Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
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.
I believe they are wonderful creations of God, made solely for the purpose of teaching big airports a thing or two about how airports are meant to be.
There were 20 of them at the Little Chef for New Year’s lunch. Outside, it poured. Inside, under the electric mist that hung from red lampshades, it was warm, the red tabletops smooth and shining.
The girl was cute, the guy, not. They sat by the door, at a table for two, and talked non-stop.
And I travelled 4,000 miles, over land and sea and river and forest to the land of my birth, the land blessed by the Virile Yogi, the brahmachari, the karmachari.
Tthe air hostess has severe doubts about a shalwar-clad young mother’s capability to comprehend the language. So much, in fact, that she asks, not once, not twice, but three times the question, “Do you speak English?”
There are all sorts of expressions the clever and the wannabe clever amongst us chuck at the world — sometimes to clarify, sometimes to obfuscate, and sometimes to come across as clarifying while actually obfuscating.
I went to Tyneham because of its history. I wanted to see a village ‘frozen in time’ with my own eyes.
I was having breakfast with two young women I didn’t know and a dog who was trying to know me intimately.
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