Daily Times

I enjoyed reading in DT all those nostalgic ‘Lahore Lahore Aye’ columns, by A Hamid. Apart from anything else, his remembering the city as it was half a century ago, and reminiscing about some of its more colourful inhabitants of days gone by, reminded me of my own college days here in the mid-fifties.
Yes, those were wonderful days. Life was far less demanding in every way: the pace was relaxed and unhurried; the attitudes of people more gentle and friendly; the pleasures, simpler and Spartan; and even the expectations and ambitions were fairly modest. As Hamid says, the anonymous urban sprawl that is Lahore today is a very different city.
It was therefore but natural that, pottering around London for the last few weeks (and also because I have spent a goodly part of my life in this great city), I got thinking about how London too has changed over the years since I first came here in 1961. But before I come to that, let us be clear about one thing that remains depressingly constant: for all the talk about climate change, London weather remains characteristically unpredictable. Last summer there were long periods of glorious sunshine. This year, with August round the corner, Londoners are curious to know when the summer is scheduled to start. And would you believe that for an airport where you can even land and take-off at night in fog and icy weather, Heathrow flights were cancelled for a day because the runway was flooded?
I would say that, from the physical perspective, and unlike Lahore, London has not radically changed in the last 50 years or so. That is only to be expected, given a reasonably stable population size and the strict building laws that protect listed buildings and require tedious planning permission for even minor alterations. But in other fascinating and important ways the character of the city — especially its central district — has certainly changed a great deal. For London is, by a long stretch, the world’s most cosmopolitan city. And it continues to be an irresistible magnet that attracts everyone who is anyone (particularly of the ‘newly arrived’ variety) from across the globe.
Initially, after the boom in oil prices, there was the Arab invasion. In the late eighties, jittery Hong Kong Chinese and the newly rich from south-east Asia made a beeline for the city. The last decade or so has seen a huge influx of legal (and not so legal) Russian money. And now it seems to be the turn of those thousands who are rapidly being catapulted by the booming Indian and Chinese economies to the international class of the mega-rich. All this newly acquired wealth — a goodly proportion of it in relatively young hands — sooner or later seeks out a desirable apartment in a fashionable part of inner London to signal its arrival.
The problem is that such premium addresses are in limited supply. The inevitable consequence is the ridiculous prices at which properties exchange hands in these areas. You are perhaps talking of some Rs 100 million for a pretty ordinary 2-bedroom flat of some 800 sq ft. At those prices, the nation of shopkeepers know what is the sensible thing to do: sell up, use 50% of the proceeds to buy something further out, and bank the rest to support a good lifestyle. It is estimated that some 55% of London residential properties valued at $ 5 million or more, are now owned by foreigners.
There was a time when stately Rolls-Royces carrying dowagers, and driven by deferential chauffeurs in uniforms and peak-caps, were what you would see parked outside Harrods. That era has long gone. With the international jet-set now commanding the area, what catches the eye are smart young men cruising around in their Lambo’s and Ferrari’s, trying to impress the designer attired beauties out for a casual stroll. And the current crop of big-time family shoppers prefer being piloted in a sleek dark Mercedes by anonymous looking soberly-suited drivers wearing sun glasses.
London is now horribly expensive. A packet of cigarettes will set you back Rs 600 (yes, you read that correctly: a packet, not a carton), and a short taxi ride of about a mile, about $20. I wanted to go hear Barbara Streisand live in concert on her allegedly last tour to these shores. The minimum ticket price was $600 but, as the performance was sold out weeks ago, the best bargain I could find from a tout was an offer of two of the relatively cheaper seats for only $3000. If ever something struck me as a real-life Jewish conspiracy this was it. And, as that sort of money could keep the likes of me who write for a living comfortably supplied with nicotine, caffeine and protein for months on end, it was a no-brainer to regretfully deny Ms Streisand the pleasure of my company on her big night. Who is she, anyway?
But let me not paint too unremittingly gloomy a picture of the new London. The city can still boast of an excellent and affordable public transport system. Indeed, for us ‘pensioners’ it is —-I think—- supposed to be free (the caveat is because, so far, I have been too lazy to explore this option). Notting Hill Gate, Portobello Road, China Town and Soho (to randomly name a few areas) have retained much of their old charm. And the cultural scene (theatre, music etc.) remains lively and relatively affordable. And, of course, I still have many wonderful friends here from the old days. The one indulgence I refuse to give up in the teeth of horrendous inflation is a good dinner with them in one of the many excellent restaurants that now dot the London landscape.
There was a time when only Le Gavroche (and possibly the Grill room at either the Connaught or the Savoy Hotel) was worth a special visit. Today, there are at least a dozen other top class restaurants offering a memorable dining experience.
But let me not be too snooty about London food, especially as chicken tikka masala is now officially the favourite British dish by a long margin (followed by some sort of Vindaloo or the other). And the good news is that Lahore Kebeb House, following the All Parties Conference here, is all set to open a branch in central London.

The writer is a businessman