My friend is rather disturbed. “You can’t imagine the sacrifices I’ve made,” she tells me over the phone.
“Tell all,” I say. “I’m sitting sweltering at home, with all the time in the world.” That does it. She’s up and away.
“Well, you know, not only has the UK visa for Indian tourists become absurdly expensive—at `38,000 for a two-year visa —it takes you over two months to get one. If you want one sooner, you’ve to cough up `25,000 a head. Imagine!”
I try to respond but am unable to get a word in.
“And then there are the tickets. A business class ticket from Delhi to London on British Airways costs over Rs 2.8 lakh. Virgin is around the same.
“Even the hotels are playing up. Four Seasons, where we always stay, is charging over $1,300 a night for the most basic room. Greedy fellows! A friend, who’s committed 100 room nights to them, says even his rate is lousy,” she snarls.
I finally get to speak. “Really? So you’re staying put in Delhi?” I ask, but I needn’t have bothered. The tirade continues.
“But obviously one has to come to London in summer. This stupid Covid kept me away for two years. You know how deprived I felt.”
“Hmmm,” I say, having learned my lesson.
“Anyway, everyone’s here finally. Even Karan and Alia. The only people missing are the ones with kids going to college later in the year. They’re all off to the US. Of course, they’ll be back in London next summer.”
“Of course,” I echo. “So how is Four Seasons treating you?”
There’s a minute’s silence. And then another.
“Umm, actually, we’re not there this year. We’re in an Airbnb off Edgware Road. Now that the girls are in their teens, obviously, we had to bring them along. All their friends were coming. Add the cost of the UK visas, and it was becoming very expensive.”
“True that,” I say. “It must be a nice place. And I’m sure you had a good flight. Did you fly BA or Virgin?”
Another long silence.
“Neither. We came on Finnair. In economy,” she whispers. “My husband insisted. It wasn’t that bad really. I was only worried that someone would see me in the economy check-in line in Delhi. But, fortunately, that didn’t happen. I hope my luck holds on the return journey.”
“I don’t think anyone really cares,” I say.
“You bet they do. You won’t tell anyone, will you? I feel bad for you sitting all alone in Delhi.”
“Actually, I’m off to Wayanad for a week with my family. I’m quite excited.”
“Going where?”
“In Kerala. It’s gorgeous.”
“Oh! In India,” she says doubtfully. “I suppose it’s nice. Ok, I’ve to go now. I Am meeting the gang for tea at Harrods. Remember not to tell anyone about Finnair, ok? I’ve told everyone we came by Vistara Business. Have fun in... wherever you’re going.”
“I will,” I say firmly and go to pack for my ‘Indian’ holiday.
Shampa Dhar-Kamath
shampadhar@gmail.com
New Delhi-based writer-editor