Indian Takeaway Part 4

Then the bombsh.e.l.l drops.

'We can't have meat,' he says, rather sheepishly.

'No meat. OK.' I try and look hopeful. Lancas.h.i.+re hotpot with chicken might work.

'And no chicken,' he continues, as if he had read my mind, a feat he never once managed to achieve during poker. It's going from bad to worse.

'Let me just check. No meat and no chicken?' I ask.

'No meat, no chicken,' he confirms.

'Why?' I implore.

'The cook is funny about meat and chicken in the kitchen. She'd rather you cooked vegetarian.'

'I can't really cook vegetarian.'

Jeremy is lovely and couldn't have been more apologetic. I try hard not to panic. Remember, I love vegetables. I adore them. I am not to be mistaken for my elder brother, Raj. Vegetables are great whenever they are accompanied by meat or chicken. However a meal containing only only vegetables is like a broken pencil; utterly pointless. What is the focus of a plate of food if there is no symphony of flesh in the centre? British food is all about meat and two veg, not veg and two veg (which would be three veg, if the rules of simple arithmetic were to be followed). I would even be prepared to allow fish or sh.e.l.lfish to take pride of place in the centre of a platter. But nut roast? Or caulifl ower bake? Or aubergine surprise? No. Thank you, but no. They are not complete and fulfilling meals. It is with this food-based philosophy in mind that I have never really perfected or indeed bothered my overweight Glaswegian a.r.s.e when it comes to the cooking of vegetarian food. Life is too short. (Although my doctor suggests it would be considerably longer if I entertained the notion of a vegetarian diet from time to time.) vegetables is like a broken pencil; utterly pointless. What is the focus of a plate of food if there is no symphony of flesh in the centre? British food is all about meat and two veg, not veg and two veg (which would be three veg, if the rules of simple arithmetic were to be followed). I would even be prepared to allow fish or sh.e.l.lfish to take pride of place in the centre of a platter. But nut roast? Or caulifl ower bake? Or aubergine surprise? No. Thank you, but no. They are not complete and fulfilling meals. It is with this food-based philosophy in mind that I have never really perfected or indeed bothered my overweight Glaswegian a.r.s.e when it comes to the cooking of vegetarian food. Life is too short. (Although my doctor suggests it would be considerably longer if I entertained the notion of a vegetarian diet from time to time.) I'm humped, as we say back home on the Byres Road. Failure had to come at some point; I'm sanguine enough about that. But so early, when it all looked so promising? And to cap it all I feel dirty; deep-down dirty. Twenty-four hours ago I was charging up and down the platform at Chennai station looking for a non-existent train seat; I spent a sleepless night on that selfsame train; followed by the better part of a day bending my unsupple body and watching men breathe. I feel in need of some commune with warm, cleansing water. Surely every yogi would approve of such a desire? I excuse myself and head for a bath.

In Britain there is only one type of bath. You fill the tub with water and take a bath. Uncontroversially straightforward. In our family we call this a 'fish bath', so named by my Aunty Pavittar, my dad's younger sister. I a.s.sume, though have never had it verified by Pavittar, that a fish bath is so called because it is the sort of bath a fish might enjoy, allowing them to swim in the open waters of a full tub. But this form of bathing, whilst wholly uncontroversial to the British psyche, is a complete anathema to the Indian way of being. A shower they could understand. But a fish bath? Indians do not understand how cleanliness is achieved by lolling around for hours in a pool of your own dirt. We advocate a different approach to the art of bathing; this we call the 'bucket bath'. Let me explain.

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 was.h.i.+ng 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 grace, coup de grace, 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. 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-was.h.i.+ng (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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 embarra.s.sment 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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.h.i.+rt. 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 relations.h.i.+p with India. You see, I have a dual ident.i.ty 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 att.i.tude 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.

Then I see a vegetable stall man pus.h.i.+ng 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 ma.s.sive 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 gla.s.ses 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 ma.s.sive s.p.a.ce 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 Lancas.h.i.+re 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 cuc.u.mber. 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 facade. While on the face of it he has come to find something out about himself, it is actually just all 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. 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 Bis...o...b..iggs. 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-a-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 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. 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.

Meadowburn Primary School, Bis...o...b..iggs, circa 1974. I'm trying my best to dominate the photograph. As you can see from the teacher's gla.s.ses, Reactolite technology was still very much in its early stages.

Billu Chachaji's wedding in Ferozepure. Raj is behind Billu. My dad is forcing Sanj to dance and I'm doing my impression of Posh Spice. This was a rare occurrence when all three of us were dressed identically. That's my cousin, Sonu, on the right. He's now a dentist. I have no idea who that man is standing over my father's shoulder but he frightens me.

It's been a bizarre journey already. Kovalam seems a lifetime away. It's certainly a lifetime since I had a hot bath. The tranquillity of Mamallapuram, the gentle acceptance of Nagamuthu and the relentless call of the Indian sea. And now this perplexing interlude with a poker-playing American Filipino yogi. When I was planning this journey in London I would never have imagined such a start; and it is only a start. I have two thirds of the journey ahead and I find myself with many more questions and significantly fewer answers.

After I bid Jeremy a safe return to his room upstairs, having happily taken even more rupees off him as payback for his insensitive comments about the lack of meat at dinner, I make to return to my room. But I have no intention of returning directly to my room. Checking that the coast is clear, I carefully sneak into the kitchen, the scene of my earlier Mediterranean triumph. The sink is deep with the detritus of dining; pots, plates, pans, the paraphernalia of perfection. I have one thing on my mind. Carefully, noiselessly I grab three of the pans from the sink. I quickly rinse them and fill them with water. I ignite all three burners on the three-ring burner. I watch lasciviously as the water slowly, painfully agitates itself to a simmer and, slower still, to a gentle, finally rolling boil. I take the pans, one by one, to my minuscule bathroom and fill the pallid, tired-looking bucket with the fresh, boiling, rejuvenating water. I place the pans back in the sink and return to my room.

I left Kovalam and its luxuries many days ago. I have not had a hot bath since then. And while all the cold waters of Arabia might touch my skin with the superficial promise of cleanliness, there is no replacement for the skin-tingling rebirth of a hot bath. And perhaps I haven't cleaned the pots out that thoroughly, but it seems only right that my body be marked with the slight aroma of aubergine, tomato and olive oil. And the aroma of victory.

*Originally babalti babalti would have been a steel bucket but colloquially came to mean any bucket or indeed large water-carrying receptacle. We never had a bucket per se for our bucket baths. Ours was an orange rectangular 'bucket' that not only a.s.sisted our bath-time but also when we were poorly and running the risk of vomiting; it was placed by our bedsides as a catch-all, so to speak. So for me, the word 'balti', when applied to curry, offers a certain incongruity, shall we say. would have been a steel bucket but colloquially came to mean any bucket or indeed large water-carrying receptacle. We never had a bucket per se for our bucket baths. Ours was an orange rectangular 'bucket' that not only a.s.sisted our bath-time but also when we were poorly and running the risk of vomiting; it was placed by our bedsides as a catch-all, so to speak. So for me, the word 'balti', when applied to curry, offers a certain incongruity, shall we say.

6.

CHIC ALORS ! C'EST BANGALORE.

Sausage, bacon and eggs: the breakfast trinity. My life seems to be full of trinities. When I was young it was the holy one, so mysterious and enigmatic, and the subject of much discussion at my Jesuit School; As you know, I am one of a triumvirate of sons, lodged painfully between Raj and Sanjeev; and as a child I was obsessed with triangles. Properly obsessed. I was a freak of trigonometry, spending hours trying to construct the perfect equilateral triangle (for the uninitiated or those who had a social life during their teenage years, an equilateral triangle enjoys the aesthetic perfection of three equal sides and therefore three equal angles:' tis a truly wondrous thing). I would sketch scalene after scalene triangle (a triangle where no sides, and therefore no angles are equal) and be repulsed by their ugliness, their gaucheness, their complete and utter lack of geometric charm. And then, as a special treat to myself, I would enter the room of the isosceles triangle, closing and locking the door behind me. For hours I would revel in the two equal sides, the two equal angles ...

When it comes to food, sausage, eggs and bacon must be one of the finest trinities that exists. There are many others, of course. Avocado, tomato and basil; a mirepoix: mirepoix: the base of most soups and sauces comprising carrot, celery and leek; the base of a curry sauce: onion, garlic and ginger; bread, b.u.t.ter and jam. The list of trios is endless. But there's something about the breakfast trinity that elevates it to a higher plane. I believe pa.s.sionately that a plate with eggs, bacon and sausage is breakfast. Mushrooms can come and go; potato scones are a more than welcome guest, but only ever a guest; toast is by no means a the base of most soups and sauces comprising carrot, celery and leek; the base of a curry sauce: onion, garlic and ginger; bread, b.u.t.ter and jam. The list of trios is endless. But there's something about the breakfast trinity that elevates it to a higher plane. I believe pa.s.sionately that a plate with eggs, bacon and sausage is breakfast. Mushrooms can come and go; potato scones are a more than welcome guest, but only ever a guest; toast is by no means a sine qua non; sine qua non; beans embellish but are not essential; and the tomato ... where else would we introduce grilled fruit onto a plate of porky food? beans embellish but are not essential; and the tomato ... where else would we introduce grilled fruit onto a plate of porky food?

I have not always harboured such a deep and meaningful love affair with sausage, bacon and eggs. It is a relations.h.i.+p that started when I was seventeen years old, during the very excesses of the eighties. At that time, my cousin Aman, travel agent and single malt lover, had a brilliant new business proposal. This was in the days before cheap air travel. He set up a bus from Buchanan Street bus station that went all the way to Heathrow Airport. It was a beautiful idea. Glasgow wasn't an international flight hub in those days, so in order to travel home, Indians and Pakistanis had to schlep down to London one way or the other. Flights were expensive and there was no direct bus system. That's what made Aman's scheme so revolutionary. For a modest fare a family could, overnight, travel down and catch their plane. Bear in mind that these families, like mine, were returning home on money they had scrimped and saved over the years. I heard stories about fathers who worked three jobs to pull in extra money solely in order to take their families home. I know of mothers who ate a single meal a day in the hope of spreading the weekly shop that little bit further. The problem with my generation is that we think sacrifice is Cava rather than Veuve Cliquot.

In the best traditions of the extended family, Aman asked me to work the bus. I was just out of school, and had never travelled to London by myself. The excitement was overwhelming. My job was to sell tickets to the handful who hadn't booked in Glasgow and to do the same at a stop on the way down, often Hamilton or Carlisle. To add to my onerous ticketing duties I would, upon arrival in London, take the tube into Belgravia and with scores of pa.s.sports that Aman had given me, I would enable the processing of visa applications for Glasgow's Muslim community heading to Hajj. Hajj is the pilgrimage all Muslims are expected to make to Mecca, the birthplace of Islam. Almost all of the west of Scotland's Muslims were either Pakistani, Indian or British so they required the correct doc.u.mentation to travel to Saudi Arabia; and since Glasgow was without a Saudi Arabian emba.s.sy a trip to London was required for this, too. From Bis...o...b..iggs to Belgravia, via the services at Knutsford. Knutsford was my favourite part of the entire experience. As a representative of the travel company I, alongside the driver, was ent.i.tled to a free meal and hot beverage (excluding soft drinks) at the service station on our way down. Given that we were in Thatcher's Britain and the free market allowed the driver to exercise choice, the management at the service stations en route were wise to this and attempted to do all they could to lure drivers in; if the driver stopped for sustenance so did a coachful of hungry travellers. The only flaw in this plan was that Indian coach travellers are not big spenders, particularly not when the food offering centres around the concept of the all-day (and in this case all-night) breakfast. Pork-based meals are generally speaking not going to entice the hungry brown-skinned traveller, especially one with little money to spend.

I however had no such reservations and was all too happy to enjoy the twenty-four hour prandial offering they call breakfast. I was delighted by pork, beef and pork/beef based foods. To cap it all, it was free. Gratis. I am Scottish and Indian: I am twice as happy when I get stuff I don't have to pay for.

I think this was the point in my life when my love affair with the fried breakfast started. It was not the sort of meal we would have at home. Having said that, it has since become a staple in the Kohli household both north and south of the border.

All this thought of breakfast has inspired my culinary plan for Bangalore. Bangalore is the most modern of Indian cities, the cyber-desh if you will. It is the single city that most of the new westerner travellers interface with. For three decades Goa has had the sun-seeking hippies and the holiday-makers; since Independence in 1947, Delhi has enjoyed the comings and goings of the diplomats and politicians; but in the last decade or so, Bangalore has seen an almost exponential increase in westerners, linked to the world of computing and software. The city was recently voted as the best place to do business in the world; truly the face of modern India.

So perhaps, as a clever juxtaposition of modernity with the ancient, I should cook something cla.s.sically old-fas.h.i.+oned to serve in this eastern altar to the future.

Toad in the hole.

It makes absolute sense. The humble breakfast sausage elevated to a higher place when combined with the finest Yorks.h.i.+re pudding mix; surely one of the most quintessentially British of all dishes?

I can be almost 99 per cent sure that not even the most seasoned travelling eater in Bangalore will have tasted the delights of toad in the hole there. It is my opportunity to bring innovation through cla.s.sicism.

But first I have to get there ...

As you might have realised by now, my default when travelling in India is to take a train. The romance, the history, the physical sensation and the gradual exposure to Indian life, culture and quirks is so beautifully integrated within the train journey itself. There is also something magical about being so remote and unaware of the actual mechanism that makes the train move. I am of course aware that there is a locomotive at the front, but there is a certain enigma in not being constantly aware of the process of moving, of travelling. It's almost transcendental. There is none of this magic with a bus or a coach, a travelling experience that is all too apparent; and when travelling in India, often alarmingly so.

However, in India the train is surpa.s.sed by the bus for shorter journeys. Furthermore, and perhaps this is what makes me so very, very British, native Indians much prefer coach travel to the train. I feel compelled to experience their preferred mode of travel. Besides, it is only a very short journey from Mysore to Bangalore.

The 3 p.m. Volvo bus to Bangalore: 180 rupees and the promise of a speedy two-and-a-half hour journey to the capital of Karnataka. Mysore bus station is unsurprisingly full of buses, engines revving, creating clouds of exhaust fumes and hastening the dark skies of late afternoon. There are lime-green buses; red buses; orange buses; multi-coloured buses; there is every sort of bus imaginable and a few that even the most addled mind wouldn't have colour coordinated. In and amongst the vulgate of buses there is only one king of all Mysore buses: the white Volvo bus. White, sleek, gleaming, beautiful and Swedish; the white Volvo bus is the bus to be on if one is to be the envy of one's bus-travelling peers.

It really is the sort of vehicle to create bus envy in even the most disinterested of on-lookers. The seats have seat belts; the seat-belted seats are covered in freshly laundered white cotton; these freshly laundered, white cotton-covered, seat-belted seats recline; and having reclined on these freshly laundered white cotton-covered seats, safe and securely fastened in, one can sip from the complimentary small bottle of mineral water, whilst enjoying the movie that takes place on the in-bus entertainment system. To call this a bus is a disservice to the English language specifically, and to buses in general; this is a coach, a luxury coach no less. I begin to understand why Indians much prefer the coach to the train. The only aspect of the interior I would consider altering would be the mint-green curtains: mint green is so very last season.

I am sitting in the palatial grandeur of my white Volvo bus in the bedlam that is Mysore bus station. Even our driver is dressed better than the average driver. In his smart white uniform, replete with epaulettes and badges, his look is more akin to a naval commander than a humble bus driver. As our vehicle pulls away (it is clearly allowed a wider berth in the hierarchy of coaches and buses) the in-coach stereo starts playing a too-loud version of the t.i.tle track of 2001: A s.p.a.ce Odyssey 2001: A s.p.a.ce Odyssey. I would like to tell you that this is done with a sense of frivolous irony; but it isn't. I am in an irony-free zone. 2001: A s.p.a.ce 2001: A s.p.a.ce Odyssey Odyssey is a film that deals with themes of human evolution and development, the rise of technology, artificial intelligence and the possibility of life beyond our own solar system. The music from the film has a pomposity, a grandeur and an elegance that reflects and enhances the intellectually challenging notions of the film itself. But it isn't the most suitable music for a bus journey between Mysore and Bangalore. is a film that deals with themes of human evolution and development, the rise of technology, artificial intelligence and the possibility of life beyond our own solar system. The music from the film has a pomposity, a grandeur and an elegance that reflects and enhances the intellectually challenging notions of the film itself. But it isn't the most suitable music for a bus journey between Mysore and Bangalore.

As the majestic film score rattles the windows, it feels as if the moon is to be our destination rather than Silicon Nagar, Bangalore. This pomp adds to the already existing circ.u.mstance; we truly are travelling in the king of coaches.

As soon as the music dies away, rather abruptly after such a grandiose start, it seems as if silence may be the order of the day. The journey thus far has had a light smattering of the bizarre about it: the music, the driver's nautically themed uniform and the mint-green curtains; not unusually weird, just a little strange. That is all about to change as the weirdness is cranked up to an entirely different level. The plasma screen at the front of the coach stutters into life. It's time for the movie.

The film showing on my journey is in an Indian language of which I have absolutely no understanding. The opening sequence has a rather overweight Sikh man in a kurta, the long cotton Indian s.h.i.+rt, loading a double-barrelled shotgun and chasing an a.s.sumed innocent through the streets of some anonymous Indian ghetto. As the only overweight Sikh man dressed in a kurta on the coach, I feel a tad uncomfortable at this point. The shotgun-wielding Sikh is now driving a forklift truck in pursuit of his hapless quarry. Showing the mult.i.tasking skills of India's premier martial race, the fat, silver screen Sikh drives towards an industrial plant while simultaneously firing and reloading at the sprinting victim. Clearly the Sikh baddie couldn't hit a cow's a.r.s.e with a banjo, since every shot is missing by quite some distance. I feel compelled to explain to the enraptured throng on the bus that most Sikhs are far superior marksmen to this Keystone Cop type; on reflection I decide that silence is the better option.

Signs on the back of vehicles on the road to Bangalore On a truck: 'Black Smoke, Lungs Choke'On a Maruti Car: 'Dad says No Rush'On a taxi: 'G.o.d Give, Man Live'In India there is a lot of talk about the state of the roads. The difference between travelling on a good road and a bad (and sometimes non-existent) road can be hours of journey time. India's biggest challenge over the next century is that of improving its infrastructure. There are hundreds of millions of highly educated graduates, hundreds of millions of manual workers, hundreds of millions of merchants; they all just need to be hooked up with decent roads, transport links, communications and the rest. Once India joins up its myriad of dots, it will be ready to take on the world.

Surprisingly, this highway is good and clean and straight. We bisect fields and coconut groves; palm trees and red-tiled bungalows appear sporadically and then melt away. We pa.s.s the odd sandalwood forest. The movie seems to be ending happily; the fat, shotgun-toting, kurta-wearing Sikh lies dying slowly in some field and goodness has been restored in the world. Our gleaming white Volvo coach now labours its way treacle-like, through the suburbs of Bangalore. Our vicinity to the city is evident in a number of ways. The sky has darkened with the clouds of industry; our pace has suddenly diminished to a constant crawl; and tiny shops start dotting the side on the road, increasing in frequency and product offering.

The industrious nature of the Indian psyche is something to behold. It is exemplified best perhaps in the tiny little shacks offering every imaginable service from mobile phone repair to doc.u.ment lamination to tyre repair. Everyone everywhere is trying to make a living, predominantly an honest, hard-worked living. If there is a single quality about India I most admire it is the industry of the place. Growing up with the negative images of poverty, famine and the like I was never aware of quite how hard Indians worked. That my hard-working, industrious parents were Indian, the hard-working industrious community in Glasgow that they belonged to were Indian, and my hardworking and industrious wider family were all Indian, was proof lost on me.

Scenes like this always seem to put life in the affl uent west into some sort of context. These tiny little businesses exist cheek by jowl with ma.s.sive urban redevelopment projects. There couldn't be a more p.r.o.nounced sense of the past meeting the future at the crossroads of the present. I see a cartload of sweet perfumed orange mangoes in the shadow of a sky-blocking shopping development, aptly named the Big Bazaar. I wonder how long the mango vendor will survive. The entire Bangalore skyline is punctuated by cranes. There is building work on every side. Ever since the arrival of the global multinational fifteen years ago, Bangalore hasn't stopped growing and developing. Once, what set Bangalore, the garden city of lakes and a cooling breeze, apart from almost all the other Indian cities was its mellow, well-planned urban calm. People from all over India would flock to enjoy the well-designated city s.p.a.ce, stroll by the lakes, play in the gardens and shade under the abundance of trees. It was a city full of light and shade, both literally and metaphorically. Now the shade has gone and the incandescent light of international redevelopment s.h.i.+nes on Bangalore, perhaps a little too brightly. The once-famous city lakes have been filled in with concrete and built over with more apartments, feeding the seemingly insatiable hunger of the chic young city dwellers; the verdant urban gardens have been razed and developed into yet another shopping centre. The trees and lakes ensured a unique microclimate in Bangalore. With their systematic disappearance the once temperate and mild city is now gradually becoming a breeze-free conurbation with leaden, pollution-filled skies.

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 ma.s.sively 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-cla.s.s 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 ma.s.sive 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 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed it away. 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed it away.

'Hey, you silly b.u.g.g.e.r,' Bharat barked lovingly at me. 'You are not paying,' he rebuked as he took out his bulging wallet. 'Silly b.u.g.g.e.r ... '

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 b.u.mp 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.