Is Madras Club the best club in the country? Author Prajwal Parajuly thinks so

The Hindu

a day ago

Calcuttans of a certain vintage think the Tollygunge Club is the Taj Mahal and a membership there, the pinnacle of aspiration. But they are cackled at by members of the Calcutta Club, who, in turn, are put in their places by the Bengal Club mafia. This hierarchy of clubs is a riotous, ridiculous notion for someone who grew up in Gangtok, a town with no clubs. I haven't quite been able to understand the investment people put into being associated with Raj-era nostalgia, more pronounced in Calcutta than in any other Indian city.
First, there's something flagrantly racist about many clubs rolling out their frayed red carpet for foreign-passport holders, who are often exempt from jumping the same hoops as Indians to gain membership. But point this out, and a wildly gesticulating clubbie will list the virtues of their non-racist club: subsidised alcohol, central location, like-minded people, sporting facilities, 177-year history, urban oasis. For all this, a club membership is worth the sometimes-decades-long waitlist, they say.
I am a self-anointed expert on the Indian club because I can offer an outsider's perspective, untainted by memories of horse-riding and swimming lessons and Christmas roasts. My verdict is that the best club in India isn't Delhi's Gymkhana Club or Hyderabad's Secunderabad Club. It definitely isn't any of the unexceptional clubs of Calcutta. The Madras Club, Chennai's little snobdom, is without question the Number One club in the country.
I see a Delhi Gymkhana member elevate her just-threaded eyebrow and string a sentence with some permutation of 'But in terms of exclusivity ….' The Tolly Club veteran will offer an opinion about its recent refurbishments. 'And the Yacht Club?' a Mumbai native will say. 'The views are swoon-worthy.' Someone or the other will label my jaundiced take on clubs as being new money. It still doesn't mean I'll rank your club higher than the Madras Club.
When Vidya Singh, a friend of a friend, suggested we convene at the Madras Club for our first meeting, I hesitated. I had been scarred by the clubs of Calcutta — the insipid food, the laissez-faire service, and the theatrics of tipping waiters on the sly — and didn't want my social life in Chennai to replicate that. I'd also have to adhere to a ridiculous dress code when shorts and flip-flops were my uniform in Sri City. Jerry, the Madras Club martinet, actually eyed my loafers several times as I climbed up to the club's foyer. Luckily Vidya had warned me: a collared shirt, shoes, and socks. Over dinner of chicken roast and mashed potatoes, I let it slip that I had been staying in hotels on my Chennai visits. 'Hotels?' Vidya said with disdain. I'd stay at the Madras Club instead, she decided.
See, the nice hotels in Chennai have every amenity but grounds on which to walk. And when this Himalayan goat doesn't get his steps in, he morphs into a grump. In this eminently pedestrian-unfriendly city, footpaths aren't exactly footpaths. Parks are hard to come by. Finding a place for a stroll that's not a beach is tough. That is why the Madras Club grounds are such a privilege. The walking track here is joy in sand and clay.
I like that the club's happy-making light yellow Palladian building isn't the deep yellow of the buildings of the Mediterranean. The cupola is handsome, the pool colossal. Staying in the rooms — so massive that you could actually jump rope in them without causing distress to any of the colonial furniture or the sepia pictures on the walls — is like spending a night in a friend's well-appointed guestroom. This, I understand, is what many clubs aspire to. It's just that the Tollygunge Club quarters have all the character of a PWD guesthouse with miniature pink soaps.
When I stay at the club, I rise at the crack of dawn, go for a leisurely stroll and eat idli, serenaded by birdsong, on the club verandah. I read more here than I do anywhere else. The club atmosphere, of course, lends itself to revisiting the classics. Evenings are for Mulligatawny soup, supposedly invented here, and shoes (and socks) and collared shirts in the formal dining room.
My checkouts are a bit of a spectacle. The receptionist asks if he should call for a cab. I smile. I walk — yes, gasp, walk — out of the club, my suitcase rattling behind me. I leave the confines of the Boat Club Road, one of the few semi-walkable neighbourhoods in Chennai, and, politely saying no to autos, head to the Nandanam Metro Station. I nearly get run over by a speeding bike. A quick metro ride delivers me to Chennai Central. There, I take a non-air-conditioned train to Sri City, a two-hour journey as egalitarian as the Madras Club is not.
Prajwal Parajuly is the author of The Gurkha's Daughter and Land Where I Flee. He loves idli, loathes naan, and is indifferent to coffee. He teaches Creative Writing at Krea University and oscillates between New York City and Sri City.