Gone clubbing: Colonial-era gymkhanas across the country face a bleak future

The future of the Delhi Gymkhana, a historic, British-era landmark in the national capital, hangs by a legal thread. The central government plans to take control of the property, saying it needs the land for strategic infrastructure.

On the face of it, the chances of the club look bleak. It doesn’t own the 27.3 acres of land it’s on, and public sympathy for an elite, private-members institution, especially one with British roots, and which occupies visible real estate, is likely to be low. Yet, history shows us that clubs can be surprisingly resilient.

A History Lesson

Clubs began for a practical reason. British men working in India found it hard to make social connections. Lack of public spaces drove them “into expensive and bad taverns and coffeehouses”, Lord Lynedoch, an army officer is quoted as saying.


The United Service Club (USC), which opened in London in 1815, was such a success that the Bengal Club — which was modelled on this — opened in Calcutta in 1827.

A few years later, the Madras Club also came up. The facilities they offered were tailored to the British needs: A dining room, places to sit and talk or play cards or billiards, sporting facilities and often, rooms to stay in for short periods.

A key element of the clubs was reciprocal membership. Clubs were independent, but formed links, so that a member of a club in one city could use the services of a club in another. Reciprocal memberships extended across countries, even to the UK, and were — and still are — an important reason to belong. Before the spread of hotels, a club membership was one way to ensure that while travelling, you could still be assured of finding a place to stay and food to eat.

Many clubs benefited from military links and their location on cantonment land. However, given that the future of the cantonment system itself is coming to an end and civilian-military divides are stricter on security grounds, clubs aren’t likely to prevail.

But more importantly, clubs are generally located in city centres. Delhi and Bombay Gymkhanas may find it hard to continue occupying such locations, especially when the long leases under which they were allotted their properties, come to an end. Clubs that are less in the public eye, like the Madras Club, in a secluded
location by Chennai’s Adyar river, have fewer problems.

Who Goes to a Gymkhana?

Over the decades, it was the upper elite of society that used the club as a place to socialise. But as older neighbourhoods become unliveable, or expensive, the kind of people who might be members are finding themselves moving away.

A key perk for members used to be the ability to have their children also get membership at lower rates, but the children are today more likely to live
abroad instead.

And if you’re already living in a plush project in Gurugram with its own clubhouse and sporting facilities, how
much is a Delhi Gymkhana membership really worth? The truly rich don’t bother with clubs anymore. Why should they, when they can socialise in Europe or the Middle East, where their actions would also be less likely to be scrutinised.

Club members in India are probably better described as past elites, or those who still have some influence, but are
increasingly less inclined to use it. This, if anything, is a far bigger threat to their future than any plans to take control of their premises.

A Literary View

As a key part of British life in India, clubs often feature in colonial literature. In George Orwell’s first book,
Burmese Days, much of the action takes place in a club, a “dumpy one-storey wooden building”. “In any town
in India, the European Club is the spiritual citadel, the real seat of British power, the Nirvana for which native
officers and millionaires pine in vain,” Orwell writes, as the book details a struggle between an Indian doctor
and a Burmese magistrate over membership of the club. But it’s clear that the symbolic aspect of becoming
a member mattered more than any actual benefits.

In A Passage to India, EM Forster also shows a club in the fictional town of Chandrapore as a bastion of
Britishness. At one point, the British national anthem is played. “Conversation and billiards stopped, faces
stiffened. It was the anthem of the army of occupation. It reminded every member of the club that he or she
was British and in exile.

Clubs and Food

Gymkhana in London has one of the city’s longest waiting lists. This isn’t a club, however, but a restaurant that,
according to its website “is inspired by the elite clubs of India, where members of high society socialise, eat, drink, celebrate and play sport”

Club food under the British was mostly roasts, grills and breakfast foods, combined with nondescript curries and alcohol soaked desserts. It has a certain comfort food appeal, but it largely disappeared in the 1980s, when
catering was mostly handed over to outside contractors.

A few special dishes usually remain, and one of them has become popular outside clubs as well. Eggs Kejriwal was created at the Willingdon Sports Club in Mumbai by a member, Debi Prasad Kejriwal, who couldn’t
eat eggs at home. He got the club kitchens to devise a toast with grilled cheese and a poached egg with chopped green chillies to spice things up. It remained on the Willingdon menu, and a few Mumbai restaurants also picked it up, but was otherwise unknown till a politician by the same name started making news.

One club dish can claim even greater success. In the 1970s, Nelson Wang had a catering contract for Mumbai’s Cricket Club, when he claimed he came up with a useful multipurpose dish named chicken manchurian— nuggets fried in a crisp cornflour batter that could be served dry, as an accompaniment to drinks, or in a tomato-sauce spiked gravy. A gobi version for vegetarians became even more popular. It has also gone global — it is, apparently, one of the most popular Indian dishes in New Zealand.