Hotel Haut Monde

By Anjum Niaz
Revisiting the Marriott and going down nostalgia corridors held an anticipative promise of bygone memories. Under this roof, over these floors, along these life-sized glass windows, lay buried years of history.
Saturdays in Islamabad are slow. The roads wear a deserted look. Despite the media hype of President Zardari’s address to the parliament later that afternoon, life around the capital dozed off. It was a good day to be out.

The September sun was benign. Spending ‘quality time’ at Marriott, the haunt of our haut mondes or high society, sounded fun.

Revisiting the Crystal Ballroom and going down nostalgia corridors held an anticipative promise of bygone memories. Under this roof, over these floors, along these life-sized glass windows lay buried years of history — as old as Islamabad gets. It was the gathering place of our political, social and business glitterati; it was the centre of our universe. I was journeying through its galaxies after a lapse of ten years. And I was excited.

At the barrier, the sniffer dog looked disinterested. One hoped his handlers fed and cared for him. Our society is not humane towards animals. The two guards mechanically examining the rear and front of our car raised the rod to let us in. We parked on the side and walked towards the entrance. I noticed a flurry of activity. Something was afoot. The forklift in the hotel’s front was lifting concrete planters, pedestaling them higher on makeshift cemented blocks. They looked kind of shoddy. Soon the life-sized glass windows got screened by a wall of green shield, hiding what lay inside. Was it a re-fortification against some crazy suicide bomber wanting to ram into the windows? The thought crossed my mind, but I let it pass as I was greeted by that unusually tall turbaned man wearing a red sherwani graciously opening the front door for me. He was an institution. He was Marriott’s mascot. Is he dead or alive?

Inside the lobby, young women in black business-suits ushered us in with welcoming smiles. Are they dead or alive? They looked particularly happy to see us. I wonder why. Sadruddin Hashwani, known to all as ‘Sadru’ owns the hotel. He lives atop the best hill in Islamabad which he bought from the heirs of President Ayub Khan. From Sadru’s hill, one gets the frontal view of his property nestling below. Perchance, he must have caught sight of the inferno swallowing his beloved hotel even before his phone rang. The pain of loss watching his empire go up in flames was amply visible on his furrowed face.

It was around lunchtime. The Nadia coffee shop, which must have undergone at least ten makeovers since the days one sat, drank coffee and saw the world spin around with piped music playing, was deserted. It was Ramazan. A few foreigners sat eating. The lobby across was lonely. No check-ins or check-outs stirred. The only activity worth noting was a Saudi gentleman, appearing to rant while the booking clerks looked on. I wondered what the fellow was griping about. Is he alive or dead?

Right in the centre of the hall stood a huge flower arrangement. The white lilies were so big that I needed a pinch test. Yes, they were real, smiled the man watering the bouquet. The giant sized plants also looked too good to be true. I needed a reality check this time because life itself looked too good to be real! The shopping arcade was silent this Saturday. But alongside the bakery, banging and nailing on the ceiling was going on.

I edged towards the mouth dripping showcased goodies. Some foreign women were confectionary shopping. They appeared taking their time picking delicacies ensconced in beguiling doilies. An ornamental doily, even the tiniest mat made of paper, is the crispiest thing to behold. Especially when it holds the best cake, baklava, danish, éclair, flan, tart, or a cream puff . Sadru’s bakery was swell. There were huge dates waiting to be devoured. Jars of special honey and jams seemed to be saying, ‘come buy me, honey!’

I made a mental note to ‘treat’ myself the next time I felt low. But that may never come to pass, at least not for some time.

The barber hung around in his parlour. Not many customers this Saturday; except for one, a jiyala, perhaps. Addressing the barber to do a good job, he duly informed all, “I’m an MNA. I am going to the parliament to hear President Zardari’s “epoch-making” speech. So, make sure you give me a smart haircut.” Someone around quipped “God help us!” Laughter broke out. One still doesn’t know who the jibe was meant for.

I moved on to the mauve-coloured chairs with bamboo decor. The tempura bar fascinated me, the colour scheme thrilled me. Gingerly I peered inside. A man vacuuming the floor beckoned “Come in. We’re getting ready for the evening. It’s very busy then.” Impressed by what met my eyes, once more I added ‘must come here’ to my memory list. “We have many more fancy restaurants here. There’s the Lebanese, the Chinese and the American steak house,” he said with a sense of ownership. “We have a new restaurant coming,” he continued. “It’s called Dum Pukht.”

My final stop was the Crystal Ballroom. Walking along the corridor, I recalled Benazir Bhutto’s grand forays to this hotel. One occasion stood out: the inauguration of Aitzaz Ahsan’s book The Indus Saga. She had sat on the dais looking angelic rolling her prayer beads and when the time for her to speak came, she had us hooked by the sweep of her knowledge of history. BB could hold forth for hours on just about anything. Now she was gone six feet under.

After iftar, I heard my home rattle. The muffled thud was deathlike. Ten minutes later, the Marriott, one heard, was on fire. Was this my last pilgrimage to a place which was more than just a hotel; it was a lifetime or will it rise like the Phoenix again?--Courtesy Dawn Magazine