Indian Takeaway (15 page)

The gruesome threesome. Raj and I always had matching clothes, yet Sanj never allowed it to cause him deep psychological damage vis-à-vis exclusion issues.

Playstations? Jungle music? The Internet? Kids today have no idea how to have fun. See how Sanj is enjoying himself on Raj’s shoulders with nothing more than a bad jumper and a light shade.

And it’s not just my brothers that know how to party; look at that table heaving with food (as always, Raj, as the fi rst-born, got the crown).

My impression of The Fonz from
Happy Days
in Glasgow. I loved that stripey green Kurta pyjama to the extent that I refused to let my mum wash it, lest it be away from me for an evening. I didn’t smell very good in the early eighties.

My world famous owl impression. I really do look like an owl … Uncanny, no?

A great face (for radio).

The John Ogilvie Hall First XV. I played second row and I loved rugby. That’s Aloke Sinha, standing second from the left. I’m between big Mick Donnelly and Andrew ‘Baboo’ McGlone. Some of my team members didn’t end up in jail.

Meadowburn Primary School, Bishopbriggs, circa 1974. I’m trying my best to dominate the photograph. As you can see from the teacher’s glasses, 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.