Bucket baths are great. Great and very Indian. As opposed to a fish bath which is also great, but very unIndian. Our house, like every Indian house in Britain and probably across the world, was geared up to the bucket-bath scenario, a washing technique I still love to this day. A bucket (known in Punjabi as a ‘balti’*) would be placed in the bath and subsequently filled with water. The said water would then be manipulated, by crafty use of a small jug, over the bather’s body. A pause would occur in the water-pouring process while soap was administered to the body. The water manipulation step would continue until all soap had been washed away. Finally, and this was the coup de grâce, the remaining water in the bucket that could not successfully be manipulated into the jug was poured over the bather in a single motion. The very essence of refreshment. It was both beautiful and simple.
As we grew up and became more experienced in the way of the bucket bath, new, subtle variations would be introduced. Simultaneous soaping and water-pouring. Left-handed water- pouring, solo hair-washing (bearing in mind we were a houseful of long-haired woman and men) and latterly, shamed as I am to admit it, masturbating and water-pouring. Try it; it’s great. Whatever way you look at it, the bucket bath is a triumph of humanity over dirtiness. As I wander down the stairs and back to my room, I stop for a moment on the terrace and enjoy the twinkling view over the scattered and uncluttered city. Within the crazy, mixed-up cosmopolitan influences of Jeremy and Suresh and the Americanisation of yoga and the rest of it, I am, somewhere deep down inside, very much at ease with my place here in Mysore. I feel very Indian. I still feel Indian when I notice that the bucket for my bucket bath resides in a tiny bathroom. I would struggle to swing a kitten in it, let alone a cat. I let the water run; it’s cold. I start to get undressed. I suddenly realise that I need a bath so badly that even I find my own smell offensive. I’m impressively malodorous. I check the water. If anything it’s getting colder and colder. I could cry.
I ask little of life, really. A nice meal now and again, a well cut suit, the music of Van Morrison and hot water for a bucket bath. With the shower or bath scenario the crucial difference with cold water is that you are able to completely immerse your body in the cold experience, shocking it instantly into acceptance. With the bucket bath it’s an altogether more gradual experience. The warm and dry part of your body wonders why you are pouring cold water on the other parts of your body. This makes the recently made cold parts of your body feel colder still. While this is kicking off, civil war breaks out as the as yet unmolested parts of your body get wise to the imminent coldness. It’s confusing and bloody hard work.
I don’t want a cold bath. I really don’t. But I have to. I can’t wait until Bangalore.
I emerge from my non-specific wet-soaking none the wiser as to my cooking challenge. And to compound an already fairly compounded situation Jeremy, in his sweet, mild-mannered and measured way points out other limitations to my meal. Anna, a surly Spaniard from Lanzarote who does not like spicy food. Suresh’s twenty-one day fast which may permit him to only eat a mouthful, out of politeness no doubt. And then there’s the lovely old Karnatakan cooking and cleaning lady who Jeremy has never once seen eating for the entire year he’s been here. Great.
So let’s sum up the position: I have no ingredients to cook, no idea what I am going to cook and should I somehow, by divine karmic contact, devise the most complete plate of British-European food ever created by a Scotsman in India, I have only Jeremy to eat it.
I must look like panic personified because Jeremy offers to help me regroup by taking me on the back of his motorbike to the shops to see what would inspire me. I haven’t been on a motorbike since I was a kid. And that story doesn’t have a happy ending …
We were in Ferozepure, at my grandfather’s house. I was about twelve at the time. Our trip was coming to an end and we had to take the bus from Ferozepure back to Delhi before jetting off back to Scotland. You may have noticed from your time in airports/railway stations/bus depots that Indian families like nothing better than descending, mob-handed with their kith and kin when it comes to despatching someone on a journey. Often eighteen or twenty cousins, uncles, aunts and neighbours’ children will accompany two travellers to ‘see them off’ at the station. It was the cause of much embarrassment to us as kids, but it is something I have come to love. Even if it does make for the lengthiest of goodbyes and the occasional missed fl ight.
Anyway, in the best traditions, my family had picked up some cousins and the neighbours’ kids to see us to the coach station. So tight were we for space my Channi Chachaji, my dad’s handsome, enigmatic, slightly deranged brother to whom I am very close, had decided that I would get to the station with him, riding pillion on his bike. Channi is a renegade. You need to know this. He can charm all the birds out of all the trees; he has an indefinable joy for life, a childlike energy and an utter lack of linear time-keeping. This meant that some time after the rest of the family had left for the coach station, my young uncle and I were still drinking tea in the house. It was delicious tea but I had to be on that coach; if we missed that coach, we missed our flight; and if we missed our flight …
So finally Channi got his act together. He realised the time and panicked. We bolted downstairs and onto the Norton motorcycle and soon we are cutting our way through people, bullocks, carts, people on bullocks, bullocks pulling carts; lots of bullocks. You get the picture. Channi knows no fear; he’s an ex-captain from the Indian army and has seen active service. He was hardly going to be frightened by pedestrians, bovines and walls. I had no idea where we were going and how long it would take. My knuckles were white, which given my skin colouring was a fairly strong indication of the fear I was experiencing.
All I remember is that we accelerated, swerved left and then right. My uncle swore quite vehemently. The next thing I knew I was flying through the air and landing on a vegetable cart, narrowly missing the tomatoes but definitely damaging some early season marrows. It transpired that Channi had braked hard to avoid a leper on a bike. Since I was a child and thanks to something Newton explained, I was unable to offer any force to resist the braking and consequently flew marrow-ward. Channi picked me up, slapped the vegetable vendor, an innocent in the situation, and wiped the marrow from my shirt. He looked me in the eye and told me I was never to mention this incident to my father. I promised not to. I got the coach and the secret remained safe with me for nearly three decades. Until now. Sorry, Channi Chachaji.
What a sight we must look, me in my full-length pink kurta riding pillion to a long-haired hippy-type and we are off to buy the groceries together. It’s very sweet that Jeremy is so keen to help me in my quest. I am however wondering about his relationship with India. You see, I have a dual identity when it comes to India. I feel free to be critical of the country, but will also jump to its defence should I hear anyone else speak against her. And I’m not sure Jeremy likes India terribly much. It suits him to be here. India is a Hindu country and Hindus are famous for their laid-back attitude and general sense of welcome. That’s probably why the Moghuls were able to invade, and then the British. Hindu India indulges people like Jeremy; it lets them come and suck what they can out of the country before leaving. Perhaps I’m being harsh, but I am definitely getting the impression that the single most important thing in Jeremy’s life is Jeremy. He may be taking me shopping but he has expressed no interest in my journey thus far. He hasn’t really asked anything of where I have been or where I am going. He hasn’t even asked the logic of my cooking escapades. Interesting. I mull this over as we roar off towards the shops. I try very hard not to get my pink kurta caught in the mechanism of the bike.
It seems as though the fates have further conspired against me. Both the markets are shut, inexplicably on a Friday. I am running out of options. What am I going to cook? My mind is a blank canvas that has been white-washed further still, just in case the residue of a past idea should remain somewhere hidden in its fibre. I am utterly at a loss.
&n
bsp; Then I see a vegetable stall man pushing his barrow of produce. It is laden with aubergines. Tens of beautiful aubergines. Maybe even a hundred of the spherically purple delights. Perhaps this is the divine karmic contact I have been waiting for?
India is a massive country. Actually it ought not to be a country, the way the USSR was never a country. Disparate peoples seem somehow to be held together by the few things they share rather than the myriad of things that separate them. One of the things I believe that Indians share is the way they feel about their vegetables. I already have experience of northern Indian towns and cities, and so far in the south and the east of India the same vegephilia seems to be present. The Indian housewife sends her maid out to purchase vegetables from the legion of men with carts that line every street of the country. These carts are flat-topped on large wheels; the sort of cart that has existed since shortly after the wheel was discovered. Atop these carts sit an array of beautifully presented vegetables. And while the range of produce may be limited on each cart, the supply seems plentiful. Tomatoes, lovingly cleaned and pyramidically placed, reaching skyward; Indian onions, intensely purple in the low afternoon sun; perfectly round cabbages placed neatly in rows. I cannot stress how wonderful these arrangements look, these temples of colour every few yards down a busy street. It says a great deal for the pride of the vendors, the way they display their wares. And what makes the experience even more intense for me is that I know that if I were to journey back, some hours after the moon has chased the sun out of the sky, these selfsame vendors would be asleep on their carts, now empty of vegetables. They live where they work. For me that is a poetry of sorts.
We make for the nearest vegetable stall. There is an abundance of aubergines in front of me. Baby aubergines, perfect for stuffing with spices before being fried with potatoes. Large, rotund aubergines, best for slicing and coating in a gram of flour batter before being deep fried and turned into pakoras. White aubergines, a vegetable I have absolutely no food-based knowledge of whatsoever. I am surrounded by almost every variety and type of aubergine. It is as if I have died and gone to aubergine heaven where the aubergine angels are singing. I announce to Jeremy that I have settled on my evening repast. It isn’t complicated, it isn’t fancy; there would be no seviching of anything nor the rustling up of a buerre blanc. But it was attainable and would allow me to make for Bangalore with my head held not high, but certainly above the mid-mast position. My plan is simple. Make a babaganoush with these skinny aubergines; babaganoush is a smoked aubergine dip, much beloved in the Middle East and the Mediterranean. Lemon juice, garlic and parsley conspire to create a smoky spiky herby dip. My mother-in-law makes an Indian version that is a brilliant accompaniment to lamb curry and inspired me to serve my rendition with roast lamb. It’s well worth a try.
There is a knock on my door. We are back at Jeremy’s yoga school and I have been dozing. The knocking on my door continues, softly but definitely. As the door is so close to my bed I answer, still in the process of opening my eyes and dressed only in a lunghi (a sarong-like wrap-around Indian skirt; my preferred choice of evening wear and very masculine). Suresh stands in front of me, looking enigmatically content, his kind eyes twinkling unremittingly at me. He is accompanied by a woman and two young girls. I stand there, turban-less and topless with no glasses on, as Suresh introduces the ladies to me. I patiently wait for his unfolding explanation. It transpires that word got round that some Britisher was coming to cook. This woman owns a small restaurant in Mysore proper and she is keen to see how the Britisher would cook. The last thing I was expecting was an audience. The silver lining to this cloud is the addition of another three mouths to be fed; hopefully.
I start prepping in the kitchen. It’s not a massive space but more than big enough for my aubergine delights. There’s a three-ring burner. I turn the two bigger burners on and place the long aubergines directly onto the flame. There are muttered Kannada phrases between mother and daughters. The cooking lady looks on from behind; I can’t read her face to gain any sort of approval rating. I’m still slightly annoyed by her vetoing of meat and chicken and her unwitting destruction of my plan to concoct a Lancashire hotpot. The aubergine skins start to blister and burn. Large aubergines take as long as twenty minutes because not only does the skin need to burn to impart that deliciously smoky aroma, the interior flesh needs to cook. These skinny little articles should be done in minutes. I start chopping an onion and put a pan of water on to blanch and skin the tomatoes.
I fry the other aubergines, having salted and sliced them. It’s an old Indian trick to draw the bitter water out of aubergines, courgettes and cucumber. Top them and sprinkle some salt on the flat surface; put the top back on again and rub it down on the salt. Leave them to rest, top and salt intact for a few minutes. The flavour change is unbelievable; it also means that when it comes to frying there is less water in the aubergines and so a crispness can be achieved.
As I’m slicing and salting, four pairs of intense brown eyes are fixed on me. The occasional mumbled whisper or girlish laugh is the only sound to break the silence. I realise that it is very rare for these women to see a man in the kitchen, let alone cooking in one. I ask the mother. She agrees. Few Indian men like to cook. A lot of Indian men like to eat. She and I laugh as she explains the joke to her daughters and the old cook.
I muster up half a dozen plates of pan-fried baby aubergine and paneer with a chilli babaganoush dressing served on a rich tomato and garlic sauce. I have to say that my ability to overcome adversity in the face of a vegetarian meal is laudable. And as much as pan-fried aubergine with a chilli babaganoush dressing is yet another not-very-British meal, it is nonetheless a meal. I stand in the crowded kitchen watching them eat, unsure at first but eventually accepting the flavours into their mouths. I realise that the food isn’t terrible. Anna, the surly-looking Spanish yoga student, spits a mouthful of the aubergine out.
‘It is too spicy!’ she screams as she flees the kitchen. I can tell from the complete and utter lack of reaction from the others that they have become used to this sort of behaviour from her.
‘How is it, Jeremy?’ I ask a little nervously, wishing that he had proffered an immediate opinion rather than wait for my probing.
He ponders a moment and chews. ‘It’s not bad. But it would have been nice if you had cooked some meat like you said you were going to.’
I nearly fall off my feet at this point. I can’t believe his gall. I want to blurt out all sorts of words and phrases and expletives in my defence. Of course it would have been nice if I had cooked some meat. It would have been nicest for me, since I hate cooking vegetables. But rather than explode in an anti-yoga tirade of abuse, I have a moment of the most beautiful clarity. As I look at Jeremy, self-absorbed, self-obsessed Jeremy, I realise that this India, Jeremy’s India, is no more than a façade. While on the face of it he has come to find something out about himself, it is actually just all about himself. He seems to have little love for or interest in the country. India merely suits him and this annoys me. Jeremy is just another colonist, like the waves of colonists who came to India and raped her of her resources. The only difference with Jeremy is that he is colonising the country’s spirituality rather than her economy. Perhaps I am being a tad hypocritical. What am I doing here but furthering my own, selfish needs? Am I so very different from Jeremy? I think the crucial difference is that I am not a magical, mystical tourist who can choose to leave the country and break my links. My links are lines of heritage. Even in Mysore (a place none of my Punjabi forbears are ever likely to have visited), I feel an innate sense of India and Indianness.
My mum holds me in a moment of uncharacteristic stillness (on my part) outside the house in Wembley. Raj is held by the big fella. Now you see where I get my sense of style from.
Me, lodged between Raj and my dad. My only memory of sitting on the wall.
Don’t I look great in red? My mum looking more like Eartha Kitt
than Eartha Kitt did.
Little Sanj, or ‘Sniff’, as we called him, fooling around in Bishopbriggs. My dad in a rare moment of tactile affection. See how much better I look with a turban and beard?
The gun is in fact loaded – the joys of holidaying in the Punjab. A few hours later we were eating curried pigeon (none of which were successfully killed by me).
The gruesome threesome. Raj and I always had matching clothes, yet Sanj never allowed it to cause him deep psychological damage vis-à-vis exclusion issues.
Playstations? Jungle music? The Internet? Kids today have no idea how to have fun. See how Sanj is enjoying himself on Raj’s shoulders with nothing more than a bad jumper and a light shade.
And it’s not just my brothers that know how to party; look at that table heaving with food (as always, Raj, as the fi rst-born, got the crown).
My impression of The Fonz from Happy Days in Glasgow. I loved that stripey green Kurta pyjama to the extent that I refused to let my mum wash it, lest it be away from me for an evening. I didn’t smell very good in the early eighties.
My world famous owl impression. I really do look like an owl … Uncanny, no?
A great face (for radio).
The John Ogilvie Hall First XV. I played second row and I loved rugby. That’s Aloke Sinha, standing second from the left. I’m between big Mick Donnelly and Andrew ‘Baboo’ McGlone. Some of my team members didn’t end up in jail.
Indian Takeaway Page 10