They say an army marches on its stomach. If that were true, then no army would get anywhere in a hurry. Can you imagine a whole bunch of jawans crawling from base to battlefield on their stomachs? The whole shebang would be over before anyone could say ‘Fire!’ Yes, yes, of course I’m taking it too literally; the imagery was too amusing to resist. What the phrase refers to is the simple fact that without a regular and plentiful supply of grub, we’d ALL be shafted, never mind the army. Team BSM is no different, and I thought I’d give you a little account of some of our go-to places when we feel like a bite (which is pretty much all the time).
I’d like to start with Anna, our wonderful Tamilian street-cart owner, who’s an absolute magician with batter and deep-frying. In the morning, he serves up piping hot idlis, but it’s after 5 pm that the real action begins. Whether it’s his patented mix-plate (one medhu vada, one potato vada, lots of sambhar and coconut chutney) or his heavenly butter sada (a crisp dosa squirting butter at every bite), there is absolutely no going wrong with this man. He’s the bedrock on which many hundreds of people survive, and when the municipal corporation occasionally drives him away, a cloud of depression descends over the entire locality. ‘Anna for President’ is what I say.
Within touching distance of Anna is Chacha, a short, wiry old man with every one of his years visible in the lines on his face. He’s the sukha bhel (bhelpuri without the chutneys) specialist, apart from being a provider of freshly roasted peanuts. To watch him at work is an experience in itself. Barely have you placed your order than he’s off, flicking the ingredients into a paper cone with barely perceptible movements of his wrist; the end result is a sweet-salty-pungent snack that’s hard to beat for both taste and VFM (Rs 5, anyone?). Chacha is also occasionally harangued by the corporation, but being a one-man, mobile operation, he usually finds it easier to leg it.
A few yards down from Chacha is a lady (name unknown, so let’s call her Mausi) who serves up fresh-off-the stove bhajiyas of every persuasion – potato, onion and spinach being the chief attractions. Her vada pav is arguably the best in the vicinity, and her dry garlic chutney is lethal in the way it creeps up and clobbers you over the skull. Mausi is peculiar in that she’s only to be seen dressed in a nightie, no matter what the occasion. I strongly suspect she has bespoke Kanjeevaram nighties that she stuns people with at weddings and the like.

Mausi’s friendly neighbour is another nameless character, whose areas of specialization are pani puris and the unique-to-Bombay ragda patties, both of which he has mastered to a nicety. His pani puris are just right – not too spicy, not too sweet – and the delicious ragda patties (essentially mashed up aloo tikkis with chhole)… well, I defy you to try one plate and then refuse a second.
There are two or three more establishments that we frequent, chiefly a sandwich joint where the owner plays Telegu movies at full volume and a chap who makes bread pakoras, but these tend to be stand-bys, for when our feeders-in-chief are indisposed for whatever reason. No matter where we’re putting down our hard-earned, though, there’s always one ever-present element – our 100 per cent pure, unadulterated, certified love for food. Indeed, if by some horrible twist of fate all these places were to shut down, it’s entirely possible that we might stop coming to work.

‘What would I want to be doing if my present job didn’t exist?’ This is a question we all ask ourselves at some point or the other, for different reasons. With most people, unfortunately, it appears to be a case of hating their jobs so much that their only succour is in fantasizing about what might have been. For those of us lucky enough to enjoy what we’re doing, the question arises more out of curiosity than anything else - ‘I love my work, but what else might I love doing just as much?’ The answer to this query, for me, has always been split into two very distinct and divergent career paths.

More than anything else, I’ve always wanted to be a musician – specifically, a blues and jazz musician. From the time I was a child, I’ve been musically inclined and have had a pretty good ear for it. I used to take piano lessons at one point, and was told that I was something of a star student – I even won a prize at a competition at the prestigious Calcutta School of Music. The problem was that I was an 8-year old kid who was lazy, didn’t want to practice and who wanted to go out and play instead – so I gave up playing the piano, an utterly brain-dead move I regret to this day. Still, formal music training had further developed my musical senses, so a few years later I was able to teach myself the guitar without too much trouble. Blues, jazz and rock ‘n’ roll fell naturally and very easily on my ears, and before long I was devouring all the classic names – Clapton, Chuck Berry, Freddie King, Miles Davis, Led Zeppelin, John Coltrane, Thelonius Monk and many others. Every time I heard Freddie King’s electrifying ‘Have you ever loved a woman’, with his gut-wrenching voice and searing guitar work, my hair would literally stand on end – it still has that effect, as a matter of fact. I often sit back, put on a CD, close my eyes and think of myself playing guitar in some smoke-filled dive bar, and it’s an intensely satisfying feeling.

The other thing I’ve always wanted to do is be a vet. I’ve had an abiding love for animals from as far back as I can remember, and they seem to feel some sort of kinship with me as well. In school, we had two German Shepherds with whom I was to be found hanging out rather a lot, and at home a large tabby named Ollie was the resident cat. While in college, I regularly volunteered at the Madras Crocodile Bank, learning how to handle snakes and crocodiles of all sizes and shapes, and scaring the wits out of tourists by producing baby pythons from my shirt pockets. Wherever I go, I seem to attract the dogs in the vicinity as if I was a very large piece of bacon – I don’t mind this one bit, but it becomes a point of contention among the BS Motoring mob on occasion. I began reading the books of James Herriot, the legendary country vet, more than 20 years ago, and can still (and do) re-read them any number of times. His captivating stories, filled with humour, charm, sadness and, above all, an unabridged love for all his many patients are the perfect antidote for a bad day at work.

Of course, in reality I’d probably be booed off stage if I attempted to play anything, and as for being a vet, I’d pitch over sideways at the first sight of blood. Still, none of that really matters because it’s all in the realm of fantasy, something to daydream about every now and then. Besides, I already have the best job in the world.
 

It almost embarrasses me to admit it, but for a fellow who spends most of his time travelling (for a living, no less), I’m rather directionally challenged. Just to give
you a small example, I have been living in the Bombay suburb of Bandra for over two years now, and I still don’t know my way around it properly, apart from a couple of routes to and from the office. It doesn’t help that much of Bandra is still a maze of old-world lanes and alleys, but surely someone who’s driven thousands of kilometres all over the country should have at least a passing familiarity with his own neighbourhood? Not in my case, it would appear; I am usually to be found with a blank expression on my face if someone asks me for directions within Bandra.
This regrettable state of affairs extends itself well beyond the boundaries of Bombay. I normally pick up a car in Delhi whenever I’m driving around up north, and I always have a few nervous moments the night before I’m to leave Delhi – you see, getting out of that damn city has never been an easy task for me. The family I stay with there has a chauffeur, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to ask him for detailed directions about how to exit Delhi. His standard response is ‘But didn’t I tell you the last time you were here?’, to which I can do no more than grin sheepishly and beg his indulgence once again. Of course, the fact that I often end up getting hopelessly lost despite his advice is another matter. Entering the city provides just as many opportunities for losing my way – I once ended up crossing the Yamuna Bridge four times without realising quite what I was doing. On another memorable occasion, I drove almost all the way to Meerut, when my goal was to head in exactly the opposite direction. I feel, however, that I’m not entirely to blame as far as Delhi is concerned – I find the number of roundabouts and multi-directional flyovers in that city maddeningly difficult to decipher.
I must also admit that I’m a bit paranoid about routes when I’m out on the open road (it’s a Virgo trait, even though I’m a Leo by birth – long story). If I don’t see a distance marker or board for a while, I start to wonder if I’m on the right track and feel an urgent need to stop immediately and ask the nearest person. Of course, this can have its drawbacks. If I’m told I’m headed the right way, but the person looks of dubious navigational ability, then my worries deepen; if I’m laughed at and told I’m miles off the track, then of course I feel a right idiot. Not that passers-by are always piercingly accurate when doling out route advice, mind. Up north, the way to anywhere is frequently ‘Go straight and take a right’, often accentuated by pointing left. Is it any wonder I’m paranoid?
This is why I like living in Bombay, despite my being at a loss about my immediate surroundings. Of all the major cities in India, it’s the easiest to exit and enter; to the best of my knowledge, there are only four roads in and out of the city, and they’re all ‘straight down’ – no lefts, rights, circles and wildly-divergent flyovers to worry about. I’ve already mentioned Delhi’s peculiarities; Calcutta, Madras and Bangalore can be equally confusing in their own unique ways. Still, having said all this, it’s equally true that getting lost is often
more fun than being on the right road all the time. A great number of my most cherished adventures have been the result of taking a right instead of a left, and that’s something I wouldn’t change for all the world.

This will sound pretty obvious, but part of the many, many pleasures of being able to travel around the country is the chance to unashamedly gorge on different kinds of food. Yes, there are other delights too – natural splendour, dazzling architecture, tangible history, dusty by-lanes, amusing characters and suchlike, but I’d have to say food is of paramount importance. Apart from the basic bodily need for sustenance, there’s a similarly basic desire for culinary indulgence that I believe is in all of us: it’s in me, that’s for sure. There’s a particular thrill in discovering a little eatery (or, indeed, in going to a famous one, just for the ‘I’ve-been-there’ touch), in being suddenly ambushed with an unexpected aroma or taste and even in the surroundings in which you find yourself eating. Take, for example, the time that I had gone to Kaziranga, in Assam. I was staying in a lovely resort abutting the national park and, one morning, was invited into the kitchens to have breakfast with the staff. As I entered, the smell of wood smoke enveloped me, with strong whiffs of pungent potato curry and freshly fried puris thrown in. My mouth watered instantly; by the time I had settled in among the staff at the communal table, my back being warmed by the winter sun, I could’ve eaten a horse. Needless to say, it was a breakfast I’ll never forget – oh, those fluffy puris, that sweet-salty potato curry, the sheer-genius bamboo shoot pickle, that strong Assam tea! There’s a lesson here, folks. Want the real McCoy? Head to the source.

Another time, a friend and I had gone to Bhopal, where we had been assured that the food stalls on one particular street were to die for. This wasn’t too far from the truth; we took one look at the appalling lack of hygiene there and had graphic visions of dying of dysentery. Deeply disappointed and ravenous in the extreme, we wandered around until, out of sheer exhaustion, we selected a new-ish eatery and plonked ourselves down. It was spotlessly clean and quite cheerful, but looked like your typical pizza/burger/sandwich joint rather than a disburser of authentic kabab/biryani/kheer. You know what follows, of course; those wizards dished out some of the best kababs and biryani I’ve ever had – and I do mean ever. It isn’t often that a new kid on the block comprehensively outguns the old guard, but it bloody well happened in Bhopal. If I ever go back there, it’ll be to visit that restaurant.

Highway dhabas are, of course, part and parcel of a traveller’s life, but one particular dhaba I selected at random, about 150 km outside Delhi, will remain etched in my memory. Firstly, they conjured up the best (yes, the absolute best) chane ki dal I’ve ever had the good fortune to taste. Secondly, the elderly owner hitched a lift with me to Delhi and kept me in a near-hysterical state of mirth with stories from his childhood and about various visitors to his establishment. Oh, and no narrative about food and travel can be complete without mention of the tea and jalebi shop that a colleague and I stopped at in Baran, Madhya Pradesh, on a Mumbai-Gangtok drive. Granted, we were tired and hungry, but there can be no taking away from the simple fact that those jalebis, hot off the stove, were like the proverbial manna from heaven. They were crisp, squirted just the right amount of sugar syrup with every bite and strode the fine line between being eye-openingly and hair-raisingly sweet. After a couple of plates each, we felt we could drive to the ends of the earth and back without so much as a pause. I haven’t been on a road trip in a while, and one of the reasons I’ll be setting out again very soon is to satisfy my stomach’s cravings for culinary variety and adventure.

When I first began life as a travel writer six years ago, things were a bit different. I don’t mean this in the sense that the actual travelling part was any different – no, the sense of excitement and, indeed, uncertainty, is still the same. What I’m referring to are the nitty-grittys and the logistics involved, chiefly to do with my budget and my means of transport. When I did trips out of Bombay, of course, I would normally jump straight into the nearest available car and point it towards my destination. Travelling in other parts of the country, however, usually meant getting to a major hub, such as Delhi or Madras or Calcutta, picking up a car there and then driving off. All of this still holds true, of course, but in the days of smaller budgets, getting to these hubs meant a fairly long journey by train.
Preparing for one of these journeys was an event in itself. The Indian Railways website wasn’t especially reliable, so trying to book a ticket on it was an effort fraught with the danger of credit card double-charging and so forth. Also, since trains almost always ran full, there was no guarantee of actually getting a ticket, even if I tried to book one well in advance; last minute tickets were laughably out of the question. Given these circumstances, I relied on the mysterious ‘Ashok bhai’, travel agent non-pareil, to work his magic. I never met the man (all contact was over the phone) but his reach obviously extended deep into the bowels of the railway mechanism – only he could conjure tickets out of thin air, albeit for an additional consideration.
Ticket finally in hand, I’d prepare myself for the journey ahead. A Bombay-Calcutta leg, for example, meant at least 30 hours in a train, so that meant fortifying myself with enough snacks, music and reading material to last the trip, not to mention basic bedding (I can’t deal with the stuff handed out by the railways) and toilet paper –  although one glance at the average loo in a train usually guaranteed instant constipation. Arriving at the station, there’d be a definite sense of anticipation – would the train be on time? Would my travelling companions be amiable or borderline-nutters? The only way to find out was to actually get on.
I normally specified an upper berth, so that I could climb up there and be undisturbed if I so wished, and also because I could put my bag right next to me instead of under the bottom seat (I’m paranoid like that). Thus would begin a journey full of sights, sounds, tastes and smells – kids waving cheerfully at the train, bullocks in passing fields, ascetics meditating by the riverside, fellow passengers singing and playing boisterous card games, the train’s horn piercing the air, spicy samosas and dal-vadas, wood-smoke from villages and, if I was unlucky enough to be thus situated, the powerful aromas from the toilets. Arriving at my destination, I’d be dead tired and covered with a fine layer of dirt, usually necessitating a very long shower and a day’s rest – but there was a sense of satisfaction at having survived in one piece.
These days, it’s all become much more flexible. I have a somewhat larger budget, cut-price airlines have grown in number and tickets can be had literally a few hours before my desired time of departure. Flying also means I can spend that much more time on the road, rather than on a train, which in turn gives me greater leeway when I come up with an itinerary. It must be said that I’ve also become lazier; if I can get somewhere in two hours rather than 24, I’ll go with two hours any day, all things being equal. Still, I can’t help feeling sometimes that flying is rather impersonal, sterile even. Sitting in a metal tube for a couple of hours doesn’t give you the sort of sensory experience that a train does, and I miss that experience every now and again.

Without meaning to sound pompous, I’ve travelled more than most in the last six years, and I can say with confidence that I’ve seen and done things that other people probably haven’t. Some of these are things that other people are probably better off not seeing or doing, but that’s not germane to the issue. What I’m getting at is that I’ve been privileged enough to have been given the opportunity to see this country, and the world, in a manner that few others have access to. I’ve been to a heritage village in Himachal Pradesh and had a black Labrador as a tour guide. I’ve stayed the night at a pre-historic archaeological site in Gujarat. I’ve been accused of being a terrorist, smacked about and thrown into a police lock-up in Assam. I’ve spent days in the lap of luxury at exclusive hotels. I’ve been to a sewerage museum in Paris (and the Louvre too, in case you think I’m a total psycho), the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam and the Indian Museum in Calcutta. I’ve eaten what seemed like a whole roast pig in Stuttgart, raw beef in Seoul, the best jalebis in the world in Madhya Pradesh, sachertorte in Vienna and the best chips on earth in Belgium. I’ve been to clubs in Tokyo where… actually, never mind. I’ve gaped in awe at the Chrysler Building, the Taj Mahal, the Hagia Sophia and the Kumbhalgarh fort. I’ve – well, you get the idea.

Given this preamble, you’ll be considerably shocked (and perhaps outraged) to learn that I’ve hardly explored Bombay, the city that’s been my home for seven years. Would you believe that I’ve sunned myself on virgin sands in Thailand, but I’ve never set foot on Chowpatty Beach or Juhu Beach? I’ve clambered up into the ancient caves of Bhimbetka, but I haven’t gotten on a ferry to go to the Elephanta caves. I’ve spent a whole day in the splendid Mysore Zoo, but I don’t even know where the zoo in Bombay is! I’ve been to some of the world’s greatest temples, churches, mosques and other shrines, but the charms of the Haji Ali dargah, the Afghan Church, the Banganga tank and the Siddhivinayak temple continue to remain in the realm of the unexplored. I’ve spotted exotic birds in Bharatpur, leopards in Mudumalai, rhinos in Kaziranga and elephants in Wayanad, but have I been to the Borivali National Park, barely 30 km from my home? No. I absolutely love museums of all kinds, shapes and sizes, but the Prince of Wales Museum still remains on my ‘To do’ list. I’m a foodie to rank with the best of them, and as mentioned earlier, I’ve eaten at restaurants, dives, roadside stalls, bars, clubs and homes all over the place, but some of this city’s most well-know eateries have never had my butt in their seats. Swati Snacks, Mahesh Lunch Home, Anant Ashram, Jimmy Boy, Britannia, New Martin, Busaba, Henry Tham, Indigo Deli – these are but a few on a long and lamentable list. I try and make it a point to watch a film (any film) in every new place that I visit, be it a village theatre or a swank multiplex, and I’ve managed to achieve this to a large degree – yet I haven’t been to some of this city’s iconic movie theatres. I could go on, but I shan’t, because I’ll only end up sounding like even more of an idiot. I don’t know how this sorry state of affairs came to be; perhaps it’s a human trait to take one’s place of living for granted. I have a friend in Amsterdam who hasn’t been to some of that city’s famous museums, for example. Whatever it is, it’s something that needs prompt redressal. Any suggestions?