WAH TAJ!

“ In peace, sons bury their fathers; in war, fathers bury their sons”.

–Herodotus

Greek “ Father of History”.

The story goes that Jamshetji Tata was strongly rebuffed when the gora sahibs, the Brits, refused him permission to Watson Hotel, as he was a brown Indian. Tata took that mortification really seriously. I am convinced he must have been seething with insurmountable rage, because it had to be a huge motivation that made him build the magnificent Taj Hotel at Colaba , Mumbai. And it became even more of a national symbol , rather than a mere home of luxury for business travelers and wide-eyed foreigners , because it was located at the historical entrance to the Gateway of India itself.

I had a strange, dismaying feeling when I discovered that the Taj had been infiltrated by gruesome terrorists on a frenzied destruction spree late on that Wednesday evening. It seemed inane that there were innocent people scampering for their lives in that grand opulence. That some violent elements had sneaked in with a clear intent to smear the Taj with blood and bombs . It seemed bizarre, but one knew it was true.

I remember that we had all been there for almost four days within the week preceding, attending a family wedding. And that as the crowd shook to Desi girl in the Crystal room, the perpetrators of India’s worst nightmare to follow were huddled upstairs, four floors above, rehearsing their conspiracy.

Over real time TV, we watched the shocking reels of red smoke and burning fires above that royal dome in the dark night ,and sundry police forces bravely take positions outside of the hotel as gun shots flew and bombs exploded. The Shamiana had become a war-zone, Golden Dragon and Wasabi were rudely assaulted, and the sixth floor in the Heritage wing had become a death-trap. It was an interminable nightmare.

I will never forget the first time I visited Taj . I had come to give an interview to a business school from Pune by a late night passenger train which landed at VT at some unearthly hour of 5 30 in the morning. And as per usual standard operating procedure , I would walk into Taj as if I owned a private suite in perpetuity . Of course, I would head straight for that luxurious rest room , freshen up, do a quick shirt-change, pour that aromatic shampoo all over my face, and look in the mirror to see a much improved version of the chap who had walked in just twenty minutes before.

I suspect the loo attendants were fully aware that this was no special guest of the hotel who had chosen to use the public lavatory over his personally assigned one for some odd pleasures. I think they chose to not just ignore but indulge in us because they prided in the place of their work and it’s unquestionable elegance which drew all sorts there.. I usually left empty small sized shampoo bottles and my largest tip of the day. On a rare occasion, one ordered tea in the coffee shop and ate several loaves of bread and chocolate chips for free.

And guess what? My first job offer ( which I eventually could not take up for some obtuse reason ) was by the Taj itself, in marketing . I used to lay awake in the nights dreaming of walking like a hot-shot magnate in a 24×7 air-conditioned office ( in those days not all offices had that opulent luxury) and order club sandwiches , French fries and cold coffee with ice cream at will.

When I watched that hotel burn on Wednesday, one felt an indescribable loss. Over the last several years, Taj was like a comforting zone you could cocoon into at the drop of a hat. It has become our way of life. We got married at the Taj President. My wife is a member of the prestigious , exclusive Chambers, and I have graduated to that “ Inner Circle” club .where I get complimentary gifts, free nights and room upgrades, besides the warmest service in the world. Work-related stuff takes us there at least twice a week, either for a meeting or a meal.

And the first time that I felt I had really arrived in life was when that cherubic, perennially smiling doorman at the Taj , a convivial Sardarji , recognized me and said —“ How are you, Mr Jha?”

As I look back at the anger, hatred, disgust and fear that envelops many amongst us post 26/11 , perhaps we should learn from what Jamshetji Tata did a hundred odd years ago. He turned these negative emotions into what a century later has become an “ iconic” monument of India. Where the walls stand for customers, values, service , heritage and culture. My neighbors at home too are senior members of the Taj hierarchy , and they are distinguishable from a distance; they embody the same spirit, the same modesty, the same passion that makes Taj an experience.

The Taj will open again. Soon. And when it does, I will be there.