Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
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It is unlikely you have come across bere bannocks if you haven’t been to Orkney. Bere is an ancient version of barley and bannocks are Scotland’s spirited response to tandoori roti. Make bannocks from bere and you get a flatbread like none other.
So I waited to board the ferry, rubbing my hands in glee. I was in a place called Scrabster. It is difficult to be overwhelmed with excitement when you are in settlement with a name that is a cross between a skin ailment and a crustacean with five pincers, but I swear there was glee all over my hands when an attendant waved me on board.
I used to drink instant coffee. In those days, I thought it tasted good. It was cheap and convenient, and I drank it black and piping hot the way they did it in manly movies.
Sometime in the late 1930s or early 40s, a newly minted Canadian schoolteacher by the name of Laurence J Peter saw a door sign in the august institution he was then employed at. It said: ‘Emergency Exit. Authorised Personnel Only’.
During an intermission in the lockdowns last year, for want of better entertainment, my wife and I moved house, swapping the seaside town we had long inhabited for a quieter place inland.
The MacLeods of Scotland have much in common with the Malayalees of Kannur. In fact, they are practically cousins.
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.”
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