Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
It is unlikely you have come across bere bannocks if you haven’t been to Orkney.
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.
The MacLeods of Scotland have much in common with the Malayalees of Kannur. In fact, they are practically cousins.
Did you know Mevagissey did its fair share in making the world a cleaner place? It was this village that gave us Pears, the transparent bar of freshness that has lathered our parents for generations.
Those who know of Polperro know of it as an exceptionally pretty fishing village on the Cornish coast. That it is. But there is more to it.
If you are a 72-kilo man hiking 14 or so miles a day with a daypack, you need at least 3,600 calories in your system. How do you get that in if you are also on a 20-hour fast?
“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).
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?
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