Part 9 (2/2)

First, the negatives: the a.s.sault on every sense, the noise, the smell, the pollution, the poverty, the fdth-strewn streets, the bewildering number of people and the shattering of every value and belief you hold as normal.

And the positives? India seems unstoppable, not just tapping at the gla.s.s ceiling placed above developing nations by developed ones, but head-b.u.t.ting it with increasing ferocity. It could soon be the most populous nation on earth. It could soon overtake many countries in the West in terms of its GNP, and it is already at the forefront of medical and technological development.

The capacity for inspiring awe and irritation in equal measures is the hallmark of a country where you can be stunned by the vast landscapes and the remnants of ancient history but still queue for two hours at immigration because they have not printed enough landing cards, and you can see a large neon sign outside a bank that reads: '24 hour ATM (except between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m.)'.

Perhaps I should just concentrate on the food, which cannot be bettered anywhere in the world in terms of variety, range and quality. There are seven union territories and twenty-eight states in the Republic of India, from Kashmir in the north to Tamil Nadu in the south, from Maharashtra in the west to Bengal in the east. Each has its own distinct cuisine, born out of the geography and political history of the region, from the north, where Mogul invaders brought grilling and the subtlety of cream and almonds, to the south-west, where the cooking of Goa shows Portuguese influences of garlic, chillies, tomatoes and vinei It is no easy matter knowing where to start with India. But' then it is no easy place for me to know where to start with being Indian. If indeed, that's what I am. So instead, let me start with my father, Pratip Majumdar, or Baba.

Baba first moved to Britain in the mid-i950s, primarily to complete his medical training as an orthopaedic surgeon but also to escape the expectations of his father that he would join the family homeopathic practice back in Calcutta. My grandfather was, by all accounts, a brilliant and well-respected man, a member of the Indian Communist Party and part of the intelligentsia that pushed for independence from Great Britain after the Second World War. But his relations.h.i.+p with my father was an uneasy one, punctuated by long periods of non-communication, which resulted in my father's all too infrequent returns to India and the fact that I never met him.

My father is an extraordinary man, and I am very much his son. He has never suffered fools - a trait I share - and while we are both intensely loyal to those we consider friends, we cut those who cross us out of our lives like a malignant tumour. I have many reasons to be grateful for his strength, generosity and support over the years, but the unwelcome side-effect of his fall-i with my grandfather has been a profound lack of ident.i.ty.

I joke that I am half-Welsh, half-Bengali, but in reality I hi always felt half-non-Welsh, half-non-Bengali, not particulai comfortable or welcome in either camp. I speak neither language and while my glistening olive skin may be a surefire with the ladies (not a word), it has led to me being called 'P; in Rotherham (the double whammy being both racist and g( graphically incorrect) and a 'half-caste' in India. I wasn't-exp( ing an epiphany, but India promised to be interesting, and just for the food.

New Delhi is to India what Was.h.i.+ngton D.C. is to the USA/ It's not the most exciting city, but as the administrative heart it makes a decent starting-point and reasonably sane place to begin an introduction to the most insane country in the world. I use the word 'reasonably' with caution, however, because this is still India we are talking about.

On my first morning in the city after arriving fi-om Manila, I flagged down one of Delhi's infamous auto-rickshaws. Yellow and black, thousands buzz around the streets of the capital like angry hornets. They are fun, if extraordinarily dangerous. Above all, they are cheap: as you haggle with the driver over a fare, you have to keep reminding yourself that the amount you are arguing about is loose change that you would not stop to pick up if you dropped it on the streets back home.

I asked the driver to drop me at the Red Fort, the centre of the Mogul ruler Shah Jahan's new capital, which takes its name from the miles of red brick that formed its outer wall. On previous visits nearly every tourist I had seen had been a foreigner. Now most of them seemed to be from India itself, a sign of the country's burgeoning middle cla.s.s. It is an impressive place, but I was more moved by my next stop, the home of a woman many still consider the mother of modern India: Indira Gandhi. Since her a.s.sa.s.sination in 1984, the simple but dignified bungalow she called home has become a museum to her life and a shrine to her legacy. At the rear of the house in a neat garden is the path along which she walked to meet the man who turned out to be her a.s.sa.s.sin. It has been covered in gla.s.s to protect her last steps in the gravel, and the point at which she fell is now marked.

By now I was starving and had my auto-rickshaw buzz me to the heart of Old Delhi. There is a romantic notion that street food always tastes better than equivalent food in restaurants. This is, of course, complete and utter rubbish. The mere fact that you eat food while standing at a street corner does not give it any niore intrinsic quality and, of course, you add to it the Russian roulette element of not knowing whether you will make it back to your accommodation before your a.r.s.e explodes. I often meet travellers along the way who wear their encounters with dysen-.

tery as a badge of honour.

'Oh yah, I only eat on the streets. It is where the real people eat', they would proffer. 'That's why they all die at fifty', is an; obvious reply.

I had, of course, already eaten food from roadside stalls in China, Malaysia, Vietnam and Thailand, but I had taken great care to head to places crowded with locals, with the view that a rapid turnover would mean fresher food and less chance of me spending the night heaving into the porcelain. So far I had been lucky, but I was less inclined to take the risk in India, for two reasons. The first was that the locals here seem to have stomachs that can cope with anything at all, from the fieriest chillies germs that would have biological terrorists shaking their head in ] disbelief The second is that, of all of the Asian countries I visited,, India has easily the lowest standard of hygiene. Old ingredients!] covered in flies can be cooked in old oil served on plates washedj in the same murky water for days on end. I just knew there was a dodgy meal there with my name on it, so instead I based myj research around local restaurants.

Karim's in Old Delhi was highly recommended and, as I] sat down at one of the communal tables in one of four rooms] surrounding a courtyard, the smells coming from the kitchen] reminded me of why it would be impossible do a world tour and] leave India off the list. There was the unmistakeable whiff of grilling meat, ghee, onions and spices to set the heart racing. As I looked at the menu, a young man sitting opposite began chatting to me, introducing himself as Sunit. He turned to the me board on the wall, saying, 'They are famous for their mutt dishes here, but try the b.u.t.ter chicken. It's excellent.' - b.u.t.ter and chicken together - 1 liked the sound of those odd When the waiter arrived, we both ordered it and my new frien Sunit, added a side-dish of mutton kebabs, which he insiste I should share. We were both presented with large bowls chicken in a gravy made with tomatoes. On the top was a slit of melted ghee and to the side a sliver of green chilli. It was every bit as good as Sunit claimed and, like him, I ate with my hands gnawing the chicken bones and mopping up the sauce with fresh paratha bread, occasionally turning my attention to take big bites from our side-dish of kebabs.

It is at moments like this, when food this good is put in front of you, that you can forgive India all its craziness. At the end of the meal Sunit insisted on paying the bill. By local standards it was not expensive, but it was still an incredibly generous gesture and one that made me feel all fuzzy inside. I only hoped that the b.u.t.ter chicken would not do the same.

On my final day in Delhi I decided that it was time to have one of my occasional blow-outs and to spend my entire daily allowance in one high-cla.s.s restaurant as a counterpoint to the cheap and homely places that were my normal destination.

After a morning visit to the moving memorial to Mahatma Gandhi, I had my auto-rickshaw drop me off in front of the Sheraton Hotel, where my chosen restaurant was Bukhara, regularly featured in lists of the best restaurants in the world. It is no surprise to find that Bill Clinton was a fan, but more of one to discover that he is joined by Vladimir Putin of Russia, who insisted on eating here every time he was in Delhi. Their dishes come from India's Northwest Frontier, where intense flavours from tandoor-grilled meats and creamy, slow-cooked dahls combine to produce an intensely robust effect.

A waiter appeared and wrapped a bib around my neck, explaining that since I had ordered the house speciality of tan-door chicken, I would need it to protect my clothing. When a platter containing the whole bird was brought out of the kitchen, the smells preceded it and I was s...o...b..ring before it hit the table. Tandoor chicken appears on the menu of every Indian restaurant *n the world, and in principle it is one of the more simple dishes to make. Marinate the chicken in yoghurt and spices and grill it. But getting it right is so much harder than it seems. Too much 'Marinating makes the meat spongy, too little and it dries out.

Here it was as perfect as I have had anywhere. This is not a dish to nibble at politely - you vacuum it up, chomping loudly with no thought for the mess you are making on the table, your hands or your clothes. Thank G.o.d they gave me the bib.

The chicken was so good that I almost forgot to turn my attention to their other signature dish, the Bukhara dahl, a version traditionally made by allowing urud lentils to cook in milk and spices overnight in the embers of the cooling tandoor. To it are added onions and garlic, spices and so much b.u.t.ter that each serving should come with its own defibrillator. It is so good that the handful of fluffy paratha breads with it scarcely seemed enough, and I found myself looking around and then picking up the bowl before licking it clean. I would have got away with it too, if it had not been for those pesky waiters.

Returning to collect the plate, one of them said, 'You have a stain on your face sir'. I turned to the mirror by my seat to see my reflection with a tell-tale ring of sauce around my face from the lip of the bowl.

'Don't worry, sir', he said calmly as he handed me a hot towel. 'It happens a lot.'

I am sure it does. I wondered if it had ever happened to Billy Jeff or Vladimir before. I was pretty sure it would happen to me if I went there again.

Mumbai the Unstoppable Delhi may be the capital, but it is to Mumbai that everyone looks to lead the way in India. With well over i6 million people and seemingly as many cars, the sights, sounds, noise and smells of Mumbai make it India to the power of ten.

Mumbai crackles with a raw energy that seeps out of every open sewer and explodes with every 'parping' horn from the black and yellow taxis that churn out enough pollution to make your eyes weep the moment you set foot out into the decaying streets. No trip to India would be complete without a visit to a city where you feel as though you are riding on the world's fastest roller-coaster without a harness.

There is, of course, much to deplore about India's cities in general, and this one in particular. The gut-wrenching poverty is heart-breaking, and the decay of the crumbling buildings and roads seems to suggest that, when the British left, they took all their tools with them. The stench that fdls the air from the fdth-strewn streets and clogged gutters makes even the most seasoned traveller cover his mouth and nose. It is a challenge to every Western value and an a.s.sault to every sense. At once exciting, vibrant, challenging and appalling, Mumbai is truly one of the world's great cities, and it doesn't really care whether you approve or not. You get the feeling that, if you were to mess with Mumbai, Mumbai would just turn around and kick your a.s.s.

Nowhere is this more apparent that when it comes to food. Mumbai has a reputation as the best city in which to eat in India and perhaps in the whole of Asia. Its staggering variety is made possible by the influx of people from every corner of the sub tinent. Its coastal location made Mumbai 'the gateway to India',” and here you will fmd Muslim sitting down with Parsi, Bengali sitting down with Jain and Tamil sitting down with native Maharashtran for meals ranging from local favourites of phav bhaji or bhel puri to parsi dhansaks, Bengali sweets, tandoored^ rolls and kebabs, konkani seafood cookery from the south-west coast or creamy korma from the north, all washed down with juices from fresh fruits and sugar-cane or a long, cold beer, as* taste and religion dictate.

Mumbai is not, however, one of India's great sightseeing destinations. Once you have looked at the deeply unimpres-, sive Gateway to India and sailed out on a rickety old ferry the Elephanta Islands, you have more or less 'done' Mumbai.. But that leaves plenty of time to explore what Mumbai is really about, with visits to Crawford Market or Chor Bazar producing j eye-popping sights both to astonish and to disgust and trips tm Chowpatty Beach to watch Mumbaikars at play and doing what! they do best: eat.

I had just a few days there and knew that I was not going i able to try everything, but with my own research and e-mail I had received from locals I had already made a plan. My hotel] was just around the corner from a true local inst.i.tution, Vithal

Belwala, where for generations they have been serving one of j Mumbai's signature snacks, bhel puri, consisting of pufled rice] mixed with a combination of sev (sticks of fried flour), onions,! potatoes, tomatoes and chilli, dressed with chutneys of tamarindj or coriander. It's a great introduction to the area, and after twc large platefuls of their 'special dry bhel' I was ready to walk it of on the way to the location I had in mind for supper.

Mumbai is well known for its konkani seafood cuisine orig nating in the south-west of India, and one of the best restati rants is the small and recommended Apoorva. Like so mar neighbourhood places in Mumbai, it doesn't appear desperate welcoming at first, being mainly a place for working men INDIA: MUMBAI.

come for a drink and some food after work. The hghting was dim and the only air-conditioning a rattling fan above each table. But the food was fantastic, with a cla.s.sic dish of prawn ga.s.si -small, sweet shrimps cooked in a spicy sauce of coconut milk soured with the juice from the kok.u.m, a native fruit renowned for its medicinal properties.

They place a knife and a spoon on the table for you, but in India people seldom use them. Here it is all about the hands. Eating with your hands has many benefits. You are able to combine the ubiquitous mound of rice with the sauce of the dish you are eating so that each grain gets a proper coating. It also just tastes better. Don't ask me why, it just does. So, as I scooped fingers full of spicy rice to my lips and spooned up the sauce with a crispy appam - a bowl-shaped pancake made of fermented rice flour - my cutlery remained untouched.

I asked the waiter what was in the sauce. In the USA, if you are silly enough to ask such a question, they can easily spend more time describing a dish than the chef did cooking it. 'It's an infusion of milk from a cow called Doris from Johnson State Farm, with Meyer lemons from the second branch from the top, mixed with cilantro picked at midnight while we all sang ”76 Trombones” from The Music Man. The chef used his right hand while preparing the dish and laced the final emulsion with two tears shed while thinking of his mother.'

'It's a gravy', my waiter responded.

'Yes, but what's in it?' I pressed, and he headed off” to ask someone who might know. Returning, he announced proudly 'It's a red gravy' and went off”to serve other tables.

The next day I set out to visit two of Mumbai's most famous shopping districts, Crawford Market and Chor Bazar. I returned to my hotel about thirty seconds later, the scurry of a rat over my open-toed sandals having persuaded me that a good pair of solid walking boots might be a better option.

By this time in the trip I was beginning to be a bit marketed out, but India's markets are something else. The stench makes Chinese markets seem hke a basket of roses, and when I saw 4 cage truck laden with white-feathered chickens - most of th dead but some still struggling as they were dragged out quickly dispatched with a rusty knife by a bored-looking wor - I decided that I would probably do something of a vegetaria nature for breakfast.

Phav bahji is traditionally a lunchtime dish or an evening snac but a nearby stall was already serving this cla.s.sic Maharashtr dish to market workers who had been at it for hours. It is cur in a bun: a mixture of potatoes, chilli, tomatoes and pepp mashed together on a large metal hot plate and then served a bun. It is laden with fat, and the soft, white bun is the stuff < atkins=”” nightmares,=”” but=”” it=”” is=”” entirely=””>

By mid-morning the city was in full flow. I dodged the 1 to head to the Maidan, the much-needed parkland lungs oft city. It was already fdled with crowds of men playing cricket.', much more than just a sport in India, cricket truly is India's on unifying religion, with star players being wors.h.i.+pped like deitifl or reviled like demons, depending on their performances, ar with cricket matches attracting crowds that would make Bili Graham jealous. Every spare inch of newsprint or minute airtime is dedicated to discussion shows about the successes more often, the failures of India's national side. Even away froiJ the parks any spare stretch of street can be turned into a pit with makes.h.i.+ft stumps and bats. As you walk, you need to constantly vigilant as the words 'ball, ball, ball' are shrieked warn of a missile coming your way.

On my last night I had plans to head to one of Mumbai's mar excellent smart restaurants after a visit to watch the Mumbail in relaxation mode. During the day Chowpatty Beach, a stret of sand at the top of Marine Drive, is deserted, but as 1 arrive in the early evening, it was already kicking into action. Itiner astrologers fought for my attention with ear cleaners and hav ers while crowds descended on the snack stalls selling bhel puri

which they were busy scooping into their mouths with the hel

INDIA: MUMBAI.

of more of the flat, fried bread. There was plenty of action, but my sightseeing there was done, and I took a cab for the short journey down Colaba Causeway to what I was reliably informed js the only legally sanctioned street stall in Mumbai, Bade Miyan, considered one of the best in the whole of Mumbai. Even if I had not known the directions, I would have found my way there because of the incredible smells and the crowds of eager diners. At an early hour the streets around the stall were packed with customers, and cars were double-parked as people came to eat or to get food to take away.

A young man with an official badge around his neck handed me a short menu, and I ordered a mutton roll. He dived again into the throng and reappeared a few moments later with a small parcel containing my pre-supper snack. I turned in the direction of my dinner destination, unwrapping my kebab as a nice little pre-appetizer appetizer. I took a bite and stopped dead in my tracks. It wasn't just good, it was sensational. So good in fact, that I stood rooted to the spot until I had finished every last shred of the spicy meat wrapped with onions. All thoughts of my planned supper were gone. I turned on my heels back to Bade Miyan and spent the next two hours there working my way through the menu until I realized it was past midnight.

The taste of those kebabs stayed with me until I arrived back at the hotel. In fact, if I close my eyes, the taste stays with me still. But that is true of so much about Mumbai. It stays with you and, despite its savagely unforgiving elements, you leave thinking that you have barely scratched the surface of this unstoppable city.

After leaving Mumbai, I carved a s.p.a.ce in my schedule to recharge my batteries and to catch up on some much-needed sleep. I wanted to eat well, of course, but I didn't have any plans.

I chose Goa, the former Portuguese colony on the south-west coast of the subcontinent, which only became part of India in 1962. The north of the state is highly developed with resorts and now overcrowded with tourists from all over the world, but primarily the UK and, increasingly Russia. It was not for The south, however, remains relatively unspoilt, and I chose basic but pleasant-looking resort in Cavelossim and arrived the on an early morning flight.

The difference from Mumbai was striking the moment I le the airport. It was quieter, obviously - anywhere would see quiet after Mumbai - but more than that, the whole pace of li

was much more gentle. The Portuguese legacy still remains ij

the faces of the people and the names on the shops and buildir we pa.s.sed en route to the hotel. It is also in the architecture, wit] as many church steeples on show as there are temples.

The hotel was basic but would suit my needs down to ground. It was moments' walk from the beach, so I quickt changed into flip-flops and pottered out along the rice fields i see what was on offer. The beach was the stuff of a holiday br chure photographer's dreams. Stretching on for miles in eit direction, the sweeping sands, waving palms and blue seas we^ broken up only by the occasional beach shack serving food to 1 few people around at that time. I flipped off my flops and sp the next hour walking on the hot sands before choosing one > them at random and sitting down for my first meal.

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