If I walk past an Indian takeaway, the slightest whiff of a curry will get my tastebuds tingling and my mouth watering. Next thing I know, I’ll be stood in my kitchen with my mini steel spice pots, thinking I’m Madhur Jaffrey as I throw random ingredients into a stainless steel pot and watch the spices mingle with the garlic and onion as it all crackles and transforms into something curry-like.
But it’s more than the smell of Indian food that whets my appetite for all things Indian. Even though I was born and bred in London and have only visited India three times (albeit once for two months), there is an affinity and love for it which is hard-wired into me and the slightest reminder can stir the most powerful affection.
Even simple things like a trip to the Indian food store in Finchley. If a film song is blaring out on Sunrise Radio, the rich orchestral melodies often make me want to dance around the giant bottles of sunflower oil, like some Bollywood actress prancing around trees. And I don’t even really understand Hindi. But the music conjures up an image, a glorified image no doubt, of India at its happiest and most alluring.
And as I’m drifting down the shopping aisle, with my tiny, toy-like trolley, picking up packets of dried chillies, cashew nuts and rice flour, this rare trip feels wonderfully ordinary, as though I’m in India, doing my weekly shop at my neighbourhood store. When an adorable massi asks me to reach for a jar of chutney she can’t quite reach and the shopkeeper brings out his best batch of mangoes from the back, it evokes a nostalgia for a life I never even had. Why that is, who knows.
But it’s easy to idolise what you only have great memories of. On my last trip to the homeland, I was reminded of how crowded and noisy Mumbai has become over the years. The energy of the city is irresistible but the incessant sounds of horns beeping late into the night, people everywhere all of the time, trendy Indian teens chatting non-stop on their mobiles was sometimes overwhelming. I suppose if I really get a craving, I could always drive to Wembley…
Meera Dattani is a London-based freelance journalist with a chronic case of itchy feet. She has worked wirelessly and tirelessly from internet cafes and beaches across the globe, from Buenos Aires and Kampala to Melbourne and Ho Chi Minh City. Writing about travel, people, social and cultural trends is what gets her fingers tapping. She’s also a keen tennis player with a brutal backhand, a real foodie and a big fan of all things eco-friendly.
Peta Jinnath Andersen is a freelance and fiction writer. Born in Sydney, Australia, to a Fiji-Indian father and Scottish mother, she’s a bit confused about her background, but loves it all the same. Currently living in the US, she has just had her first child, and is busy studying hard in an effort to learn more about her Indian heritage – including taking Hindi lessons – so she can teach her son about just what it is that makes an NRI special.
on February 26, 2010
at 12:45 pm
I am a NRI now, but only a short term one. Although I have lived most of my life in India, I can very much relate to what you say. Yes we can idyllise and romanticise, but reality is a little different as you say.
Nice blog Meera.
Ramesh
on September 6, 2010
at 12:15 am
Ramesh, hope you enjoyed your brief NRI stint and glad you enjoyed the post. Meera