Nayee Padosan

At 3:50 p.m. everyday, the generators in the rich people’s houses in our neighborhood roar to life, spewing diesel fumes into the air for the next two hours.

As we leave our own middle class cross streets lined with putrid roadside garbage and walk past these snazzy homes, mom covers her nose with her dupatta while I tug at my leash to go the other way. Since most beach houses already violate the 500 meters away from the shoreline rule, I doubt a small matter such as releasing noxious emissions into the air keeps these homeowners up at night with a prickly conscience.

“Who lives here, Amma?” the children ask, looking at the tall black gates that hide these homes from public view. Other than the security guards out front, most of these palatial homes built against a backdrop of sand and surf seem empty and bereft of life.

An occasional gate opens to allow a luxury car with tinted windows to drive in, revealing winding driveways that culminate in a hotel-like foyer. Most of these homes have no name boards out front, like an exclusive restaurant that doesn’t post prices, and rumor has it that celebrities and industrialists use these homes at times for nefarious parties, the kind my humans would not get invited to.

Mom was fortunate enough, however, to step into a hallowed portal recently. “My friend lives in that house,” a visiting aunt informed her. “Shall we drop in and see her?”

After a 15-minute wait by the front gate in the afternoon sun while the security guard received clearance from the main house, mom stepped into a Dakshinchitra meets Gurjari via Spain kind of edifice, complete with antique furniture, ornate brass jhoola, heavily carved wooden doors, dark red floors, a sunken courtyard and Alibaba-style planters by the front door large enough to hide the entire Trojan army.

Despite the unannounced call, the house was camera-ready, with nary a spot of dust on any surface, including the manicured lawn. A phalanx of silent servants flitted through the home, clearly outnumbering the residents - a grand total of two people.

“Sorry, my husband isn’t here. He’s gone to play golf,” the hostess expressed her regrets.

“Wow, in this weather?” volunteered mom.

Turns out the man of the house was playing golf in New Zealand.

Ah!

Mom found her voice again only after the front gate clicked shut behind her.

“This is nothing,” said the aunt, dismissing mom’s visions of massive Tanjore paintings and a garage full of vintage cars. “You should see my other friend’s house. I’ll take you there next time.”

Evening walks around the neighborhood have helped us spot a famous sports star, known for his down-to-earth demeanor and a pretty wife who designs sari blouses that retail at Rs. 1,000.

“Why don’t you go up and introduce yourself?” suggested grandma. “He’s supposed to be very friendly.”

“What on earth will I say?” asked mom, whose only knowledge of the sport is limited to the fact that players rub their favorite spot in full view of the spectators under the pretext of polishing the ball.

“Just tell him you’re related to him. After all he’s your grandmother’s sister-in-law’s youngest sister’s husband’s second cousin’s nephew.”

Right. Of course. That kind of introduction is sure to get my humans an immediate listing on the man's iPhone directory and a standing invitation to dinner.