The Opposition accuses the Prime Minister of frequent delinquency from the capital, but even if you take Mr Narendra Modi out of New Delhi, you can't take New Delhi out of him. Take his recent accommodations at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York. The hotel abuts the touristy part of Central Park with such familiar attractions as cycle rickshaw rides at $3 a minute, and horse-drawn carriages with the stench of equine poo that might urge our leader to ask POTUS to launch a Swachh New York campaign. If he does, Mr Modi will have my vote - not that he cares a whit what I think.
My own hotel nestles between Waldorf-Astoria and The Plaza, and while humbler than both, it shares their common predicament: horse excrement. In the warm September air, you could be excused for thinking you've wandered into the President's Bodyguard lines for the pungent odour that visitors politely describe as "ripe" when what they mean is "noxious"? Exiting the perfumed lobby of the hotel, through its revolving doors, the faecal air assaults you; it's one thing to feel nostalgic about home, another to have it waft into your face.
The Astoria has its share of history and, no doubt, Indian glitterati, for it was here that Aishwarya Rai-starrer The Pink Panther was filmed (also Maid in Manhattan, but do we really care to watch a movie about room service, even if it's set in the hotel that first introduced room service?). Hollywood's best and brightest have always kept it company, right from Katherine Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe and Zsa Zsa Gabor (who married Conrad Hilton, who later bought the hotel, and Paris Hilton grew up in its marble corridors) to John Wayne, Gregory Peck, Spencer Tracy and Frank Sinatra. Others have included Henry Kissinger, Fidel Castro, gangster 'Bugsy' Siegel, the Dalai Lama, the world's longest reigning monarch Queen Elizabeth II, sundry royals from Japan, Thailand, Norway, Jordan, Egypt, Denmark and Monaco and, now, Modi and his Pakistani counterpart, Nawaz Sharif. Last week, bored of my usual sundowner at Harry's Bar, I decided to add my name to the Astoria's glittering roster.
I didn't check-in, of course - room rents have skyrocketed in the wake of New York Fashion Week and the UN General Assembly - but opted for a cocktail at its masculine Bull and Bear. Modi might have approved, even though he isn't in favour of the occasional tot, and would be appalled by the house speciality, its steaks, though I have it on highest authority that American cows aren't holy. Even so, I forbore the well-done for a classic Manhattan: vermouth, bourbon and bitters stirred (but not shaken, to prevent the alcohol from 'bruising') over ice and topped with a cherry. I also refused the Astoria's other blandishments, whether its dated Waldorf salad (diced red skinned apples, celery, mayonnaise and walnuts, even though there is now a lo-cal version that replaces mayonnaise with yoghurt), or Thousand island dressing (mayonnaise with ketchup - fine dining, American style!).
I don't imagine the Prime Minister opted for the hotel's make-up facility for men at its Guerlain spa, nor had the time for the fitness centre, or enjoyed the walking proximity to Broadway, Times Square (where he enjoyed his rockstar reception on a previous visit) or the Fifth Avenue shops. But with the increasingly weakening rupee, I'd like to draw Mr Modi's attention to the small matter of high prices at the Angelo Galasso store at The Plaza. At those amounts, Mr Prime Minister, and given our conversion rate, do we still need to smell the dung?
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