I’ve recently returned from a trip to India. Like most fine wines, I had in all honesty expected my journeys there to improve with age. However, I soon realised that there’s a fine balance between luxury travel and ‘luxury’ travel. The world has changed considerably, but should we always expect to have our expectations met and how can we tell if they’re too high in the first place?

Trips to India while we were children felt like trips to a strange alien landscape. I should have appreciated that we were a small percentage of Britons that actually went as far as the third world on their summer holidays – there was a sort of glamour to this to begin with (just replace images of poverty with those of exoticism). India’s landscape before the economic changes of Manmohan Singh’s recent government felt wild and dangerous. The streets were full of strangers you couldn’t speak to, you’d never know where the nearest western toilet was and and ‘NO!’ you mustn’t drink the water. The rich were very rich and the poor were everywhere.

Spring forwards about ten years and we’re in a very different India, but can I now convince myself that I’m living in the lap of luxury, as is often insisted? And how exactly should this be defined?

As we exited a shiny gleaming Terminal 3 at Indira Gandhi Airport I realised that the soldiers with guns in a dark vast hall had long gone, this was now the polite client-facing India. On we went, though before I could mention Namaste – we were thrown head first into a world of air-conditioning and malls. Of course it’s nicely convenient that these little bits of western culture had been quietly festering away in India and are having their moment – but hold on, my own taste-of-India itinerary was lagging behind. Forget this, just give me old school glamour; I’d like a cocktail on a veranda under a fan overlooking some Udaipur wilderness.

Never mind, I’ll appreciate what I can get. It’s always nice feeling like you’re actually super-rich for a moment. However, my interpretation of what this meant was wildly different from everyone else’s. In London, when does one have the time to sit around for bespoke tailoring for example? In India – a moment of luxury for me was spending some quality time with a tailor – detailing the intricacies of the shirts, dressing gowns and pyjamas that I wanted. Where else could I find printed patterns that could compete, or rise above, the likes of Etro and Paul Smith? At this point, a relative pointed out I should be going to a mall instead. ‘Why?’ I wondered. The malls are currently demonstrating globally saturated trend for plaid shirts, which cost the same, if not more, than the ones back home. The tailor on the other hand is not only offering me his time and service, but leaving me with a garment that is totally unique that I’ll keep for years. The discussion ceased at this point, but it was exemplary of all the others that followed: I was encouraged to go for branded labels; but again, I didn’t understand why this would be so important. Yes, in some way you can associate labels with luxury – but all I saw was another way that burgeoning middle class was finding a means of segregating itself further.

Naturally there were plenty of joyous moments on the trip, and I look back on it with great nostalgia. Ultimately – one comes to realise that when you’re traveling with others – things are always a little trickier. There are fine balances to be drawn with people’s hospitality which need to be delicately managed. There are some wins and some losses. On this occasion, the losses included missing out on lunch at the Cecil Oberoi in Simla – but then we got to spend Diwali with the extended family and see how it’s celebrated in India, which was a sort of magic all its own.

As I clutched my copy of Conde Nast Traveller (India Special) every night. I looked longingly at the glossy pages of cutting-edge hotels, spa treatments and fancy restaurants. I was somehow so close, yet so far. In Delhi, I read rave reviews about the new Oberoi in Gurgaon, but we were offered accommodation elsewhere and stayed at a lodge reserved for Punjabi officers and officials visiting Delhi. Again, not what I’d hoped for, but an altogether new experience.

Following every trip, I always wonder what’s next, what have I learnt that can be carried forward? In this spirit, I recently visited the Conde Nast Luxury Travel Fair at London’s Olympia to see what the market was offering.

As expected, this was a neatly put together affair, with exhibitors and their representatives from all over the world all presenting their corner of paradise. I wondered who might be travelling to these far flung destinations and what was defined as luxury. Everything seemed to be offered for the right price from the Northern Lights to jungle spas. Of course this was to be expected – but what I was eager to learn – was how exhibitors defined their interpretation of luxury and how this compared to my trip. Essentially this boiled down to a few simple things:

Comfort. All human beings love to rest when rest is required. This needn’t involve lots of money – but as we know – space is limited and thus becomes a commodity based on the country’s size. ‘What a lovely cottage you have’ one aunt remarked when she saw our London home. In India – the rate of development is threatening the rural idyll – but as long as the government realises that following a period of great industrial growth – economies move onto rely on hospitality and tertiary services – then I’m sure this will come into effect. Of course it should be sooner. As tourists, we often paid a higher price for entry into parks and places of national interest – though technically unfair, we were happy to offer what we could to maintain the country’s heritage.

Access. There’s no knowing when you want that massage or bowl of custard at 3am in the morning. Most of us put up with the cultural laws of the country we’re visiting, but if it loads-a-money you’re spending – then yes – you can set the rules. As long as someone is willing to abide by them.

Worry. Some say this is part of the enjoyment. Though really, I’d like to be pleasantly surprised that an itinerary has somehow magically appeared before me. Cost? Travel? No need to worry about that – someone else will sort it out for you. You just say what you like.

Admittedly, people will find their own version of these things. And as the travel industry develops more things will become accessible. Just as budget travel has made it easier for more people to travel – so too has the opportunity for people access the things they once thought beyond reach, like swimming with dolphins for instance. However, like with any secret club, the moment everyone can start doing the same things as you – you don’t want to do them any more. I suppose there’s a elite group of trailblazers re-defining the boundaries of extreme luxury as we speak. As some of us save for the Orient Express – they’ll be sipping cocktails on the moon. As such, some things will always remain aspirational – though that can be a good thing. One must always have something to look forward to. Sadly for me, the cheaper air travel becomes – the more it seems to me that my legs are growing. I can’t seem to sit in the back of a plane any more. My next target is to make sleeping horizontally on a plane an expectation, not a luxury.

Photo credit: mysticindia.co.uk

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I hate buses. I would rather spread a Times of India near the toilet and sit on it in a sleeper class compartment all night without reservation than travel overnight in a Volvo bus where they give complementary mineral water. I am like that!

Airplanes are buses that fly which makes the experience a lot worse. The whole excitement of embarking on a new journey usually dies a premature death on the way to the airport latest by Security Check.

Trains on the other hand are wonderful. The ride is consistently smooth. We can roam around or lie down comfortably or stand by the door. We get to see the beautiful country side, meet interesting fellow passengers or just sit by the window and read a book, share food and life stories with interesting strangers and a lot more! Okay, that was the best case scenario in a train journey. But, let’s face it. Not all train journeys are that magical. Here is how an average train journey is…

The Five Minutes of Hope

All Indian males aged 17 – 29 almost religiously practice this ritual. Five Minutes of Hope symbolizes one of the ultimate Indian fantasies – (No, not Savita Bhabi) Falling in love with a hot girl you meet in the train! It has happened in a couple of movies but other than that, no one has ever seen that happen.

The ritual starts exactly five minutes before boarding the train when the Indian Male realizes that the probability of meeting a hot girl in the train and falling in love with her is non-zero. This non-zero probability, even if it is one in 10 billion, excites the Indian Male.

He floats in a dream sequence imagining how he could do the whole “How I met your mother” thing with his children. The ritual ends when the Indian Male looks at the reservation chart pasted near the entrance only to find some old people and other Indian Males like him in the vicinity of his seat.

Reservation

I am sure you must have noticed while you were traveling overnight in sleeper class that people around you have dinner as soon as it gets dark and by 7:30 in the evening the middle berths would be up, the lights would be off and most of your fellow passengers would be pre-snoring. (Proving that if you take the TV out of the equation, we’re all still cavemen)

One time, it was only 7 PM and a fellow traveler, M54 wanted the middle berth up! Mildly peeved at the prospect of having the middle berth hanging on my head all evening, I once asked him how he managed to sleep so much and so early.

He replied, “Look son, when I bought a sleeper class ticket, I reserved the whole berth. I want to utilize it fully”.

I tried to explain that his reservation has been fully “utilized” the moment the Oriya chap sitting in his seat graciously made place for him as soon as he entered the compartment with a reserved ticket!

“I don’t want to waste my reservation”, he sternly replied.

It is very hard to argue against the Indian Paisa Vasool logic. The gentleman was hell bent on treating reservation like real estate that needs to be fenced and protected. India must be the only country where reservation can be “wasted”. By 7:40PM, everyone in the compartment was ready to sleep! May be that is the reason why the compartment is aptly named “Sleeper Class”.

The Kindly Adjust Family

The Kindly-Adjust family consists of the father M33, mother F29, two kids – M6, F3 and grandma F61. And the whole family put together has one confirmed berth! But they’re a family and this is India where family comes first. Social protocol dictates that you renounce your berth rights, go stand near the door and “kindly-adjust”!

M33 rushed in carrying a lot of luggage and ordered everyone to move their legs keenly scanning for space to put the luggage. He pulled out a huge suitcase from underneath the berth and asked, “Whose is this?”

“Mine!” I replied.

M33 gave me a brief condescending stink eye for using up almost half of the space under the seat. Yes, a how-can-someone-bring-so-much-luggage stink eye coming from a person who brought 12 pieces of luggage, 4 extra people and a huge bag of grain that is too big to fit under any seat!

F29 being the good Indian wife she is, obediently stood behind her husband carrying little F3 in her arms, occasionally criticizing M33’s sub-optimal utilization of limited luggage storage space. F61 agreed with F29’s opinion from which I inferred that F61 is F29’s mother and not mother-in-law as I previously assumed.

Meanwhile M6 being charming little fellow he is, has already started plotting an Occupy Window Seat campaign. The window seat – after all is his legitimate right by virtue of being small and only six. With such nefarious designs in his little mind, he approached me with his most innocent face and asked in his most innocent tone what book I was reading trying to strike a conversation.

Five minutes later he was sitting on my lap looking out of the window and waving to strangers. Who knows, he has probably set his eyes upon his next conquest already – the chocolate bar in my bag!

The rest of the family sat on the opposite berth while other co-passengers did the needful and “kindly adjusted”.

The Train Traveling Wife

Right opposite to my lower berth sat F27, a young mother traveling with her baby probably going back to her husband after a brief stay at her parents’. Traveling alone with the baby, the parents and the husband are naturally concerned about F27. The end result of this concern is an incoming phone call every 10 minutes from the husband who asks her which station has passed by and if the baby is still asleep.

I can’t say much about the stations but the baby would’ve been fast asleep (instead of going “wuah wuah *sniff* *sniff* wuah wuah” on an infinite loop) had the father refrained from obsessively calling to enquire about her well being or had the mother possessed enough common sense to put her mobile in silent mode. (Parenting Tip: Even babies hate listening to the same ring tone every ten minutes!)

Motherhood being such a demanding task probably left F27 too tired. She too, like the rest of the sleeper class people of the country, fell asleep by 7:30PM probably dreaming about her doting husband who would come to receive them next morning without brushing his teeth wearing a sleepy face, an unkempt beard, an old T-shirt and unwashed shorts swinging his bike/car keys impatiently with his index finger eager to carry luggage while nursing that hangover from his brief stint at bachelorhood after such a long time.

The Lonely Techie

M26 is found in the trains only on Friday nights and Sunday nights. All his journeys are short weekend trips to his hometown from Bangalore/Hyderabad where he is a software dude. No one knows when M26 got into the train. No one knows much about M26 because he rarely interacts with his fellow travelers.

But what we know is that as soon as he enters the train, he tiptoes his way onto his upper berth (the preferred berth of choice) with his laptop bag (which also contains weekend clothes stuffed into it) and sits there alone.

The moment the train leaves the station, M26 begins to feel bored and restless with the dull pace of life. M26 is a very private person with his own private Internet connection. He opens his laptop, connects to his office VPN and checks email once again. After the usual status updates on Facebook and Twitter, he moves on to checking out the girls from various matrimonial sites his father has shortlisted for him. This activity bores him too. After all this is what he has done in the office all day!

M26 is restless again. This time he takes out his earphones and continues to the watch that latest (pirated camera-print) movie he has left midway last night. This goes on for about an hour after which his laptop’s battery gives up. He curses the laptop, eats the pantry car made egg biryani and starts forwarding goodnight SMSes before falling asleep.

If it is a day journey, he gets down with his DSLR camera with extra large lens and heads to the door. He carefully chooses his spot and begins to click the cows, the trees, the fields and occasionally, some poor people who live in the slums along the tracks in black and white mode!

M26 doesn’t get the results he desired because the moment usually passes by the time he finds the button to set the f-number. After pondering for a while, he declares that sunlight is not appropriate for photography and retires to his upper berth and begins to take a few pictures of his own fingers in macro mode. Satisfied with the results this time, he packs his camera back carefully waiting to get back home and upload them on Facebook so that his friends can “Like” it.

M26 is one of the few people to have mastered the art of traveling in sleeper class without making eye contact with anyone!

The Sound of Music

Note: For best results, imagine David Attenborough reading this out for you.

Out there on the side-lower berth is The Dude. The Dude is no ordinary dude. He is the remarkable DesiDude. Unique to the heartland of this country, DesiDude usually spends most his travel time (literally) hanging out (at the door) with fellow DediDudes feeling the fresh air, enjoying the scenery and occasionally passing comments on girls who use the toilet.

But this particular DesiDude was traveling alone. He realizes that there is little he could do at the door without his mates. Luckily DesiDude has his very desi-looking Chinese mobile phone with questionable battery life and extra loud speakers. And so the DesiDude volunteers to be the TJ (T for Train) for the evening.

Life as the TJ doesn’t come easy this time of the day. DediDude now faces the daunting task of livening up the evening for his fellow sleeper class citizens. DesiDude is fully aware of the calculated risk he has taken. One wrong song and he’ll have to face the deadly stares of his irritated co-passengers – a mistake that could cost him his (cell phone’s battery) life.

DesiDude starts off slow and careful belting out sad “melodies” from the eighties and early nineties sung by an exceptionally high pitched female voice and/or Kumar Sanu. The cheap speakers resonate in the melody producing a dull buzz in the background which sort of makes it up for the complete lack of bass. As he gains confidence with each song, DesiDude carefully moves the playlist into his favorite genre – the latest Dhink Chak Gult hits!

Photo credit: Daniele Sartori

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Every night for the past nearly three years, I’ve gone to sleep with the rumble of the Arabian Sea churning and breaking a short distance away. Goa aside, surf beaches aren’t the image most people associate with India, but Papanasam Beach is at the centre of most things that happen in Varkala, from its centuries of importance to the Hindu faith to the attraction it holds for tourists. Papanasam is also Varkala’s most accurate symbol. Its violence is concealed beneath rolling, mesmerizing waves, sweeping in over and over, ready to dump you into the sandy floor or carry you a mile out to sea without hesitation.

Varkala’s like that. It’s in a constant state of transition, with new tourists flocking in every year and fresh waves of Nepalis, Tibetans, Kashmiris, Tamilians to serve them beer and fish. The clash between traditional village mentality and looser modern mores is illustrated every time a mundu passes a bikini in the streets. Every year there are a couple more restaurants, a few more guest houses. Every year old family homes get torn down and new ones put up in their place.

Strangely, however, Varkala remains as stagnant as it is ever-changing. Visitors rarely look deeper than the surface. The locals have things set up so that they will retain as much power over the land and the economy as possible. They know that if they truly opened up the tourist economy to outsiders they’d be buried under the weight of quality competition, so they insure their assets with that status quo of constant change. Anyone who comes in and gets a little bit bigger than is deemed acceptable will be hit with chopped power cables, live snakes at the door and – if necessary – open threats of violence. Anyone’s welcome, as long as they leave.

If that all sounds like a paradox, well, that’s because Varkala is as conflicted a place as I’ve yet known. It’s gorgeous and ugly; peaceful and unruly; welcoming and threatening; spiritual and debased.

Papanasam holds the key. It’s an immensely holy beach for Hindus, visited by millions of pilgrims every year. Its name means ‘destruction of sins’; its purpose is to wash away the sins of the living and the dead. Whoever has been good or bad, be they Dalit or Brahmin, all are equal in the waves at Papanasam under the watchful eyes of the gods.

Papanasam, therefore, wasn’t brought to life by a sudden influx of tourists at the end of the 20th century. It was there long before there were people with money and people without, before visitors or locals. Its ebbing and flowing tide was witnessed only by faithful Hindus, who sanctified it with their prayers. Perhaps its religious significance was pre-ordained by the gods, or perhaps it was simply bundled with an ancient Hindu priest’s assignment to build a temple near the sea in south Kerala.

Whatever the case, Papanasam has played its required role for each visitor for a very long time – first as the purger of misdeeds, both yours and your late uncle’s, and then as a Westernised pit stop where visitors to India can sunbathe naked without too much fear. At a glance, this culture clash appears to have blossomed into an oddly comfortable alliance – just like Papanasam’s deceptive waves look harmless. With such a gulf in values, however – thousands of years of tradition versus a few backpacker days in the sun – there’s an uneasiness that’s always ready to spill over into a flashpoint. There are a few ‘incidents’ every year.

And there’s the beauty of it. Drink, smoke, fornicate, assault, whatever; a quick dip in Papanasam’s waters will clear your rap sheet upstairs. The very thing that created the entire Varkala contradiction is also the force that keeps it in some sort of balance. (Just don’t get carried out to sea by that vicious undertow.)

I do love Varkala. It’s given me a home for three memorable, often difficult, always exciting years. I’ve made a few close friends (though like anything else here, they’ve come and gone). It’s worked its way into my thoughts to the point that I will never be able to consign it to the past. But if there’s one memory I’ll look back on about Varkala, it’ll be lying awake at night and listening to that Papanasam surf, unable to decide whether the rumble is soothing or unsettling.

Photo credit: Thejas Panarkandy

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It was my first night ever in Mumbai, and the distinct spicy-sweet taste of Bachelorr’s chilli ice-cream lingered in my mouth as the Gateway of India loomed into view. My hosts had decided a late evening tour of South Mumbai would be more palatable to a Mumbai newbie than braving it during the daytime rush, and how right they were: at night the Gateway was majestic, lit elegantly from all angles and a far more impressive feat of architecture than photographs had led me to believe. Wellington Pier was almost deserted, and the great arch’s silent grandeur gave the scene an almost tranquil atmosphere – at least until we walked to the base of the Gateway, and found a high security fence forming an ugly wall around it.

This was in early December 2010, just over two years since the terror attacks in South Mumbai that have become known as 26/11. Not such a long time, really. “Imagine, they came right up through here,” said Isha, looking through the arch to the harbour on the other side. “And over there,” said Jag, pointing off to the left at a small mooring on the edge of the concrete expanse. It was, in fact, very difficult to imagine. I’ve never had to deal with any kind of large-scale violence in my life; my only frames of reference for gun-toting commandos on the charge come from television news and action films.

My own lack of experience may have influenced my perception of this relatively quiet night scene, but perhaps more relevant is Mumbai’s long history of violence. Even in the last ten years, during which one might imagine a city as ever-changing as Mumbai might have gained a high percentage of its current residents, Mumbai has witnessed several separate terrorist attacks. This is a city better equipped than maybe any other in the whole world – at least mentally – to clean up and move on after a bombing or a shooting. Part of me finds this to be, if not a direct acceptance of terrorism, the sad reality of people that have to live and deal with it on a regular basis. On the night, with the constancy of the Gateway above me, my pessimistic side lost out to an admiration for the power of humans to both pick themselves up when they’re down and adequately remember a most upsetting event.

Right across the road from the Gateway, that ability to carry on undaunted was in full evidence at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. Here was a building that was ravaged by bullet holes and falling bodies just two years before; this night, it stood completely refurbished and bore no indication that something so dark had ever happened inside. I find the interior even a little banal, with a lobby like a multiplex reception hall and a seemingly airbrushed-green pool garden. Objectively, I found the Gateway a much more impressive combination of weathered existence and architectural glory; the Taj felt somewhat artificial, but I had to admire the achievement of bringing it back to such a standard within two years.

There was nothing banal about the other patrons, though. If they weren’t genuinely important, they were sure dressed to appear so: all gowns, black ties and hairdos, with glittering makeup and expensive shoes to match. Now that I’d understood the swiftness with which Mumbai could reboot after a major terrorist attack, I was witnessing the pace of everyday life among its elite. Local businessmen walked swiftly with foreign clients, the foreigners no doubt on a whirlwind stay, the locals probably entertaining their third client of the week. I felt increasingly out of place; after all, what was I? Nothing more than a villager in the big city, who had somehow gained access to the most exclusive building in town wearing a t-shirt and rubber sandals.

Having completed our own whistle-stop tour of Colaba, it was time to head home. Off-putting though the crush of the overdressed wealthy had been, I was extremely impressed with Mumbai as seen through its major landmarks. Apart from a single wire fence, the scars of 26/11 didn’t really show on either the Gateway of India or the Taj Palace. Over the course of my stay, I came to feel that in Mumbai, all the action around you – whatever form it may take – need not affect you; provided a little good fortune, you can set your own pace of life. Regardless, I pray that its residents don’t have to face such horrors again.

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Step aside Bollywood: the most intriguing, removed-from-reality, everything-and-the-kitchen-sink film effort out of India this year comes from Kerala. And it’s only three minutes long. ‘Your Moment is Waiting’, a new promotional video for the state, had a gala premiere in London in September and was shown before cinema screenings of ‘Eat Pray Love’. I can only imagine that those who went to that film found it difficult to focus on Julia Roberts finding her true self after the quite extraordinary images of ‘Your Moment is Waiting’, for it is a bafflingly surreal experience and completely arresting – something truly unique in an increasingly bland advertising landscape.

After a few viewings, I think I understood it, though it really doesn’t seem appropriate for a tourism promo. Many are no doubt still unsure as to what it all means. In the interests of our common understanding, here’s my how-to guide for ‘Your Moment is Waiting’.

It begins with a gold-tinged scene of a waterway at dawn. Burnt-out husks of dead trees rise from the water like the Devil’s fingers – and after more than ten seconds, one of them moves! The landscape is alive! Run for your lives! It is in fact a humanoid figure, long-legged and brandishing a spear. There are no signs that it will be aggressive, but one senses that it might become so at any moment.
WHAT THIS MEANS: Welcome to Kerala.

We then meet the film’s central figure, a dark-skinned woman (played by Swedish model Miriam Ilorah) with a striking African-looking face and her eyes closed. She lies face-up on a massage table, but to plant us firmly in an off-kilter world, the camera is flipped so that we see her upside down, as if she is suspended on the underside of the table. Two more shots show off Ilorah’s whole body and a close-up of her face, now right side up and looking serene. Presumably she has just received Ayurvedic treatment.
WHAT THIS MEANS: You’re not in [insert foreign country here] any more, madam – this is Kerala, and while you might feel calm now, you have no idea what’s in store for you.

Suddenly, Ilorah is transported to some tufts of grass alongside a river, wearing the same clothes. Without opening her eyes, as if she doesn’t want to see the truth, she curls her body up into the foetal position. Again, she is shown from an upside-down camera angle, the world inverted.
WHAT THIS MEANS: Kerala will make you feel like a child without a mother: lost, confused and upset.

In the next sequence Ilorah has gathered herself and walks calmly between two compound walls. Looking over one, she sees a Kathakali performer practising his movements and facial expressions sans makeup. This is quite charming until he holds his hands up in front of his face, as if to block out the horrors in front of him, then takes them away and grimaces like a baby, with clenched fists wobbling beside his face. Ilorah looks on, her face remaining expressionless.
WHAT THIS MEANS: The local arts are fascinating, but even a clearly experienced artist is still a little freaked out by his surroundings.

Posed delicately in a canoe, Ilorah meanders through Kerala’s backwaters as another canoe approaches – in which a double of herself rides. They look into each other’s eyes as they pass, faces still somehow motionless. The scenery is beautiful but the camera stays focused on the twin Ilorahs, the palm trees and glistening water all blurry in the background.
WHAT THIS MEANS: After some time in Kerala, nothing – not even being duplicated into two bodies – will surprise you any more; also, this is NOT a film about Kerala but a film about one person’s odyssey into the unknown.

In the forest now, a long-haired person sits cross-legged – hands bound – on the ground, head shaking wildly as drummers tap out a fast beat and a large group of men in lungis look on. The scene appears to be an exorcism. At its close the person is revealed to be Ilorah, still apparently unmoved judging by her flat lips and eyebrows, and a group of children look on with similar apathy.
WHAT THIS MEANS: Ayurveda isn’t the only form of body cleansing in Kerala, though in order to experience this unusual method you may need to be kidnapped and taken to a remote forest area.

A most bizarre set of images follows. Theyyam artists are given close-ups in sequence: one gyrating (for an almost subliminal half-second), one sitting completely immobile, and a third jabbering in tongues into Ilorah’s ear. Their costumes and makeup remind one of those 16^th Century depictions of the nine circles of Hell. Naturally, Ilorah STILL shows no emotion. A wide shot shows all three Theyyam artists, Ilorah sitting with her arms crossed against her chest – kind of a ‘do not want’ pose – and… a stray dog, who looks positively thrilled.
WHAT THIS MEANS: Kerala District Tourism Corporation hired David Lynch and Lars von Trier to collaborate on this promo. (It was actually Prakash Varma, but this scene is almost directly out of von Trier’s Antichrist.)

The final scene sees Ilorah, whose customary blank face has taken on the qualities of a mask to shelter her from the world, caressing an elephant in a stream with sunlight glinting through the surrounding trees. As she rests her head against its trunk, the images are filtered through a brown wash so that everything is more or less the same brown or grey colour.
WHAT THIS MEANS: Having finally turned to pachyderms as opposed to people, Ilorah merges with the landscape, her personality long since stripped away.

A title card appears. ‘YOUR MOMENT is WAITING’.
WHAT THIS MEANS: This is what awaits you in Kerala. Those tickets to Bali are probably looking pretty good right now, right?

Photo credit: Rajesh Vijayarajan

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Have money, will travel. Until recently, this maxim applied to only a select few resident Indians, but as India wakes up to (and even begins to influence) the juggernaut of globalisation, more and more upwardly mobile citizens have the means to escape the everyday. Many are doing exactly that – and doing so in style. Luxury travel is no longer the preserve of maharajas and land barons, and as the traveller demographic opens up, so too do the farthest reaches of the globe in welcome.

It wasn’t always like this. Centuries ago there was little concept of luxury travel in India; those who had money had farcical amounts of it, and might have kept a palace in each of the locations they most enjoyed. The British then came and built forts and luxury accommodations primarily for themselves which, over time, became increasingly used by India’s growing elite. For these travellers, travel was less about exploration and more about simply escaping the everyday – as this excellent article in Time points out – and they took with them the food, habits and comforts of their own particular culture, be it Bengali, Gujarati or Punjabi, with them. As this elite class swelled gradually in size through the 20^th Century, Indian tourists were generally confined to their own borders due to the prohibitive cost of international travel. In any case, that preference for one’s own culture meant that most folks wouldn’t really be interested in seeing the Eiffel Tower anyway, especially if they had to eat French food afterwards.

As the world became better connected, a new set of destinations all over the world opened up, and in the last ten years, intense competition within the airline industry has seen an exponential increase in the number of flights in and out of the major metros and an accompanying decrease in cost. In addition, the influx of Western-style media into India has given birth to a new breed of globalised Indian citizen clad head-to-toe in label clothing and inundated with images of foreign countries – both by the raft of cable channels beamed from abroad, and by Bollywood films shot there. While elite domestic resorts like the Park Hyatt in Goa and the Leela in Kovalam still attract more Indian guests than foreigners, for many the cultural attitude towards travelling has reversed: the familiar is boring, let’s go somewhere different.

High-end travel agencies make these voyages into the unknown considerably less daunting. The Indian travel agency may not have completely moved beyond the one phone line/one photocopier/one surly proprietor model, but alongside those ramshackle establishments are agencies that really will manage everything for you. With groups like Kuoni/SOTC, Cox & Kings and Thomas Cook, the flight, the hotel bookings, the sightseeing day trips and the places to eat are all calculated and arranged down to the minute. This is exactly the kind of organisation foreign visitors to India tend to avoid, but wealthy Indians are often accustomed to having their life set up just the way they like it, and while ‘on tour’ they equally expect everything to run like clockwork.

So, what are some common destinations? It depends upon one’s main reason for travelling. If it’s just to escape the heat (or cold), that stunning scenery behind Shah Rukh Khan or Kareena Kapoor in the latest Bollywood blockbuster is always popular, with places such as the Swiss Alps or New Zealand on every travel agent’s list of tours. Trendy businessmen might opt for a shopping weekend in London, for even though they can buy expensive suits back home, they can’t duplicate that exclusive feeling of stepping into a London boutique. For families, well-known holiday spots like Paris, Los Angeles and Sydney appeal for their safety, ease of navigation, availability of high-end shopping outlets – and, of course, for the fact that they are easily recognisable to friends and colleagues back home. Stories of Machu Picchu’s grandeur may register little more than a raised eyebrow, but a photo with Captain Jack Sparrow at Universal Studios is almost guaranteed to impress.

That age-old desire to flaunt more wealth and status than your neighbour ties into another growing sector of the luxury travel market: weddings. Shifting your son’s or daughter’s wedding to foreign country is still a rare thing, but if you can manage it, you’ll be the talk of the town. This from the Wall Street Journal tells of nuptials in Macau and Bangkok and bills of up to USD$5 million – that’s over 22 crore rupees – with nearly a thousand guests flown from India, along with full catering staff and a host of top entertainers. The location is not chosen only for a hotel’s willingness to submit to the parents’ lofty requests, but also for its attractiveness as a tourist destination, which makes doubly certain that all the guests will return home with nothing but good things to say.

Put simply, Indians embarking on luxury travel are no longer satisfied with the attractions of Rajasthan, Goa or the Himalayas. Globalisation has brought foreign travel destinations within much closer financial, logistic and cultural reach for modernised Indians. Most still go for the recognition factor of the world’s best-known spots, but the spirit of adventure has been planted. There’s a saying in Kerala that even if you go to the Moon, you will find a Malayali; when the first commercial space shuttles are launched, it wouldn’t be at all surprising to see a group of Indians at the head of the queue.

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Only three weeks after landing in India there I was trundling off to Pondicherry, officially known as Puducherry, for a reunion with some old friends. We hardly spent any time in Chennai before catching the East Coast Road, or ECR as it is commonly known. As we made progress the landscape transformed from urban sprawl to coconut trees leaning lovingly against each other on stunning sandy beaches. Stopping for water at a small shack we smiled as the smell of the sea wafted into the car. We were almost there…almost at Pondicherry, the seaside town that was known for it’s Indo-French style and seaside bliss.

As we jumped out from the haven of an air-conditioned car, a warm, smiling reception was accompanied by a sudden blast of heat. Heads reeling from the sudden and extreme change in temperature, we clambered on to the buggy that was waiting to take us on a grand tour of our eco-friendly resort. Organic farms crowded with bleating goats lined the dusty unpaved path that ran through the resort grounds. The buggy eventually pulled up to a Bamboo cottage, our home for the next few days. It seemed that we were in for a serious sojourn with nature.

Entering the cottage we marveled at the thatched roof and commended the complete absence of synthetic materials. The usual shampoo sachets that most travelers like to pocket were creatively packaged in glass bottles with wooden stoppers. We lauded the effort even though we knew we would be unable to take them away! Outside the cottage cycles were provided for the guests to use within the grounds of the resort. I was beginning to wonder if this would be a holiday but certain that the weekend would be a healthy one. We jumped on for a quick ride, only to stop soon after for a swim in the pool. And then it was time to explore the rest of this charming town.

Driving down the famous Promenade beach we got a dekko of the waves rolling in as young couples, braving the sun, walked hand in hand down the coast. Overlooking the Promenade are beautiful colonial buildings that would not look out of place on the French Riviera. Their wrought iron balconies the perfect vantage point to gaze at the sea. Foreign tourists look conspicuous with their heavy backpacks and flowery cotton pajamas. They seek refuge from the balmy temperatures at the famous Gandhi statue and browse through their travel guides. We decide to drive down and sample the local French fare but our timing could not have been worse. It’s Sunday and most of the renowned joints are filled with ravenous travelers. “No Space ma, waiting time one hour!” the friendly mustachioed watchman exclaimed with a delightful Tamil twang. We shrugged and walked on to Café De Flore, a quaint little al fresco eatery surrounded by tall white pillars. The menu was in French and luckily one of us was fluent in the language. My friend ably gave our orders to a man who looked like he stepped off a Kollywood movie set with swarthy skin, a thick mustache and a smile proudly displaying dazzling white teeth. Yet another example of just how harmoniously two cultures, Tamil and French, have blended with each other. Something I hope that the rest of the country would someday take note of and then emulate.

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Varkala’s cliff area is essentially a lawless zone, a modern-day Deadwood. Okay, perhaps that’s stretching it, but compared to Bangalore with its strictly policed 11:30pm curfew, The Cliff is debauchery incarnate. In traditional-minded Kerala, Varkala is a strange outpost of Western freedoms – a sort of tiny imitation Goa – and the contrast with its surroundings is marked. Bodies lie strewn about the place, some of them topless; people flirt openly and flaunt their sexuality; alcoholic beverages are consumed; someone over there may even be sparking up a joint. And that’s just the beach.

If you live here, straddling the two cultures becomes a constant balancing act (there are many stories to come on this subject, in addition the ones you can already find on The NRI), and you get to be quite good at it. Most of the time I am Barns, the office saip, travelling on the train in the mornings and evenings and talking about the weather with my elderly neighbour. You can’t escape your roots, though, and with this little place that looks and feels a bit like home just minutes’ walk away from where you live, sometimes the mania gets to be a bit much and you just have to go out and let your hair down for a night. This is the story of one of those nights.

As usual, it began with a spur-of-the-moment decision. “Let’s go dancing,” said my girlfriend one fine Saturday evening in May, and I was on the phone ordering a rickshaw within seconds. None available? No problem. It was a reasonably cool night, so we could walk without having to arrive at the party drenched with sweat. After throwing clothes around the room trying to find something Western that wasn’t growing mould in a drawer – funny how you can systematically desi-fy your wardrobe here without even realising it – we were away.

Our destination was The Funky Art Cafe. Funky is generally the place to be in Varkala – it’s relatively spacious, plays whatever music you want, and tends to stay open the latest. Quite how they became so well-established is a question many people along the cliff are willing to answer, though no two stories are exactly the same… of course, that could be true of any story told there. When we arrived, we were greeted by M & M, two inseparable young waiters who could get you anything you want if, of course, you happened to want it. Just keep one eye out for the police. Beer and dancing was enough contraband for us, so after the obligatory “Why you are not coming here long time?! Tomorrow also you come!”, we took a table and ordered in our first beers.

The magic of getting a look at the Arabian Sea as you walk out onto the cliff path remains a regular delight, but it isn’t until you sit down somewhere with a cool drink that you can really sit down and appreciate it. Night or day, clear or stormy, it’s a sight to behold, and as our newspaper-wrapped Kingfishers arrive, we take a few moments to follow the roll of the sea. The newspaper is for avoiding run-ins with wandering police; at other places, beer is served in a teapot. At first I thought this rather an ineffective means of staving off the lawmen, who would surely know all the tricks. Turns out they do. It’s just that you have to keep up appearances, at least make it look like you’re an upstanding establishment, for the bribes to stick.

An hour later, nobody was dancing. We’d gawked at the more obvious tourists, decked out in accessories, makeup and occasional catty looks, for quite long enough – time to get things rolling. Within a minute of our getting up there, most of the (male) staff and local (male) customers were dancing along with us, trying to get as close to my girlfriend as possible. Thankfully, after a couple of years of living here I’d learnt the tricks: you dance extra close to THEM, make them realise that you’re not one of those wishy-washy types who’ll let an alpha male come up and steal their girl, and say a couple of carefully chosen words to the more persistent ones. Everyone’s cool, you carry on dancing, and inevitably other foreigners join in once they see how much fun it can be.

Hours were lost as we downed a few more drinks and went through the ‘just one more song’ routine a few times. As the clock moved on past midnight, numbers started to dwindle – this being the off season, the energy in the place was good but not good enough to sustain most folks through an all-nighter. Soon, we were sat back down with M & M and a couple of other staff, chatting away about the madness of their lives working here. “I sleep only one hour every night,” one said through a crazed grin. “You know, here is very bad place,” another intoned quietly, before bursting into a high-pitched peal of laughter and adding, “You stay here long time!” If I didn’t know them I might be a little unsettled, but most of these guys are harmless – just kids who wandered into a pleasure-seeking lifestyle and don’t know how to leave it.

Suddenly a murmur spread through the place, building with alarm as it passed from one person to another. The music was cut and the lights killed, replaced with the growing intensity of a policeman’s torch as it approached nearer. There were three of them – two enormous uniforms with purposely intimidating facial hair, and one smaller man, jacketed, with a very loud voice. As soon as the beam of light hit our chairs, the bellowing began. First, a stream of high-decibel Malayalam as the staff rushed around trying to make it look like the party was long since over. He wielded a large stick with gusto as he turned to us and switched to English.

“What sort of time is this? What are you doing here?”

“Just talking with friends-”

“No, no, this is not a proper time. You will go now, please.”

My girlfriend pressed. “Certainly sir, but can you just tell us when is the curfew here?”

Anger rising, he barely gave her a chance to finish. “Madam, you will go now. Please.”

“Of course sir, but we were not aware of any curf-”

He gripped the stick tightly. The veins in his forehead looked ready to burst. “Madam, you will go! Now!”

I ushered us out quickly and quietly. So much for my alpha male skills.

I’m not sure exactly what happened next. Most likely, the three stooges left with a case of beer or a stack of 100-rupee bills and everybody went back and did the same the next day. We, on the other hand, made good our escape back to ‘the real India‘. Throughout ten minutes of walking in the dark we kept our eyes peeled as always, just in case – and made it home without event. And finally, a sigh of relief as the Monday return to work, and to reality, had become a much less unsettling prospect. Still, just as you can’t revolve your life around your daily grind, so too you can’t dance every night away in the separate little universe that is The Cliff. It’s finding the right balance that’s key.

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