Vegetable pakora, perhaps. One of my very favourites. Along with those newly discovered chilli parathas we like.
I mentioned the other day how I could see myself wearing a beautiful sari. It’s funny how your mind changes, from one decade to another, thirty years on. The Resident IT Consultant came with Indian relatives, which was very thoughtful of him. It’s pretty exotic to a Swedish peasant like myself.
So, as the happy day drew near, all those years ago, The Indian Aunt suggested we might want something Indian as a wedding present. Perhaps a sari. I felt I would look odd wearing one of those round Brighton, so replied that almost anything else Indian would be absolutely lovely. It was. But you can’t wear an antique embroidered wall hanging, even in Stockport, if you change your mind.
And to be realistic about this, at my age I suspect the draughtiness of the ‘gaps’ in a sari might be a little on the chilli side.
There are books with bits of India in them. A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett, for instance. And more recently, Jane Eagland’s Whisper My Name. Both are about formerly ‘Indian’ girls who come to England for their education. And I can’t help but feel that whereas we do like the books for what happens once the girls get here, we would quite like some more of India.
Mr Ram Dass makes me think of Art Malik as Mr Amanjit Singh in Upstairs Downstairs. Silly of me, I know. He’s probably past climbing around on roofs.
(And it’s odd how things happen. As I was blogging merrily away on my Indian theme, I ‘got mail.’ It was from Raja Fashions, telling me when they are next in my neck of the woods. What would we wear without them?)