The Delhi High Court, in a fit of post-colonial conscience, is threatening to pull the plug on the Gymkhana Club, a hallowed institution where the ghosts of empire still polish their monocles. This isn't just any club, you see. It’s a place where the cognac flows like the Thames and the waiters have perfected the art of the deferential sneer.
The club, founded in 1913 when being British meant never having to say you’re sorry, now faces eviction from its prime real estate because its lease has expired and the government wants it back. But the club’s members, a grimly determined bunch of retired brigadiers and sundry nostalgists, are fighting with the ferocity of a cornered badger. They claim the club is ‘cultural heritage,’ which in the lexicon of privilege translates to ‘we got here first, damnit.
’ The case has all the elements of a cracking farce: simmering class resentment, bureaucratic foot-dragging, and a faint whiff of scandal involving unpaid dues and allegations of corruption. My sources (a tipsy ex-member and a disgruntled server) whisper of secret compartments in the panelling where old tea-stained memsahibs stored their grievances. One can almost hear the ghostly echo of a clipped voice saying, ‘One does not simply evict the Raj.
’ But reality, that tiresome intruder, has other plans. The land is worth a fortune, and the government, never one to miss a payday, is sharpening its legal pencils. Meanwhile, the club’s defenders are assembling a defence so baroque it would make a Byzantine emperor blush: they’ve dusted off obscure land grants, argued about the sanctity of gentlemen’s agreements, and even tried to claim that shutting down the club would trigger a diplomatic incident with Britain.
(Because nothing says ‘special relationship’ like a bunch of old buffers defending their right to shuffle around in tweed.) The judge, a man with the weary patience of a saint trapped in a lift with a drunk, has set a date for the final hearing. Prepare for the most undignified spectacle since the British tried to keep the colonies.
The Gymkhana Club, like a hedge fund manager facing a tax audit, is about to discover that the sun has finally set on its empire of entitlement. And I, for one, will be raising a glass of warm gin to its imminent, long-overdue demise.
