity around the subject is important. It’s also good to continue to encourage the audience to raise questions and offer their perspective, because cinema always works best when it is presented as inclusive. A film festival is one of the few platforms that can bridge the gap. 

Oh, and forget not, we’ll also get to see India’s Oscar entry Harishchandrachi Factory and why it made the cut.

My only concern: the festival has introduced a Rs 300 registration fee (including the catalogue) after which tickets to all movies will be free but will have to be collected from the ticket counter on a first-come, first-served basis. In my experience, some of the most sought after films at the festival always go houseful, sold out two days in advance. Cinefan loyals are rather in the habit of paying a minimal or no registration fee and thereafter purchasing tickets for a mere Rs 20. We are talking about an audience here who takes for granted that film festivals and theatre mostly work around the ‘free entry’ approach. Would a relatively high registration fee with no assurance of tickets irk some? We hope not.

People wonder why I’m an ardent fan of this city. And in the height of summer, I wonder, too. But as the months roll by and the city slips out of its seasonal fatigue, the old fondness creeps back in… In the words of Manto, it seems as if “summer and winter have made their peace.” It’s that time of the year again. The mornings are cloudy, noon less so, and then the stuffy afternoons give way to evenings subtle and breezy.

At the height of winter, though, we may miss summer a tiny bit. We’ll barely be able to shed the warm razai in the mornings, or turn off the hot water shower (many will announce they skipped one that day because it’s too cold to bathe everyday). We’ll warm our hands over steaming cups of tea and throw around an extra shawl, just in case. Morning walks will be delayed, but students will still wake while it’s dark outside. Flights will be delayed due to fog, traffic will be slower. But even in dull shades of grey, the city will be brighter than it has been. Artists will spill over to the gardens in magnificent concerts, when musicians come out of hibernation (it works the other way around, yes - in May I asked one of them when he will be in concert next he said he will return to Delhi only once the weather improves). Some outdoor lunches where we’ll prefer picking the sunniest chair, and later, the cozy evening bonfires.

Thousands of baraatis will dance on the road at the big fat North Indian wedding, its loudest in winter. We’ll be lucky if we are not invited to one which will take place on-the-day-of-the-most-number-of-weddings-in-the-city. I look forward to this time in Delhi. It’s when this city is most beautiful.

I must confess, I rather enjoy watching Sach Ka Saamna – the same show that has now been issued with a show cause notice from the government — whenever I happen to catch it. I’m surprised that I’m drawn to it given the circumstances; for television shows have rarely held my interest (Not including reruns of you-know-what…and more recently, The Moment of Truth, the American show on which Sach Ka Saamna is based). I was quite keen to see how the Indian version would be received by the audience. I had assumed, before the show was launched in India, that it would tread the middle path, being carefullly much less explicit in its pattern of questioning than The Moment of Truth. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s gone full-throttle. And judging from TRPs and general buzz around it, the show is a winner — and why not? As viewers, it titillates the voyeristic streak in all of us. And as participants, there perhaps lies hidden relief in not having to put up with pretenses, more so to dare yourself to speak what you will. 

It’s a show of many firsts. For the first time, we are letting to rest our hypocritical ways, declaring Indian society no less promiscuous than any other. For the first time, we admit we are prone to feelings of jealousy, hatred, and resentment towards people we love. For the first time, we announce that there is, after all, a very thin line between what could be known and accepted, and what must be buried and forgotten. For the first time, for many participants, it’s a chance to reveal to their families that this is who they really are – take it or leave it. For the first time, we, the audience is (hopefully), if gradually, are warming up to the fact that perhaps not judging somebody for the way they choose to lead their lives is the best way forward. Live and let live. After all, you can’t be hawing and haaoing at every participant’s past every single show. You get past it. Everybody has their set of truths. Some say it, some don’t. You watch them faced with a troublesome question and sometimes, you can’t help but ask yourself, “What would I reply to that one?” You’re relieved you don’t have to. Then again, would you really mind?

As for the ones who choose to take the hotseat, I refuse to believe they would have plucked up the courage to let “skeletons” tumble out of the closet only for money. For one, there isn’t a 100% guarantee that the polygraph test they conduct before the show will match your answers on the show. So there is always a good chance that you would return home empty-handed, having revealed significant details of your life. It’s safe to assume then, I suppose, that if you didn’t really want to be there for the sake of coming clean, apart from the money – you wouldn’t risk very many relationships and reputation. Either way, it’s refreshing to see those who have appeared on the show till date saying it like it probably is. That’s a far cry from what we do quite by habit, brushing everything under the carpet. (Even if the show is rigged, the participants paid to “reveal shocking truths” to grab eyeballs, well, then, they seem to have readily agreed to accept those truths as their own).

Our MPs, however, taking the high moral ground as always (with zero basis, of course), have much to say in this matter. While it’s not in the least surprising, it is, nevertheless, exasperating, that they should find it necessary waste their time raising a hue and cry in Parliament about the “dirty” content presented on the show. An MP has supposedly called questions such as “Would you have physical contact with another person?”, asked to a married woman, “obscene”. It’s worth putting him on Sach Ka Saamna. In fact, it’s certainly worth putting the entire lot on the show. If only to shut them up. 

A word must be said on just how frustrating travel by air can be these days. Of what use are low-cost airlines, if they make you wish you had taken the Rajdhani instead? Recently, on a short trip to Bombay, my GoAir flight was delayed for more than four hours. I wasn’t, of course, surprised that the airline did not bother to inform us of this prior to our arrival at their airport counter, but I found that a number of passengers had been waiting since early in the day - because their morning GoAir flight had been cancelled and they had been put instead on the evening one. Meagre refreshments were served around 7:30 pm, and a short while later, the flight was announced to be further delayed to sometime after 11 pm that evening (I use the word ‘sometime’ particularly because this airline only seems to believe in using vague terms).

At this announcement, my co-passengers and I marched up to the GoAir duty manager and inquired how, if we were going to land only after 1:30 am, were we expected to travel within Bombay at the unearthly hour? Granted, Bombay is considered a safe city at any hour, even for women, but that was besides the point. We didn’t know our way around the city. Would we be provided transport? And would dinner be arranged for all the passengers? NO, was the big fat reply from the staff, and we were offered completely unhelpful alternatives like a morning flight the next day or a full refund for the ticket. “Ma’am, on a personal level, I agree this treatment is unfair, but on a professional level, I cannot do anything about it,” was the reply from the GoAir duty manager.

A few minutes into this discussion, a few murmurings of protest from the other passengers later, the four of us who were travelling together decided to take this up with the airport authority because clearly, the GoAir staff were washing their hands off the matter.

The idea behind making this fuss obviously went beyond the question of dinner or the cost of one. It was quite evident that neither was the airline concerned that they were at fault, nor were they willing to take any measures to make up for it. Their nonchalance was incredulous. DIAL regulations clearly state that any flight delayed at a mealtime must provide all passengers with a full meal.

The airport authority on duty was, thankfully, extremely helpful and sought the GoAir airport manager for an explanation. When, by way of mention, the airline were told that we - the ones who had spoken up and complained - were journalists - they grudgingly relented just a slight bit - and offered us dinner - ”but only for the four of you.” While 150 other passengers, including a number of children tired of waiting, sat out endlessly without a proper meal or an inkling of when they would actually reach their destination - we were shocked that the airline had the gall to suggest something so outrageous. “Dinner for everyone” was bluntly refused, it’s “just not possible, sorry”. We scoffed at their offer, and told them there was no question of being selective in an issue like this.

Meanwhile, the other journalists travelling with me immediately got on the phone and made a few quick calls which resulted in something good - we were promised by the GoAir Corp Comm head, that dinner would indeed, be arranged for everyone, and transport for the women. But despite an SMS intimation from this lady, we had to check with the staff every few minutes to see what exactly was keeping them from following an order.

We walked around stopping passengers and informing them of the service they could now avail of, because many of them were walking away towards security check without knowing of this change. An almost coerced announcement was sheepishly made a little while later. No wonder their flights nearly never get off the ground. By the time we were airbound, it was midnight. Incidentally, this isn’t an isolated case, for in the past few days I have happened to hear of several complaints against the same airline.

Hey, Mr Wadia, IPL is long over, what’s your excuse now? Perhaps learning from competition would help - Indigo, for one, has never failed to impress in the low-cost sector. In manner of further conciliation, GoAir later sent me a voucher for a discount on a ticket, which I declined with few choice words. I wonder how clever they think it is to be selectively conciliatory.

It wasn’t clear to me why I wanted travel to Benaras for a few days - a filthy, dusty city in this hot weather? But it’s something that just had to be done. I rounded up a couple of friends and we were on our way. I didn’t expect to be bowled over by the place in any case - and so I wasn’t disappointed. Surprised, yes, that in a pilgrim town so rich, with hefty sums coming in from various sources, there is practically no infrastructure to speak of. With it’s dirty ghats and disastrous roads, it’s quite evidently a very forced exotica that cannot be understood by everyone, far less by Indians.

But all isn’t lost here. If there is something that can lift this temple town from the clutches of filth - it is the early morning boat ride along the ghats. Uncharacteristically (to be awake at 5 am) then, I left my friends peacefully sleeping and hurried down the stairs of the hotel, looking around for a boatman. Thankfully, there was one waiting right outside the door and led me down to his boat at Assi ghat. I wondered if I had stepped out too early, will my boat ride end even before the sun rose? Turns out, the timing couldn’t have been better. None of the other tourists were out yet, and there wasn’t a single person along the ghats.

The majhi rowed towards the main Dasashwamedha ghat, and we watched the faint glow in the sky illuminate the clouds. It’s only on this little boat, a safe distance from where the eye can spot the dust and grime, that Benaras looks beautiful. The ghats were perfectly peaceful, the water of the Ganges suddenly appeared cleaner, and the banks dotted with temple tops, every bit as charming as one would have imagined it to be at one time. The stillness was calming, balmy and even refreshing. A good half an hour later, everything suddenly came to life. In a matter of a minute, there were several people pottering around the banks, with a string of boats filled with tourists just like me taking pictures by the second, admiring the rising sun. But I was done, and we rowed back to Assi ghat, away from the hullabaloo.

I had probably taken all I needed from Benaras …but as a happy bonus, the same afternoon proved to be something else altogether. Perhaps it was the repeated mention of Benaras Hindu University in Hindi classes back in middle school that we found ourselves keen to visit the premises. A couple of kilometers into tree-lined roads of the university, we happened to halt in front of the Birla Vishwanath temple. I wasn’t particularly keen to go inside, but wandered into the temple grounds nevertheless in the hope of some quiet under one of the trees in the lawn. And then there was a distant, curious singing - that I followed into the temple. It wasn’t a bhajan, and quite unlike the jagran variety we are so used to in our cities. It was a raga in its pure form, and the voice singing it was wandering and light, but wondrously enchanting. On the second floor of the marble temple, we found, facing the deity, sat a blind, old man, almost a metre away from the microphone, playing the harmonium and singing effortlessly. A younger gentleman, further away, played the tabla. We sat close by with our backs against the temple pillar, closed our eyes and listened. Raga Yaman had never sounded better.

Reluctantly, we stood up to leave when he drew to a close. We gently thanked him, and told him how his voice had moved us. He was surprised, and humbled at the attention and asked us to stay for the prestigious Sankat Mochan music festival that was to begin in the city the same evening. Unfortunately, we were due to leave Benaras that evening, and promised to come another year and hear him sing again. His name was Pandit Ram Lal.

If you haven’t been there already, Orchaa is one place you shouldn’t miss traveling to. It’s practically en route to Khajuraho from Jhansi, 20 km off the highway. Hop onto an early morning Shatabdi from Delhi, and comfortably by noon you will find yourself in Orchaa. It’s a small little non-descript town which was, in the 17th century, a princely state, dotted as it is by hundreds of little chatris, tombs and temples, in a mass of thick green.

The dusty town - as you will make your way through it - opens up to the town square, which is essentially a bunch of little shops - eating joints with worldly menus, cyber cafes teeming with tourists and rather creepy looking massage centres. But fortunately, this isn’t a typical touristy place, locals won’t bother you (most are very helpful and pleasant), it’s safe, and there aren’t that many tourists around. In short, it’s a sweet deal.

A minute away from the buzz of the town lies a bridge that runs across River Betwa, and beyond the bridge you will see the first of the three main palaces of Orchaa looming large. It’s a magnificent sight, really. Walk through the giant gates, and a few steps in, you’ll be standing between the folds of the Raj Mahal and the Jahangir Mahal. While you may have seen a number of forts and palaces in many other towns of India - Orchaa, is Orchha. You’ll know it when you see it.

Nestled quietly in between the two mahals, lies Sheesh Mahal, which has now been turned into a hotel run by the government of Madhya Pradesh. Sheesh Mahal is perhaps the smarted pick to stay here because from every corner of the hotel, you have the grandest possible view of the mystics of Orchha. If on a winter morning you lull over breakfast by the open terrace at Sheesh Mahal, perhaps taking a peek out of a jharoka, eyes widening at sight of Jahangir Mahal on your left, and Raj Mahal to your right - you will surely wonder why you didn’t come here before.

Unfortunately the time when I stopped by Orchha on my way back from Khajuraho, it wasn’t quite winter yet, and predictably the days were more than comfortably warm. While the sun beat down our backs, we continued - as if on a mission - to explore. The palaces were so beautiful that it felt foolish to be sitting in the hotel room waiting for the sun to go down.

In Orchha, there really isn’t much to do other than walk around the greens, discovering hidden chatris and other weathered ruins. Or you can spend the entire day strolling the corridors of the mahals - they are several levels high and more breathtaking with every step. It’s another world altogether and a photographer’s delight. That was my only complaint - with a camera in hand I couldn’t stop taking pictures and wished instead I could let it rest and plonk myself on a bench to take in the rustic glaze. If you’re there in winter, I recommend you take along a book, pick a quiet nook in one of these mahals and park yourself under one of the chatris for a few hours. It’s unlike anything else.

I wouldn’t have been so greatly aware of being vegetarian - and the consequences of it - had it not been for the effect it seems to have on hard-core meat eaters I encounter from time to time. When I gave up eating meat at the age of 11 or 12, it was a plain, matter-of-fact decision that my parents whole-heartedly encouraged even though they were non-vegetarian. If it has now - and in this piece - attained dramatic proportions I would put the blame squarely on the kind of alarmed reactions I have received in this matter.

In fact, I often struggle to remember how I managed to ward off the oh-my-god-how-do-you-stand-being-a-vegetarian looks shot at me through my teenage years, a presumably more delicate age than at the moment. However, it seems worse now than ever. Somehow - and I’m sure many of you non-veggies would know where this is coming from - self-declared meat-lovers just don’t seem to be able to digest that it is wholly possible to enjoy food in all its glory, so to speak, while being vegetarian.

If I have ever suggested that I could eat all day long, or that I love to try out new places to eat, or that I find the idea of food trails extremely exciting - it never really goes down well with the meat-eaters. Their now predictable response is, while scoffing, - “What? How can you claim to ‘love’ food if you don’t eat meat?” If there is a worse question someone can ask me at that seething moment, it is, “So you probably are a big paneer-eater?” For the record, I am not. And not because I don’t like paneer per say, but because I have been stuffed to death with it over the years since it’s considered the next-best thing to chicken everywhere I go.

On days when I am in a pleasant enough mood to explain, I say gently, “I seriously like most vegetables. I enjoy eating and cooking them. I’m not fussy when it comes to the kind that people usually avoid - lauki, tori, saag, kathal.” There is either a resigned sigh at that explanation or a completely unconvinced stare. Not that it would it would bother me ordinarily, but the repeated pity I have received at many-a-meals - from aquaintances to colleagues to those I have met not more than once - has sort of put me in a place where I would rather keep this piece of news to myself. Unless, of course, I’m asked vehemently why I’m not keen on chicken tikka or why Karim’s isn’t on my list of favourite places.

It gets progessively worse. If I happen to mention that I am partly Bengali, then a “You are a Bengali vegetarian???? Goodness, the first I’ve met!” is not an unusual response. And oh, if I go on to point out that I actually like Bengali food, then what-is-Bengali-food-without-its-fish follows. Agreed, fish cooked in Bengali style is delectable, but veggies cooked in Bengali style is NOT a non-entity!

On many occasions, when I was younger, I had even wandered as far as to share why I had turned vegetarian - when asked the usual question - “So are you ‘veg’ by birth or by choice?” I would groan inwardly, and reply, “By choice.” “But whyyyyyy?” Eyes would widen but I would have my answer ready for it had been said several times already, “I prefer to not kill animals” …which would be followed by a heated argument/many sniggers/dismissive gestures of “So animal rights, huh? You know then you should not be eating eggs either….” Which is why I now avoid these discussions altogether. A simple explanation doesn’t do, a longer one gets too tiresome and only takes the flavour out of a meal - for most often neither party is convinced either way. In any case, my intentions have never been to impose my ideas on anyone or try to convince them to give up meat.

In fact, once I was even asked by a friend if I would consider turning non-vegetarian for half the month if he considered not eating meat for the other half. Even if it was meant to be taken lightly, I wasn’t amused and it so happened that we soon fell out of touch. Not that I pick my friends based on what they eat - all of them, I’m happy to declare - are ones who enjoy their greens as much as they do their meat. They graciously, and genuinely, suggest we eat order only vegetarian if we need to share a dish at a restaurant. I’m equally adamant that they order what they wish to and not change their mind because of me - and it is, thankfully, a meal eaten in peace and mutual respect.

And I suppose my woes are also largely balanced out by those who have been pleasantly surprised to find that I haven’t felt the need to reverse my decision, or been seriously tempted to. “Wow, you managed to stay vegetarian for so long?” - “It wasn’t hard at all,” I insist, it isn’t a feat, really, but for the few flashes of tandoori chicken that also eventually faded.

Something that keeps popping up in my head each time I read or hear of racism in a far-away land of the west is how we miss all these signs in Asia, India inclusive. It almost seems a misconception that perhaps staying put on one’s own soil, so to speak, validates your comfortable presence here at all. On the face of it, I am wholeheartedly given to the belief that ‘oh, there’s nothing like being in your own country, that IS where you belong’. Yet, there are far too many times when it all seems a bit blurry. And I’m sure you would agree that it isn’t a reassuring feeling at all. Let me elaborate.

So sometime in the midst of summer of 2008, we were at the beach town of Bentota in Sri Lanka - and Bentota Beach Resort at first sight appeared too good to be true. At the sprawling restaurant of which when we arrived for dinner the same evening, we were escorted to a pre-decided table that bore our room numbers on little placards. Umm, whatever happened to freedom of choice (especially as a paying guest)? I looked back and forth from our assigned table which happened to be right by the buffet spread - to the naturally more appealing ones that were lined by the tall glass windows. Was it just a coincidence that those were all taken up by fellow white travellers? Ok, so it was dark outside and it didn’t matter particularly where we were seated. But it did matter when the next morning - at breakfast time - we were grandly escorted to the very same table again. We noticed once more, that the tables by the windows were occupied only by white guests.

“Uhh, see I would like have a table next to the window, please,” I said to the restaurant manager. How could we not have a view of the beach and glistening waters beyond?

“Sorry, but this is the table reserved for your room,” came the pat reply him.

“Well, I’m sure you have done that with good intention, but this isn’t an examination hall where I need to be seated at the same table everyday. So can I please choose which table suits me best?” I said evenly.

“But those are all reserved,” he replied, unapologetically.

“Well, I see a number of the tables by the window free at the moment, so we would most definitely like to be seated at one of them,” I said more firmly.

“Well, the ones that are not reserved, will have to be accessorized which will take twenty minutes at least,” was the rude reply. Why in heaven’s name would it take 20 minutes to set a table?

The tit-tat went on for a few minutes, after which, grudgingly, almost painfully, a table was arranged by the window for us. Unfortunately, this is just one of the instances of such behaviour at this particular resort.

Somehow, this incident was no competitor to what happened in Jodhpur more recently. We had just arrived at Singhvi Haveli, where we were to stay for the last two days of the year. It was in the heart of the old city, bang next to the Mehrangarh Fort much to our glee. As I made myself comfortable with a cup of tea on the lovely terrace with the view of the great blue city below, my friend came running out of her room that was just above ours. Evidently, she had been marooned for some time on one side of her otherwise spacious room, suitcases on bed, because her bathroom was flooding onto the room. Frazzled, she marched up to the owner of the haveli, and these are bits of the conversation she had with him:

“What is wrong with the bathroom construction that the water is spilling onto the room floor? Can you get this fixed ASAP?” she complained.

“You must have used the bucket to bathe instead of the shower, as our foreign guests usually do,” said the owner knowingly.

“Ugh, what? How the hell should that matter? Why are we even talking about how I want to/did use the bathroom to bathe? That is none of your business,” she said furiously.

“Oh, see that’s why we don’t encourage Indians here. We cater to foreigners,” said the owner.

“Firstly, when we made our advance booking, you never mentioned any such preference. Secondly, I happen to be as much a guest at your hotel as any other paying foreign being,” she said.

“This isn’t a five-star hotel, ma’am. Next, you’ll ask us for a TV. See, we don’t cater to such demands.”

“Whoever asked for a TV? You know perfectly well asking for a functional bathroom while paying more that Rs 1500 for a room is a clearly not unreasonable. I cannot believe you are can behave this way with someone from your own country,” said my friend.

“Ma’am please don’t make a scene. There are other guests around. We’ll try to get your bathroom fixed but in the meanwhile you are welcome to look for another place,” said the owner flatly, knowing fully well being peak season, it would be impossible to find something halfway-decent.

A few days later, I was relating this incident to my father, with whom I had travelled to Jodhpur a decade ago. “Oh,” he said to me, not sounding surprised, “You probably don’t remember, but another haveli we stayed at when we were there told me something very similar when I had complained about something,” he related. “We can do without your recommendation, sir,” - they said to my father - “you see we are looking for foreign guests in any case.”