Indian Takeaway (3 page)

Silence on the Glasgow end of the phone.

‘Dad?’

‘What?’

‘I said that when I am in India I am going to cook British food.’

Pause. ‘Why?’

‘I just thought that it would be a good idea … you know … to take back to India what India has given Britain … ’

He pauses. Again. ‘Son, if British food was all that good then there would be no Indian restaurants in Britain.’

My father’s logic seemed watertight …

‘Would there?’ he persisted.

‘And did you sign those documents?’

D
ecision made, and with my father’s help, I needed to sketch a rough journey around the vast subcontinent; between the big fella and me I was hopeful that somewhere I would find some answers. An old hippy in a cake shop off the Byres Road in Glasgow once told me that you needed seven lives of seven decades to truly experience the spiritualism and profundity of India. (He did say this while trying to haggle down the price of an almond croissant, however …) I didn’t have seven lives; I didn’t have seven decades; I didn’t even have seven months. But I would make a start …

‘Kovalam. Start in Kovalam. It is the most beautiful place on the planet, son. Paradise. True paradise … ’

My dad would always talk about the beauty of southern India, a beauty I’m not sure he ever experienced firsthand while he lived in India despite his travels. He would explain the differences between us northern Indians and the southern Indians, the
real
Indians.

‘They are smaller, darker and more … well, more Indian looking. They are Dravidians. They are the true Indians.’

This, to a slightly overweight Sikh boy growing up in Glasgow in the seventies was more than a little perplexing.

‘What are we then, Dad, if we’re not Indian?’ I was compelled to ask.

He waited a moment, his face as stern and handsome as ever. ‘We, son, are the descendents of the Aryan people. Our ancestors trekked from Middle Europe across the Russian Steppes through Persia and ultimately into northern India.’

This was amazing. We were white people. We weren’t really Indian after all. I couldn’t wait to get back to the playground and explain this; perhaps then they would stop calling me names.

‘Our ancestors ultimately settled in and around modern-day Punjab. And if you have ever been to the Punjab you would soon realise that it’s a great place to stop.’

Dad had laughed that rarest of laughs. He clearly loved the Punjab.

‘That’s how the Aryan race ended up in the Punjab.’

And I distinctly remember telling kids in the playground that I was part of the Aryan race. It was the late seventies and the National Front was on the march. Little did I realise that a brown-skinned fat kid from Glasgow telling everyone that he was somehow linked to the rise of Hitler and Nazi Germany had consequences. That is where my confusion over my identity must have begun…

‘Kovalam, son,’ repeated my dad, fast-forwarding me thirty years back into the present. ‘Start in Kovalam. They weren’t stupid those Portuguese.’

I had never suggested that they were … The Portuguese had colonised tracts of southern India, taking chillies and vinegar to the Indians.

‘… and sign those documents. But start in Kovalam … ’

Kovalam is about as far away from my ‘home’ in India as I can possibly get. The Punjab is the most northerly point in India and if Kovalam were any further south it would be in the sea. Apart from the fact that the weather is discernibly warmer
and consequently the scenery is different, I wasn’t altogether sure what to expect, but it seemed logical to start in a place unlike the India I knew and recognised. (When I was a very young kid I thought India was full of Punjabis.)

‘You really ought to go to Pondicherry, son. The French influence on India is crucially important to the geo-politics of the age.’ I had never heard my dad use the word ‘geo-politics’.

‘It’s too close to Trivandrum, not different enough,’ I argued.

‘Then?’

‘Madras,’ I suggested. Chennai as it is now called. The big fella needed convincing.

Madras is India’s fourth largest city and is the capital city of the state of Tamil Nadu, a state rich with ancient history and culture. This seems to jar more than a little with the connotations of the word ‘Madras’ in Britain. As far as most of our population is concerned, Madras is a curry that is hotter than a creamy Korma, but less virulent than a Vindaloo. It’s quite amazing how millennia of history can be summed up on a spiceometer. For me, Madras would be the sole representative for the east coast of India.

‘After Madras?’ He was keen for me to venture further north up that coast. He and I had always planned a trip to Assam and Darjeeling. He loves his tea, and I could think of few things more rewarding than having a cup or two with him in the heart of tea-growing India. But I wasn’t going to Assam or Darjeeling on this trip; nor was I going with him.

‘Too far north-east, Dad’, I explained. ‘I need to come inland’.

‘Bangalore?’ he asked.

‘Eventually,’ I replied.

From Madras and its mild curries I would venture west to Mysore. My father-in-law went to medical college in Mysore, and it is famed for its Sandalwood soap, a fragrance that instantly transports me to India. A few months before I’d met an American Filipino hippy type who had started a yoga school in Mysore. We had exchanged email addresses and it seemed daft not to explore the place whilst combining it with a gentle stretch.

‘Then Bangalore?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. Dad was happy; he liked Bangalore.

Bangalore is the epitome of everything modern India wishes to be, a microcosm of the unfolding second millennium. Bangalore is famous for many things: it is the centre of India’s technology revolution and it is also Geoffrey Boycott’s favourite Indian city. For me it will always be the city of my wife’s family, a place of great parties, weddings and much fun. A city run by urban sophisticates.

‘You have to go to Goa, son.’

At this point I was beginning to wonder who was making this journey. But I did have to go to Goa.

‘For many Westerners it was their primary source of knowledge of the Indian subcontinent.’ My dad was on fire with insight.

Goa. It would be churlish not to go and find myself in the same place so many others attempted self-discovery. And it would be nice to spend a little time on a beach in India; although the idea of brown-skinned people on a beach still strikes me as wholly incongruous.

‘And after Goa?’

‘Bombay, Dad.’ Dad liked Bombay, too, and I think it is my favourite city in the world.

Is there a more vibrant and exciting place on the planet? I doubt it. As well as being home to the world’s largest film industry, Bombay is the most cosmopolitan of all Indian cities, drawing every sort of Indian into its ample and warm bosom. I love Bombay.

‘You have to spend some time with Manore Uncle in Delhi. Rovi will look after you. Send him an email. Wait, I’ll call him now on the other line … ’

My dad was bad enough with one phone; the free market and subsequent deregulation of the telecommunications business meant that he now had a mobile and two landlines in the house; he was able to sort my entire itinerary out singlehandedly. Manore Uncle is my dad’s best friend and they are like family to us. In many ways they are closer than family. Rovi is Manore Uncle’s second son and an all-round angel. They make Delhi feel like home to us. We would always fly into Delhi, staying for a day or two before going to the Punjab. I have strong childhood memories of the city and it has become a de facto annexe of the Punjab, so full is it of my north Indian brethren.

‘There’s a place called McLeod Gunj where they have some Scottish missionaries… ’

The big fella is off on one. He spent some time in Leh on a walking pilgrimage. He loves walking. Walking and tea; he’s some man. The pilgrimage involved a high-altitude walk across a tiny path in the foothills of the Himalayas. He was keen for me to visit there. I, too, was keen to be in Kashmir but I explained to him that I couldn’t risk travelling to remote places and getting stranded. We are talking about the Himalayas here. Snowfall, mudslides and general meteorological mayhem. It was simply too risky. Instead I would head for Srinagar in the Kashmir Valley.

‘Good,’ he said approvingly.

The Kashmir Valley: one of the most beautiful places on earth and a place my father spoke about often when we were kids. I spent a summer there once when my aunt and her husband, a colonel in the army, were stationed there. My aunt is a great cook and her date and walnut cake is still spoken about in hushed tones.

‘Then home?’ asked my dad.

‘Then home,’ I concurred.

Not London but Ferozepure: my home in India, a place I was not born in, a place I had never lived in. But home, nonetheless.

I was beginning to wonder what home actually meant to me; what Britain meant to me; what India meant to me. I was doing a lot of wondering. I hadn’t even left Blighty and my mind was whirring with the potential of this journey.

In some ways I could have turned round and gone back to Cricklewood and my life would have already been affected deeply merely by considering these questions of home, identity, of who I was and where I was going in life. The fact that I was actually going to step on a plane and make this journey…. well, the mind boggled with opportunity. I know my dad felt the same way, too. I have never felt closer to him than when we were discussing planning this trip. His excitement and enthusiasm were infectious. I knew that he wished he could come with me, but he couldn’t. This was a journey I had to make alone. But he would never be too far from my thoughts.

Less than a month later I was standing in Heathrow airport. I’ve always loved Heathrow airport. Everyone in the world seems to have passed through this place at one time or another. And there I was, trolley bag in one hand, bacon roll in the other, wondering why I was undertaking this journey. What
was I expecting to achieve from this quest? How exactly was I going to find myself?

The bacon roll consumed, my heart slightly aflutter, the departure board suggested that I make my way to Gate 32 and prepare to board my flight. I had one thing left to do before leaving for India. I dialled my dad’s number.

‘Dad?’

‘Son? All set?’ he asked.

‘Ready to go…’ I hesitated. ‘Just wanted to say thanks … ’

There was a moment. I could hear his mind turning. I could sense him searching the words, the phrases, the emotions. I knew he had something to say to me at this point, at which his dreams and hopes and fears became my hopes and dreams and fears.

‘Son … ’

‘Yes, Dad?’

‘Did you sign those documents?’

‘Yes, Dad. Signed and in the post.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Call me when you get there.’

I headed for Gate 32.