Shabby
He had no dress sense. He wore second-hand clothes, and had no compunction about sporting an orange-coloured shirt a bluejacket and green trousers. The only things he bought new were shoes and socks, but his three-year old footwear had never known what boot-polish tasted like. When he was travelling on Indian trains, from Delhi to Hyderabad, he looked very much like a tramp, and it did not bother him.
He had decided to stop in Nagpur for a couple of days. You have to sample Nagpuri oranges, friends had said. The rickshaw walla took one look at him and decided that what he was looking for was the Anand Mahal in Temple Bazar. It had no stars, but seemed comfortable and clean. About £6 a night.
He had not been too impressed by the service available at hotels in Mumbai or Delhi. The personnel used the language of politeness, often bordering on obsequiousness, but did not hide that their main concern was the size of the tip they were hoping for. If they held the door open for him as he came in, the look on their faces would change from polite hope to disappointed disgust as he moved away without opening your purse. Not at the Mahal. They doggedly refuse to lock on to him, looking blankly a whole metre away from his shoulders. When he approached the counter, no one pretended they are intently studying a file, but paid him instant attention. Often two or three clerks would be all ears to his query. Anything he ordered was promptly and efficiently delivered.
There was only one snag: The oranges did not live up to their reputations. But he did the usual tourist thing, visited the Sai Baba temple, saw tigers in the Pench park and formed a pleasant enough view of the place, probably because everybody had treated him with great courtesy.
On the last day, he thought it would be fitting to thank the desk warmly for their hospitality.
Yes sir, thank you sir, we know who you are sir, said the senior clerk, we hope you will give us a good write-up.
