Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
Thinking of Jesus, I climbed into the ferry at Fowey Town Quay, paid £2.50 to the captain, and set sail for the distant shores of Polruan which loomed out of green waters some 365 metres away.
A favourite fictional detective of mine these days is Inspector Salvo Montalbano. He is Sicilian, the creation of Andrea Camilleri.
It was high noon and scorching when I rode into Oatman. “Feed and water him,” I told the boy who came running to take the reins. “Curry him down with the saddle on.”
“It takes courage to cross the street in our part of the world,” Mr Brown said to Mr White. “Not many Westerners have that kind of courage.”
Positano is a town best enjoyed with a thick wad of cash, a healthy pair of lungs, and excellent knees.
In the Kerala of my childhood, before my people succumbed to the invasion of ‘cafes’, ‘restaurants’ and ‘bistros’ selling everything from bel puri to kebabs to malayalified Chinese, we of the old ate at chayakkadas (tea shops).
A guy I know well at work has been selling Norway to me for years. Our conversations often go like this.
I had never thought deeply about pork knuckles before I arrived in Prague. I never had to. Do pigs have knuckles? Golly. Do they punch each other?
Anyone who has ever passed through an airport anywhere in the world has witnessed the swagger of the pilots and the sashay of the stewardesses.
Wet with the bucket of cold water he half-willingly poured on himself, he stands by the body of his father, palms together, naked to the waist, head bowed to the prayers of the priest with a piety he does not feel.
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