I’m well aware of the fact that pretty much any cuisine in the world will taste bland in comparison to Indian food. So, in the interests of self-preservation, I throw in a couple of green chillies. What did you expect? The lamb is sealed after which I add salt and pepper and a glass and a half of a 2003 Pinotage. (I am aware of how pretentious that just sounded.) Having reduced the liquor by half, I add two really good dashes of Worcester sauce, some diced red peppers and a good handful of chopped mint. Strictly speaking, peppers and mint don’t belong in shepherd’s pie, but if you break shepherd’s pie down to its constituent parts, it’s basically meat and potatoes with a bit of sauce. The glitterati of young Delhi society have been asked to come round for dinner. I can’t just give them meat and potatoes and some sauce.
The lamb is turned out into a casserole dish and allowed to cool. This, my friends, is possibly the most crucial point in the preparation of shepherd’s pie. Trust me. If you do not allow the lamb mixture to cool and dive straight in with your butter-soft mashed potato top, the mashed potato will sink into the hot lamb, thereby rendering the separation of parts useless. Who wants lamby potatoes on top of potatoey lamb? The interface between the lamb and the potatoes is what makes the shepherd’s pie work, else we would just mix them altogether and put them in the oven, wouldn’t we? Nothing is more crucial than this separation.
Actually, there is one thing that is more crucial than this separation; that might be having enough potatoes to actually cover the lamb.
So preoccupied was I with making sure the lamb was correctly salted, correctly sized and sufficiently spiced, I hadn’t realised the paucity of potatoes I’d put on to boil. Embarrassingly it would appear I don’t have nearly enough potatoes to create the pie-like crust that is the single component that elevates the pie of a shepherd into a higher realm of eating. It’s at times like this I wish my mum were here. She would know exactly what to do. Somehow, using a hairpin, an old battery and a courgette, she would fashion a device that could puncture the space-time continuum and create instant mashed potato without a robot in sight. Instead, I face ignominy. It will be an incomplete mashed potato top. I check my watch; it’s not too late to do a runner.
As I consider my options, the doorbell rings. It would appear I now only have the one option: dinner must be served.
With the top of my shepherd’s pie looking like the later work of Pablo Picasso, I place it in the oven. In thirty minutes hopefully it won’t look too much like a Jackson Pollock. I try to console myself with quality accoutrements. Boiled carrots in butter with pepper and mushrooms in a white wine and fresh coriander sauce, finished with butter; butter in everything. I now have time to kill. The guests have gathered on the beautiful candlelit terrace; the views over the city are sublime. We make the necessary small talk as vodka is sipped and beer is glugged. I can’t begin to tell you how much I feel like I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time. I zone out of the conversation for a moment as the vodka works its magic and I spin thirty years back in my head to one of my earliest memories of Delhi at night …
If ever there was a story that epitomised my love and respect for my father, this is surely it; the story of Mr Muker. My dad’s a very generous man and he always endeavours to visit family and extend gifts wherever possible. It transpired that in 1981 a cousin’s cousin had found themselves in Delhi. We were visiting, too, so my father took it upon himself to visit this cousin’s cousin, one Mr Muker. Of course, it would have been helpful if my father had had a phone number or an address or any details or clues about this Mr Muker. All my father knew was that Mr Muker worked for the government. In India, in the eighties, most people worked for the government; so this information barely narrowed our search. However, my father has never let a lack of information stand in the way of visiting family. He discovered a Mr Muker lived in an adjoining suburb to Manore Uncle. With presents under his arm (a dress for a five-year-old girl and a toy for a two-year-old boy) all six feet two inches of my father, sixteen stone of Manore Uncle and twelve-year-old me placed ourselves upon a 125 cc Bajaj scooter and took to the nocturnal streets of Delhi. We moved around the city like the wind; a slow, slightly lardy wind, and a not particularly comfortable wind, if the truth be told. But in less than an hour, we were knocking on the door of Mr Muker.
Now, there’s something you need to know about Indian hospitality. In polite western society, you would never imagine pitching up at somebody’s house at nine o’clock in the evening unannounced, uninvited, unexpected. The Indian way is the opposite: whoever turns up at your door, whenever they turn up at your door and whoever they may be with are to be welcomed, given a cup of tea at the least, (although whisky or rum would not be considered inappropriate) and would be fed Indian sweetmeats if not offered a full-blown meal. This perhaps explains the eagerness with which the invading marauders of the British Empire were welcomed; I mean, if a nation is going to give you tea and sweetmeats, there’s every chance they’ll give you their mineral resources and man power, too.
We were ushered in by a rather surly servant. We sat in an empty drawing room, my father still clutching the presents excitedly. To say Mr Muker looked disgruntled would be an understatement. He looked really pissed off. Compared to his harridan of a wife, however, he was sweetness and light. Tea and sweetmeats came without beckoning and the conversation was a little stilted. In an attempt to break the ice, my father handed the presents over hoping to see a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. The children of the house were somewhat older and of slightly different genders. There were two girls, one eight and one nine. The dress for the five-year-old girl may have stretched to fit the eight year old but the gift for a small boy would surely be lost on the elder daughter. However, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
Obviously, Mr Muker required some context, some frame of reference for this unsolicited social scenario. My father started explaining who he was. The mention of the mutual cousin and the name Babbi fell on deaf ears. Mr Muker didn’t have a cousin called Babbi. My dad asked whether Mr Muker worked for the Indian government. Not only did Mr Muker work for the Indian government, Mr Muker was the commissioner of traffic for New Delhi and surrounding areas; one of the most influential jobs in the whole of India’s civil service. My dad expressed astonishment at how high Mr Muker had risen since leaving his home town of Faridkot only a few years ago. Mr Muker straightened his back, sat forward in his chair and said sternly that not only was he not from Faridkot, he had never been to Faridkot.
It soon transpired of course that we were in the wrong Mr Muker’s house. Tea had been drunk and sweetmeats consumed, and most crucially gifts had been given. The wrong gifts to the wrong children. My father hoped that his laughter would be infectious. Never before had laughter been so uncontagious. We stood up, my father muttering apologies but saying how nice it was to have met Mr Muker anyway.
As we got to the door, my father said that at least now he would have no worries of troubles should he ever require the assistance of the commissioner of traffic for New Delhi. By the look on Mr Muker’s face at that point, I reckoned the safest thing for my father to have done would have been never to have travelled in New Delhi again for fear of a personal vendetta against him.
We stepped over the threshold and the relief was almost palpable. As the door closed behind us, my father turned and asked Mr Muker if we could have the gifts back. Thankfully he duly obliged. After all, we still had to visit the real Mr Muker. I don’t ever remember visiting the real Mr Muker. Perhaps we never did.
Tonight I feel like I felt all those years ago; an interloper bringing unsolicited gifts to the wrong people. They are just too polite to say anything. Yamina, who has studied social and political science at Cambridge, asks what’s to be served for dinner.
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ I blurt, hoping that the speed of my saying it will somehow disguise the nature of the dish.
‘God, I hope it’s better than the one we had at Cambridge.’
I was hopi
ng that perhaps they’d had limited exposure to shepherd’s pie. It’s so much more difficult to be critical when you have no benchmark. It feels like it’s going to be a long night.
Small talk becomes big talk and the evening degenerates into a heated debate about the political state of arts within India. I hope that people will drink themselves into a state of forgetfulness and there would be no need for me to serve dinner.
‘I’m starving,’ says Lucky, helpfully. I look at her and know I have to do the necessary.
As we eat the shepherd’s pie there is talk of the resurgence of independent cinema in India and we continue vociferous exchanges about the westernisation of India. Lisa reaches down and takes a bottle of Tabasco out of her bag, placing it next to her empty plate.
‘I always carry this with me. Everywhere. Even in fancy restaurants in Miami. This is the first time in ten years I haven’t added Tabasco to a meal. I even forgot I had it with me … ’
Yadesh, who has met Yamina at their time together at Cambridge, is not a fan of British food.
‘I loved Britain, but really they have to sort out their food,’ he says affectionately about the cuisine of my country of origin.
‘I am British,’ I say.
‘You were born there. You are Indian really.’ He tucks in to the next mouthful of food. ‘They really do cook some bland English shit.’
It is clear from his implication that he isn’t referring to my shepherd’s pie as bland English shit.
‘You don’t mean my food, do you?’ I tease playfully. ‘Because my food would be described as bland Scottish shit.’
It is very strange, but at this very moment, as the laughter and the chat ring around my ears, I am overcome with a very simple and straightforward notion. As far as these Indians are concerned I’m not British; pure and simple. I have simply been born there. They have very little expectation of me in terms of understanding contemporary Indian life. They see me as the son of a man who was born in India. This is very confusing. I have spent the evening feeling very different to these people, to my Indian contemporaries. It is quite revealing for me to feel so very British, so very Scottish on the roof terrace of a third-floor apartment in a desirable neighbourhood in New Delhi, yet be regarded as completely Indian by these Indians. There is no point in arguing about it. This is their perception and I have to try and make some sense of it.
The next time I look up, all the plates are empty. But my heart feels full.
Later that evening I meet up with Rovi again. He takes me for a late-night kebab. This has become a bit of an institution between our families, a roadside kebab on every visit. We stand eating at the makeshift table enjoying the silence of men.
‘Rovi,’ I ask, mid-mouthful. ‘Do you think of me as Indian or British?’
Rovi chews and ponders, ponders and chews.
‘Hardeep,’ he says sweetly, ‘you are neither Indian nor British. You are just Hardeep.’
I think it’s the best answer he could ever give.
9
VALLEY OF THE DALS
303 things I counted in New Delhi
Train Station
A man in a wheelchair wearing a neck brace, in his pyjamas
and carrying a Zimmer frame.
A one-legged man carrying a newly boxed Tefal electric steamer on his head.
A woman falling backwards out of a slowly moving train, perhaps realising it was heading in the wrong destination. She takes with her several fellow travellers who were more than happy with their direction of travel.
Three hundred rats across ten metres of railway track (big fat rats, as big as small cats, which is technically even bigger than a kitten).
From my Indian train experiences, I’ve learnt by now that there seems to be some unwritten code, some unspoken convention whereby at the appointed hour all the passengers in the compartment stand up and start to prepare their beds for the night. This is in no small part driven by the fact that if one person is preparing their bunk it renders the rest of the compartment useless to casual nut chewing and gossip. On the train from Delhi to Jammu, I have luckily been booked on the lower bunk and unfurl my two white sheets and thick wool blanket.
Soon I am off to sleep, even before the carriage lights are extinguished. But it is a short-lived visit to the land they call nod, and after a couple of hours of blissful ignorance I am again in a state of wide-awake consciousness as the train rocks gently northward into the night.
Signs on the train from Delhi to Jammu
HARASSING WOMEN PASSENGERS IS A
PUNISHABLE OFFENCE
Obscene remarks, teasing, touching, stares, gestures, songs and unwanted attention are all forms of sexual violence punishable by up to two years or a fine under section 354A, 509 and 294 of the Indian Penal Code.
HELP THE RAILWAY SERVE YOU BETTER
Travel only with the proper ticket and show it to authorised personnel on demand
Secure your luggage with the rings/wire provided below the seats. Passengers themselves are responsible for security of their luggage
Please switch off fans and lights if not required
Please keep surroundings clean and do not spit in coach
Please do not use transistor or radio without earphone
Please secure doors and windows properly, particularly at night
PREVENT FIRE
Inside the compartment:
Do not throw lighted match stick
Do not carry explosives and dangerous goods
Do not carry inflammable articles like kerosene and petrol etc.
Do not light up a stove
Do not celebrate with fireworks
Help the Railways Reach You Safely
The interminable night eventually passes. I feel like the only man on the planet still awake. The train has started pulling into stations where a few passengers alight. The delay has caused an air of uncertainty in every quarter of every compartment in every carriage. There are no announcements and not all the signs in the stations are particularly clear. A young man, still half asleep, jumps from the third bunk, dervish-like collecting his belongings and simultaneously tucking in his shirt for fear that the train may depart with him still on it. I have no idea how late we are since I have no idea where we actually are; there’s no point in asking the name of the station since it bears no relationship to any geography in my head. It’s already past 8 a. m., so we are definitely late; it’s simply a question of how late. I doze a little for the next couple of hours, and we eventually arrive in Jammu a little after ten.
Only five hours late. I console myself with the notion that it could have been worse.
Srinagar is a place I must visit on this journey for a number of reasons. I once spent an idyllic summer here on one of the trips my father brought me on. My dad’s sister Harminder, or Minder as she is colloquially known, married Pritam Singh, a fiercely proud member of the Indian Army. Pritam rose to the heady rank of colonel, and in reaching such heights found himself and his family stationed in Srinagar. The summer of 1981 was spent with Pritam Singh and Minder Aunty and their three kids Sonu, Jonu and Monu. (Their real names are Jaspreet, Harpreet and Mandeep respectively. Quite how the nicknames of Sonu, Jonu and Monu were arrived at is a dark art of familial nomenclature of which I have no understanding.)
Srinagar is possibly the most disputed city of Partition, which in one sense puts it at the very heart of the nation of India. Soon after Partition tribal warlords from Pakistan, backed by the newly formed Pakistan Army, invaded the city and tried to claim it. Indian troops were flown in and eventually the invading hordes repelled. Since then, Srinagar has always been regarded as a cause celebre by the Indians, a city freed from aggressive Islam, the jewel in the new crown of India. The reality however belies such a reason for celebration. More than three quarters of the city’s population wish to be Pakistani.
If I am searching for some sense of myself, for some sense of home, then Srinagar might be a place to begin to understand
my confusion over the collision of my identity. Srinagar is a mirror to my soul when it comes to matters of duality. If I am trying to understand what part of me is Indian and what part British, is there anywhere better to understand that than in the disputed state of Jammu and Kashmir? This is a place where people have fought and died for their sense of self, and continue to fight for their right of political and cultural self-determination. Maybe I can learn a little of my Indianness here; and maybe that might help me grapple with my Britishness.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I arrived in Jammu. My overriding memory as a child was of driving up through the mountains, listening to Queen’s Greatest Hits, which had just been released. Thinking back now it seems hilarious that we thought Queen were so quintessentially British; little did we know that Freddie Mercury’s real name was Farrokh Bulsara and he was in fact from a north Indian family. He assiduously kept his ethnicity, his identity, secret. Yet we should have known; all those tight white vests and the oversized moustache: others might have interpreted it differently, but to me he was so very obviously Indian! Freddie Mercury presented a version of himself to the world, a version that belied his heritage. I can’t help wondering whether I am a little guilty of a similar crime.
Indian Takeaway Page 19