Spoiled Rotten

(Published in Time Out Mumbai, November 2006)

As if hauling us down to Germany for the Frankfurt Book Fair wasn’t generous enough, the National Book Trust of India (NBT) issued Business Class tickets to us writers. When my wife and I landed at Frankfurt, we were received by a striking young lady of Bengali descent – my ‘personal assistant’ – one of several German nationals appointed to escort us writers around the city and to ensure that we reached our scheduled readings on time.

A chauffeur-driven car drove us to Hotel Intercontinental, which was to be our address for the next two weeks. Our room on the seventh floor had a view of the River Main. I was warned by my PA that the mini-bar was out of bounds. For someone who thought he had forever bid goodbye to the corporate world and its concomitant perks, I was bewildered by the mere presence of the mini-bar, and the PA, and the plush hotel room. The bedside cabinet had a copy of the Bible and a book titled The Buddha’s Teachings (presumably to ward off pangs of guilt that might assail someone enjoying such luxury at public expense). I settled for the Buddha tome and its message of life as suffering.

The breakfast buffet was served at the hotel’s Signatures Veranda Restaurant from 6:30am to 10am – not enough time to sample the incredible variety of cheese, fruit juices, cereals, breads, eggs, preserves, cookies, meats, pan-cakes, waffles… One felt compelled to overeat if only to prevent wastage of such perfectly good food. As souvenirs for folks back home, I flicked as many mini-jars of honey and jam as my moral threshold would permit.

The best part about breakfast was pausing with a laden plate at the entrance of the dining area, while deciding whom to break bread with. Sahitya-Akademi-Award-winning novelist Amit Chaudhuri and his family, or the bilingual poet Dilip Chitre and his wife Viju? If I ate with Tamil poet Salma, would Telugu poets K Siva Reddy and Shahjahana feel snubbed? Would it be insolent of me – a first time novelist, and an English one, at that – to join Ajeet Cour or UR Ananthmurthy at their tables? And what could I possibly say to distinguished Hindi poet Gagan Gill (after I was dumb enough to ask on the first day if she was NBT director Nuzhat Hassan)?

The Indian government's hospitality stopped short of our clothes. When it came to laundry, the NBT put its foot down and refused to foot the bill. Unsure of how a request for a bucket might be perceived by Room Service, I complained of swollen feet that needed to be soaked in warm water. A vegetable crate was sent up half an hour later. My wife used the shampoo as detergent. By the time I was done draping our wet clothes all over the furniture, the room looked like something we were more used to. We kicked back on the impossibly soft bed, glad at having saved a little bit of our nation’s money.