Archive | October 2008

Getting Spoiled Rotten

Oct20

Sunday, October 19, 2008
London

Coming to live in London has erased for me, in many ways, almost twenty years of my life. Not only have I begun to talk again in the way I used to when I lived in Bombay, but it has brought home to me the tremendous similarity between English customs and Indians ones and the ways in which American ones differ. Allow me to explain…

First of all, here’s how my speech is changing. Not only have I gone back to pronouncing words like ‘class’ and ‘pass’ with a heavy ‘Ah’ sound instead of the American ‘Ae’ sound but my phraseology is also undergoing a marked change. I don’t “take care of” something, I now “look after it”. I don’t “make do” in a situation, I now “manage”. I don’t come upon “a hassle”, I now encounter “a snag” or “a hurdle”. When my students come up with good answers, I no longer say, “Good Job”, I say “Well Done!” Almost every second one of my sentences is peppered not with “Great” or “Terrific” but with “Lovely”. I don’t talk about “moving” house, but “shifting”. My students are not “bright” but “clever”. Young entrepreneurs are no longer “doing better”, they are “coming up”. When people say, “How are you?” I no longer say, “Good”, I now say, “Very well, thank-you”. In other words, I speak now in exactly the way my parents speak in Bombay–using the British vocabulary and turn of phrase they learned from their Anglo-Indian education in convent schools. And I am continually amazed at how quickly this change in my speech is happening.

Secondly, there is the matter of custom: I have been overwhelmed, for instance, by the care and concern that has been showered on me in the past two days by the English–neighbors and friends alike–who have discovered that I have an affliction that has rendered me home bound. In all the years that my husband Llew and I experienced illness in the United States, we have never had a single visitor who popped in just to see how we were doing and to visit with us. It has never happened! Not even when Llew was writhing for months in pain under the scourge of shingles did he have a single one of our American friends or neighbors come over to visit us. Whether this has to do with the huge geographical distances that separate us from our friends in America or whether this is simply not customary, I cannot say. I mean, we have had friends call to find out how we’re doing and we have received the occasional box of chocolates, but never have people simply said to us, “OK, I’ll be over this evening to see you” simply because they know we’ve been ill. By the same token, I have to say that we have never made the journey to see friends who’ve been ill either. In other words, visiting the sick does not seem to be customary in the United States and we, though from the Indian sub-continent, seem to have adopted the American way of sympathizing with the ill over the phone and then getting on with our lives–completing forgetting the ways in which we visited so easily with the sick when we lived in India.

So, you can imagine how overwhelmed I feel by the spontaneity with which my newly-minted friends and neighbors in London have reacted on getting to know of my condition. On Saturday morning, I sat on the phone and called a few friends to have a chat with them. When they discovered that I was home bound, every single one of them asked if there was anything I needed, any shopping they could do for me, anything they could bring me, etc. Then, before each call ended, every one of them said that they would be over to come and see me.

As I had anticipated that I would be unable to leave my flat for a few days, on Friday, on my way back from the GP, I had stopped at the supermarket to pick up bread, milk and cheese. However, my salad veggies ran out by the end of Saturday, and when my friend Michelle Misquita Rafferty came over yesterday evening, she brought me Romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, long shelf life milk, a TV program for the week and a packet of Eccles Cakes. How very thoughtful of her! Can you imagine? Michelle was my classmate at Elphinstone College in Bombay. She made London her home about 20 years ago, went to Law School here and is now a solicitor with the British Parliament. She lives in Islington and cares for her elderly parents who are rather poorly themselves, health-wise; and yet she dropped everything and made the time for me and arrived with all those goodies!

Barely had she left my place after sharing those Eccles Cakes and a cup of tea with me than in walked Cynthia Colcluff, with whom I made friends only four weeks ago and purely by chance. Cynthia, nee D’Souza, is of Goan heritage, born and raised in Uganda, East Africa. She arrived in the UK as a teenager with her parents when Idi Amin threw all Asians out of Uganda. She met Michael Colcluff, an Anglican priest, in England, converted from Roman Catholicism to C of E and married him. They have two handsome sons, Aidan and Edward, both currently in Law School here in London. Llew and I met Cynthia when we attended the morning service at St. Paul’s Cathedral, a few weeks ago. Bishop Michael, her husband, who is now Canon-Pastor at St. Paul’s. chatted with us after the service, told us that his wife was a Goan and brought us together in the nicest of ways. Cynthia and I have been getting to know each other since then.

When she arrived last evening, we sat down for a chat. She too had asked me if I needed anything purchased, then thoughtfully cut me a wedge of her home made fruit cake as a present. Just as we were in the midst of a lovely chinwag, my doorbell rang. It was my next-door neighbor Tim popping in to see how I was doing. I thanked him for putting me on to the Holborn Medical Center and invited him in. Tim is a wonderful conversationalist and soon the three of us were in the midst of a thoroughly delightful chat that lifted my spirits considerably and helped me realize how fortunate I was to have created this little network of friends within just 5 weeks of being in London! Tim stayed around for about a half hour and once again told me to promise him I would let him know if there was anything I needed. He also left me the name and number of a good podiatrist in case I need more specialized attention.

That left Cynthia and me to ourselves but for only for a short while before the doorbell rang again and her husband Michael appeared. Over red wine and some tasty nibbles, we spent a lively evening. I could not believe that these folks, whom I had only recently met were giving me so generously of their time and their caring. I felt as if I were back again in Bombay where, when one is ill, the doorbell never stops ringing as a steady stream of people troop in to see how you are doing.

While I was talking to Cynthia and Michael, my cousin Cherry rang me from Kent to give me the good news that my condition can also be treated with homeopathy. She had chatted with her India-based homeopatist on the phone and had consulted her about my condition. Cherry then told me about the London Homeopathic Hospital and suggested that I try to find a cure there. Soon after she rang off, my phone rang again and this time it was my parents from Bombay, calling to find out how I was managing on my own in London despite my injured foot. I was almost moved to tears. I told them I would call them back in an hour and give them the prognosis.

Believe me, it has been a long time since I have felt so spoiled. in fact, my class mate Bina Samel Ullal from high school in Bombay who now lives in Harrow, told me on the phone that she would come along on Tuesday to spend the day with me as she was working on Sunday and Monday. She too wanted to know if there was anything she could bring me and since she works for Waitrose, I asked her for some of their gourmet goodies to which I am partial–their Fig and Walnut Bread, their cold Ox Tongue, their Stilton Cheese with Dates and Oranges, their Wensleydale Cheese with Ginger. I am now looking forward to her visit tomorrow and I know that in the company of these caring, loving people I will heal quickly, if not physically, then at least psychologically. Indeed, the frequent calls from Llew and the unexpected visits of so many friends have lifted my spirits immensely and I no longer feel as if I am alone in a foreign country.

All of this has taught me that perhaps some customs are worth clinging on to, no matter where one travels or makes a new home.

Living with Plantar Fascittis

Oct19

Saturday, October 18, 2008
London

If you’d told me, one month ago, that I’d be confined to my flat in London for two whole weeks without the chance of any voluntary activity, I’d have thought you were nuts. Yet, here I am, housebound for at least a week if not two, as I allow my plantar to heal. Since I might as well make the best of it, I sat on the phone and called a few of my UK-based friends to inform them of my condition. I’ve been receiving a lot of very welcome TLC from Llew who’s been phoning me several times a day from the States to make sure I am coping and staying as well as can be expected under the circumstances.

I spent most of the day writing an essay for NYU’s Economics Blog of which I am the London-based co-ordinator and editing an essay written by one of my students, David Kim, for the same blog. I also cleaned up my Inbox that had over 1000 messages accumulated in the initial troubles I had accessing my email in the weeks soon after I moved to London.

I then continued reading Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies which is slowly nearing its conclusion. It is an immense tour de force, the outcome of months of research about 19th century sea-faring and the Opium Trade across the globe. In the vast amount of trouble it has undoubtedly taken to research and construct this novel, I am deeply impressed by Ghosh’s effort and feel sorry that he did not win the Booker Prize. I also watched a movie delivered at home to me through Love Film. Com called A Kind of Loving starring a very young Alan Bates and Thora Hind. Set in the 1960s in the English Midlands, it is now hopelessly dated but I enjoyed it, if nothing else to see how handsome Alan Bates was when young.

Surprisingly, considering what a boob tube junkie I am, I haven’t been watching a lot of British TV–this has probably to do with the fact that I preferred to explore the outdoors (much to my detriment!)than keep company with the idiot box. That said, I have discovered the UK Food TV channel and am slowly getting to know the programs–Market Watch, Rachel Allen Bake, Master Chef, etc. That, coupled with the old Britcoms that I have traditionally loved, has kept me occupied as I have munched my solitary meals.

Catching up with the web albums sent to me by friends all over the world allowed me to pass time–my friend Rosita Fernandes’ 50th birthday celebrations in Australia; my Bombay-based friend Shahnaz Nalwalla’s trip to Iran. It’s been fun glancing through these pictures at leisure and feeling reunited with my friends though they are all over the globe.

As I grow older, I realize that friends are the most precious gifts we have on earth. For instance, Rosemary Massouras, my London-based friend, offered immediately to come over to my flat and take me out for dinner in her car. Based in Battersea, it is a fifteen minute ride from her place to mine and I was delighted to see her at 8 pm as I had a serious attack of cabin fever by that hour of the day. My next-door neighbors Barbara and Tim had told me about a good restaurant called Italian Kitchen,not too far away in Bloomsbury and we decided to check it out. Rosemary arrived with a bouquet of peach roses and a packet of Ferrero Rocher chocolates and thoroughly fussed over me while sipping a glass of wine at my place. Then, I braced up my ankle, wore my sturdy sneakers, popped into her car and we were off.

Italian Kitchen was packed but it was the sweetest little restaurant and took me directly back to the cobbled streets of Florence. Red checked tablecloths, a chalk-scribbled menu on the wall, waiters who said “Buona Sera” when they seated you, an impressive wine list and an array of pasta dishes to die for. It was worth the 15 minute wait. Rosemary and I settled on a glass of chianti for starters, then chose a plate of pasta each–she had Spaghetti with meat balls and olives in a tomato based sauce, I chose Tagliatelle with asparagus tips and smoked salmon in a cream based sauce. My dish was just scrumptious and I was transported once again, to Fiesole where my friend Amy and I had tasted the most exquisite Italian meals in the tiniest little outposts.

Rosemary and I chatted nineteen to the dozen–there was so much to say! We talked about everything–our international travels, our common friends, our daughters, everything! When it came time for dessert, Rosemary chose a cappuccino while I decided to spoil myself and have dessert–I selected a Tartufo which, in the States, is usually an italian ice-cream. How surprised I was to be presented with a marvelous wedge of Chocolate Mousse and oranges soaked in Grand Marnier.

Thoroughly cheered up by our Italian repast, Rosemary and I made our way back home, amazed to find that it was already past midnight. Where had the hours gone? Five minutes later, I was home, applying ibuprofen gel to the soles of my feet that seemed to have survived my little excursion without protest, and went straight to sleep.

Understanding the NHS and Discovering Persephone Books

Oct17

Friday, October 17, 2008
London

Boo Hoo, Boo Hoo…that’s me weeping. I am still here in London as I had to cancel my weekend travel plans to Berlin. And for very good reason too. My maniacal walking all over London has finally done me in. The excruciating pain I woke with two days ago reached unbearable levels yesterday. After teaching my two classes, I consulted with my colleagues and was told to head straight for the A&E (Accidents & Emergency) Department at the University of London Hospital at Euston.

Dusk was already falling gently on the city when I reached there feeling unusually nervous about having to find my way through the medical system of a foreign country. I expected to have to wait for at least an hour–after all, an ache in the foot doesn’t compare quite as urgently with a heart attack or someone with a burn accident. Registration done, I was asked to sit for a bit. Waiting time, the receptionist informed me, was running at an hour. Not too bad, I thought, as I settled down to read the evening’s edition of The London Paper–full of the news about the Madonna-Ritchi divorce.

I was only quite getting into the dirt when someone with a strange accent barked my name. I had barely sat down for ten minutes! The doctor who saw me was rakish–a Dr. Manolo Gavalas. From his name, I would guess he was Greek. He gave me a welcoming smile and asked to see my foot. He took one look at it, encased in my ankle brace, and said, “I’m sorry, but you’ve come to the wrong place. There’s not much I can do for you here. There are no bones broken. No fractures. You need to see your G.P. Who’s your G.P?”

“I don’t have one”, I said, miserably.

“Well, you need to register and get a G.P. He’ll then decide what to do–whether to send you for a X-Ray or to see a physiotherapist. I think you have Plantar Fasciitis. It’s a painful condition and will be troublesome for a few days. But I can’t do anything for you”.

That was it. At the reception, I received a print out giving me instructions on how to register with the NHS–that’s Britain’s notorious National Health Service for you. If you are legally present in the UK, you are entitled to NHS facilities which, basically, means you can see a doctor and get a prescription. However, you do have to pay for your medicines (7 pounds is the average cost for one set of medications) unless you are a child or a pensioner (British for senior citizen) in which case medication is also free.

Well, I hobbled back home, seriously concerned about my leg, and went straight to my laptop. I googled ‘Plantar Fasciitis’ and learned everything about it. It is clearly all the walking I have done that has caused my condition. The arches under my foot, which are very weak to begin with, have stretched and become inflamed and need a great deal of TLC to coax them back to health.

I then rang my neighbor’s doorbell and asked Tim if he could suggest a GP in our area since I’d rather go to a doctor they could recommend than to a stranger. Within a half hour, I had the telephone number and location of the Holborn Medical Center on Lamb’s Conduit Street just behind High Holborn and I resolved to get there and find a G.P. first thing today.

Well, I then went on to the NHS website, registered (they needed a lot of personal information) and awaited the Registration confirmation. NHS GPs (that is General Practitioners, what in the States we call Internists) are the first port of call. They diagnose conditions and refer patients to specialists who suggest treatment and dispense medication.

When I awoke this morning, the pain was still present, not severe, but there, a nagging ache in the sole of my foot that caused me to hobble about my flat. I didn’t waste too much time contacting the Holborn Medical Center. A lovely chap called Steven told me to come in with my “documentation”–by which he meant my passport (he needs to determine that I am legally in the UK, so I guess he would need to examine my work permit), my rental agreement (which makes me a bonafide resident of Holborn–I took my Camden Council tax papers) and one utility bill (I took my Virgin Media bill for last month). Then, I set out on a particularly lovely autumn day to find the “surgery” as they call the doctor’s office.

A short ten minute away, there it was. Steven met me, had me fill out the paper work, and told me to stay tuned for a call from the doctor that would come within the hour–thank God for my new cell phone. I decided to find a coffee in a cafe nearby as I did not want to walk too much on my strained foot. My research on the Internet had informed me that they only real treatment was footrest and a few exercises to strengthen the Achilles tendon and the plantar. Then, just across the street, I spied a shop called Persephone Books and, of course, I cannot pass a bookshop without browsing through its shelves. So in I went.

And thus, I discovered one of the cutest bookshops in the world. Inside were shelves with books covered in a uniform grey. The end papers were wonderfully funky prints. Where on earth had I stumbled? The lovely salesgirl then came forward and asked if I needed help. “What an interesting book shop!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, we are one of a kind, aren’t we?” she said. “Persephone was started by Nicola Beauman in the most interesting way.”

She went on to inform me that the company’s founder, Nicola Beauman, had just watched a movie called Brief Encounter, directed by David Lean (yes, he of Lawrence of Arabia and A Passage to India and Beckett) and was enchanted by the heroine of the film which is set in the 1930s who enjoyed her weekly excursion to town to do some shopping, have a coffee in the cafe, see a movie, then go to the local library to change her book. In her shopping bag, was a book by Edna O’Brien. The cover of this book fascinated Nicola Beauman who decided that she too would read the book. This got her involved in the world of female writers between the two great Wars and she found that so many of the books were out of print.

So, there it was–a business opportunity staring her in the face. One that would allow her to reprint these classic books written mostly between 1900 and 1940 only by women. She chose fabrics that were contemporary to the period of the book and used those as end papers. Each book has a plain grey cover though, in some cases, ‘Classics’ have been reissued with a picture on the cover–usually a contemporary painting by a female artist.

Thus, Persephone Books was born, an outfit that has two London storefronts–one at Kensington Church Street, the other at Lamb’s Conduit Street. Their market is very specific. Almost all their customers are women. Because they have, to date, no more than 60 odd titles, the books are ready wrapped in fuchsia or grey wrapping paper, tied with a ribbon and finished off with a book mark in the same print as the end paper to be found in the book. Now how clever is that? And how charming? As I flipped through the pages, I became aware of the trills of a Chopin Etude playing softly in the background and I envied the salesgirl her little spot of heaven.

I was so taken by the store and the collection that I asked for prices and was informed that every single books costs a flat 10 pounds, though you can buy three for 27. They do ship all over the world (in fact, the Lamb’s Conduit Street shop handles mail orders) and they run events all year round. Not surprisingly, the events take the form of “cream teas” and lectures (one of them on November 13 is to be given by Prof. Elaine Showalter, my colleague at NYU’s English Department).

As if that were not enough for the Edwardian in me, guess, what? They also run a book club! YYYEEESS!!! Groups of women get together over Madeira, bread and cheese and discuss one of their titles. The cost to attend this is 10 pounds and because I will be missing their November meeting (I will, fingers crossed, be with Llew in Greece at that time, when the group will be discussing
The Making of a Marchioness by Frances Hodgson Burnett”), I hope to attend their early December meeting where the book to be discussed is A House in the Country by Jocelyn Playfair. I cannot believe that I have actually stumbled upon a Book Club in London and one that I can enjoy. Naturally, I did get enrolled and will pay my 10 pounds when I get to the meeting in December at their Notting Hill Shop.

To read more about Persephone Books, please visit their website:
http://www.persephonebooks.co.uk//

So, here I was, feeling unhappy that I was forced to call off my trip to Berlin as I was so afraid about my foot and as a compensation , I found a darling book shop in London and will soon be a member of a Book Club! How fortunate can one reader be? Well, just as I was browsing through the shop, my cell phone rang–withing 20 minutes of my arrival there. The doctor could see me in ten minutes. What a good thing I hadn’t strayed too far away.

In ten minutes, I was sitting with a GP named Steven Yaxley who didn’t seem older than 18! He went through the formalities with me and came up with an identical diagnosis–plantar fasciitis. He also gave me a print out of the exact same thing I had read on the Net yesterday and suggested foot rest, foot exercises, a local ibuprofen gel and the use of sneakers with good supportive arches. He actually showed me the exercises and told me to stay off my feet for at least one to two weeks. I was so crestfallen. Imagine wasting two weeks in the autumn staying cooped up indoors, unable to do any of the exploring I had intended. But then, I realized that perhaps it is best I do this because I do want to be, as my Dad would say, “fighting fit” by the time Llew arrives here at the end of the month and we leave on our travels in Greece.

Dr. Yaxley told me that I could see a physiotherapist if I wished but I would probably not get an appointment for at least a month. It seems that the UK is short of physiotherapists and there are too many patients to see them. In any case, he assured me, my condition does not require any urgent treatment. If I am good and stay off my feet and do the exercises while watching TV or working at my desk, I should be much better in a couple of weeks, he assured me.

So I returned to my flat and have started making plans to spend the next few days cozily at home with lots of good stuff to eat and drink, a lot of reading and good TV (with my feet raised for comfort) and a lot of writing accomplished on my laptop.

Really not too bad a deal, if you come to think of it. And if I stay optimistic, I will get rid of the foot pain and be all set to start exploring again!

I only hope I am not going to pile on the pounds in two weeks!!!

So, there you have it. The NHS. It works.

Great Family News–and the Booker Prize Live on the BBC

Oct15

Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Selhurst and London

In a day that began with an excruciating pain on the sole of my right foot, I made my way to Victoria and from there on a Main Line train to the suburb of Selhurst to meet The Ribeiros–Dennis and Joy–an Anglo-Indian couple who agreed to be interviewed as part of my research and also graciously invited me to join them for lunch.

Selhurst is a small quiet little village and the Ribeiros live on a sleepy street called Prince Road right besides a small evangelical church. Their home is spacious, the living room stretching out to their garden door. It is filled with the kind of photographic memorabilia that is usually seen in the homes of people who have lived in the same place for a long while, have raised a family in it and now enjoy their grandchildren. They bring me a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits (I am told that in England you never offer anyone a cup of tea or coffee without also offering at least one accompanying biscuit!)–this is what I mean when I say that the culture is so civilized!

We settle down for a chat and I find the couple fascinating. Joy is charmingly soft spoken but so articulate and thoughtful. Dennis is full of funny stories. He does so much charitable fundraising for the community in Calcutta, yet they remain touchingly modest about their contribution. When my interview is done, Dennis offers me a glass of sherry which I gratefully accept. It is a long time since I have sipped sherry and I realize how English this Anglo-Indian couple has become after fifty odd years in England.

Then, we adjourn to their dining room where Dennis has put together a fine typically Anglo-Indian meal–Rice and Chicken Curry, Cabbage Foogat studded with mustard seeds, a nice thick Masoor Dal and Pickle. There is Pistachio Ice-Cream for dessert and After Eight Mints passed around at the end. Like I said, so civilized! Everything is home cooked and delicious and I enjoy every morsel. We eat in the Anglo-Indian style with forks and tablespoons–as the Ribeiros say, they have not changed at all after 50 odd years of living in the UK. I guess the truth lies somewhere in-between my superficial perceptions: they have remained essentially Indian while yet imbibing the English lifestyle.

Then, I am on my way back to the train, hobbling along painfully on my damaged sole. I resolve to get medication and a support bandage as soon as I reach Victoria and at the Boots’ there (that’s a chain of British pharmacies or drug stores as we say in the US), I pick up an ankle brace. On the Tube, I make my way to NYU’s campus at Bedford Square for a 6 pm screening of a film called Life is Sweet (dir. Mike Leigh) as part of Prof. Phillip Drummond’s class. I see a very young Jim Broadbent (Bridget Jones’ Diary, Moulin Rouge, etc.) in it and I am taken by the setting and the story.

Before the film began, I nipped again into the much larger Boots’ at Tottenham Court Road and spoke to the pharmacist (in the UK this is always the first person you ‘consult’) named Julie. She turned out to be a wonder. Not only did she tell me that I had done the right things–worn an ankle support brace and good quality sneakers) but that I ought to buy a good Ibuprofen gel (I chose Nurofen) to apply on the painful parts. If it doesn’t get better in 2-3 days, she said, please go and see a GP and when I told her that I did not know to whom I could turn as I am a foreigner in this country, she promptly gave me the business card of a GP who practices in nearby Bloomsbury Street. How efficient and how perfectly helpful! I was so delighted as I hobbled off to the film.

Back home (I did take a bus home for the first time since coming here), I found a ton of eager messages awaiting me from Chriselle and from Llew. They had some exciting family news to deliver to me which I discovered just ten minutes later after I did speak to Chriselle. One long trans-Atlantic chat later, I was whooping and sharing her excitement. But it is not for me to reveal her great news. Suffice it to say that I am so pleased for her and, though so far away, I share her joy.

Then, I made myself a dinner plate, sat in front of the telly to watch In the Valley of Elah but switched to the BBC News at Ten for the thrill of listening, for the first time in my life, to the announcement of the Man Booker Prize Winner for the year 2008: It was India’s Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger that went home with the 50,000 pound prize. I am doubly excited–he is from India and has won for a debut novel at the age of 33, making him the youngest of the nominees for the prize. I called Llew immediately and revealed the winner to him. We do already have the book at home in Connecticut, though neither one of us has read it…and I now have the assignment of trying to find the first British edition, first printing, tomorrow for my bibliophile husband.

On those twin happy notes (Chriselle’s big announcement and the new Booker), I applied the Ibuprofen gel, bandaged my throbbing foot and went straight to bed.

Autumn Arrives in Islington

Oct14

Monday, October 13, 2008
London

After four glorious days when it shone proudly upon the earth, the sun played peekaboo today, disappearing, for the most part behind thick cloud cover. I did not feel sorry that I stayed cooped up at home transcribing an interview from my tape recorder on to my laptop. Did not realize how gruelling a task that would be until I got started. But once I got the hang of it, I quickly picked up speed and hope to get more adept as time goes by.

Lunch was a baguette sandwich munched on my couch while watching British sitcoms on Gold, a channel I’ve discovered that does Oldies–some of which are my own favorites–As Time Goes By, Keeping Up Appearances, Fawlty Towers, One Foot in the Grave, even Sorry. Then, it was back to the salt mines until 3. 30 pm, when I rushed off for my appointment with Paul Montgomery, a second generation Anglo-Indian who had made plans to meet me in Islington.

I constantly underestimate the distance and the time it will take me to walk to my destinations despite being an expert map reader. In about 40 minutes, I arrived at our meeting point, the English and Media Center on Compton Terrace just outside the Highbury and Islington Tube Station. Paul had attended a workshop there and suggested we use the library-cum-lounge for our chat. He is a very personable man who had extensively researched his own family ties to India and has written about them with little intention of getting his discoveries published.

In the lounge, we were lucky to be able to partake of the remains of the “Tea and Cakes” that had been served to the workshop participants. With some delicious herb tea and a whopping slice of tiramisu, I felt fortified to start our conversation. Paul, of course, did most of the talking and then read to me quite beautifully from his own memoirs. It made for a very touching evening indeed as he disclosed some of the most unsavory aspects of his family background–secrets that were never even whispered about behind closed doors. At the end of our evening, he agreed to come in as a guest lecturer and speak to my students of Anglo-Indian history.

When we said goodbye, I decided to go for a walk around Islington, an area that is beloved to my colleague Tim Tomlinson (now based in Florence,Italy) after the one year he lived there while on assignment at NYU-London. I found this little ‘village’ it be quite delightful indeed. The High Street is filled with trendy shops, stone sculpture graces the tiny ‘greens’, and traditional pubs and ethnic restaurants galore offer enticing morsels. There is some literary history to be found in the environs–Evelyn Waugh and George Orwell lived in the area and there is a pub named The Orwell on the corner of Essex Road to commemorate this fact–and much cultural fare–the Sadler’s Wells Theater that offers world class dance performances is here as is the Almeida Theater (not in any way associated with my surname) which hides a wonderful gourmet restaurant that belongs to Terence Conran.

Then, as I was trundling my way through the streets, it occurred to me that fall had arrived in London though you’d never guess it by the temperatures–it is still so warm. Crispy, crunchy, crackly leaves are everywhere on the sidewalks. But where is the glory? Where is the dazzling drama of color that leaves me dumbfounded in my New England garden? Where are the sugar maples that turn shades of burnt sienna, blazing orange, sunshine yellow and amethyst? No, there is none of the seasonal visual feast that we associate with Autumn on the North Atlantic coast of the United States of America and I realize, with a pang, that I will miss Nature’s showy splendour this year.

When I reached home, I found that the sole of my right foot was seriously hurting and taking a painkiller, I tried to comfort the ache. I had walked for an hour and a half non-stop on the way back and while all this exercise is keeping me trim and offering exercise and allowing me to discover London, it is probably doing a number on my feet and I had probably better watch out. Especially since I have a break planned in Berlin this coming weekend where I will, undoubtedly, do miles of walking once again.

A Sunday in the Parks with Ivana

Oct12

Sunday, October 12, 2008
London

I awoke at 6 this morning (despite going to bed after midnight) and could not fall asleep again so I sat in bed reading Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies. When I stuck my head outside the window, there was not a soul in sight on either side of High Holborn even at 8 am. It is amazing how quiet this area gets at the weekend when the law firms have shut down.

Then, Surprise! Surprise! My next door neighbor Barbara was in church this morning at the 9 am Mass at St. Ethelreda’s Parish on Ely Place. It was nice to be able to wave to one known face in the congregation in the midst of that sea of strangers. Our priest was a Frenchman, Fr. Dennis Labarette (he goes as Fr. “Denny”, said Barbara) who stood outside to greet us as we left the church. Barbara did me the favor of picking up a copy of The Mail for me from Holborn. I would have accompanied her but I was expecting a call from Ivana which came right on cue as soon as I entered the house. Now that I am buying the Sunday papers, I guess you can say I am getting acculturated to London. I am beginning to recognize the local celebrities that are almost unknown in the States: Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen, Agnes Deyn, Charles Saatchi, Stephen Fry, Sienna Miller.

Ivana (“you can call me Ivvy”) did call to set a time and a place–Sloan Square Tube Station at a quarter past eleven. Getting there took longer than I thought and Ivvy had beaten me there despite having arrived there on her bicycle. We found a bike stand on which to fasten it and were away on one of the self-guided walks in my DK Eye Witness Guide to London: A Two to Three Hour Walk in Chelsea and Battersea. I’m not quite sure that Ivana knew what she was in for when she agreed to set out with me but she declared at several intervals during our walk that she was having a great time. And I believed her…for what was not to love about our rambles?

Leaving the excited Sloan Rangers behind us, we turned into Holbein Place, named, of course, for Hans Holbein, the Dutch portrait painter whom Henry VIII befriended (his work graces the National Portrait Gallery with its wide array of Tudor and Elizabethan mugs shots in oils). Out on Pimlico Road, one of my favorite streets in London, I could not resist peeking into the showrooms of interior decorating doyens Linley (yes, that is Viscount Linley, the Queen’s nephew, son of her late sister Margaret) and Joanna Wood whose signature English County look has inspired me for years.

Then, we were walking past the Royal Hospital’s magnificent buildings (designed by none other than Sir Christopher Wren) where I was delighted to catch a glimpse of a Chelsea Pensioner complete with long red coat and dapper black hat. In the Ranelagh Gardens, I saw the site of the famous annual Spring Chelsea Flower Show and resolved anew to try to obtain tickets for next year.

We crossed the swirling waters of the Thames at Chelsea Bridge with its four golden galleons guarding the gateposts and were over on the other bank in Battersea. In the extensive park that borders the banks we stopped for a light lunch before passing by the Buddhist Pagoda and crossing the river again–this time on the elegant Albert Bridge with its white painted ironwork. Over on the Chelsea side, we strolled along the delightful Embankment unable to get over the grandeur of the day or how fortunate we were to be able to enjoy it so thoroughly.

I couldn’t resist taking pictures by the sculpture of Thomas Carlyle whose home on Cheyne Row I had visited only a couple of days ago and of St. Thomas More who also lived on Cheyne Walk. A few steps later, his very dignified statue came into view–in gilding and black stone against the charming backdrop of the old red brick Chelsea Church. Naturally, we had to step inside and were unexpectedly treated to the rehearsal of a German operatic duo which we paused to enjoy for a while. Then, we were inspecting the remotest corners of the church, taking in the private chapel and the memorial to Sir Thomas More, the poor ill-fated Chancellor to Henry VIII who refused to accept his supreme authority as Head of the Church of England, was beheaded in the Tower of London, only to be canonized a saint by the Catholic Church. Wonderful stone memorials, most of which were destroyed through German bombing in World War II and were loving restored, grace the dim interiors of this venerable church. Ivana was as enchanted as I was as we stopped frequently to read tomb stones and memorials dating from the 1400s.

When we did get out into the bright sunshine, we made our way to the King’s Road past the beautiful terraced houses that carry multi-million dollar price tags today. The shoppers were still hard at it as we walked through the Chelsea Arts and Crafts Market and picked up fresh walnut bread in Waitrose before heading towards Sloan Square where Ivana picked up her bike and left me to sample scents at Jo Malone’s showroom on Walton Street.

Half an hour later, half drooping with fatigue, I returned home on the Tube and treated myself to a cream tea–fruit scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream that I had picked up from M&S Simply Food. That and some rich fruit cake provided sustenance enough to allow me to sit and grade my first lot of essays from my Writing class. Except that the darn phone did not stop ringing and after a while I just left the machine to pick up.

An Inspector Lynley Mystery and watching Steven Fry’s new series on the BBC based on his exploration of the fifty US states got me ready for dinner and I fixed myself my Cheddar-Broccoli Soup with the aforementioned Walnut Bread. With some Chocolate Fudge Pudding for dessert, I was ready to call it a night.

And I hope I will sleep longer tonight.

A Morning in Wapping and an Evening with Chinua Achebe

Oct11

Saturday, October 11, 2008
London

The weather gods must feel particularly benevolent for they’ve graced us with a whole weekend of bliss! On another amazingly lovely day, I set out at 11 am with my next door neighbors Barbara and Tim “for a walk past the Tower of London and into Wapping for a Chinese lunch by the riverside”, they said.

Never one to pass up a chance to explore another part of London, I was more than happy to accompany them. Only it turned out that we walked for a whole hour and a half at a stretch past some of the most marvelous parts of London along the Thames Path. With the weather cooperating so beautifully, every step of the way was sheer pleasure. They knew every hidden nook and cranny of the Path, darting into a cobbled courtyard here, zipping into an alleyway there, past the Old and New Stairs that flank the banks of the Thames and pointing out to me as we passed so many sights of interest–the famous former offices of newspaper barons on Fleet Street; the alcoves tucked away behind St. Paul’s Cathedral; Dickens Inn where the novelist often downed a swift half with his buddies; Canary Wharf where the financial establishment now lies shrouded under a pall of gloom. I saw the Tower of London and Tower Bridge from angles I had never seen before and, of course, my camera worked overtime trying to capture the essence of it all. All the while, we followed the course of the river in the wake of so many other walkers all out to enjoy the glorious day.

We finally reached the River View Chinese Restaurant in Wapping, a small area of London that was once a self-contained village. We chose a table by the window where the river glimmered only a few yards in front of us. Opposite us, we could see the golden sands that turn the river bank into a beach. There were ‘locks’ galore, those curious contraptions that regulate the ebb and flow of the river’s waters, that make a fascinating study in themselves.

Barbara and I left food decisions to Tim who made a fine selection with an emphasis on seafood. We had squid and prawns and monkfish in sweet and sour sauce (delicious!), crispy noodles with chicken and stir fried vegetables. Everything was washed down by beer–cold and refreshing after our long walk. They told me about restaurants close to home that are worth sampling and I hope to try them out when Llew is here at the end of the month.

During our walk and over lunch, I got to know my neighbors a little better. Tim, a former West End chef, who studied at St. Andrew’s in Scotland, now runs a software business from out of his flat. Barbara is a Cambridge-educated attorney who water skis for fun. The couple have traveled widely around the world and shared with me some wonderful stories of their global adventures. I found them deeply interesting to talk to. They have traveled widely in the States as well and know a great deal of American history.

On the way back, we took a cab–one of those lovely London cabs with the drop-down seats that allow passengers to face each other. Have you ever seen anything more civilized? I realized on the way back what a long way we had walked. No wonder I was ready for a nap when I got home, except that I had to get ready for my evening’s appointment with Annalisa at the Brunei Gallery of the School of Oriental and African Studies.

For the concluding session of the conference on “Things Fall Apart at Fifty” was its highlight–a conversation between the great Nigerian novelist himself, Chinua Achebe and Simon Akandi of Princeton University. The auditorium of full of his admirers and, undoubtedly, most of the members of the audience have either written on or have taught Things Fall Apart. It was a very interesting exchange indeed and though we were disappointed that Achebe declined the signing of books, he did permit photographs to be taken with him. He spoke thoughtfully and quietly and rather slowly, weighing, as it were, every word before it left his mouth. A motor accident, many years ago, confined him to a wheelchair added to which he is now almost 80 years old. Despite all these factors, his aura was so powerful that he received a standing ovation at the end of the presentation and left everyone in the audience feeling so pleased to have attended what was surely a unique public appearance by a very special writer.

Then it was time to say goodbye to the many people who had met over the past two days. I singled out Russel McDougal, the Australian novelist whom I had last met in Venice in March this year. Annalisa had many more people to say goodbye to but we managed to get away finally with the hope of finding tickets to a play at the West End. However, we made up our minds too late and a walk through the crowds of Leicester Square made it clear to me that we would get no tickets at that late hour.

Instead, we adjourned to my flat at Holborn, where we sat down to a lovely leisurely evening of chatter. As I pottered around in the kitchen getting our meal ready, we sipped red wine and nibbled at some cheese then got down to a typically English dinner of bangers and mash and salad with profiteroles for dessert. We had so much to discuss that before we knew it, it was 11. 30 and after sipping some herb tea, Annalisa and her friend Claudia who had joined us for the evening, had to leave to return to their hotel.

I was sorry to see them go but I hold on to the thought of the invitation that Annalisa has extended to me to come to the University of Padua, Italy, to give a lecture while I am still in London. All I have to do now is find a weekend when I can fit it in. It doesn’t look as if this might happen until early next year…but you never can tell.

A Date at Thomas Carlyle’s

Oct10

Friday, October 10, 2008
London

Gorgeous, glorious, grand–no adjectives can quite do justice to the kind of weather we had today. The perfect autumnal day. I caught up quickly with some pending chores, then rushed out to meet the morning. Headed straight for the Senate House where the Conference on “Things Fall Apart at 50” is on. Ran straight into Elleke Boehmer while attempting to find Annalisa Oboe, my friend from the University of Padua in Italy. She is here for the conference and we have plans to meet.

When I cannot find her, I adjourn to my office at Bedford Square to get some photocopying done, only to find that the machine is on the blink. The errand takes longer than I expect and by 1 pm, I am back at Senate House trying to find Annalisa again. This time we do hook up and have an affectionate reunion. It is always so great to see her and over the years we have run into each other in various parts of the world–her home in Vicenza, in Oxford a few years ago, in Venice this past March and now here in London. I take her off to my office at the NYU campus and get the keys from Mimi, our security guard, to the private Bedford Gardens where I munch a sandwich and catch up with Annalisa. Time flies and she has to return to the conference for a meeting. We are meeting again tomorrow at a session that includes a conversation between Chinua Achebe and Simon Akandi presiding. She will then come over to my Holborn flat for dinner.

Then, I head off to Chelsea enjoying the warmth of the October sunshine on my back. I love my new leather backpack that allows me to stash a load of stuff without creating a burden. I walk to Trafalgar Square, hop into the No 11 bus going to Sloan Square, but, on impulse, I hop off at Elizabeth Street which my English Home magazine had informed me was a great place to shop.

They were right. I find the little street quite delightful. Offering a range of luxury goods (chocolate at The Chocolate Society Shop from where I buy nut-studded dark chocolate to munch on; Poilane, the French bakery, where I nibble on tiny round biscuit samples; Les Senteurs, a parfumerie where the salesgirl, Natalie, is a wonder who sends me home with three samples of fragrances that are so delicious they have me swooning with pleasure). I have not allowed myself this kind of indulgence–the sheer joy of window shopping and sampling wares in the speciality stores–and I am revelling in it.

Then, I crack on quickly towards Sloan Square and the King’s Road where I am determined to visit the home of Scottish writer Thomas Carlyle before it closes for the day. I love this part of Chelsea–the shoppers rushing by with their bulging bags, the enticements of the shops, the buses lumbering along at leisure. When I arrive at Cheyne Row, I find that Carlyle’s home looks very plain from the outside. But for his bust set into the wall outside his door, there is little indication that this Romantic writer lived here for almost 50 years.

The door is opened by a volunteer named David who checks the date on my National Trust membership card, finds it in order, realizes that since I have a Royal Oak Membership I am from America and launches into an introduction into the life and work of Carlyle. I am taken back to my graduate course at St. John’s University under Dr. Gregory Maertz who was passionate about Carlyle and had us read his Sartor Resartus (The Tailor Repatched), probably one of the most obscure books ever written.

For me, the pilgrimage to Carlyle’s house has more recent relevance. I have just finished reading William Dalrymple’s White Moghuls which I am also teaching in my course on Anglo-Indians. Dalrymple mentions Blumine, a female character in the book, who was said to have been inspired by Carlyle’s fascination for Kitty Kirkpatrick, the daughter of James Achilles Kirkpatrick, Resident of Hyderabad and Khair-u-Nissa, a Hyderabadi Muslim of Moghul descent. Dalrymple mentions that a portrait of Kitty hangs in Carlyle’s Chelsea home and I am keen to see it. I find it eventually on the third floor of the house where another volunteer named Lynne point it out and spends about a half hour discussing White Moghuls with me. She takes the pains to point out all kinds of interesting things to me such as the 80th birthday citation to the writer which contains the signatures of some of the leading intellectual lights of the time such as Tennyson, Browning, Leslie Stevens, John Morley (of India’s Morley-Minto Reforms), Charles Darwin and his brother Erasmus, Dickens, etc. I am enthralled.

The house is very dark but furnished in the way it was when Carlyle presided over it with his wife Jane. Their’s was a dysfunctional marriage, David informs me, but the couple stayed together nevertheless, remaining childless. In a part of Chelsea in which a house today would cost no less than 3 million pounds, the Carlyles lived in quiet modesty, the fields surrounding the home then making it seem almost rural and, therefore, undesirable. The fact that the Thames flows only a few feet away would have been considered a negative factor in those days(remember the Thames stank awfully at that time) and I daresay that sellers would not have boasted river views as they would do today. After 50 years of living in the home and becoming one of the most celebrated writers of his time, Carlyle never owned the house, renting it until his death. Funds were raised after his death to buy it and retain it as a memorial. Doors first opened to the public in 1895 and to date Carlyle fans troop in reverentially to pay their respects to a writer whose work is a challenge to read.

The most interesting item on display in the house is the only surviving scrap of the original manuscript of Volume One of The French Revolution, which Carlyle had given to John Stewart Mill to read. Mill’s maid found the manuscript lying in the grate and assumed it was meant to be used for kindling. When Mill came downstairs the next morning he found the charred remains of his friend’s tour de force–one which was written in long hand with no copies retained nor any notes preserved. A mortified Mill offered Carlyle 200 pounds for the manuscript he had destroyed. Carlyle accepted 100 pounds and set to work again, re-writing the entire thing in three months! A few months later, the book was published to wide acclaim and sealed his reputation as a sterling historian of the Romantic school. A fragment of the original manuscript is to be found in a small vitrine in a home that is filled with portraits, paintings, pictures, etchings, the original furniture including the piano that Chopin once played in the house (his mistress George Sand being a good friend of Carlyle’s Welsh wife, Jane Carlyle).

Poking around this home was a revelation to me and I enjoyed the visit as I do all visits to the homes of the famous dear departed. However, it was the garden that I found most enchanting–perhaps a part of the home that is rarely visited. A typical Chelsea garden–one of those long narrow affairs with high brick walls, it is perfectly landscaped with stone steps, gravel pathways, a small strip of lawn, two wrought iron benches placed strategically under the shade of trees–charmingly one bore pears, the other figs. Within this serene spot in the midst of the city of London, the man poured out his great works becoming one of the most prominent figures of his time.

Then, I was on the bus again making my way to the top and sitting on the front seats. These rides never fail to take me back to my girlhood in Bombay when I rode similar double decker red buses in the company of my parents and brothers on long outings into Mahim from Bombay Central where we’d attend the weekly Novena at St. Michael’s Church on Wednesday evenings. On the way back, in the bus on the top deck, my mother would fish out her home made sandwiches (sometimes ham, sometimes cheese) from a bag and we’d have our dinner as the driver trundled through the dimly-lit streets past traffic lights and late night revellers. I loved those rides and eagerly anticipated those late Wednesday outings,. Time stands frozen for me on these London bus journeys which might explain why I grab a bus whenever I can and make for the upper deck.

I returned home to cook myself a small dinner–cauliflower mash and Cumberland sausages and a salad. My neighbor Tim rang my doorbell at 8. 30pm to suggest an outing to Wapping tomorrow morning. I am delighted. The day promises to be just as splendid and I will make the acquaintance of my neighbors while getting to know a part of London to which I have never been.

I am very excited indeed.

My Writing Class at the National Gallery

Oct10

Thursday, October 9, 2008
London

My Anglo-Indian course at NYU is going, as they would say in London, “brilliantly”. My students have actually finished reading all 500 pages of William Dalrymple’s White Moghuls and we have a very productive discussion. Oral presentations on The Way We Were are also engaging, my students using Powerpoint very effectively to present visuals, maps, and the like. I am impressed by their creativity,their industry, the manner in which they have “gotten into” my course. Two of my students leave class early because they’ve been invited to a lunch at Norwood by a South London Anglo-Indian group that meets each Thursday to play bingo and eat Anglo-Indian food. The rest of the students envy them and want to be invited as well. “Can’t we all go?” they ask. Then I inform them that another Anglo-Indian group based in Berkshire has invited all of us to a do on November 9 to meet their members and partake of more Anglo-Indian grub. We are all devastated that the date falls in the midst of our Fall Break when most of us will be traveling. But I am deeply touched by the warmth and the hospitality and the welcome we are receiving from every quarter.

An hour later, I am at the National Gallery getting ready to meet my Writing Class. I am taking them on a tour and I proudly wear a Group Leader badge given me by the National Gallery Education Department to wear during the tour. I am nervous because I do not know the layout of the museum well enough and have to consult my floor plan each time I wish to move from one item to the next. Still, we have a lovely afternoon (at least I did and I hope my students did too) as we viewed and studied 12 works. Here are the choices I made:

Piero della Francesca–The Baptism
Paolo Uccello–The Battle of San Romano
Bronzino–An Allegory
Tintoretto–The Origin of the Milky Way
Meynhert Hobbema–The Avenue, Middleharnis
Pieter de Hooch–Courtyard of a House in Delft
Thomas Gainsborough–Mr. and Mrs. Robert Andrews
George Stubbs–The Millbank and Melbourne Families
J.M.W.Turner–The Fighting Temeraire
John Constable–The Hay Wain
Georges Seurat–The Bathers at Asnieres

I wanted to show them The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein and The Arnolfini Marriage by Jan Van Eych only to be informed that those two masterpieces have been removed from their usual places to be included in a special exhibit opening on October 15.

I am fatigued, deeply fatigued, by the time I leave the museum, but I do want to finish two more rooms in the Sainsbury Wing (that I have been studying closely piece-meal) before I get home. A close analysis of the work of Sasseta, Duccio and Cosimo da Tura finishes my day. I cannot resist sitting outside in Trafalgar Square for a few minutes on what is a particularly gorgeous autumn day. Then, I begin the half hour trek to my flat, amazed at the confidence with which I can now find my way home using the shortest cuts without consulting a map. In six weeks, I have learned so much about my surroundings.

Them, I lollop around on my couch while finishing the last bits of The Mayor of Casterbridge on DVD starring Ciarin Hinds in the title role. I think I prefer the version I saw years ago with Alan Bates playing Henchard.

I am looking forward to my first full weekend in London and I have so many ideas on how to spend it. Mercifully, the weather promises to be blissful.

Off to Slough to Interview Anglo-Indians

Oct10

Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Slough, London

Hard to believe how much catching up one has to do after only a few days away from home. I pottered around all morning, then got down to the serious business committments ahead of me–namely, a trip to Slough to interview the first Anglo-Indian couple for my next book.

But first, I headed off to the National Gallery to plan the route for my Writing class which I will be teaching in the museum. With room locations of all the paintings I intend to present sorted out, I took the Tube to Paddington and from there I was on a mainline train headed for Redding with a first stop at Slough. Hard to believe how expensive commuting is in England! And where was Paddington Bear when you actually want to find him? Just when I began to despair, there he was. Many little clones of him in many different sizes being sold from a push cart on one of the platforms!

The ride to Slough was 22 minutes long in an express train. Lovely suburban countryside passed by my window within five mintues of leaving the platform at Paddington. I thought about those tired urban landscapes I pass on the Metro-North train into Connecticut from Grand Central. It takes a good one hour before you can see the greenery of Greenwich zip past.

Randolf Evans was awaiting me in his little silver car at Slough station right outside an outsize Tesco Extra supermarket which, he informed me, is the second largest supermarket in all of Europe. If you wander through all its aisles from Entrance to Exit, you’ve walked a mile and a half. Phew! That’s shopping as exercise for you!

The Evanes live in a little cottage at Langley, its front garden trimmed, its interior neat as a pin. They have an Anglo-Indian dinner waiting for me, proudly cooked by Randolf “because Genny works full time, you see”. The lovely Genny led me to the dining room laid out with kitchdi (that’s a mush of rice and lentils), a ground meat and potato concoction that Randolf calls “jalfrezi mince” and the best pepper water I have ever tasted. There is also a bowl of papad or as they say in the UK “poppadams”–lascar slang that? (I am reading Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies at the moment and am getting familiar with that twisted tongue.) It is the first full Indian meal I have eaten in a long time and I am suddenly ravenously hungry.

I have a very fruitful evening with my hosts. They are extraordinarily generous with their resources and their time, their views (though radically different rom one another and in Randolf’s case, even uncovnentional) and I am making copious notes while running my tape recorder. I love their stories of their early years in the UK and examples of their endless adaptability.

It is almost 10 pm when I get up to leave. I have hurried through the last few questions. I resovle to meet my other respondents in the day time, preferably over lunch, if they are kind enough to include a meal–and most are inordinately hospitable (as most Indians are). I am happy to see that they have not lost those warming Indian ways.

I board the 10 pm train from Slough, arrive at Paddington at 10.30, board the Tube to Chancery Lane and am in my bedroom at 11 pm, deeply satisfied about a day well spent.

My research (and hopefully, another book) is on its way.