Club culture, power networks, and the distance of the common man
Delhi is not only the capital of India, but also the ancient chessboard of power, where the pieces change, but the game remains the same. Here, history doesn’t reside solely in books, but breathes within the walls of buildings, behind closed doors, and in gleaming corridors. In this city, some paths are for the public, while others are for those who need no introduction. Parallel to the bustling streets of democracy, lie the quiet courts of power, where entry is granted only to those with the invisible passport of influence, lineage, connections, and social standing. The Delhi Gymkhana Club is a shining symbol of this enduring power.
In recent days, as discussions about eviction and the termination of the club’s lease intensified, it felt like the first time someone had pointed a finger at a world that had hitherto been considered impossible to even touch. This isn’t just about a building; it’s about the mindset that has created elitist empires even within a democracy. It’s about a system in which some remain the owners, while others are mere spectators.
The Delhi Gymkhana Club was founded by the British in 1913 as the “Imperial Delhi Gymkhana Club.” That era was not only one of political subjugation but also one of social humiliation. The British used clubs more as a tool of social segregation than a place of entertainment. Only those who closely resembled the English way of life were considered “civilized.” The doors of such clubs were either closed to Indians or were so narrow that even entering them made them feel inferior. Social status was determined by language, clothing, food habits, and even color.
Independence came, the tricolor was raised, and the British departed, but the social structures they had built remained unbroken. Viceroy’s House became Rashtrapati Bhavan, the ICS was renamed the IAS, but the spirit of power remained largely unchanged. The chairs once occupied by white gentlemen were later occupied by brown gentlemen. Democracy arrived, but the elite culture remained intact.
The Delhi Gymkhana gradually became the haven for a class that, even in a democracy, never needed to prove itself to the public. Gaining membership was considered more difficult than passing any exam. Years of waiting, fees running into lakhs, and influential connections—all this combined to transform it into a citadel of power accessible only to those with the keys to privilege. The club became more a testament to social status than sport.
Ironically, democracy promises equality, yet in the heart of the capital, islands exist where equality dies at the very entrance. The average citizen pays taxes, yet he or she doesn’t even have easy access to the land where these clubs stand. Bulldozers can be used to demolish the slums of the poor, and street vendors can be removed from the sidewalks, but few dare to question these permanent empires, spread across government land worth thousands of crores.
The cruelest truth about Delhi is that the poor are always temporary, while the rich are always permanent. Rickshaw pullers are asked, “When will you move?”, but no one asks the elite clubs, built on government land for decades, when their rights will end. This isn’t just economic inequality, but psychological inequality. Society has normalized it by labeling it prestige and dignity.
But the story isn’t limited to the Gymkhana. Whether it’s the Delhi Golf Club, the India International Centre, or the India Habitat Centre—these are not just institutions, but parallel worlds of power. The Delhi Golf Club isn’t just about sports; it’s where a silent dialogue between power and capital takes place. From the outside, the India International Centre appears to be a cultural platform, but inside, it becomes a rebirth place for retired power. People whose positions have ended, yet their influence still lives on, meet there. At the India Habitat Centre, discussions on poverty and social justice take place in air-conditioned auditoriums, while the ordinary citizen standing outside those very discussions is unable to even become a part of the world being talked about in their name.
This is the true power of permanent power. Governments change, ministers change, political slogans change, but this network remains secure under every regime. This is a class that does not fear electoral defeat, because its power derives not just from politics but from social influence and institutional influence. This is why Delhi can be called not only the political capital but also the capital of permanent power.
History bears witness that even those at the top of power have often failed to challenge this structure. During Rajiv Gandhi’s tenure, there was discussion of eliminating this club for security reasons, but it was not possible. This was not merely an administrative failure; it was a sign of the profound influence such institutions have held. Over the years, relationships within these clubs were formed, policies were influenced, and informal power alliances were formed. This was a social power parallel to democracy, unchecked by elections.
Today, when questions are being raised about the legitimacy, leases, and social appropriateness of these institutions, the debate is no longer merely legal. It becomes a question of the mindset that allowed the British-created sense of superiority to remain a symbol of respect even in independent India. Unfortunately, we bid farewell to the British, but not to Anglicism. We have made the English language, foreign clothing, club culture, and proximity to power synonymous with modernity and prestige.
It was this culture that divided democracy into two parts—one India that stood in line, the other India for whom doors opened automatically. One India that voted, the other India that made the decisions.
It’s also true that challenging just one club doesn’t change the system. The true meaning of democracy isn’t simply a change in power, but a change in the power structure itself. If only symbolic action is taken, and other institutions remain unchanged, this debate will remain incomplete. But if the question is raised more broadly about the social and moral justification of private elite clubs built on government land, then this discussion will acquire historical significance.
In fact, the struggle is not just about land, but also about self-respect. The question is whether India will truly embrace its democratic spirit, or will it continue to perpetuate the colonial superiority complex with new faces. Democracy doesn’t reside solely in the recesses of Parliament; it is also tested the moment an ordinary citizen stands before the door of power. If that door is closed simply because they lack lineage, connections, or a special class identity, then democracy is incomplete.
India needs clubs, cultural centers, sports institutions—but not institutions that become private empires disconnected from the public. Platforms that honor Indianness, not reproduce colonial superiority. Democracy isn’t just about voting, but about experiencing equality.
Perhaps the time has come for India to take its democracy beyond the Constitution and into those closed doors where equality still awaits entry.
