I have been coming to Bangalore on and off for the better part of a decade and I have seen the city slowly morph from an oasis of calm into a vibrant and thriving metropolis. On my last visit, some four years ago, I remember thinking that enough had changed, there had been enough development. I felt that the city had reached the correct size and should grow no more. Even on this short journey through the suburbs and into the city I realise that the city has grown massively since I last made that observation. Four years ago I was already starting to worry that if Bangalore wasn’t careful, it might well lose the very charm and beauty that attracted all comers. My current impression confirms that charm and beauty has been lost.
The coach station in Bangalore is mayhem, proper mayhem; it’s the place trainee mayhem is sent to study and learn the true nature of mayhem before it returns to its own state and visits its newly acquired knowledge upon the locals there. Bangalore, as well as being the capital of Karnataka, is the transport hub for the entire south Indian area. Trains are sent trundling off in every direction; buses and coaches tear a path to and fro; planes block the sun on domestic and international flight paths. Bangalore is a busy place. And of all the available modes of transport the bus and coach are the favoured amongst the hoi polloi. The trains tend to be for the more genteel, even with their scary third-class carriages; and their service is less frequent than the eight-wheeled option. The bus is the Everyman of the Indian road.
Stepping off the bus I enter the massive station looking for my designated meeting point. Within minutes I feel as though I have seen or heard every possible destination in India. If they aren’t hauling signs up on front of their buses, they are shouting their destinations repeatedly, at breakneck speed as if competing with fellow drivers. They shout like they drive: noisily, aggressively and selfishly.
It feels as if the entire world and its mother-in-law sits and waits, or ups and boards, or yawns and sleeps, or sips and eats, or alights and arrives.
I feel excited and nervous about Bangalore. This is the first destination on my quest that is familiar to me; I have spent time in Bangalore with my wife’s family. It is also the first destination where I will be cooking for someone I know, someone I know well. Bharat Shetty is my wife’s cousin and I have known him for the better part of two decades. Bharat Shetty is a bon viveur. He likes to smoke, he likes to drink and he likes to party. But most of all he likes to eat. Bharat is also a stranger to tact and diplomacy, a quality in him that I have always enjoyed. One knows exactly where one stands with Bharat. But while I have enjoyed his candour thus far, I’m not altogether looking forward to his candour when applied in relation to my food.
How old he is, I’m not sure, but I reckon he must be at least in his mid-fifties by now. He used to travel often to London and Europe on business and we would invariably end up dining out at some fancy restaurant or other. In those days I had next to no money, no real career to speak of, no prospects of a career, two kids and an overdraft. I would always feel very nervous about having to pay, for fear of the card being declined or the machine exploding with fatigue at my continual impertinence in asking for cash that simply didn’t exist.
I can remember one time when Bharat and his then new wife Anjani came to visit. They wanted to eat Chinese food. We suggested the Royal China, regarded by many as London’s finest Chinese restaurant. We opted for the Bayswater branch; the dark almost conspiratorial vibe of the place always reminds me of that restaurant in Scarface when Tony Montana gets drunk and starts referring to himself as the ‘bad guy’. I feared that this evening I would be the ‘bad guy’. We sat and we ate; wave after wave of food came and I spent the whole meal wondering how the hell I was going to pay. By the time the chilli squid in black bean sauce had come, I resigned myself to the ignominy of the credit card ‘decline’. I enjoyed not a single mouthful, thinking through all the times Bharat had looked after me in Bangalore; my hand never once went into my pocket. The bill eventually came, too early. As my hand reached out for it Bharat snatched it away.
‘Hey, you silly bugger,’ Bharat barked lovingly at me. ‘You are not paying,’ he rebuked as he took out his bulging wallet. ‘Silly bugger … ’
He always chastised me in the way only an older Indian relative can, irritated that I would even consider such an affront. My relief was palpable.
It is Bharat who has come to meet me at the predesignated meeting point, under the broken clock. Up ahead I can see a clock that looks broken as I batter my way through the human traffic, head down and insensitive to the needs of others. India makes you like that, and in the time I have been here, I realise that my well-mannered polite Britishness is a millstone around my neck. It dissolves daily in the war of attrition you must wage to buy a coffee, cross the street, board a train. For a nation that can be so polite and so helpful, the people of India can also be terribly rude. But rudeness is in the eye of the beholder and I decide not to behold anything but my end goal, which is to meet Bharat Shetty. I bump frail old ladies out of my way, accelerate in front of a nursing mother, cut across a wheel-chaired grandfather. And as I make for the exit the cries of the small child I kicked out of my way start to subside, and I see the welcoming face of Mr Bharat Shetty.
‘Where are your bags, man? Bags?’ he asks, looking no doubt for more than my single wheely case.
‘All here,’ I say patting my beloved travelling companion.
‘What the hell!’ He really does speak like that.
Bharat takes me to his apartment and it’s damn good to be home. And what a home! The seventh-floor apartment is smack bang in the middle of India’s most vibrant and growing city, the very epicentre of Bangalore. There are few tall buildings in the centre of the city, so the top of this one with six storeys below affords an unbroken view of the urban landscape. Wherever you look there is new development, new building. The traffic below is chaotically Indian. The street is one way and as dusk descends legion upon legion of white lights descend the hill past the apartment morphing into red-lighted smears as they melt away into the Bangalore night; the flow from white to red seems constant.
‘How was the journey, man?’ Bharat asks.
‘Fine,’ I reply rather unconvincingly.
I look out of the window and admire the view again.
‘Finest city in India, according to CNN, man. Finest city in India. Glenfiddich or Glenmorangie?’ he asks.
There’s no place like home.
Driving around Bangalore, it feels like the perfect place for me to understand my colonial past and my modern future. We often forget that as an independent country, India is but six decades old; it is still very much coming to terms with itself politically and socially. Many argue that Indian civilisation has existed for millennia, and that my theory about the nation being so young is vacuous and historically naive. But Indians
never ruled themselves democratically prior to 1947. The British governed like any good colonial power, dividing and ruling, crow-barring open the already existing fault lines of religious, geographical and cultural differences that were rife across this massive subcontinent. These fault lines defined the different monarchies and territories prior to the British invasion. As much as India has the most ancient of world civilisations, philosophies and religions, as a unified, democratic force it is but a toddler. I am fascinated to understand what it means to be Indian because being ‘Indian’ is only really a recent phenomenon. It is much easier to talk about being Punjabi or Scottish or British, identities that have endured for hundreds of years. But being Indian is a less established a concept. And Bangalore, with its new wave of western business travellers, is new India. The people of this city are being asked new questions by the incomers from Germany, Holland and the US. What will these economic migrants make of Bangalore? What will they make of India itself?
‘Do you want to see the city or shall we grab a drink?’ Bharat loves a drink, but I want to see the city.
‘Show me the city,’ I answer. ‘According to CNN it’s
the finest city in India, no?’
He smiles. ‘Cheeky bugger!’
Cubbin Park, named after the eponymous lord, is a beautiful memento of the British, sitting as it does so near to the new Karnataka’s State government building, which is itself a wonder of Indian architecture. Hordes gather to view this edifice which is across the boulevard from the High Court of Bangalore. Rounding a corner I see a statue of Queen Victoria. I am reminded of the images in the post-Glasnost Soviet Union of the populus tearing down statues of Lenin and Stalin, often with their bare and bloodied hands. But not here, not in India. There is still a great affection for the Brits in some quarters. Certain philosophers and thinkers believe that it is this fondness for the British that intellectually and politically holds India back, the notion that things would have still been better under the Raj. I do think that some Indians are prone to a slight inferiority complex about Britain in particular and the west in general. There is a belief that the west is best. I am fairly certain that this attitude pervaded my own upbringing to some extent. I’m not sure where it came from since my parents have never felt that way, but I do recall faceless drunk ‘uncles’ (not my real uncles) bad-mouthing India in a way that I can only describe as ungrateful. I distinctly remember thinking that it was bad enough that the local white folk were less than complimentary about India; they didn’t need the support of Indians themselves. And this inferiority complex still exists today amongst a certain constituency of non-resident Indians as we are known. Perhaps as globalisation takes hold and the free market solidifies in India, as it seems to be doing, these archaic notions will dissolve and disappear. Perhaps.
‘Do you like cakes, man? Cakes?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. I don’t have the sweetest of tooths, but I have a real penchant for pastries and cakes.
‘I’m going to open some cake shops in Bangalore.’
‘Really?’ I can’t hide my surprise. India really is changing.
‘When did you think that one up?’ I ask.
‘Been planning it for years. Years, man. It’s coming together. Got the sites scouted. Now I need some staff. I might have to bring a chef in from Dubai.’ He pauses and seems to drift off in thought for a moment. ‘Man, they make great bloody cakes in Dubai. Great cakes.’
‘What will you be selling in these cake shops?’ No sooner have I asked this question than I realise how stupid it is.
‘Pastries, you buffoon. Cakes and pastries. Croissants, cakes and pastries.’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
‘But nice ones,’ he adds. ‘European ones, like you find in London.’
We drive past another statue of Queen Victoria, Empress of India. This must be the third or fourth monument to the lady I have seen today. I have to say, Victoria looks great, orb in hand, serene as ever. It’s no wonder they named the sponge after her.
‘You should open five shops and call the chain Victoria’s Punj,’ I say, ‘punj’ being the Punjabi word for five.
He looks blankly at me.
‘Victoria sponge. Victoria’s Punj?’
His blank look remains resolute. I don’t think he knows what a Victoria sponge is.
I love a Victoria sponge. The simplicity of the light sponge, the sweet sharpness of the raspberry jam (it has to be raspberry) and the lusciously rich double cream all combining in the mouth to form the loveliest of cake-based experiences. And it was exactly this sensory experience that led to possibly the darkest and most troublesome food experience of my childhood; an experience I will never forget, nor ever will be allowed to.
It was the summer of 1980; June. The sun was high in the sky, the holidays extending in front of us like vistas of hope, the untouchable horizon being August and the inevitable return to school. For Hardeep the eleven year old even tomorrow seemed deep in the future. There were bikes to ride, hills to climb, buildings to jump off, dogs to annoy, football to play and adventures to be had. And that would all happen well before tomorrow ever arrived. There was nowhere better to grow up than Bishopbriggs. Chief amongst the reasons for the idyllic and halcyon nature of my childhood was the presence of my cousins, Sandy and Sanjay, in the same north Glasgow suburb. I have a little contextualising to offer.
My dad was the eldest of nine children. Two died in their childhood, leaving seven in total. Chronologically it goes like this:
1. My dad: known to his friends as P.D. but to all his siblings as ‘Virji’, elder brother.
2. Pavittar: great cook, maker of sweet and sour chicken but very, very slow at everything, particularly anecdotes.
3. Mangal: the chilled-out hippy of the family.
4. Minder: brilliant cook, exceptional; and a waistline to match. Her date and walnut cake is one of the finest baked delights I have ever had the pleasure to eat. Her youngest son became a chef.
5. Billu: the six-foot-five farmer and all round good guy.
6. Channi: the hot-headed, handsome devil that could charm birds out of trees and could also make the best pickled goat I have ever tasted.
7. Pinki: the youngest of the family, sixteen years junior to my father; still called ‘baby’ by my late grandmother, even when Pinki was in her fifties.*
*
Sandy and Sanjay were Pavittar’s kids. Not only did I grow up with my aunt’s experimental cooking, I also had my cousins nearby. As you know, I was one of three brothers. Chronologically we were: Sandy, Raj, Sanjay, me and Sanjeev.
a) never go in goal
b) never come back and defend
c) always goal poach (goal-poaching is a technical manoeuvre of football made illegal by the creation of the offside rule. It basically means you hang around the opposition goal and wait for the ball to come into the general vicinity and then try and score, claiming the glory without having done any of the donkey work or performing any of the responsibilities incumbent in the team ethos. In England it is also known as goal-hanging)
d) always bowl extra-fast bouncing deliveries to me when we played cricket on bumpy grass (as if he WANTED to hurt me)
If Sandy was my true elder brother, then Sanjay and I indulged in our own sibling rivalry. We fought like cats and dogs. In fact cats and dogs would be asked to try and separate us when we were fighting, so vicious were we with each other. One Christmas we toppled headlong, fists flailing, legs locking, into the Christmas tree while an Elvis movie played on TV. When we were younger I used my extra height and weight to torture him; as his superior genetic imprint – and his many sessions at the lesser known but violent martial art of Budokan – kicked in, his revenge was sweet.
In between this change of administration came the summer of 1980. Sanjay and I had achieved a physical parity; we downed weapons and agreed an unspoken truce. We pursued the third way for that summer and reaped the rewards of peace. We played together happily, we climbed trees together happily, we jumped off garages together happily, we swam together happily, we ran together happily, we explored together happily and we stole that Victoria sponge together happily. We stole a Victoria sponge. Together. Happily.
We made a pact, the sort of pact that ought to have been sworn in blood. I was soon to learn the error of my ways in not insisting that our thumbs be cut and our already genetically mingled blood be further mingled. If I had at least sought that level of legal leverage, then my future might have been safer.
The cake had been stolen from the cupboard in our kitchen. We had in our possession Mr Kipling’s exceedingly good cake. Obviously at the time we had no idea whatsoever of the profound colonial history of this cake, its echo of the sixty-four-year reign of the woman who had presided over a globe that was nearly a third pink. No. We just really liked the creamy, jammy filling sandwiched between the lightest and most delicious of sponges. We stole ourselves and our sponge to the eaves of the loft. Behind closed doors we devoured the cake, I perhaps having slightly more than half. When I say ‘devoured’ I am not using that word in some fancy rhetorical way; we actually devoured the cake, as if we
had never before seen cake and this was our first meal in weeks. The cake was barely out of the wrapper before it was heading, through the gift of peristalsis, stomach-ward. In the afterglow of the cake rush we colluded never to speak of this to anyone. No one would miss a Mr Kipling’s cake from the cupboard. After all, it was only a cake.
It was only a cake. It was only a cake. What a fool I was to think it was only a cake. It was the only cake. The only cake in the cupboard. The only cake in the house. Its disappearance would never go unnoticed. The cake had been purchased to be eaten by the entire family after dinner that evening. A nice chicken curry followed by a bit of cake. Suburban Glasgow/ Indian bliss if ever there was. But, Mrs Hubbard-like, the cupboard was bare. You have to remember that when I was growing up our house was run on a tight budget. There was never any slack. We didn’t have cupboards overfl owing with eight different kinds of balsamic vinegar or a range of different olives. We had what we had and we ate what we had. There was never any waste. Never. So when a cake went missing, it became an international incident. Hands were wrung, rooms were searched and questions asked.
I was interrogated by my parents. Remembering my verbal pact with Sanjay – which foolishly hadn’t been confirmed by blood – I refused to buckle under the pressure. They asked me about the cake and all I would give them was my name, my rank and declare that under the Geneva Convention of Human Rights, I was a prisoner of war. They weren’t having it. They knew, somehow, that I had snaffled the Victoria sponge, and they were going to break me. But I held fast; there was something greater than truth at stake here: honour. The honour of cousins, the sort of honour that binds and ties and fetters two souls together in brotherly love for a lifetime.
Indian Takeaway Page 12