Maintain decorum, please

The club is part of our colonial legacy, but if the waiting lists for membership are any indication, it is one we have come to love. The Delhi Gymkhana is so rarefied; it takes half of one’s life to notch up an interview before they say “yeah” or “nay”. Others, such as the Constitution Club, or residential outposts such as Panchsheel Club, don’t exert the same power as, say, India International Centre, or India Habitat Centre — which are not, strictly speaking, clubs, though they have a membership criterion that is just as exclusionary. 

A few years ago, we signed up for membership with a club that must have been less discriminatory for we were in at first shot. Chuffed, we took to arriving every weekend for a couple of laps in the pool, a round (or several) at the bar, exchanging crime thrillers at the library, and packing puddings to take home. It was a convenient place to hang around with friends and their families because it offered a range of recreational facilities not available at restaurants. But club camaraderie is less easily built, especially if the membership does not have a common creed, like the Press Club (which is essentially just a watering hole for the fourth estate). So, its card rooms failed to find bridge players. The snooker room was mostly inactive. Tombola Sundays and rain dances perked up the scene, but over the years the charms of the club ceased to attract us, and our visits became rarer. The librarian’s reminders to return the pile of unreturned books fell on deaf ears. 

At any rate, it was after a while that we summoned up the energy and a few friends to descend on the club for a drink and lunch. We arrived to find several changes had occurred. The reception had been moved closer to the bar, the patisserie had been relocated, and the staff seemed to have resigned en masse or at least none of the familiar faces were on duty. In the past, the bar had been discouraging of large groups, preferring more convivial settings, yet had allowed itself to be cajoled into forming a large circle for a dozen or more to sit together. Now, alas, they seemed more stringent, though we did manage to form a higgledy-piggledy version by combining tables and sofas. The only fly in the ointment was a grumpy member plying his gin-and-tonic who refused to make way for our circle’s girth. Not only did he snub the request, he hectored the club’s staff and even called up the manager to complain loudly about its failure to abide with regulations. 

Peeved, we asked him what his problem was. “You keep out of this, Sir,” he riposted. Even though shouting, he kept a civil tongue in his head. The ladies were referred to as “Ma’am”. He insisted he had no issues with us, only that the management should not have allowed exceptions that went against the spirit of the club. He even took our snide remarks in his stride, remaining seated stoically with his gin while the staff made panicky arrangements to shift us into a party room. Later, his wife came across with a peace offering of freshly baked cookies. Eventually, the two left in his pricey Mercedes sportster, passing us by without a nod in our direction. In a restaurant, shots might have been fired to avenge such dishonour, but in the club only a stiff upper lip marked its pucca inheritance.