The young travel agent said that to Sree in the office of Luxury Tours & Travels and he sounded like a TV compère of a game-show.
Sree, a thirty-year-old handsome man in a well-tailored expensive suit, was inspecting the travel documents placed within a custom-made leather travelling case.
He raised his head to look at the young man. He maintained an impassive face typical of aristocracy. But, he barely managed to suppress the brief smirk that expressed disdain and minor revulsion.
The fare for his trip demanded luxury. The young man’s words; nervous chewing of gum; missing top button and cheap tie; off-the-shelf suit probably used by other staff, too; with all that, the young man appeared sub-standard, if not mocking.
“Where is the reservation for the Ritz?” Sree asked the young man.
The latter made an angry gesture to an unobtrusive secretary. She collected the case in a fluster, went to her desk, inserted the missing document and re-checked the contents. When she returned with the case, Sree asked with an exasperated tone, “Should I check this again?” She tried to apologize but he gave a dismissive wave.
The young man escorted him to an S-class Mercedes Benz even though Sree ignored the other’s presence. A prim and proper chauffeur in a grey uniform opened the rear door for him after greeting him with a polite smile and an obsequious bow.
At the Mumbai international airport, a person was waiting to escort Sree to the special VIP lounge past the security-check zone. He hardly noticed the queues for the economy class and the normal first-class. His baggage, check-in and other requisites would be taken care of, he was informed.
In the lounge, Sree browsed through international journals while a middle-aged man with hennaed beard served him café latte and his choice of snacks. Sree watched that man retire to a corner where he coughed and sneezed a few times after covering his mouth with a handkerchief.
A few minutes later, when the manager of the lounge observed that Sree had not touched his plate or cup, he came to enquire. Sree raised the query, “Do you allow sick people to serve?” The manager apologized before he himself cleared the table and then, served coffee and snacks. Later, discretely but within earshot of Sree, the manager admonished the middle-aged man and told him to take off for the rest of the day.
In the plane, an air steward attended to his needs and helped him settle in the luxury first-class cabin. It was in an area above the normal first-class.
When he went to the toilet, after his first meal, he noticed an air hostess guiding a young boy from the toilets in this section to the lower-classes below. Sree raised an eyebrow at the lady. His steward who appeared then berated her for her lapse. In this class, luxury was not supposed to accommodate mere or dire necessities or even base comforts. She tried to explain some plausible reason for bringing the boy there due to urgency and crowded toilets below but Sree silenced her with a slow look from head to toe pausing at her breast to study her nameplate and her name, Anu.
At London, a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost took him to the Hotel Ritz. Apart from this chauffeur-driven car he also had a Jaguar or a Bugatti at his disposal, he was informed, for driving on his own to the country or elsewhere. At the hotel, he was assigned a suite and a butler. The front office manager escorted him to the lift, “Sir, if there is anything you need, please let us know.”
Dinner on that first day was a black-tie affair. There, he was joined by his companion, a beautiful 23-year-old named Susannah. She was in a two-piece ensemble with a silk blouse and a full satin skirt and it complemented his dinner suit very well.
He was there for four nights and five days. Private auctions and exhibitions, special shows at Museums, concerts for the select few; splurging at boutiques, even allowing a brief stroll with the common in Soho and Oxford Street before moving to the comforting spaces of Mayfair; a dinner at some manor hosted by a business tycoon, an exhibition match for charity with the top tennis players; and, a speedy trip to the Mediterranean, to gamble and party, with her by his side.
Hectic but refreshing, and when it was time to leave, the first class journey seemed like it had never started.
xxx
On the sixth day, Sree got back to Mumbai around noon, the return journey by economy class. There was no one waiting to receive him. He collected his luggage from the carousel, waited in the long line at immigration and stood near the exit, watching people enter taxis and big cars or being greeted by loved ones.
A man, with rolled-up long sleeves and khakis, standing next to a tempo-van in the Parking Area waved at him. Sree pushed his trolley to the van and loaded the luggage on his own. The man got in after him at the rear. There were two long-seats facing each other and Sree sat opposite to the man. A young woman, the man’s colleague, sat next to Sree.
The young woman said to Sree, “We have got the reports from everywhere. You have put on a good show!”
“Thank you, Miss.” Sree replied.
“Please sign this form,” he was told.
The form, on the letterhead of a well-known company, contained:
“We thank you for participating in this research program to help us understand better the adaptability of millions of upwardly-mobile luxury-aspiring people in this country.
We are extremely pleased that you fitted well in the new environment and responded correctly to situations and irritants.
Your services are hereby terminated and as reward for successful completion as per terms and conditions of the program, we give you one lakh rupees.”
Below that, Sree added, “Received with thanks.” He signed at the bottom.
The man then gave him a plastic cover with his own old clothes and shoes. Sree changed into those, put the clothes that he had worn in that plastic bag and handed it back to the man. The man went through an inventory and checked if Sree had returned everything. Then, the man gave him a thin bundle with 100 thousand-rupee notes.
Sree was dropped near his crowded Co-operative Housing Society in Kalina. His father used to work at the airport and most of his neighbours were airport or airline employees.
On the way to his house, he met a middle-aged man with hennaed beard. Sree stooped and touched his feet, “Baba, forgive me.”
“Your father explained everything to me a few days back. I am just sad that you had to do something like that.” They hugged each other with affection.
Sree then proceeded to his house. His mother and siblings greeted him quietly in the small front room. His father kept his head down and barely acknowledged his arrival. Sree slipped the bundle of notes into his mother’s hands. “We can now settle the loan and avoid foreclosure; we have at least that,” Sree told her.
His girl-friend, who had not changed her air hostess uniform after that day’s shift, was standing near the kitchen. She brought him a glass of water. He drank the water, kept the glass on the rickety dining table and told her, “Let’s go out.” They left the house together. He borrowed his friend’s motorcycle and they went to a park at Powai, a reasonably luxurious far-away place for them.
“Anu, I am sorry. I had to be a jerk. It was all or nothing.”
“It’s ok, Sree. I understand. You had to do it, right?”
“Bloody toilet, bloody first-class, bloody luxury…”
They sat quietly, holding each other. He then lay on the grass with his head on her lap. He caressed her face. She lowered her head and kissed him. After a while, she asked,
“Sree, did you…you...women…?” It sounded like a pleading.
“One…Susa…” Anu kept her hand over his mouth not letting him complete. He could have lied, he knew. But, she would have known, he thought.
Anu tried to hold back her tears and she avoided looking at him. But, she held him tighter. He buried his head against her young body, crying out of shame. Was that shame for participating in that program or was it for enjoying the trip, he was not sure.
He wondered if Anu would ever forget it or even forgive him. He knew that they would continue to love each other, marry and live together.
Time might heal or if that cliché failed, he felt that they will try to remember all the good things and try to forget all the bad things. And, some of those things will be common, he hoped.
It may even turn out to be a first class travel.
Author’s note: This is fiction. The author has twisted the existing luxury of real places to suit the non-existing needs of his fantasy.
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