The bright morning sun could not take away the chillness of the crisp mountain breeze swollen with the woody freshness of cypress leaves. Tourists in tees, shorts, and fancy western dresses were overflowing on the narrow roads. They smiled standing close to the trees, flowers, name boards and every other little thing they thought unique to the hill station in a desperate hurry to capture them in their mobile cameras. They forgot to enjoy the sights with their eyes and store them in their memories. 

The old colonial structure housing a prestigious club of the elite in the heart of town was likewise not spared. Travellers posed for selfies with the building in the backdrop. The security made a stern look dissuading them from venturing into the premises.

“Mr Narayanan asked me to meet him here,” I told the guard. 

“There he is,” he said, pointing towards a top-end sedan parked in the lawn of the club house.

A tall slim man who looked fit for his age emerged from the car. What struck me most was the mismatch between the real persona and the image the name had created. He wore his three-piece suit to perfection. His formal black shoes that glistened, his perfectly made necktie tucked into the vest, his brooch styled after the British crown on the lapel of his coat, for a moment, transported me to a ballroom. His hair was immaculately cut with each strand gelled to another. The closely shaven visage and manicured fingernails could impress anyone. He looked every bit an English gentleman, but anachronistic to a milieu where hundreds of tourists thronged the streets in their casual best.

He clasped my hand in a tight grip while his face turned pink with warmth and excitement. A certain energy beyond his age emanated from him and passed on to me. “I am extremely glad you paid a visit,” he said.

“The pleasure is mine.”  

He invited me into the club house. “This was built in the 1800’s by the British who would retreat to this hill from the hot sultry weather of Chennai. The structure was strongly built to stay for centuries.”  As he pointed towards a plush sofa with the pride of a privileged member of the club, I took a wide look at the large wooden beams and pillars of the British era construction. 

“While we talk about freedom struggle and British invasion, we forget the fact that the British have made several contributions in our path towards modernity,” he said. “Look at this hill station. The flora — the Cypress trees, eucalyptus, wattle, acacia, pine and tea are among the vestiges of the colonial era. Balsam, petunia, begonia are just a few among the flowering plants that make this hill station exotic. They painstakingly brought each plant and each seed in their ships from the other side of the globe.”

“From uniting the country to leading it in the path of industrialisation, their contributions cannot be dismissed.” I nodded my head without getting into a debate. “They brought a train up this hill from the plains. We won’t dare do that even today.”

“And this was a club they let Indians in since inception.” His appreciation for what he thought a privilege was immense. “Shall I order tea for you?” He chose to cash that privilege in the form of tea.

He gestured to the waiter to take orders. A few minutes later the manager of the club came closer. “Sorry to interrupt. Can I have a word with you,” she asked him.

“Please excuse me for a second,” Mr. Narayanan said as he walked behind her towards the office. 

When he came back, he looked disturbed and embarrassed. “I am extremely sorry. They have a dress code issue. Can we move into another room?” He bent his back a bit and whispered, “My apologies.”     

I became aware of my appearance. I wore a blue tee, grey track pants, and two-strap slides. My face displayed stubbles that had sprouted after the previous day’s shave. I was carrying a cheap transparent plastic bag filled with a bunch of carrots freshly bought from a street vendor. I had not made any attempt to ape an English gentleman to enter these premises. 

“No worries,” I did not feel inadequate. Instead, I tried to make him feel at ease.

He took me to an adjacent room, which looked like an enclosed corridor. An old wooden table painted with cheap yellow-coloured varnish and a long wooden bench were squeezed into the narrow room. His face remained pale with embarrassment. The waiter brought tea in two glass tumblers similar to the ones used by street-side vendors. He placed the tea on the table and left. I sipped the tea, which was unusually strong for me. My host looked at the tumbler with contempt and refused to touch it. As soon as I finished the tea, he got up and made a phone call. 

“My daughter and grandson are coming today from London for a fortnight-long holiday,” he said. 

“Oh! Hope you are not late. I shall take leave now,” I got up and shook his hands. His grip was no longer firm, and he lacked the enthusiasm with which he greeted me some time before. I walked past the gate and looked back once again at the British relic.