I’m in a tiny little town in Maharashtra. It has one flyover, one temple for B.R. Ambedkar, one spa, two hookah parlours, no discos and 12 gates dating back to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This is not the kind of place where you expect to walk into a modest hotel and find not one, not two but six men with little ponytails, each tied with a little yellow bow. The bows are given by the company, I was informed. None of the women seem to have been given yellow bows, only the young gents. I’m certain that the ponytail is part of the hiring policy. “Young man, will you grow your hair if you join our organisation? Yes? Here’s your yellow bow.” And yes, they play Boy George in their lobby.