Empire strikes back

On a crisp sunny morning, the tricolour was unfurled solemnly at the club's lawn. Men in smart blazers and striped ties took the salute. The army band rolled out good old martial notes. Independence Day it was again in the country celebrated regally in the club. The building circa mid-1800s stood grandly with its abundant Victoriana, vestiges and practices in place.Anything else, members will tell you, is just not 'cricket'.
Such colonial club ambience was once replete with the gentlemen members' wish to be away from their female relations. Over the years, the clubs' watering holes that carried the sign 'Women and Children Not Permitted' have given ground to the winds of change. Close to a century later, such signs have become rare and the last all-male bastion is precariously alive today as the 'Men's Bar'.
The trend is not something that the snobbish archaic remnant of the Raj, Colonel Blimp, a cartoon character created by Sir David Low, would approve of. After taking off a long time ago, the old Colonel still turns up mysteriously, unexpectedly at odd times and places indicating that old practices are hard to shake off.
On a recent morning, in the sylvan settings of the club taking breakfast, i noticed a 'bearer' chasing away crows from the trees. Time was not too long ago when a 'native' employee was assigned this job on a full-time basis as at a golf club Calcutta. 'Chokra-boys' with catapults scared away crows on branches of trees to prevent them from mucking up the outdoor dining experience. In addition to 'crow-boy', there was a 'dog boy'. The latter's duty was to take the memsahib and the sahib's pet for a walk, as they demolished scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausages, blackened tomatoes, toast, and pots of Darjeeling.
Beyond the clubs, Colonel Blimp's presence haunted many a British plantation and tea estate. After a hard day's work in the tropical sun, life became easy once the solar hat was hung up. Managers, after a brisk round of tennis, returned to their spacious bungalows and had a 'native' attendant to take care of their 'personal needs'. First it was a welcome glass of chilled lemonade. As the 'brown master' sat down with the refreshing drink, Boy Friday took off the Dunlop Volley and gently eased the soggy tube socks, both imported from London. Minutes later, when the water was mixed to the right temperature, the master was led in for a relaxing hot bath. Soon after the ablution, his bath-towel was taken off and replaced by a bathrobe. Evening clothes lay spread on the bed and before master jumped into them, the attendant ensured the feet and toes were suitably dried and dusted with foot powder. This cushy manager's life, right from Munnar to the north-east, became history only in recent times.
Some months ago i checked into an outsized room in a sailing club in Mumbai. After a shower, i breezily stepped out into the bedroom with nothing on but an upbeat rendition of That's the Way (I Like It) on my lips and dampness behind the ears. To my horror i found, standing outside the door, a grinning toothless old uniformed gent, holding up a bath-towel. After covering myself up hurriedly and regaining some poise, i learnt that he was a 'bearer' who had let himself in with a spare room-key, and that he would organise meals, do up the bedroom and attend to other personal 'needs'. Still reeling from the shock, i politely told him that i'd ring for him when required. As i led him to the door, his face took on a puzzled look, and i noticed he kept throwing furtive glances at my wet feet. "No, no, i will dry and powder them myself," i found myself saying a tad loudly.
The ghost of Colonel Blimp just doesn't seem to go away from the old colonial hang-outs.