<div>Atop a house in Delhi’s upscale Vasant Vihar, a rave party is in progress. Amongst the drugs and liquor, the caterers pass around prawns and reindeer meat, being grilled at a professionally mounted barbeque grill nearby. On the opposite side of the roof, a bhelpuriwallah and a Gujarati thali stand dispense their items to the more indigenously inclined. A 10-foot-wide TV projection on the barsati wall gives a ringside view of the French Open. Some tennis fans scream their support for Nadal. Eight hundred-watt speakers belt out a Guns ’N’ Roses number that can be heard above the din of low planes landing nearby. All the while the host moves around from group to group making a record of the event on his iPad. The scene is a mixed bag of sensory variables: rock ’n’ roll, screeching flight paths, tennis scores, pool splashes, a babble of voices and shadowy movement of people in a semi-daze — a picture of disturbing juxtapositions: sport, fun, food, sex, music, drugs. Rather than conveying a structure of social cohesion and enjoyment, the scene is a strange assortment of material availabilities. <br /> </div><div>So obsessed is the Indian mind with the acquisition of symbols of luxury that it even begins to bleed its desperation onto public life. Down the street from where I live resides a young Punjabi executive working for a Dutch firm. He’s 30, may be 35, and he drives a BMW coupe. One of those German race cars that is meant to speed along autobahns at 200 mph. Instead, his car, a stylish silver bullet, is often caught crawling behind rickshaws and hand carts in Delhi’s crowded Yusuf Sarai. Which is just as well, for the successful executive almost always occupies only the back seat with his laptop. Entitled to a driver, the sporty gear shift, the aerodynamic low-slung chassis and high-tech controls are not in his hands.<br /> </div><div>In India, between the luxury available and its actual enjoyment, there is a continent-sized gap. It reminds me of the shelf-load of useless add-ons promised in every apartment by builders — valet parking, intercom, tinkling fountains, starlit lobbies, golf and Jacuzzis — that become an instant draw when the building is built. But they’re there to distract attention from the barren wastelands and ramshackle tenements that surround the luxury project. <br /> </div><div>Unused to material luxury, I was at a loss when once asked by a builder for a ‘high-end’ design for an apartment complex in Patiala. For him, air-conditioning, valet parking, a pool, roll-out bar, electronic security and a barbeque were all necessary, and expected, for anyone paying above Rs 8 crore for a flat. Luxury is something else. Luxury is the magic that separates the super rich from the ultra rich; the merely privileged from the super elite. <br /> </div><div>For a long period I wracked my brains, fingered Brazilian vacation magazines and trawled Mediterranean holiday websites. But there was nothing out of the ordinary there. Just a lot of bored white people lying around half naked on the sand. What we needed was a gripping new irrationality, some non-essential mindlessness that would renew people’s — rich people’s — faith in luxury.</div><table width="200" cellspacing="4" cellpadding="4" border="0" align="right"><tbody><tr><td><img width="234" vspace="4" hspace="4" height="345" src="/image/image_gallery?uuid=9a455c52-602c-4223-82c9-bc12b963db4a&groupId=222922&t=1358005795779" alt="" /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /> </div><div>The builder was no help. The exchange between us went something like this:<br /> </div><div>Lakshmi Mittal has a squash court in his house, I’d say. Then we must have two, he’d say. His garage has wall-to-wall carpeting. We’ll put it in our driveways as well. Mukesh Ambani has a snow-making machine in Antilla. We’ll have a full-time resident fortune teller. Dubai has a ski slope in a mall. We’ll have a beach, with sand and waves. Everything.<br /> </div><div>Against such an onslaught, it was hard to put up any argument. Eventually, the biggest thing that emerged from the design discussion was the basic flaw in the conventional location of consumer facilities. Most golf courses, tennis courts, swimming pools, car parking, etc., are built directly on the ground, thereby disturbing the natural flora and fauna, and consuming precious land. So, in our scheme, they were lifted into the air at considerable cost, and made as extensive bridges between two towers of apartments. You could walk out from your 60th floor living room, stroll across as if on the ground and play a few holes of golf. Or, do an easy breaststroke with the evening lights of distant Patiala below you. The Indian obsession with the car meant that apartment owners were unhappy with the idea of leaving an expensive family member in the parking lot. So, individual garages were inserted with each apartment and owners could ride up a ramp to, say, the 50th floor, and pull into their private porch. Instead of a panoramic view of the landscape, you could be watching your own Jaguar from your entertainment den.<br /> </div><div>Meanwhile, since the basement was now free, and was generally airless, dark and damp, it was ideal for the servants’ quarters and fume-belching generator sets. <br /> </div><div>But the real thrust of the luxurious life lay elsewhere — in the mid-level bridge that connected the two towers. Designed like a street from Delhi’s Paharganj or Mumbai’s Chowpatty, its eclectic pickings would provide residents the final aspect of Indian street luxury: pleasure. Two paanwallas selling paan at Rs 500 upwards, kulfi and bhelpuri emporiums. A Rolex watch store, a Japanese restaurant, two His and Hers brothels (later removed) — and to give a real feel of Indian city life — a government electricity office. <br /> </div><div>Construction began early this year and the builder was swamped with business. Each time he sold an apartment for a mere Rs 8 crore, I could hear him sniggering. He knew all too well, as he drove to his trans-Yamuna flat in a Maruti 800, that rich people were like standup comics: unfunny and a little sad. So unsure of themselves that they laughed at their own material. For a few more years, before they learned to enjoy themselves, they would remain poor parodies of themselves. </div><div> </div><div><em>Gautam Bhatia is a Delhi-based architect and writer.<br /><br /></em><span style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal;">(This story was published in Businessworld Issue Dated 21-01-2013)</span><em><br /><br /><br /><br /></em></div>
