The tale of Agnes, Steak and Caramel Custard

“Yes Madam, can I help you”, the clerk at the reception asked her.

She had just entered the magnanimously imposing structure of the Head Office of Imperial Bank. She was frail with a recognizable hunch which was clear evidence of her eighty something years on this earth. She was dressed in a floral printed skirt with a white blouse which had frayed with innumerable washes. She carried a small plastic basket along with her polished leather handbag. A scarf fluttered whenever the high powered revolving fan threw a gust of air towards her.

“Anybody walks into this office these days”, the clerk thought while he continued to smile at her. Her appearance was not imposing by any standards and thus gave him no reasons to entertain her more than necessary. “Can I help you Madam”, he said again.

Removing her spectacles and keeping the basket on the desk in front of her she politely moved her lips, “I wish to meet Raghav Mehra”. The clerk almost burst into a sarcastic laugh, but then he did not wish to be impolite. “Do you have an appointment? Mr. Mehra is a very busy man”, his sarcasm was now completely evident. She gave him a blank stare which showed her disappointment. She continued to stare at him for a positive reaction, which made him all the more uncomfortable.

“I am sorry; In that case I won’t be able to help you then. Mr. Mehra would not be available without an appointment”, his words were giving her a signal to close the conversation and walk out. She picked up her basket and turned around. Her face was drained and all one could read in it was a melancholic expression. The clerk breathed a sigh of relief. “What a pain”, he thought as he went back to his work.

But his apparent ordeal was yet to end. The lady retraced her steps and put the basket on the desk again. Slowly she muttered in hope, “Could you please tell him that Agnes wishes to see him. I saw his photograph in the newspaper today and wanted to see him. Maybe he will find some time”. This irritated the clerk. With no options he dialed a number which was fresh in his memory and spoke into it before he put down the receiver.

“Could you please sit on the sofas over there. I have called his office. They said they will call back in a moment”, he raised his hands to show a line of sofas behind her. A few people were sitting on them. All were visitors who were waiting to meet Bankers at Imperial Bank. Some were nervous, some irritated while some gave out no expressions at all. The old lady found herself a seat in the corner and waited for the moment she was looking forward to. It did not take long.
The clerk hurried to her with an “ear to ear” smile. There were movements around the reception. A well dressed man also came quickly towards her. “Is she the visitor”, he asked the clerk. At his nod he addressed her, “Hello Madam, myself Krishan Kumar, Protocol Officer. Nice to meet you. Chairman Sahib is coming downstairs to receive you”. Agnes gave him a blank stare. Either she hadn’t expected his sudden change in behaviour or maybe Kumar’s “murder” of the language made her numb. It was difficult to say. All around her she could feel that the attention had shifted to her. People were referring to her in hushed up tones. Why had she suddenly become important?

Suddenly she saw that a few people had gathered around the line of elevators. One of them opened and a man with authority came out. He was in his mid-fifties and he oozed of power. Dressed in a grey pinstripe suit he walked up to Agnes in a hurry. There were so many feelings visible on his face- surprise, restlessness, happiness and not to mention, a smile. “Nothing has changed about him”, Agnes thought, “the same face, just a bit wrinkled with age, a smile that still had the same innocence, as it was thirty five years ago, hair that had become thinner and had turned grey. But the same walk”.

“Agnes, how are you”, he said as he hugged her. People beside him smiled. Such reactions were not expected from Raghav Mehra, the Chairman of Imperial Bank,an organization that had the ability to influence the nation. An orderly took the basket and followed them as she slowly accompanied him to the elevator that would take him to his plush office on the 37th floor of the building.

The reception’s telephone rang. A known voice asked the clerk “has somebody by the name Agnes D’Cunha arrived”? The phone clicked after it had got the necessary information. Then the phone rang again, and again, and again for the same reason. The clerk was flustered. What is so important about this frail lady that more than a dozen top executives of the Bank were enquiring about her?

Darshan Banerjee was surprised to see his boss Hitesh Mishra smiling. Mishra, Country Head of Treasury Operations at Imperial Bank was known to be a fellow who never smiled. Today he grinned as he left his office. Banerjee dialed into the intercom and called up a colleague, “Meeesraaaa is smiling”, he said into the phone.

There were similar occurrences in other departments as well. “Old Men” were acting like “young probationers”. The Executive lift (available to Senior Vice-Presidents and above) was constantly doing rounds to the 37th floor. Protocol went for a toss. The chairman’s secretariat was wondering who this Agnes was, who had broken all hierarchy in Imperial Bank. The Chairman’s office was crowded with people. Senior Vice-Presidents, Country heads, one Vice-Chairman and the Chairman himself. Extra chairs had to be sent in to accommodate twenty nine executives who were sitting with the old frail lady.

“Order some tea with chocolate cup cakes” Varun Mathur, the Vice-Chairman ordered. “Sir, ensure that you get five for Harirajan, or else he will snatch ours as he did earlier” quipped Sakar Ray, Senior Vice-President of the Human Resources Department. Everybody broke into laughter. People outside the room were still confused as to what was happening. Suddenly somebody found a common link. All the men in the room had joined the bank in the Western Provinces area.

******

“Coming for lunch. Lets gobble up some lunch before the boss comes back”, Diwakar Pandey said to his batch mate Anil Verma. Both of them were probationers at Area Head Office of Imperial Bank. Getting into a conversation, they hurried down the flight of stairs and walked out of the office. After walking almost a kilometer in the sun, they came into a residential area. From a distance they could see a huge man coming towards them.

“Hey Hari, what’s for lunch?” Verma asked the burly man. “Your favourite caramel custard is there kiddo” said Harirajan to his junior colleague.

The board on top of the house said, “Lisboa”. It was originally painted in blue but now could be confused with black. Motorcycles were neatly lined in front of it. Inside the house sat scores of young men and women eating. Both the fellows got inside and found a place. “Agnes, we are here”, they smiled at the lady who moved around the tables with an apron around her and a smile on her face.

“Man, you have lost so much of weight” she looked at Diwakar and said. “Johhnyyyyy…..get baba a bowl of custard” she screamed at one of the stewards. “I will have a steak with potatoes and rice” Anil declared. Everybody was referred to as “baba” or “baby” by Agnes. She nodded in approval before she went to the next table.

“Lisboa” was the house owned by William D’ Cunha. He had arrived in Khudabad, the capital of Western Province just before independence. Western Province was full of textile mills which employed a lot of Christians who came all the way from the Portuguese ruled parts of the country. They came as technicians and settled there. When William lost a hand to a malfunctioning machine and could work no more, his wife Agnes turned the house into an eatery. Initially, Willie (as William was affably known to all) sat on the counter and chatted with customers while he collected the bill. One fine day he died leaving everything to Agnes and their son Thomas. Agnes had run the place well. Imperial Bank and the Police Commissioner’s office were in the vicinity. Officers from both the places frequented the place for steak, roasted meat, cutlets and caramel custard (which was Agnes’ delicacy). Business was brisk.

It was “family” for everybody. Most of the officers had come from various parts of the country and found “Lisboa” a good place to eat and chat. Most stayed in the nearby area of Kamalpur and frequented the place. Agnes knew all of them by their first names. She was like a mother-figure to all the young fellows. Everyone had a “line of credit” which had to be liquidated on the 5th of every month. People who failed to meet the date were allowed access only if they had a valid reason. Once in a while somebody ran off without paying but Agnes did not care. She was not a professional. She cooked, people ate and paid. Jesus was kind to her.

The “Bankwallahs” were a vociferous lot while the “Policewallahs” were quieter. This was contrary to their professions. As most were “regulars”, there was hardly anybody who sat there without company. Couples were to be found chatting over innumerable cups of coffee followed by dinner after office hours before Agnes had to tell them that it was time to go home.

Friednships and love blossomed equally there. When Nilkamal Singh, a Police Service officer got pick pocketed of his salary (imagine what an irony), it was Raghav Mehra who overdraw his account to lend him money. And when Joe Sridhar, another Police Service officer asked Neelima Matthews to marry him, she said yes only on the condition that Joe would bring her twice a week to “Lisboa”. An excited Joe had agreed to all seven days.

Raghav himself had found love at “Lisboa”. It was in the form of Anette Faria, a junior at Imperial Bank. They got acquainted during the “annual closing” in March. He would drop her home after the day. Soon it was innumerable cups of coffee followed by dinner for them. A wedding was a bit tricky for them as they both came from different “faiths”. But love prevailed as in the end as they got married to each other. Agnes gave an “on the house” to the regulars on this occasion. Seven happy years later tragedy struck this beautiful love story. Anette went down to jaundice. At her funeral, Agnes said to a teary Raghav, “Man, if you break down now, she will lose her faith in love.” Raghav never forgot those words. He lived by the memories of Anette. He channelized all his energy to build a future for the two things he loved most after Anette- their son Roshan and Imperial Bank. Roshan went on to become a well-known Cardiologist while Imperial Bank became the largest Bank in Asia.

Years went by. Probationers came and went by. They grew in age, they grew in the organization. Some stayed in touch while some got lost. Every week dozens of postcards and letters came in Agnes’ name. They contained news of weddings, births, promotions, transfers and of course, deaths. Agnes had learnt to live with the realities of life. As she grew older, Thomas started helping her out. He had his mother’s benevolence and was liked by all. “Lisboa” never got a facelift as far as exteriors were concerned, but inside Agnes and Thomas and all its patrons, it was always in “top condition”.

“Let’s have steak with potatoes and rice for lunch. And some Caramel custard too. What do you say Agnes?” Varun Mathur asked. Agnes took out a small tiffin box and smiled, “Am an old woman now Baba, I have brought my lunch. I will eat it before I catch my evening train to Khudabad”. But none of the “babas” would listen to her. Thomas was called and told that his mother will fly to Khudabad the next morning. Lunch was ordered from “The Oriental Lotus”- Suraj Kothari,the Senior Vice- President in charge of Public relations was on good terms with their management. A dinner was organized in the evening at “Kimberley”- the official residence of the Chairman of Imperial Bank. It was time for Agnes to meet the “families”. It was late into the night that old jokes and anecdotes did rounds at “Kimberley”. Agnes was visibly tired and went off to sleep early. The “Babas” and the “Babys” kept chatting late into the night.

Next morning Agnes left for Khudabad. Raghav personally went to the airport and personally took her to the aircraft. After ensuring that the airline had made special arrangements for her and after making a call to Thomas of her safe departure, he came back home.

******

About a year later, Raghav was taking the elevator to his 37th floor office when his cellphone beeped. He saw the message and asked the operator to take him downstairs. He made a few calls. Soon twenty-eight other people came down. Innumerable executives of Imperial Bank attended Agnes’ funeral. Many faces saw each other after decades. Quite a few Khaki-clad gentleman too were present. After the service was over, people offered their condolences to Thomas. Raghav walked up to a burly Sikh in uniform and said, “Nilkamal, I hope your wallet is safe today”. The man laughed aloud and hugged Raghav.

In the evening, when Raghav was dropped at the airport by Azam Bashir, the Area Head of Imperial Bank at Western Province Area, he whispered something in his ear. Bashir knew exactly what to do. Days later when Raghav was flying to Zurich for an international conference, he was served steak and caramel custard on the flight. He asked the air hostess, “could you please give me something else to eat. I have given up eating steak and caramel custard.” Raghav knew they would never taste the same now that Agnes was dead.

******

“Coming for lunch. Lets gobble up some lunch before the boss comes back”, Kabir Pant said to his batch mate Ankit Grover. Both of them were probationers at Area Head Office of Imperial Bank having joined the Bank three months before. Getting into a conversation, they hurried down the flight of stairs and walked out of the office. After walking almost a kilometer in the sun, they came into a residential area. After a few minutes they found the board- “Lisboa”. As they entered, they found many recognizable faces. They wished those faces before sitting down on a table.

“Arnab was telling me that the table on the extreme right is the one on which the Chairman always sat in his younger days. Apparently he dated his wife on that table. And that photograph above the counter is probably of Agnes D’Cunha”, he said.

“What will Baba-log have?” the steward asked them. Both of them gave their orders and continued chatting.

After they walked out post lunch they entered an office next door. It had a well known signboard in blue and green which read, “Imperial Bank, Agnes Mansion Branch”. Azam Bashir had ensured that Agnes became immortal for Imperial Bankers.

P.S. The plot and the characters are figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental.

A Cook’s Broth

“Roasted Lamb steak with peas to be served at number seven. Baron Wolfenson wishes that the meat should be from the right hind leg of the lamb”, shouted the steward to the cook as he hurried out to the dining hall with an order of “fish and chips”.

The kitchen was steamy and moist with the evaporating water in huge vessels. The surroundings were also sticky with particles of cooking fat mixed with steam floating in the air. Stewards were continuously coming in and going out of the kitchen. Voices echoed as cooks were ordered by the stewards. Dishes clattered and made a shrill sound as they made their way into serving trays before going out into the dining hall. Cooks would hurl various ingredients into different kinds of utensils and create dishes that could satiate the taste-buds of any living being.

“The Oriental Lotus” was restaurant known all over London as a symbol of class dining. The ambience was inviting. The décor of the main dining hall was done in a manner which reflected the taste of a man of panache. I t was a well known fact that Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi affably known in the social circles of London as “ Mr. Bakh” persoanlly chose artifacts and fittings from various parts of the world. The chandeliers were chosen personally from the glass works in Venice while the furniture was Burmese teak. The Bone China came on order from potters in Lixang village in Xingjiang, China while cutlery was chosen carefully in Paris. With such an exotic décor it was one of the obvious choices for the elites of London.

The maitre’d and his teams of stewards were carefully chosen by Mr. Bakh and all of them were high on loyalty for their master. They had all joined as apprentices and did odd-man jobs before they rose through the ranks with experience. They knew most of the diners and their families, individual tastes were taken care of (for instance, they knew that Lady Annette of Dover liked raisins in a chocolate pudding while Harold Kaminski, the Russian emissary to the United Kingdom preferred scrambled eggs slightly less cooked). Mr. Bakh was friends with almost all the Patrons. The lotus was in full bloom.

Not only English, but even the Indian nobility and intelligentsia was regular to Mr. Bakh’s place. Maharaja Shauryamangal Singh of Jhapiala State in India preferred sautéed vegetables in butter along with vintage French wine from the house of “Moet et Chandon” (Yes! He is the same Maharaja Shauryamangal Singh of Jhapiala who had bought a fleet of Rolls Royces and dispatched them as garbage collection vans in his state when he was refused one in England. What a man, what a man!). And revolutionaries like Harman Walia, Homi Firzoedaar and Premkumar Sen turned up on Saturdays to savour the “Awadhi Biryani” and “Dhanshak”. India - the jewel in the English crown was feeling slight tremors with a chap called Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi returning to his homeland from South Africa. He had introduced Indians to a new concept called non-cooperation and the whole country had jumped into a movement to claim independence for India. These days the talks in the dining room were mostly of Gandhi and India’s future.

It was destiny that had brought Ram Kotwal to “The Oriental Lotus”. Mr. Bakh was eating at Sir Jamaluddin Khyabji’s house when he liked the way the meat was cut. On enquiries with the butler it was found that the pieces were cut by the “Indian lad” who was recently brought to England with Khyabji as the boy gave good foot massages. Mr. Bakh tipped the emancipated soul a pound and said, “Buy yourself some good clothes”. Those grateful eyes that looked at him said more than a “thank you”. Quietly pocketing the shining coin the boy bowed in salutation. This was the starting of a relationship that lasted a lifetime.

Ram Kotwal was born in Champawat village in the United Provinces of British ruled India. His birth was looked at as a curse by the family- he was unwanted and was conceived by mistake. He was ugly compared to his siblings. He never wanted to work and was always lost in dreams. Now this was not an asset for a boy who was born in a family of thirteen children and whose father was a daily wager. Initially christened Kaalu Singh because of his wheatish complexion in a household full of fair children, he started calling himself Ram because he felt that a decent name was the pre-requisite to making it “big” in life. Kotwal was added to his name later by Sir Jamaluddin Khyabji when Ram single-handedly chased away burglars from his estate with a stick and mimicking sounds of bullets fired from a rifle.

Sir Khyabji was travelling to the “Duns” when his car got stuck in a huge pothole. Kaalu Singh was loitering nearby when he saw the aristocrat in trouble. Without being asked, he started pushing the car. Although the ten year-old boy’s efforts yielded no results (later some villagers got together and pushed the car out), Sir Khyabji knew that the boy was of “use”. He called the boy and said, “You have two options. Either you take this two-rupee note for your effort or you can come with me”. The boy thought for a while and said,”Saheb, where should I sit?” On Sir Khyabji’s gesture, the driver opened the front door and Kaalu Singh got in.

“What is your name?” Sir Khyabji asked. “Ram”, Kaalu Singh replied. This was the end of Kaalu Singh. And thus started the journey of this young fellow from the valleys of Himalayas to the capital of England.

Ram travelled to London aboard “White Derbyshire” (Owned by the Imperial Shipping Co. of Manchester) along with Sir Khyabji and Lady Dilnawaz. He was so loyal to the aged aristocrat that he never left his master. Be it any moment, he was always at the beck and call of his master. His loyalty was unquestionable and his sincerity and devotion towards the family members was admired by all in the household. The eldest of Khyabji next-generation Gustaad used to joke with his father,”Pappa, I want nothing from you except Ram. After you, I should inherit him”.

But fate willed otherwise. The Khyabjis perished aboard “Arizona Star” while crossing the Atlantic to go to Canada. Seven family members died when the liner went down with 200 people aboard. Only Tanaz, the teenage daughter of the Khyabjis who was at a finishing school in Zurich survived. The executors of the Khyabji estate found no use for Ram and threw him out. With his meagre belongings packed in a bundle, he knew where exactly to go.

“Sir, a vagabond wishes to see you. He says you know him. He refuses to go away although we tried to shoo him off”, said Kirpal Singh, the guard to Mr. Bakh.

As Bakh stepped out of his office, he knew who exactly had come to meet him. He sat on a table and gestured for some tea as he asked the burly Sikh to fetch the fellow. When Ram came in Bakh smiled at him. Ram touched his feet and sat down on the floor with his eyes on the bearded Parsi. None of them said anything as Bakh finished his cup of tea while Ram kept looking at him. The clock kept ticking.

“Can you cut meat the way you cut it at Khyabji’s?” Bakh started the conversation. The boy just nodded.

“I won’t pay you any money. You can stay here, eat here and learn here”, Bakh said as he got up. Gesturing to Zuber, one of the waiters, he left the room. Zuber gestured Ram to come with him.

In a short span of time, Ram Kotwal was Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi’s most hard working employee. He was always found working in the kitchen. Although it was his small hands which made him cut meat artistically but with the precision of a surgeon, he never restricted himself to it. He would be found assisting the cooks in their work or he would be learning how to serve from the waiters. Once when he dropped 6 pieces of Bone china while he tried to balance them, Christopher, the maitre’d whacked him with a stick injuring him. When Mr. Bakh heard of the incident, Christopher was sacked and replaced by Alfred Shaw, the Head waiter and personal butler to Mr. Bakh. Mr. Bakh was very clear in his style of business. If at all anybody is to be punished, it would be him who would give the verdict, not anybody else. He was in charge and it should be known to one and all. Alan Cunningham, the new personal butler to Mr. Bakh was asked to train and ready Ram Kotwal for his job as a steward. But before that the boy was to be taken to Dr. Thomson to treat his injuries.

After almost one year of being under Alan, Mr. Bakh asked Ram to get ready for the evening. He was to start his stint as a steward in “The Oriental Lotus”. Ram jumped in excitement when he was told of his apparent “promotion”. Lord Delaware was dining at the restaurant and Ram was to serve table seventeen where the Lord would be seated in the evening. Exactly when the clock struck seven, Lord Delaware strode into the hall with his wife- Helena, The Lady Delaware. Straightening his bow and adjusting his tailcoat, Ram went up to the ageing yet handsome aristocrat and his charming wife and took the orders. An Indian steward was not heard of in those days but reassuring looks for Mr. Bakh from a distance put the couple at ease. After a well served sumptuous meal, the Lord left. He left behind a gleaming silver coin for the “boy”. An ecstatic Ram could not sleep that night.

Soon Ram became one of the popular stewards at “The Oriental Lotus”. His speed and precision and his “eye for intricate details” made customers ask for him. He knew exactly what his regular patrons ate or drank and the ‘minute details’ they expected. Many affluent Indians tried to lure him away but Ram exactly knew where his loyalty lay. He knew that the man who gave him sanctuary during this “impoverished days” can never be forgotten or left. Loyalty was always rewarded and Ram waited for his destiny to find him his place on earth.

The second “Great War” had started. Ram had heard that some German with a small moustache was holding the world to ransom and everybody from the king to two “big men” on both sides of the earth were trying to stop him. In India Gandhi had made it very clear that India would not accept anything else apart from independence to support the King’s war effort. With his limited ability to read and understand and the information caught by his ears from diners, Ram knew that the world was in for some great change.

On day, the news came for which almost 30 million Indians had waited for close to a century. India had become independent. The “Union Jack” had come down and the “Tricolour” was majestically hoisted over the historic Red fort at Delhi. This was the time when Ram felt that it was time to go back to India.

“I want to go back to India”, he said to Mr. Bakh. The master looked up but said nothing. He walked up to the safe, took out some money and put it into Ram hands.

“I knew, there would be a day when you would want to fly out of my nest. A person like you has a much bigger destiny that I can give you here. I am giving you a thousand pounds. May it be of some use to the destiny that you are going to make for yourself” As he said these words, the Parsi walked out of his room giving directions to his staff. Ram knew he was out into the “big bad world on his own”.

It was the chill in December that welcomed Ram in Delhi. The journey wasn’t easy. From England, he took a ship to Bombay. It took him 75 days to reach the Indian coast. With the thousand pounds and his bundle of clothes, Ram Kotwal Bahadur (This was to be his new name he though as he bought his ticket under this name) set foot on his motherland. With no friends or relatives or acquaintances in the city, he roamed around the city aimlessly. He looked at the “Taj Mahal Hotel” opened by a visionary Parsi gentleman and thought, “one day I am going to own such a hotel”.

“Hotel for sale in Shimla. Interested parties may contact….”Ram found this advertisement in a newspaper which he had picked up to sleep on. He did not read anything else. He bought a ticket to Delhi in “Frontier Mail” and started on his journey. The hotel was a rundown place called, “Rosewood Hotel” owned by a Britisher called Ray Balfour who wanted 5000 rupees for it. After convincing him for 4 days, Ram gave him 500 pounds in “British currency” and bought the hotel. Ram finally owned something.

It looked nothing like a hotel. It has twenty-four rooms of which the fourteen on the first floor were gutted in a fire long back. The kitchen looked nothing like the kitchen. The only plus point was the location. The hotel overlooked the city of Shimla. Ram decided that this would be his selling point. After borrowing another thousand pounds from Mr. Bakh, Ram set out to refurbish the hotel. (His letter to him asking for some money as loan came back with a letter and an Englishman. The letter read, “I want two thousand pounds in five years”.)

He knew that he had to be like Mr. Bakh, if he wanted to become big. He started slow and small but his plans were huge. He personally worked with the masons, the carpenters and the plumbers to put the “run down” place back on its feet. Days would pass by fast and Ram feared that if the work was not completed on time before the tourist season started, he may land up in a soup. At night when the world was sleeping, he would quietly watch his dream coming up from a distance and wait for the sun to rise so that he could start working again. The work finally paid off and after 4 months of perseverance (and luckily just before the tourist season) the hotel was ready for the guests.

Ram carefully chose the staff he employed. There were three cooks, and ten stewards. Ram himself donned the role of supervisor. The first guests who came to the hotel were the Mehrotra family from the plains. They stayed for ten days but when the bill was asked for, the family was surprised. They were not charged for anything.

“You are the first patrons of my venture. All I expect is your blessings and wishes”, Ram politely said to the patriarch of the family.

Words from the Mehrotra family reached a lot of people in the plains. “The Rosewood Hotel” became a preferred destination for travelers to the region. Ram always ensured that his guests got something “extra” than what they asked for. Letters and telegrams always arrived well in advance to book occupation. References were made by satisfied guests who appreciated the efforts made by Ram and his team. Ram was getting closer to what he wanted. But he was still far from what he actually desired.

It was through one of his patrons that Ram Kotwal Bahadur came to know that a certain hotel in the national capital was up for sale. When Rams aw the property, he liked it in one go. There were no major changes required and the place could be started immediately. All it would require is a change in the team. The asking price was twenty five thousand rupees. It took Ram countless visits to Banks before a dynamic banker at Imperial Bank of India saw the spark in Ram. “The Derbyshire Hotel” was renamed as “The Rosewood Hotel” and commenced business. A part of the team arrived in Delhi along with Ram a complete turnaround was done with a new team and a new strategy to do business.

Business travelers were the key to the future and Ram understood this quite early. Business was picking up in independent India and he was able to perceive their demands. His acumen to perceive things beforehand was a huge advantage which the “Rosewood Hotels” cashed on heavily.

Ram’s wedding to Sonalika Dewan changed a lot of things in his life. They had been introduced to each other by Inder Chauhan, a common friend and soon romance blossomed. Although she was not the first woman that Ram had known but she was indeed the most elegant that he had ever met. Initially, they used to meet each other “by chance”. Then it shifted to meeting “by convenience” and soon they were meeting out of “sheer necessity”. Ram was driving her around the city on his new “Hindustan 14” or the “Willys Jeep”. Very soon the compatibility rose to such levels that the pot of morning tea to Ram’s room had two cups, sherry & Scotch whisky co habited in his liquor cabinet and even their clothes were laundered together. One morning Ram said to her, “I want a home. Let’s get married”. Lazily she pulled the satin sheets on herself and said in a sleepy voice, “Defer the proposal to dinner. I am not an early morning person”. That evening Sonalika agreed to become Mrs. Ram Kotwal Bahadur.

Sonalika was earlier married to Suresh Rai, a member of the Indian Civil Service who died of malaria while serving in the “Terai”. Barely into her early twenties, she had joined her father’s distillery business where she ably assisted him. The Dewans were one of the leading distillers in the northern part of the country. With popular brands like “Frontier Whisky”,”White Stag Rum” and “Silver Cedar Beer”- their flagship Brand, the Dewans were a known family. When Manoharlal Dewan found his daughter interested in a “self-made” man, he accepted his daughter’s choice and got them married.

Mr. Bakh came to the wedding. Age showed in his constitution, but the straight walk and crisp voice still remained the same. He gave an piece of paper to the couple and said, ”Ram was the son I never had”. The paper was Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi’s will which brught tears into Ram’s eyes. Ram could not have asked for a better gift. The couple spent a month at “The Rosewood Hotel” in Shimla. Sonalika was proud of her husband’s starting point. At the end of the month, Ram Kotwal Bahadur, was a satisfied man who was crazily in love with his bride.

The Dewan’s presented them with a property as a wedding gift which was named “Champawat” in memory of Ram’s village. Initially Sonalika wanted to see her husband’s family but Ram negated it by saying, “Kaalu Singh died long ago”. Sonalika Kotwal Bahadur accepted the void in her life with grace and the couple set up their house in the capital.

Ram was in Rajputana when news came which shook everything inside him. He immediately started for the capital where Sonalika was waiting for him. They boarded a flight which took them to the place where Ram had started his life. Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi had died. Sonalika held her “broke” husband all through the way. She knew that the “strong” Ram was very vulnerable at this particular moment and if she did not support him now, he would crumble. Tears kept rolling down his eyes and he hardly spoke a word. The aircraft was taking eternity to reach London. When the Kotwals arrived in London, Ardeshir-the eldest of the Batliboi children was there to receive them.

After a few days in London where they attended the last rites of Mr. Bakh and Ram showed Sonalika the places where he evolved from, they returned to India. A very important decision was made at London. Ardeshir was a comfortably placed lawyer in the United States who knew nothing about the hotel business. As per Mr. Bakh’s will, the name “The Oriental Lotus” would be inherited by Ram whereas the restaurant would go to Mr. Bakh’s family. So, after discussing a while, they decided on a plan. Ram would keep the “name” as well as the restaurant whereas profits from the restaurant for a period of 25 years would go Ardeshir and his family. Although, it was a totally losing proposition, but Ram accepted it. Had he not accepted it, Ardeshir would have sold the restaurant. Ram could not have let “Mr. Bakh die”.

All the Rosewood Hotels in India were rechristened as, “The Oriental Lotus”. In the coming months, Ram acquired two small hotels in Lucknow and Calcutta at throw away prices. His business strategy was very simple. Look for run down properties at throw away prices. Buy them, rebuild them and take them to glory. In the meanwhile Swarnalata Kotwal Bahadur arrived in this world. At the sight of his daughter, Ram told Sonalika, “I hope to add another hotel with each year of her life”.

But his biggest achievement was yet to come- a hotel in Bombay. Ram’s next course of action was to open a hotel in Bombay- the commercial capital of independent India. He was going beserk at his failure to find a good property in Bombay. He had to wait for four years before he found what he was looking for. The “Frontier Hotels Group” had gone bankrupt and their property, “The Sea horizon” was up for sale. After months of negotiations and the latest “push and pull” of politics, Ram inked the deal.

Ram was walking on the pier overlooking the Arabian Sea that night after the function was over. His mind had innumerable thoughts inside him. He thought of his whole life. From a small place in the valleys, “Kaalu Singh” had come a long way to become Ram Kotwal Bahadur. After a while, Ram walked back into his new hotel. Like all his other hotels, the reception area had the same look. There were pictures of Sir Jamaluddin Khyabji, Bakhtiyar Currimbhoy Batliboi and “The Oriental Lotus” at London. He smiled at them and walked towards the elevator.

As Ram got into the elevator to go to his room, he found an old couple talking about the food. The man said, “The meat in the steak was cut so well, I tipped the waiter ten rupees to give it to the lad who cut it so well. I hope he gives it to him”. When the elevator stpped at their floor and they were stepping out, Ram addressed them, “Sir, I will ensure that the money goes to the lad. A cook’s broth will never go unrewarded”

The couple was puzzled while Ram smiled towards them as the door of the elevator closed.

P.S. The plot and the characters are figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental.

Dedicated to the members of the “Hotel Industry” who are not visible from outside but inside and in reality they are the ones who keep it running.