The United Services Club

Dear dedicated reader,

I won’t say too much about my trip to Mumbai: it was a good time, a chance to eat pizza, drink diet coke and sit in cafes, allaying my homesickness among other things. One day I decadently sat in a Barista (Indian Starbucks) almost the whole day reading A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khalid Hosseini, enjoying my ability to be in public space without having to constantly entertain and acknowledge, sinking into delicious, bourgeois anonymity. Suffice it to say I found Mumbai lovely, though after a weekend of playing the part of the hardy white backpacker, I was hungering to get back to the familiarity of Kadod.

One incident, however, does deserve special mention. While in Mumbai, I had the pleasure of seeing my friend Anamika whom I studied with at Delhi University. Despite not having seen each other since I left India and the woes of cross continentally keeping in touch, we easily fell into our old friendship, which was a relief to me. She told us she wanted to do something special for our last night in Bombay, and it was for this reason that on Saturday night we found ourselves standing outside the gates of the United Services Club.

The United Services Club is an exclusive club only for members of the Indian armed forces at the southern most tip of Colaba, the neighborhood we were staying in while we were in Mumbai. Its facilities include an 18 hole golf course, two club areas and a lovely patio where Anamika was hoping we could enjoy the setting sun while sipping cocktails. “It’s my cousin,” she explained, “who has the membership. He was in the armed forces. We’ll be his guests.”

I suppose I should have known that there would be some trouble as her cousin, pulling up with his car and his driver outside the gates of the establishment, abruptly said, “Get in the car!” on seeing us. We obeyed and as we got in the car, the guard, who had been eyeing us suspiciously the entirety of our time waiting at the gate, turned on his flashlight and pointed it deliberately into our eyes through the car window.

“Who are they?” He asked the cousin gruffly, indicating us with a shake of his high beam flashlight.

“My guests, friends,” the cousin said, telling his driver to get going. The driver pulled off, leaving the guard unsatisfied with this explanation, but what could he do?

Anamika, I think as shaken as we were, uneasily began the introductions.

“Cousin, this is Catharine,” she began, “we studied together at DU…”

“Where are you here from?” He asked me pointedly.

“Well, I’m living in Gujarat,” I said, “but we’re from the US.”

“Ah, so, you can speak Gujarati then,” he said.

“Not exactly—“ I started.

“Well, foreigners aren’t allowed in this club, so you’ll just have tell everyone you are Gujarati, okay?” He said.

I looked at Anamika. Her face told me that she had obviously not known this obscure club rule.

“Where are you living there?” He asked us in the same pointed manner.

“In a village sort of near Surat,” I explained. “We’re teachers.”

“I see. Well –“ he paused, “Don’t tell anyone that either. Say you teach in a private school in Surat or something.”

I nodded, confused. What could I talk about at this place?

After a drive through the darkened golf course, we arrived at the grounds of the clubhouse. The driver parked the car and we nervously got out of the back and followed the cousin towards the lodge. The breeze coming off the ocean swept over me and I could see the lights from distant ships off the coast. It had become fully dark by this time and the stars were coming out. The lights of the cabana style clubhouse shone in a constant, welcoming way. It was, just as Anamika had described it, obviously a lovely place to have a cocktail. It remained to be seen whether we actually would or not.

As we walked past the two lazy looking uniformed guards at the gate of the clubhouse, they started to say something to the cousin in Hindi.

“Don’t bother them,” he replied, also in Hindi, “they’re Gujarati. They’re my guests.”

The guards made a blatant scoffing sound, followed by a disbelieving chortle.

“Ask them!” The cousin said defensively in Hindi. “They speak Gujarati! Ask them!” Before they could, however, we had moved on in towards the clubhouse.

The atmosphere inside was like something out of an old movie. We approached a table where Anamika’s aunt and a friendly couple were sitting. “Come, sit!” Anamika’s aunt cried as we approached.

“Have something, na?” The aunt said to us. We’d barely sat down. “What will you have?”

“I think water will—“ I started.

“Nonsense!” She replied. “Have a rum and coke.”

“I’m really fine—“

“Have a rum and coke! It’s really the best drink. You should have one. Also, our time here is limited, so it’s best not to fool around with water,” she said insistently.

“I guess I’ll have a rum and coke,” I reluctantly agreed.

“Oh good, my nephew will get the drinks,” she said, nudging him. “He’s the member here.” He gave us a begrudging smile and went off to get the drinks.

“Can we walk around and I’ll show them the place?” Anamika asked her aunt.

“Er, I think not,” her aunt said, looking fretfully around. “Best that they just stay here.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cousin approached by a formal looking man in a suit, who I had to assume was the manager. I saw them exchanging words, every once in awhile glancing meaningfully in our direction. I tried fruitlessly to make some awkward conversation, but the tension in the air was palpable. A few moments later, he was back at the table.

“Anamika, I have to speak to you,” he said frostily. He took her aside and they exchanged some words while Melissa and I exchanged an awkward glance. Causing this level of trouble had not been our intention.

Anamika approached the table and sat back down. “I, uh, think we’re going to have to leave,” she said awkwardly. I could see plainly that she felt terrible and embarrassed. I for one could not have found the situation funnier.

It turns out, I discovered from Anamika’s aunt as we got up to leave, that because the club is associated with defense forces, it is Indians only, no exceptions. “If we let in one nationality, that would be mean we’d have to let in every nationality,” she explained, “including Pakistanis.”

“I completely understand,” I told her as we were escorted out by one of the staff.

After we passed the gates, I finally let out the laugh I’d been holding in all the time. “I mean, after all,” I told Anamika, who was looking really dejected by this time, “What could be funnier, more ironic and more just than two white people getting kicked out of an exclusive club in India?”

Best,
Cat