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If you saw BBC2's Inside Claridges two years ago, you've seen Hotel India. The same mounting hysteria for the arrival of a VIP who is far too important to be named and wants only to be cocooned from any interaction with lesser mortals for the duration of his or her stay; the same fussing over a small speck of dirt that had attached itself to the underside of a sink and might possibly be spotted by a guest when lying in the bath. As an insight into the terrifying levels of ennui among the millionaire-class it had some virtue, but hardly one unique to India.
Then there were the guests, all of whom came across as people I would go out of my way to avoid at breakfast. The closest to normal was a Trinidad-born London lawyer, Dr Anil, who came out to Mumbai several times a year to stock up on the latest Bollywood DVDs. He loved the Taj Mahal Palace because it was a hotel where "the guest was God" and the local people scraping by on a few rupees a day felt no resentment at the disparity in wealth.