Red letter day

Nothing equals the old-fashioned pleasure of receiving a physical letter

Last week, having tired of the endless police procedurals on every streaming service, I decided to retreat into the cozy world of Downtown Abbey. There was something so ineffably relaxing about the plush interiors, the verdant exteriors, the sumptuous costumes, and the sparkling dialogue that I had soon speeded through two whole seasons. 

 

But the one scene that stuck with me through my binge-watching was when the servants below stairs gathered around as the letters that arrived that morning were distributed to them. Those who recognized the handwriting on the envelopes were wreathed in smiles of anticipation; those who got an unexpected missive were giddy with excitement; and those who didn’t receive a single letter were crushed with the weight of their disappointment.

 

That one scene transported me back to my own childhood, when writing and receiving letters had such a peculiar joy of its own. I used to long for letters sent by my aunt (my mother’s elder sister) from her tea garden in Assam. Reading her letters transported me from my childhood bedroom to the green hillsides of Assam – where the tea pickers were hard at work collecting two leaves and a bud – so effectively that I could almost smell the distinctive smell of leaves being transformed into tea in the factory.

 

The other high point of my life used to be the weekly letters that would arrive from my aunt (my father’s younger sister) in London. These came tinged with the romance of a faraway country that I had yet to visit, though I felt that I knew it well anyway, thanks to my copious reading of Enid Blyton books. But my aunt’s London went beyond boarding schools, midnight feasts, scones and clotted cream. Those letters were my first window into the delights of punting in Cambridge, watching a play at Stratford-Upon-Avon, or just enjoying an ice lolly in a London park – all of which I longed to do once I was all grown up (spoiler alert: I did!)

 

Letters for me were a portal into another world. My uncle (my mother’s youngest brother), who had just been commissioned into the army, was one of my first correspondents. I would laboriously fill two pages of all that I had accomplished in school that week and send it off to him. And then I would wait impatiently for his reply to arrive, replete with details of his training regimen, his mess arrangements, and all the new friends he was making in his regiment.

As I grew older, my letter writing was extended beyond the family. During the holidays, my friends and I would write to each other, describing how we were spending our vacations. When I went on holiday with my family, I would write to my friends in the neighbourhood, keeping them abreast of all my adventures. And in my teenage years, I even acquired a pen pal (remember those?) in Germany, whose letters I found endlessly fascinating.

 

Which is why I can’t help but feel sorry for the young people of today who will never know the raw, unadulterated pleasure of having a letter delivered into your post-box at home, which transports you immediately into an entirely different universe. We are probably the last generation to enjoy that privilege. And more’s the pity!

Home is where the heart is

And for me, it will always be India... 

Whenever people ask me which is my favourite city in the world, I don’t even have to pause and think. No, the answer is always on the tip of my tongue. It’s London all the way. I love the city for its magnificent monuments, its beautiful parks, its fun pubs and the glorious countryside a short car ride away. And yet if anyone were to ask me to move to London and live there full-time, I wouldn’t take a second to say, “No, thank you.”

 

And no, that’s no reflection on London. I am happy to spend weeks there on holiday and have done so for many years. But the very idea of moving to a foreign country – whether it is England, or Thailand, or even my eternal love, Italy – to live there forever leaves me cold. 

 

I know what you’re thinking. I am one of those spoilt upper middle-class ladies who is so used to other people cooking and cleaning for her that the very idea of looking after myself in a city where domestic help is hard to come by makes a shiver go up my spine. And yes, I agree that when it comes to domestic help, people of my age and class have it extremely easy in India. But it’s not the cooking and loading the dishwasher that gives me pause – in fact, I quite enjoy fending for myself when I am abroad – but the feeling that I would never flourish far away from my natural habitat, in a country that I cannot really call my own, no matter how long I live there or how hard I try to assimilate.  

 

Nor do I think that this is a function of age, and that I am now too middle-aged and set in my ways to countenance such a change. Even when I was in my early twenties and had several opportunities to move abroad and start a new life, I always declined the opportunity. The thought of being a legal alien in another country just didn’t appeal no matter how good the pay packet that came with it. To me, it was far more important to live in a place where everyone else looked like me, where I could speak, read and write the local language, and where my family and friends were just a phone call away.

 

The comfort of familiarity is what always anchored me in place. And that feeling has only got stronger with time. The very idea of living in a place where nobody else speaks my language leaves me cold. And even though globalization has created a world in which you can get Indian food anywhere in the universe, you simply can’t replicate the taste of home anywhere abroad no matter how hard you try. 

 

Which is why, while I love to travel the world, sampling the delights that it has to offer, I am never as happy as when I am coming back home to my own country, my own home, and my own kitchen. The first meal I eat when I arrive back is always a khichdi with copious quantities of ghee, with some alu choka and mango pickle. 

 

That’s the taste of home to me; and home can never be anywhere else but India.

 

On holiday, will cook

 There is no better way of immersing yourself in local culture than cooking on vacation

Last night, over dinner with some friends, I happened to mention how much I enjoyed cooking dinner during my recent vacation in London because of the freshness and quality of the produce. My announcement was met with astonishment, with the general consensus being that I was a glutton for punishment if I spent my evenings cooking while I was on holiday.

 

Well, what can I say? There is nothing I enjoy more than cooking when I am abroad, trying out new varieties of mushrooms, buying cuts of meat that I never find in India, and using condiments I haven’t even heard of before. I enjoy eating out at lunch – and occasionally at dinner as well – but there is nothing I find more satisfying than rustling up a tasty meal for my husband and myself on our nights in (when we are staying in a service apartment rather than a hotel room).

 

It all started many decades ago, when as a young journalist I spent a few weeks working in a media house in London. Not having enough money to eat out every day meant that I had to learn to feed myself using the tiny kitchen in the apartment I was staying in. I began by buying ready-meals and popping them into the microwave, graduated to boiling some pasta and eating it with bottled sauces, and when I got bored with my tiny repertoire of dishes, I began experimenting with fresh produce. 

 

I would fry up some mushrooms with onions and garlic and pile them on buttered toast. I would boil some potatoes and make a nice German-style salad to go with sausages. I would buy vine-fresh tomatoes, slice them open, pour some olive oil over them, season with fresh herbs and Maldon salt and enjoy them with a nice piece of fish. I didn’t make too much effort because I was often tired after a day’s work, but even with minimal work, my meals became more memorable the more thought I put into them.

 

Ever since then, whenever I go abroad, my first stop is always the grocery store. If I don’t have a kitchen then I stock up on cold cuts and some Kettle chips and make a picnic of it in my hotel room. If I do have a kitchen, well then, I let my inner Domestic Goddess run wild. 

 

I still remember one memorable trip to Tuscany, when I had just started learning Italian. My husband and I would spend days trawling through the vineyards sampling the wares on offer, but in the evenings, we would settle in the cosy kitchen of the villa we were staying in and cook our evening meal together. I still believe I learnt more Italian talking to the local stall-owners about artichokes, peppers, prawns, mozzarella and other ingredients and discussing how best to use them than I did in my regular evening Italian classes back home.

 

I still apply some of those lessons when I cook while on holiday. Last fortnight, in London, for example, I oven-roasted some colourful peppers with garlic, herbs and lots of olive oil, par-boiled some potatoes and quickly stir-fried them till they were golden and glorious. We ate them with Spanish-style sausages, washed down with red wine. 

 

And that, to me, was the true taste of what a vacation should be like.

Turning the tables

When the first world seems like the third - and vice versa

 I still remember the exact moment the thought occurred to me. I had just landed in Dubai, gone through immigration in a jiffy, walked to the baggage belt to see my bags already serenely coasting along on the conveyer belt, walked outside to get a car to take me to my hotel — and that’s when I had opened my phone to scroll through Twitter. And there it was: an endless stream of tweets about how people who had landed in Heathrow the same time that my plane had touched down in Dubai, were going to be stuck in the airport for hours on end because the e-gates had failed. 

That’s when the thought popped into my head. The tables have truly turned, I marvelled. The First World has turned into the Third World — and vice versa. 

The signs had been there for a long time. The first time I planned a trip to London post-pandemic, I was inundated with slightly intimidating advice by friends who lived in the city. One told me how her son had been held at knifepoint and divested of his laptop, watch and wallet in the heart of Belgravia. Another recounted how her husband had had his phone snatched out of his hand by a gang on Bond Street. 

The stories were endless but the advice was always the same. Please leave all your valuables behind in India. Do not wear any jewellery — not even the fake kind (because, honestly, who can tell the difference?). Don’t flaunt an expensive watch. Do not carry a designer bag. Dress down as much as possible. And if, despite all these precautions, you are still the victim of a mugging, for God’s sake, don’t fight back. Just hand over your valuables and be grateful you have been spared your life. 

Honestly, it sounded like the kind of advice that we were given when we were headed to the lawless streets of Lagos or the souks of Egypt. But here we were, in a situation when going to London was being treated like a trip into a zone of anarchy. 

So, frightened out of my wits, I complied with all the advice. I left every expensive item I owned back at home, carried a crossbody bag that I wore underneath my jacket and kept my mobile firmly in my pocket. I came back home unscathed but a friend wasn’t quite so lucky. Sitting outside a popular pub, enjoying a pint, she felt a tug at her side and turned around to see her bag disappear, stolen by two men whizzing past on a mobike. 

Contrast this to my trip to Dubai. Everywhere I went, I found people dressed to the nines, wearing flashy jewellery, expensive watches, designer handbags, without a care in the world. There were groups of women out and about till late into the night, partying without worrying about how they would get home, secure in the knowledge that they were in a safe city. 

I enjoyed every moment of it. But back in my mind was the thought that I should make the most of it while I could. My next trip is to Naples and I am sure I am going to be peppered with the same kind of advice I got when I was headed to London. 

Truly, the First World has turned into the Third World. And vice versa. 

The girl who ate the world

Visiting some cities is just as excuse to eat the food they are famous for 

I guess it’s a measure of how important food is in my life that I associate every city I have ever visited with a dish (or dishes) that I enjoyed there. And the first thing I do when I arrive at any destination is to make a beeline for a place that does the best version of that dish. 

So, if I am visiting Kolkata — or Cal, as I still call it, as I did when I grew up there — one of my first stops is a little lane near New Market where my favourite puchkawallah is stationed. After I have had my fill of those fire-filled taste bombs, I indulge myself with some churmur — that’s when they smash a few puris, mash them up with the aloo mixture and make a delicious new dish of the same parts. Next up, it’s the turn of the jhaalmuri guy who sells his stuff outside Loreto House, a staple of my school and college years. For dinner I order in the rolls from Nizam, reliving my days in the ABP office, when this used to be our office lunch (at least until the money ran out by the end of the month). This is the taste of Calcutta to me — and will remain so, no matter how many times they rename the city. 

Similarly, Mumbai to me means vada pav. No, not the overgrown monstrosities that are served in restaurants and caffès. It’s only the real stuff that is sold on the streets will do it for me: soft buns cradling a perfect bite-sized potato patty smeared with green chutney and garlic and chilly, served up in yesterday’s newspaper, to be devoured in two or maximum three bites. If it’s the monsoons, then it is time for yet another Mumbai special: the kanda bhajiya. This is as far removed from the North Indian onion pakoda as a jalebi is from an amriti, being an altogether more delicate creation, crisp with just a hint of besan to hold it together, dashed with a tangy chutney to make it come alive. 

As for the city I live in now, well, to me Delhi brings with it associations of the best chaat ever. There is the deliciously deep-fried aloo tikki, served in a puddle of channa with a generous sprinkle of chopped onions on top; there is the sweet and savoury mix of dahi bhallas; and then there is the decadent pleasure of a plate of channa bhatura. 

Even when I travel abroad, each city brings with it its own food associations. In Venice, it is cicchetti, the open sandwich with interesting toppings, that has become synonymous with the city. In Naples, it is the pizza that the city made famous the world over. In Frankfurt, it is sausages and potato salad, the no-frills combination that all Germans swear by. In London, it is fish and chips, with a squeeze of vinegar, eaten hot off the stove, standing on a busy pavement. In Bangkok, it is a plate of krapow (minced pork with basil) served with jasmine rice, a fried egg, sliced cucumbers and a small bowl of nampla. 

Every city, to me at least, is a dish best served up hot or cold. And as for me, I am just the girl who ate the world. 

Missing in action

As our world shrinks to travel destinations within a few hours drive, here are some of the places I can’t wait to revisit

 

I guess it was bound to happen. After a few months of driving out to nearby resorts for mini-breaks – because flights are still a no-no in my Covid-paranoid household – we are rapidly running out of holiday destinations. We have done Jaipur, staying in not one but two of my favourite hotels. We have ventured out to Alwar, a place we had never explored before, and loved it. And of course, we have done the tried and tested Agra vacation, right under the shadow of the Taj Mahal. 

 

But now that we have exhausted the possibilities within a few hours drive from Delhi, my thoughts are inexorably turning to destinations that I can’t travel to for the foreseeable future. And the more I think about them, the more I miss them with an almost visceral twist of the gut.

 

First up on the list is London. I first discovered it in my 20s, and since then have been going there at least twice a year. As a consequence, such is my familiarity with the city that it almost seems like a second home. And yet, no matter how often I visit, London never gets old. Whether I am tramping through St James Park or trudging through Hampstead Heath; whether I am traipsing the aisles of Waitrose or Marks and Spencer; whether I am marveling at the paintings on display at the National Gallery or the Tate Modern; London never ceases to amaze and astonish with its cornucopia of delights.

 

If London is like a second home, then Bangkok is like the alternate universe in which I would like to live forever. Over the last couple of decades I have seen the city transform from a somewhat sleepy, sometimes seedy, destination into a sleek, skyscraper-strewn, shimmering capital, which attracts people from all over the world, with its world-class shopping, its amazing food (whether you eat on the streets or in Michelin-star restaurants), and its friendly people who never seem to stop smiling. Small wonder then that I can’t wait to go back.

 

As the winter fog descends on Delhi and the sun goes AWOL, my mind’s eye conjures up the white sands of Maldivian beaches, the azure-blue waters, and the clear turquoise skies of that island paradise, as I fantasize about sitting by the sea and sipping on a cocktail as I enjoy the tropical weather. I am even happy to let the humidity and sea breeze do its worst with my hair, so long as I can soak up the heat and let the warm water of the lagoon wash over me. 

 

Speaking of lagoons, how could I possibly forget the most stunning of them all? Venice! I was fortunate enough to first discover it in the depths of winter, when the tourist hordes were missing in action. I spent days wandering the near-empty calles (streets), bundled up in my overcoat and woolen cap, marveling at the architectural marvels that lay around every corner. Since then, I have been back several times, and each time La Serenissima has shown me a different facet of her undeniable beauty. I guess the streets are empty again – now because of Covid – but this time I can walk them only in my imagination.

 

Thinking of Venice leads me inexorably to other destinations in Italy, in all of which I have left behind pieces of my heart. Rome, whose magnificent monuments are a testament to the talent and ingenuity of mankind. Siena, with its cobbled streets and medieval structures that take you right back in time. San Gimignano and its dreaming spires. The shimmering waves that lap the beaches of Liguria. The stunning vistas you can feast your eyes on from the Amalfi coast. I could go on, if it wasn’t for the small matter of the lump in my throat. 

 

I don’t know when the world will have healed enough for us to venture out and explore it anew. But I do know that when that day dawns, I, for one, am going to be spoilt for choice. And I hope that you are just as lucky.

Memories of holidays past...

That’s all we have to sustain us as we stay closeted at home this summer

This is usually the time I would be heading out to holiday with my husband, escaping the worst of the Delhi summer. But like all of you reading this column, we are currently homebound, with no prospects of venturing out further than the neighbourhood market for the foreseeable future.

Even if international flights were to resume this month or next, I can’t see myself donning full PPE gear to vacation at some scenic destination. Not that the rest of the world is holding out a welcome banner for us Indians – given that we currently rank third in the list of nations with most infections, we are, for all practical purposes, international pariahs. And the few countries that would take us in would insist on a 14-day quarantine, which is about the length of the average vacation.

Of course, there is always the possibility of vacationing somewhere within driving distance of our city. Agra and Jaipur come to mind but, honestly, who would want to drive a few hours to another equally hot destination, and become prisoners of their hotel rooms rather than their homes? You could drive to the hills but most states are asking for a fortnight’s home quarantine, which doesn’t exactly make for a memorable vacation.

So, it’s time to face up to some tough, incontrovertible facts. We aren’t going anywhere this summer. We have to stay home and make the best of it. And my way of doing that is to dwell in the memories of holidays past, so that I can satisfy my wanderlust in my mind, if nowhere else.

Here, in no particular order, are some of the holiday memories that have sustained me as I continue to isolate within my home.

Japan: This was the most magical vacation ever. The night we arrived in Tokyo was the day that the sakura – as the cherry blossom is known as in Japan – flowered. The next day, along with what seemed like the rest of the city, we headed for the central park to feast our eyes on this magnificent sight. The Japanese have a name for this activity; they call it hanami. And as we mingled with the locals amidst the blooming cherry blossom trees – which took in every shade from white to a deep pink – we truly felt part of the inner life of the city. In those transcendent moments, it was easy to forget that we were just tourists and come to believe that the city, and its beauty, belonged to us as well.

Spain: I know that everyone raves about the energy of Barcelona and that the stately beauty of Madrid has its fans as well. But while I love both these cities too, when I sit back and dream of Spain, it is Seville that comes into view. The shimmering gardens of the Alcazar and its magnificent buildings – familiar to Game of Thrones viewers as the Palace of Dorne – had an almost unreal beauty to them as we wandered through in a veritable daze. And it was from Seville that we drove a couple of hours to visit the legendary Alhambra, the castle built by the Moors, in Granada. We were so blown away by its magnificence that we ended up visiting it twice!

Italy: Rome has its antiquities and Milan is justly celebrated as the centre of Italian fashion and style. But is there a more stunning city in the entire world than Venice? I think not. I first visited it more than a decade ago, arriving in the dead of winter when there were no hordes of tourists cluttering up the streets and piazzas. And as I wandered the near-empty alleys gazing on the jewel-like buildings, wandered wide-eyed through the museums and explored the tiny canals that wound their way through sleepy neighbourhoods, I fell in love with this city. I have been back several times since, each time discovering a new facet of Venice which makes me adore it anew.

England: Every summer, London turns into India central, with everyone from Delhi to Mumbai to Ahmedabad and Nasik making their way to this city. For most affluent Indians, summer holidays mean London, even if they are just using as a take-off point to head elsewhere in Europe. Which is why I much prefer London later in the year when the temperatures drop a little and the tourist throngs thin out. That’s when I can make the most of its splendid parks, its superb museums, and its buzzy restaurant scene. Though I must confess that of late when I think of England, it’s not London that comes to mind first. It’s the English countryside in general, and Oxfordshire in particular, where I spent a blissful birthday in the sylvan surrounds of Soho Farmhouse.

Maldives: This one is an eternal favourite, and I have visited it almost every year for the past decade or so. And what I have discovered is that it doesn’t matter where you go in the Maldives, or which hotel you stay at. What makes this destination memorable is the amazing water that encompasses every shade of blue, the pristine white sand beaches, and the blazing sunshine that makes every corner of your resort brighter and more beautiful. There are no distractions as you would have in a city, so you have no choice but to relax, enjoy the view, and order up another cocktail. Bliss!

Best foot forward

A flat-out refusal to heels is the way to go, ladies

What would you do if you turned up at work and were told to change out of your flat shoes and wear a pair that had a two-inch (at least) heel? Of course, if you are a man then the question doesn't apply because you would never be asked to do anything so silly in the first place. But if you are a woman and work, say, in a corporate office, a hotel, a restaurant or even an airline, would you accede to such a request because it was what was expected of female employees?

Would you trot off and find a pair with a heel and slip it on meekly? Or would you stand up for your right to wear any kind of shoe you bloody well like?

I only ask because a 27 year old called Nicola Thorp found herself in exactly this predicament when she reported for her temp job as a receptionist at the London office of PricewaterhouseCoopers (PwC). Her employment agency said that her flat shoes were unacceptable. She had to go off and buy a pair of shoes with heels at least two inches high and change into them. Thorp refused. So, the agency sent her home and refused to pay her for the day.

But while the rest of us would have vented on Twitter and called it a day, Thorp was made of sterner stuff. She launched a petition asking that it be made illegal to ask women to wear high heels at the workplace. In 48 hours the petition has chalked up 110,000 signatures, enough to get the subject debated in the House of Commons and a law passed so that no employer in the future can get away with such sexist demands of its female workforce.

Such strict grooming requirements are relatively rare in India. But a few years ago, when Delhi's new international airport opened, with its long walkways from check-in to boarding, I was appalled to see the female ground staff of one particular airline (which shall remain nameless) negotiating that distance on heels.

Why, I asked one young woman, was she wearing heels? Surely, flats made much more sense given that she probably chalked up 10 to 15 kilometers on a regular shift.

Yes, she agreed. But the uniform rules stated that female employees must wear heels, so she had no choice in the matter.

I was so appalled by this that I wrote a column the next week (Running in heels, Brunch, August 2010) about how unfair it was to discriminate against women employees in this manner. Men could go about their jobs in comfortable shoes, while the women had to teeter around on high heels. How was this fair?

A few months later, when I travelled by that airline again, I found that the ladies were in flats. The uniform rules had been changed. And while I wouldn't dream of claiming credit for that change, I would like to believe that my voice among the chorus of complaints mattered.

See, that's the problem. Too many of us are only too happy to follow the rule (unwritten or spelt out) that to look properly 'groomed' women must wear high heels. So much so that we have even conditioned ourselves to believe that we are not really ready to face the world until we have a pair of heels on to bolster both our height and our self-confidence.

Not that I am one to talk. I spent my entire 20s and my early 30s in heels even though there was no dress code that forced me to do so. I voluntarily embraced this world of pain, telling myself (and my aching feet) that this was what being a successful professional was all about: looking the part. It didn't help that I was short, so I needed the morale boost (quite literally) that high heels provided.

I, at least, had the excuse that I was short. But even my tall willowy friends embraced heels, simply because that was what you did. You wore heels to work and high heels to party because -- or so we were conditioned to believe -- that made us look more attractive.

It was only once I was comfortable in my own skin (and very uncomfortable in my heels) in my mid 30s that I finally had the confidence to vote with my feet and simply say no to heels. I stood tall enough in my own estimation. And I didn't care if I fell short of the beauty standards imposed on women across the world.

Today, I am happy to report that the rebellion against high heels is apace. Earlier this month Julia Roberts walked barefoot on the red carpet at the Cannes Film Festival. This was noteworthy because last year at Cannes some women had been turned away from the red carpet because they were wearing flats. The dress code, they were told sternly, specified heels.

Well, try telling that to Julia, guys! She couldn't give a hoot as she threw off her shoes and sashayed across the red carpet in bare feet, giving the proverbial finger to the powers-that-be at Cannes in the process.

At this point, I am sure that there are many women out there who are preparing to mail or tweet me about they feel more powerful, even more empowered, with their heels on. Okay, ladies, just drop me a line five years down the line when your backs are whacked and your bunions have set your feet aflame and tell me how powerful and empowered you feel now. And then, we'll talk.

London calling

The summer capital of India plays host to the rich, the famous and the powerful – at their preferred haunts, of course

If you have been following the Lalit Modi saga (and unless you’ve been hibernating in Siberia I don’t see how you could possibly have missed it) you will be familiar with the long list of Indian celebrities whom he has ‘bumped into’ in London. 

Yes, I know that on the face of it, these claims strain credulity. After all, how many restaurants and clubs does Lalit Modi frequent that he ‘runs into’ some Indian politician or the other whenever he eats out? Is it really possible for one man to have so many ‘accidental’ encounters with the rich and famous of India as he lives the high life in the British capital? 

Well, funnily enough, not only is it entirely possible but it is also very probable. Not because Lalit Modi includes the ability of omnipresence among his many other talents. But because when rich and famous (not to mention, powerful) Indians embark on their annual summer sojourn to London, they all tend to hang out in the same places. And so, inevitably, they tend to hang out with one another as well.

So, in case you’re looking to do a Lalit Modi yourself at some point, here’s a ready reckoner of all the London spots where you can spot the desis from a mile off.

• 51 Buckingham Gate: This is the Taj property located a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace, which becomes the summer residence of most Indian celebrities. They check into the swish apartments, and then head right down to the lounge area to see which of their friends is already in residence. The courtyard then becomes the Indian adda venue, with masala chai and samosas greasing the rumour mill as it grinds several reputations to shreds. Bollywood seems to prefer The Washington and The Courthouse (which has its own cinema) while ministers choose The Bentley. All three are owned by one of London’s most famous Indians, Joginder Sanger.
• Selfridges/Harrods: These are the department stores of choice for Indians looking for their summer shopping fix. The ones with bigger budgets head for Harrods (though, for some strange reason, the tonier Harvey Nichols never gets a look in) where the personal shoppers zero in on them, recognizing big spenders when they see some. The ones who are looking for better value for their buck head to Selfridges, and then drop into the Oxford Street Marks and Spencer for a quick trawl through the lingerie department. 
• Bond Street: This is the chosen stomping ground for dedicated Indian shoppers (for some reason, they prefer this to Sloane Street, where they hardly ever venture). The most popular stops here are Bottega Veneta and Louis Vuitton (“the range is so much better than they have in India, darling!”) though Emporio Armani sees some action as well. And then, there’s always Bicester Village, the shopping centre in Oxfordshire, which is quite a hit with the Indian crowd. It helps that you can make a day of it, driving past pretty countryside and stopping for a meal along the way.
• The Audley: This pub in Mayfair is taken over by desis every summer evening, as they crowd its outdoor benches for a quick beer or glass of champagne to catch their breath after a busy day. If you stay very quiet, you can pick up some amazing gossip here.
• Clubs: Those who are lucky enough to have well-connected local friends hit the club scene with a vengeance. Harry’s Bar is a particular favourite with some of the mega-rich London Indians, though George is fast catching up. Those with a little more discernment end up at the Dover Street Arts Club, where the food is better than that served at Annabel’s or Tramp.
• Trendy restaurants: This market has been sown up by the Sindhi restaurateur Arjun Waney (who also own the Arts Club: see above). His restaurant empire includes Zuma, La Petite Maison, and the recently-opened Coya, and each of these outlets attracts its fair share of Indian custom. On a good day, you could swear that you were in a happening restaurant in Mumbai or Delhi rather than in Mayfair or Knightsbridge. It helps that the food is always excellent, though the service can be dodgy sometimes.
• Chinese restaurants: Most Indians tend to get a bit fed up of eating Western food every day and begin to long for a kick of spice. So, Chinese food hits exactly the right spot, especially when it is served in the glamorous environs of such restaurants as Hakkasan and Kai. Those who don’t mind slumming it a bit head to Royal China.
• And once the vacation is done and dusted, where does the Indian contingent gather to share holiday stories? Why, they congregate at the Jet Airways First Class lounge (it’s actually owned by a Middle-Eastern airline but used by Jet; but why split hairs?), as they wait to board their flights back to India. Those who still haven’t had their fill of shopping head off to the duty-free shops. Those who have had enough settle down with a gin and tonic or a glass of wine and swap stories of how utterly fabulous London has been. Whether or not they bumped into the ubiquitous Lalit Modi is another matter entirely!