Carruthers my good man,

Thank you for your recent letter, I found it most entertaining. I am only sad that I was not there to help fix your blunderbuss, I have experienced those damn drunken elephants myself.

It is currently monsoon over here on the Indian Sub, a diabolical state of affairs with the predominant feature of unrelenting rain day after day. The locals claim to like the rain, but I hate it fervently. I have realised that living here is very much like camping, particularly at the moment – rain, damp clothes, too many insects, washing up in cold water, cooking on a Calor gas stove. The rain just goes on and on at a constant drizzle, not the torrential tropical storms I had anticipated. The upshot, however, is a positively emerald landscape. I had come to think of India as an arid, acrid land of red, dried mud, but the rain has turned it into England – green and pleasant. A couple of weeks ago, Julie and I even went for a walk.

My excellent compatriot Mr. Khan has delivered on his potential as ‘the nicest man in the world’ by presenting us with a perfectly restored Premier Autos Limited (India) Fiat Padmini Deluxe BE (photographs attached). We bought this as a scruffy 15 year old vehicle in very poor repair and Mr. Khan, with the help of his fastidious ‘boys’ has transformed it into a beautiful new car. You may know this car as the ubiquitous Bombay Taxi, there are around half a million in Bombay alone. This one is a 1989 model made to the same template (gear change on the steering column, bench seats, curved windscreens) as the mid 1970’s model. It is currently running like a dream although it is rather poorly equipped for the monsoon pothole off-road conditions; it rained so hard the other day that the windscreen wiper fell off. We took the trouble to have a poor quality stereo fitted with buzzing rear speakers and a ‘tape’ facility (remember those?), tapes here are just over 1 pound to buy and the limited stock makes for very interesting listening, we currently only have The Pogues, The Doors and The Asian Dub Foundation. Whilst Indians are no strangers to tinny, overloaded volume blasting out from cars, they express some surprise at hearing The Irish Rover at such strident levels. The irony of Dirty Old Town is, however, wasted on them. We currently do not have motor insurance so please pray for us. Mr. Khan purports to be in the process of brokering some on our behalf, but he is rather taking his time. It is my suspicion that he has slightly over spent on restoring the car and doesn’t have the cash to hand to pay for it upfront, he is certainly too proud to ask for any more. I have gratefully returned the Triumph to him and told him I never want to see it again. It was all suspension and no brakes, somewhat like driving a cake, but more specifically like driving a trifle.

Work is becoming something of a bore, although I must confess to being rarely at the office. When I do go to the office I have taken to parking in the VIP car park in which I am apparently not entitled to park. I can only assume there has been some mistake here. The security guards are getting mightily upset at me parking there and do their utmost to try to stop me, insisting on seeing my ID card to ascertain my status. I either refuse and threaten violence or simply say “I’m sorry, I don’t speak English, I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about”, both are excellent diversionary tactics. I cannot wait to be confronted and contested by someone who actually is entitled to park there so that I can lecture him on the plight of the New British in India and explain that laws are there to be flouted. Actually my ‘Common Man’ car is most conspicuous among its Lexus, Toyota and Honda counterparts and I think it is this that irks the security guards so much. Yes, India has finally succumbed to brand snobbery too.

The office has been threatening to send Julie and I back to Glorious England to deal with some work situations that are there afoot. They have been mooting this for some time and I am by now fairly doubtful the excursion will materialise. If we are able to come over, I will be availing myself of a quantity of Dark Ales. The extent to which I am missing the same cannot be fully expressed.

Julie and I spent the weekend in the excellent Hill Station of Panchgani as part of a company ‘offsite’. The agenda was one of management training, which I exempted myself from on the grounds that I ‘vehemently disagree with the majority of management theory and feel that it serves to undermine rather than underpin good working practice’. This was a great move, which meant that Julie and I had the chance to have a look round while others were locked into the tedium of class. Having a’ look round’ entailed either getting drenched or bird watching from our tiny hotel balcony. We mainly opted for the latter which was somewhat hampered by the unmitigated cloud cover and torrential rain, but we did manage to see our first Jungle Babbler, an unremarkable brown bird which is apparently common throughout India but has so far eluded us (we are making ornithology a new hobby for us both, an unexpected source of delight being how friendly the birds often are – we have had Mynas and Bulbuls right inside the flat, singing away).
Panchgani is famous for jam and public schools. It has a theme park with the catchy title ‘Sherbaug’ which is really just a flower garden staffed by dwarfs, but they do have some good tree houses and a rose named Margarate Thecher so I would recommend it if you get the chance. A local resident also told me that the plateau called ‘Tableland’ at the highest point in the mountain range (some 4000 feet above) is the largest plateau in Asia. I presented this detail to a friend from Darjeeling as we first saw ‘tableland’ through the clouds, he rubbished it with “Don’t be stupid, that accolade goes to Nepal, a country, this is barely 100 metres square”.

In an effort to further understand the bewildering food in this land of the culinary-weird we have been taking advantage of Kamal’s Cooking Classes. Kamal is our rotund neighbour who is fleecing us in return for her culinary knowledge. The logistics of this entail Julie and I being wedged into her tiny kitchen to watch her cook Indian food, she then gives us a photocopy of a hand written recipe with strict instructions not to pass on her secrets to anyone else. Kamal is an outstanding cook. Among other dishes, she has taught us to make flawless Palak Paneer and Chicken Tikka fit for anyone’s table (we have been making these pretty much every day since) and future classes will bring a magnitude of Indian breads and snacks. Tomorrow’s class is Afghani Chicken, Veg Kofte, Bean Curry and Chicken Vindaloo. In truth we are struggling with Rotis, but even as I write, Julie is practicing them in the kitchen. The most remarkable ingredient encountered thus far in addition to a home made Garam Masala, is an extraordinary thing called Black Salt. Black salt is actually pink and tastes a little like salt but more like boiled eggs. It is the ingredient that has been missing from all your Indian cooking to date and its omission is what makes your efforts taste like Heinz Big Soup rather than curry. Go out and find some.

The great British Library in Pune continues to come up with the goods on the DVD front. We currently have Yes Minister, Have I Got News For You, Return to River Cottage, Jeeves and Wooster and Rumpole of the Bailey. Without these forays into authentic Englishness I fear we may have succumbed to Indian habits by now – God bless the British Library, it helps keep everyone in their rightful place.

Julie and I popped over to Bombay on the occasion of my 35th birthday where we spent two days on the fruitless trail of a chrome wing mirror for our car. While in Crawford Market I was attacked by a burly Heedra (Indian transvestite) who grabbed my arm in an effort to arrest me. These men/women rely on a tactic of embarrassing people into giving them money in order to go away. Having thrown my weight around for the past year in a country whose citizens rarely retaliate, I was surprised to find that I did not actually stand and fight as I had so frequently threatened to do, but turned and fled like a startled sheep. I can only assume it was the unfamiliarity of the situation which led to my flight, in fact, thinking back, it was surely lucky for the Heedra that a clumsy little man on a bicycle rode into him/her just as he/she grabbed my arm, prompting the man/woman to redirect his/her squawking admonitions toward Mr. Bicycle and away from myself. I would not like to have been that Heedra if I had not decided to flee, no sir, not at all, this time he/she got off lightly, I just decided I didn’t want the embarrassment.

We have been exploiting the inexpensive tailoring profession a great deal of late. I am currently into my third suit, sixth shirt and first pair of trousers while Julie is in the throes of her fifth skirt and second dress to date. I have been using a high street tailor while Julie has progressed to employing a fashion designer no less. At 50-75 quid a suit, I’m sure you’d do the same. But Saville Row it is not. The fitting process involves 4-5 visits, lots of red faced shouting, stamping of feet and accusations of incompetence, but it is worth it in the end. As I said recently to my tailor, “You will get these damn lapels right if it takes all year’. He told me in return that he likes difficult customers like me because I contribute to his learning. I couldn’t have put it better myself.

OK, over and out. I hope the sun is shining on you. And keep out of the way of those Tuskers until that firearm is serviced, I have put the gun-grease in the post.

Onwards.

Curzon Jnr