Flavours of India

My name is Jeremy. I’m 25 years old, and I’ve just returned from a three-month trip to Great Britain. I finished university with a cultural anthropology/linguistics degree and after two years of looking for a job relevant to my training (who the hell hires cultural anthropologists, anyway?), I decided to see the world while I still had the time.

I flew into London/Gatwick with nothing but a backpack, a Eurail pass and a few hundred dollars in cash. I toured the country by train, bus, hitchhike and foot. I slept mostly in hostels, which were packed with kids like me trying to see the world on a dime. I think somebody stole my shampoo at the hostel in Bristol, but for the most part, it was lots of fun. We played cards late at night, passed around cheap bottles of wine, smoked some occasional pot, and pretended we were sleeping while horny young hippies fucked like rabbits in the bunks nearby.

I saw it all, Stonehenge, the Roman baths at Bath, the Cotswolds, Oxford, the beaches of Brighton, Shakespeare’s girlfriend’s house in Stratford-upon-Avon, lots of cathedrals including Canterbury, the castle at Leeds, the whole damn country. I’m sure I missed a lot, but I met some wonderful and crazy people, and for the first time I actually felt like I was utilizing my anthropological education, watching people interact and experience life around me. It was great.

Of course the bulk of my time was spent in London. How could I not? I did the “outstate” touring first so that I could pretty much spend the rest of my time in the big city. So I had about six weeks in London itself. It wasn’t enough. I walked all over that city. It’s enormous, stretching as far as your imagination in all directions. I saw every tourist location imaginable, and ate every type of food on earth. It was unreal, and I’ve never been happier.

About four weeks into my time in London I ate my 50th Indian meal at some little family-run Tandoori restaurant called “Natraj”. The place was tiny, with only about eight tables, but the food was incredible, easily the best I’ve ever had. The vindaloo was outstanding, and the chana masala was to die for. The goat curry wasn’t bad at all, but I had to drizzle a lot of yogurt on it to make it edible for my poor North American palate. The folks who ran it were a middle-aged Indian couple, the Rajputs, who were very sweet and very attentive. The lady hovered constantly over her few customers, practically pestering them for other things they might need.

I went back a few nights later, remembering the delicious exotic burn that warmed my mouth for hours previously. It was a Friday night, and all the tables were filled. I waited patiently, and Mrs. Rajput recognized me from my recent visit and carved out a small table for one near the kitchen door. Grateful, I sat down and was consumed by the overpowering smells emanating from the swinging kitchen doors. My mouth watered instantly and my nostrils were immediately open and almost burning from the rich fragrant aromas.

I told Mrs. Rajput to surprise me with her favorites, and she smiled warmly. She patted my head like an obedient son and scurried off into the kitchen. I could hear her clucking excitedly in Hindi at the cooks, presumably discussing my culinary fortunes. I sipped at my water, feeling rather conspicuous with this sudden hubbub surrounding my presence and menu choice. Mr. Rajput smiled at me from behind the register, his bright white teeth bursting from his dark brown face, while his graying moustache curled to match his beaming grin. I waved, slightly embarrassed and returned to my ice water.

After several minutes of clanging pots and banging pans, I heard Mrs. Rajput talking excitedly, and this time a woman’s voice answered. I heard footsteps approaching the swinging doors, which flung open wildly, nearly slamming into my sad little table for one in the corner. A huge plate appeared as if by magic in front of me, strewn with iridescent orange, spicy-looking brown and unnatural green. But the smells told me everything was going to be fantastic. I looked up to thank Mrs. Rajput and found myself looking at the most glorious face I’ve ever seen.

I stammered an awkward ‘thank you’, and her mouth opened in a wide, heart-melting smile. I stared for a moment. She stood about 5’ 5”, with a slender frame and perfect proportions. She had short-cropped black hair, high arching eyebrows and a gold nose ring. Her large bright eyes flashed like black obsidian, with long feminine eyelashes devoid of cosmetic embellishment. Her mouth was wide and opened in the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. Her teeth were impossibly white, framed by full lips that curled into a sly grin not unlike Mr. Rajput’s. Her skin was a medium brown, almost ruddy, with a sheen that looked almost like she’d been lightly coated in baby oil. I was quite sure not, but it gave her a radiance and a vitality that stopped my breath and quickened my heart. She wore a long white sundress and simple black sandals.

Blessedly, she lingered a moment, perhaps fascinated by my uncouth staring. The result was nearly a whole minute in which I absorbed her beauty. Her eyes penetrated me. I felt foolish and young, but I could not stop staring. There was a lot happening in those deep black eyes, a shrewd intelligence and an irresistibly sexy self-confidence. I opened my mouth to speak again.

“Th-thank you. This smells fantastic. What is it?”

Her smile became a laugh. She pointed at each item on the plate, providing its name and basic ingredients in a soft, low voice that seemed equal parts Indian and British accents. I didn’t digest a single word long enough to recall what I ate, but I savored every syllable she issued, hoping she’d go on to describe some long process of preparation for each dish, just so I could keep listening.

Right as this glorious creature was winding up her quite complete description of my meal, Mrs. Rajput emerged with dishes for other patrons. She dropped them off quickly and then came right to my table.

“Ah! You have met my daughter, Ashna?” the adorable Mrs. Rajput said excitedly. “She is a doctor, you know! She is very smart.”

Ashna blushed and reprimanded her mother sweetly. “Medical school, Mother. I’m still in school.” Ashna turned back to me, her smile gleaming bright white. I continued to stare.

“Uh, Jeremy. My name is Jeremy. Pleased to meet you, Ashna.” I extended my hand, eagerly anticipating the chance to touch her skin.

She took it, her warm dry hand fitting smartly into mine. Her grip was surprisingly firm, and I marveled at her confidence. I had no notions that Indian women were meek or wildly oppressed, especially in this most modern of Western cities. But there was something exceptional about this girl, and I desperately wanted to know more.

“Very nice to meet you, Jeremy. Enjoy your dinner!” She turned and walked back through the swinging doors. My eyes followed her.

Mrs. Rajput seemed to notice my particular interest in her daughter, and she touched my arm gently.

“She’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she? We’re so proud of her. She helps us out sometimes when we’re busy. She’s so good to her parents.” I was trying to figure out if this was some kind of sales job or just the exuberant confessions of a proud parent.

“She certainly seems like a lovely person,” I offered weakly, not trying to sound too predatory in my appraisal of this woman’s own daughter.

Mrs. Rajput patted my head again and smiled. “I’ll make sure she knows that you think so!” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Before I could speak in protest, she bounced giddily through the doors and disappeared into the noisy, spicy kitchen.

I turned to my food, breathing in the exotic spicy aromas.