How I love India, however jaded, jet lagged and cynical you are, India will disarm, occasionally alarm and, most certainly, charm. Having spent the best part of 20 hours travelling, the hairdryer heat of India was a momentary distraction as I settled into my cool, air con car and idly stared out of the window anticipating a quiet rest of the day acclimatising myself with some gentle unpacking and a cool drink in my hotel. Exactly as anticipated, a charming greeting, a necklace of fresh flowers and, at last, the cool quiet interior of my room- except, except for the addition of Mr Bo, my room butler. Bustling Mr Bo immediately took charge, swishing curtains back and forward, flushing loos to demonstrate their undoubted efficacy and, bewilderingly, supervising my unpacking! Each item was scrutinised, considered, viewed from a number of angles- and then moved from wherever I had put it with an accompanying mutter of ‘placement Madam, placement’ – and the addition of a small square of white linen on which to sit the offending item. Hairbrush was irrevocably separated from hairspray, toothpaste marooned in the middle of the coffee table in splendid isolation until at last, exhausted by our enforced collaboration, I went in search of supper. Climbing the stairs, slowly, my legs felt as if I was wearing diving weights, and there was the irrepressible, Mr Bo heading downwards. Rather ungratefully I experienced a moment of relief, least he wasn’t going to supervise my makeup removal. Arrived at room, opened door and headed straight to the bathroom for a quick shower- to be greeted by a freshly drawn bath, at the perfect temperature and crowned with a blanket of fresh rose petals floating in a fragrant kaleidoscope of reds and pinks. See what I mean, India gets you ever time, maximum respect Mr Bo.
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