"Sorry mate... cheers mate"

I'll miss a lot of things about England. I always yabber on about Germany or Hong Kong or any of the other places I've lived in and people must find it nauseating. But the truth is, I chose England to be the place I'd want to spend 3-4 years of my life - not America or Singapore or wherever. I chose the English education system for university just like I'd done for all my schooling. I always dream about living the European life-style and going to cafes and walking cobble streets at night but England is part of Europe too and I take it for granted. I know I will miss many things when I move back to India.


I love the weather in England. Yes, I said it. I love it and I will miss it. The drizzle, the wind and endless, melancholic grey that sort of sighs at you when you leave the house. Growing up in hot countries has given me a profound appreciation for rain. The feeling of warmth when you emerge from the elements into a heated building is made nicer by the cold you felt before it. I will miss how happy these get when they see the sun. I will miss wearing my coat - I'm sure my scarf will find many woolly companions at the back of some cupboard in my house in Bangalore.


I will miss the way people make small talk. Sometimes it is a good, natural ice-breaker and sometimes it is infuriatingly drawn out but it is something that is totally British. Oh how they love their endless small-talk. Any conversation worth having is worth having well and I admire that. Feigned interest is still interest. I will miss business emails that use correct English. I will miss the civility of it all; saying thank you to bus drivers and holding the door for strangers and smiling at the Pakistani guy in the news-agent. I will miss the undertones - the ballet of suggestive speaking is lost on us blunt Indians. I'll miss apologising and thanking people 25 times a day for the most minute things.


I will miss the football and the pubs in which we watch it in. The tension in your body when you see a player through on goal and say as one larger sipping entity, "Go on...". The analysis before a game and the banter after it. I'll miss the banter. I will miss how utterly engrossed we all are in football and the effect it has on us; seeing a friend drop some food on himself and instinctively saying "it's just not his day" or "he'll be disappointed with that effort". Thank you football commentators for whispering vapid, meaningless cliches into my ear. I will miss living sporting weekend to sporting weekend.


I will miss chip-shops and the off-licenses. I will miss the way scummy people play horrid rap music from their 8-bit mobile phone speakers on the back of buses. I will miss the way strangers can talk to each other without inhibition. I will miss using words like "butters", "standard", "bare" and "budget".


I would have liked to have stayed on for a while and worked in London but I guess it's not meant to be. Till then, retarded double-tapped wash basins, cheerio.

"Ya bro, I stay in Bandra but I'm shifting to Juhu"

Today we were going for dinner to a distant relative’s house, just down the road. I say ‘distant’ because that’s what all relatives are to me. Anyone outside the immediate family, I mean. Their surnames, ages and professions become blurred. I know them simply as “first name + Konkani family suffix”. Padmini Thaee, Lucky Uncle, Santosh Dada, Sheetal Didi, Prema Pacchi and of course Ajoba and Dadima, my grandfather and grandmother, would all be present tonight.

I enjoyed walking there in the rain, sharing an umbrella with my grandmother. She talked endlessly as we splashed our way down Pali Hill. Oh how she enjoyed talking. I could just about make out what she was saying over the noise of the traffic that rattled by. She was prepping me for the dinner by filling me in on the occasion. The gathering was being held to honour "Sanjay’s" return to India with his young family, from the USA. With the greatest respect, he was someone’s brother’s nephew’s something. ‘Uncle’ is a wonderfully versatile suffix.

Because of her arthritis, Dadima and I lagged behind Ajoba and Shambhavi, who had already reached the gate. Ajoba was always such a fast walker; that had never changed. I remember him making a bow & arrow set with my every summer and then taking me to Jogger's Park to shoot at trees. I wonder what him and Shambhu talked about - because neither of them were big talkers. It was great to cross the road at walking pace, right during rush hour: no matter how angry or crazy the on-coming driver was, he had to slow down and stop for an old lady under an umbrella.

The house was like any other house in Bombay: a 3 bedroom 3^rd floor apartment with a tiny living room and cramped kitchen. Tube-lit, of course. It was Padmini’s house and she greeted us warmly as we entered. We took our shoes off outside and were offered cold water by her daughter, Karishma. Her husband had not yet made his appearance, as was his style. Lucky Uncle was quite a character; he’d slink into the living room much later. The floors were white tiles and the furniture was modest but comfortable. Shambhu and I strategically took the chairs closest to the TV, so that we were as far away from awkward conversations with the ancient aunties. Thankfully the World Cup was on; it provided a starting point for conversations and so it was welcome, by football fan and novice alike. Prema Pacchi was the classic distant, ancient aunty. She smiled warmly and patted Shambhu and I lovingly as we bent down to touch her feet. I had no idea when we’d met or if at all but followed standard protocol as always. I smiled sweetly, said ‘namaste’ and touched whosever feet were two generations older than my own.

Padmini played the role of anxious host. Shambhavi and I were now grown up so she couldn’t treat us like kids and followed protocol like everyone else.

“So where do you go to college? How many years left? Do you like it? And what about you Shambhu? Where are you going to go for college? Oh that’s nice”, she asked as she tended to a big pot in the kitchen.

They were fair questions but I doubt anyone really cared what the answers were. And to be honest, I really had no idea what to ask her myself. We Indians are poor conversationalists. I knew so little about my relatives that I felt embarrassed to ask. And so I followed protocol like her. Somehow the balance was maintained. Yin and Yang quietly feasted on the mutton curry that night.

Halfway through dinner, Lucky Uncle walked in, fashionably late to his own dinner, accompanied by Santosh Daadaa and Sheetal Didi. Santosh is my dad's first cousin. Lucky was married to Padmini but I’d never have guessed it and always thought of him as this strange, quiet, distant man who smoked a lot. He was rarely around at family gatherings over the years and so no one really knew him. Mum and dad didn’t really talk about him to Shambhu and I much either. All we knew was that he drank and smoked a lot and wore heavily tinted sunglasses. He reminded me of some sort of successful used-car salesman who lived in Dubai.

Santosh and Sheetal were their usual cheery, charming selves. Santosh was loud and dashing and charismatic and Sheetal was pretty and playful as usual. Their children were older than Shambhu and I, yet the two of them left that silly protocol at the door with their shoes. Santosh was someone I could have a proper conversation with (especially after he’d had a few whiskeys!). We chatted about music, politics and the media. He was loud and boisterous but always maintained a light hearted mood. He didn't feign interest, always waited for his turn to speak and addressed the whole room when he did! Sheetal was a sweet, fun, motherly figure who always seemed like she knew what was going on. She could see right through Shambhavi’s attempts to uphold her ‘child-like’ aura. At the risk of sounding like an ungrateful snob, their presence transformed this evening from being bearable to fun.

After enduring Shambhu and I for a while, the conversation somersaulted from English into Konkani and we were lost. We finish our dinner quickly, eyes fixed on the Germany-Argenina game. As soon as the match had ended, she glanced at her phone and announced that she had to go to town to meet some friends. She had betrayed me. I was left alone to fend for myself and dodge awkward questions from awkward aunties alone.

The cavalry arrived in the nick of time. Santosh and Sheetal’s kids turned up at the door. The three of them were my second cousins and we always had a good time together. I thanked Padmini for the food and Lucky for the whiskey and slipped out the front door, glad to be rescued. We got into two cars and headed for a bar on the beach where Samir’s big TV show launch was taking place. The oldest of my cousins, Radhika, had recently gotten married to him and he had even more recently made it big in the India show business. This made my cool cousins, even cooler than before.

There were plenty of ‘hep’ young things at the beach shack although the party was quite dead. As we arrived, we caught Samir’s eye; he was just finishing an interview and did his best to finish it professionally. The gorged ourselves on the free food and cocktails at this event and even got in a couple of pictures. Shivansh, the youngest one, and I talked about football and he introduced me to some of his friends. He now lived in Boston and worked for an insurance company or something. He was tall and handsome but still acted like a teenager who'd had one drink too many. Gopika, the middle sibling, pointed out some of the semi-celebrities at the party to me. After living outside of India for most of my life, I had lost touch with who was currently famous. I was being reintroduced to this city, this country, these people.

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Her name was Simone and she was like a mannequin. The ability of some Indian girls to all look and dress in exactly the same way is utterly astounding. You see them in Birmingham as much as you do in Bangalore: droves of them, wearing the same tights and plimsolls with identical long, flowing hair that makes its way onto the edges of the blackberries in their hands. She was one of those girls who had 50 Likes on every one of her profile pictures but never spoke to anyone for more than five minutes. There were so many of them at that party. The apartment itself was quite big by Bombay standards. It had 3 bedrooms and a living room with an obnoxiously fancy sound system that sprawled across the room. It was there that we talked for four and a half minutes. I asked her questions and she answered like it was one of the interviews she'd seen on Channel V. It was one of the things I'd learnt quickly after moving back to India: you don't talk to girls, if you are suave enough they talk to you. Or rather, they talk 'at' you till you ask the next question.

The windows in the living room were wedged all the way open and so it was a lot less stuffy there. The air wreaked of sweat and house music. The heat hung in the air and pinned me to the wall and to my glass. The ride there was so much more fun than the party itself. I had hopped on the back of Gopika's boyfriend's motorbike and been flung around for the 20 minutes that it took to get from the beach shack to this house. I had bonded with the motorbike's rider to some extent; he was an art director at an advertising company. He had long hair. These good-looking artsy types, I swear.

I prefer them to the corporate types and much, much prefer them to those still being educated. The party was nice in that sense; only the select few from the crowd were invited to the launch event had been invited there. I was one of these, though I was invited more because I was the show's star's cousin than because I was good looking or famous. I wish I was invited for being the latter but I got a free motorbike ride and I didn't care. The rider's name was Nafzar and we made a stop at a seedy basement to pick up some rum for ourselves and our friends. We had a conversation for those 20 minutes that I clung koala-like to his motorbike. I say a 'conversation', it was more me talking into the wind behind his helmet and then nodding at his muffled responses. I was glad to be invited to a party at all. I knew about five people in this town and two of them were my grandparents.

But back to the party. I was in 'friend-making' mode which meant that I had to nod and grunt approval far more often than I'd otherwise have done. I needed friends. I needed cool friends who knew people. I was networking without a business card and it wasn't easy. Talking to Indians is different to talking to Europeans. I was used to people being interested in me and my stories. 'Conversations' with these young Bombayites were just people waiting their turn to speak. I didn't mind because the crowd was full of interesting people. It was full of the India that isn't covered in CNN's 'land of contrasts' soundbite.

There were artists, DJs and 'electronic musicians', real musicians, film makers, story-board producers, actors and a consultant. I knew she was a consultant before I asked her because she was still in work-clothes and wasn't smoking. But then I asked her what she did for a living and she told me she was working for the Boston Consulting Group in Bombay, heading up something to do with 'Risk'. Damn, BCG. How did she swing that? Further investigation revealed she had an MBA from an American university and I was calm inside once more.

I got so used to explaining to people what I do that I was able to fine-tune and stream-line the whole spiel into two sentences, "I work for a foreign policy think tank that advises blue-chip Indian companies. I help research and write policy reports on random stuff that these corporate types need to make their strategy decisions. What are you drinking?". OK that is three but the last one is the most important. You only have a 10 second window at these types of parties - 10 seconds to make someone cooler than you be interested in you. It always helped that I had lived in Europe. A lot of these people hadn't left India and so if I spoke to someone for more than a minute I was genuinely interesting. And that is a nice feeling.

Because this was Radhika and Samir's place and I was privy to the inner sanctum, so to speak, was around well after most of the guests had left. We ate popcorn as we lay on the futons in the living room. By now the smokers had been allowed to vent their tarry tales without having to sit on the window sill. My cousins were the same to me now as when I was a starry eyed 15 year old. Back then they had been the lab-rats - they were the first from our circle to go out into the real world and report back because they were all a good five years older than me. And now that I too was working, there was a new status-quo. They were just as keen on my insights as I was on theirs. Although they were and will always be the cool older cousins, who knew infinitely more about life than I ever would. Radhika was married, Shivansh was working in Boston and Gopika was about to move out of home for good.

I remembered being taken to the movies by these three and I remember looking up to them. They were halfway in between my parents and me. They were adults but not 'grown ups'. But now I was also an adult. I was in their world and I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. I always gawked awkwardly at my oldest cousin's husband who was the big TV star. It was their house and their party and I was in their space. He had this aura that media personalities have. People stopped to hear what he had to say. His broad shoulders walked into the room before he did. Even after everyone had left and it was only us close family, his aura persisted. It still felt like reality TV. He didn't respond, he answered. The honest, spontaneous conversation I'd yearned for with him, felt like rehearsed soundbites ready to be packaged and edited and sold to the nearest teen TV channel. I suppose it was because we really didn't know each other well and I'd only met him a few times. Nevertheless, I clung to his every word like a schoolgirl.

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After much rum, I went home. They called a taxi for me and insisted on paying. I didn't pay for a thing when I was with my cousins and it made me feel like a kid again. I woke up the security guard to let me into my apartment complex. Neither he nor the street dogs who roamed the car-park were best pleased at being stirred at this hour. The sky was purple. I put my key into the lock but it didn't work. I tried again and though I felt the lock click reassuringly, the door didn't budge. I panicked.

I was living with my grandparents till such time as I could find a place of my own. I did not want to wake them up at 4am, stinking of all the cigarette smoke that had been whooshed into my suit jacket. I paced up and down the brightly lit 5th floor foyer, wondering what to do. I worked up the courage to ring the door bell and winced as I did. I hear footsteps within a split-second and the door was opened to reveal my grandparents, my uncle and aunt and my grandaunt who had unknowingly locked the door from the inside after I had left home. They looked at me like I'd just come home from a war.

"Are you alright, Shravan?" They said almost as one.

"Yes, I'm fine. Why are you awake? I'm so sorry for waking you up! The door was locked from the inside... I'm so sorry!" I spluttered.

They pulled me inside, concerned for my well-being for some reason. All the lights in the house were on. They were awake. They were already up. My day was ending and theirs' was beginning. Our community holy-man would be gracing our house with his presence in a few hours and they had begun their prayers and preparations already. As I made my way to the bed in the side room, they looked at me with a curious mix of wonder and pity.

I had taken the holiness of the house down a few notches, hadn't I? Indian people, I swear.

The Sunday I realised I was 21.

In my mind, I am still 19. If you ask me my age that's what first pops out. Up till one particular Sunday during these last Christmas holidays while I was back home in India, I felt like a kid who needed permission.

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I woke up groggily and put the house keys on the rack before brushing the alcohol from my teeth. It was 7am and my dad was already in the middle of his yoga class. My mum was still in bed. I watched the Lakers against the Heat on the sofa in the TV room and ate the piping hot cheese dosa that Bhagia brought me every 10 minutes from the kitchen. Shambhavi emerged from her room and flopped down on the sofa beside me and ask how last night was. My parents also made the same inquiry later at the breakfast table but more out of courteousness than interest or even concern.

How different! How different to years ago. How do I put this... that Sunday I answered to no one. I did exactly as I pleased and didn't even realise it. That is what scared me. I hope this doesn't come across as some cheesy coming-of-age picture montage.

Something unspoken had evolved subconsciously. I don't know if it was trust or acceptance. I keep feeling this need to justify where I'm going or what I did last night but there is simply no need. I told my dad that I'd gone to UB City for some drinks and then to a friend's house in Indranagar before being dropped home by someone who also lived in Whitefield. It was the truth and the fact that I'm even saying that illustrates the novelty of the situation. My dad peered at me over his reading glasses for a second before returning to his newspaper and crunching on the watermelon Bhagia had freshly cut. My mum meandered into the kitchen and kissed me on the head. She didn't even ask about last night. How different! I only realise now that I was a grown up in their eyes.

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Prahlad had his car so he picked me up at around noon and we went to the mall near by. His car made the U-turn near my front gate that I'd seen it make for the last 7 years. But again, today was different. It was not his driver driving - it was him. And it was normal. It was totally normal, as if this is the way it had always been and would always be. I remember going with him, his driver and his mum in the red Toyota to take our SATs; today it was just him and he drove the Merc. The scene was the same but the characters had changed. The characters were older though they didn't feel it. We were just driving through Whitefield - our Whitefield. The road was wide and constantly meandering and the men sat at junctions, drinking tea and watching the world go by. The road hadn't changed, the bus-stops hadn't changed and the lake hadn't changed but this afternoon we had decided without a second thought that we would go watch a movie and we would go in his car and that was that.

Do you understand what I'm trying to say? We were 21. Where had the years gone? Where had the concept of permission gone? Permission was a laughable afterthought that Sunday.

The most telling part of that day was playing football in the park where we'd played as kids. Arun had joined us and so now we had 2 cars. We used to have to lie to the security guard to let us in. Now we just rolled down the window and nodded at the gate and he let us through... with a salute!

We walked out onto the grass like we'd done when we were 14. But we were 21 and the kids who looked so small and so scrawny were 14. And we were to those 9th and 10th graders what the unimaginably cool college guys who used to occasionally turn up were to us. We had our own cars, we could kick the ball the length of the pitch and we picked the teams.

As I sat on the bench and let one of the smaller boys sub on for me, it hit me that this wasn't like seeing yourself in the mirror - it was like seeing yourself running around 10 years ago. It was strange. I remembered when we had to have someone drop us to football in the evening. I chuckled at the notion.

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The way that day ended summed it up. As afternoon turned into evening, I caught myself reaching for my phone to let my parents know when I'd be home. I looked at my reflection in the car's mirror and realised they didn't care. I was a different kind of son now. They would tell me what their plans were and ask if I wanted to join.

We picked up some cold beers at the bar across the road from Palm Meadows and went to Prahlad's balcony to enjoy the cool Bangalore evening air. Palm Meadows: the world of white-picket fences and tuition lessons was now just a bunch of houses. Pristine, imposing bungalows yes, but not a world unto itself like it used to be when we would round up the boys for football in high school. I can't imagine ever looking as young as the boys we saw riding their cycles to the clubhouse. It seems as I'd been away at university, Palm Meadows had lost its mystique. I hope the rest of the world doesn't.

The "Hi Aunty!" that Arun and I said as we greeted Prahlad's mother on the way up his spiral staircase was also different. Though it was respectful, it was not a child's squeak of acknowledgement but an adult's cursory salutation. We sat on his terrace and talked about the past. About the difference between university in England (me), the US (Prahlad) and Australia (Arun). We remembered our first beers together as teenagers, as we sat there sipping these ones like... men. I am afraid to use that word because its connotations, I fear, do not apply me... yet. We're just kids right? I remember this place and this life through my school eyes and seeing it now as a free, unaccountable adult left a hole in my heart.

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I had done exactly what I'd wanted and thought nothing of it. I had gone where I'd wanted, when I'd wanted. I'd eaten what I'd wanted and watched what I'd wanted. I had the keys to the house. I got home and the stubbly face that looked back at me in my bathroom mirror was an adult. It was terrifying. Have you ever felt it? Have you ever breathed that empty breath when you look in the mirror and realise you're not 19?

I don't know why you've read this far. But thank you.

The Girl from Berlin

Every city has a soul. Some find their voice through the whispers in museums or the breeze in parks or the electricity of the commuters that squeeze between skyscrapers. But Berlin is different. You have to pay attention to catch a glimpse of its spirit and to trap its essence under a glass jar. Berlin is a city of struggling artists, babbling bar tenders and masked intellectuals where every now and then, you can smell the 1930's and their lamp-litsplendour.

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It was May and we enjoyed the air conditioning of the Old National Gallery as much as we did the van Goghs. The five of us had taken advantage of the ubiquitous student discounts on offer to us and meandered through the newly renovated museum. We each used the audio-tour guide at our own pace. Max and Yasemin bounced from painting to painting in each other's arms like lovers do. Bastian was the musician among us and seemed to think this made him a far better art critic. And then there was Cecil. But I will tell you about her later. She was like a butterfly; she goes where she pleases and pleases where she goes. I heard that phrase years ago but never found a person worthy of its simplicity until that day. I will tell you about her later.

I was beginning to 'get' this whole art business. I understood how one needs to stand back, arms crossed and really look at each brushstroke. You need to spend a full minute looking at it, engaging with it and trying to pick out some message. Or so I think. You have more aesthetic sense in your little finger than I ever will. I have no idea how to appreciate the art of art or how to put my finger on what's good about painting. But I did feel the sense of awe at the skill of the geniuses when I looked closely at the individual brush-strokes. What foresight they had! The ability to know exactly how one brush-stroke will look from an inch away and from a metre away was something I couldn't get my head around. Every step I took further away from the painting, I saw more.

I remember being taken to the best art galleries in the world as a kid. I wish I could go back. I wish I could go back and step back.

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It was 5pm by the time we left the museum and already the music had begun. That evening, there would be over 100 separates concerts taking places in different parts of Berlin. It was called the 'Fete de la Musique'. Jazz, rock, blues, electronic: the city held all the cards. We made our way down Friedrichstrasse and took the metro to Warschauer Strasse, where Bastian had promised us the best selection of live music in the city. The area around the station we emerged out of wasn't sleek or shiny like Hamburg or full of Gothic architecture like Dresden. It had kebab shops, bars and street performers wanting to tell you their story. The metal stairs creaked and groaned as you climbed them and one could hear English being spoken in all the accents on the world. A middle-aged man walked his dog with one hand and gripped his camera with the other. There were punks with their spiky pink hair and there were rockers with metal-studs in just about every inch of clothing they had. There were hipsters in tight jeans and thick-rimmed glasses whose prescription I will never know. I miss Berlin.

Not every decrepit building in the city is some kind of art-revival project; many have just been left in a state of disrepair. We passed many such veterans - some even had the scars of war etched in black soot across their brick cheeks. The atmosphere by now was something I'd never experienced before. An entire city playing its music for you. We saw a troop of drummers with some hippy agenda or the other, creating the most driving sound. A child of no more than 5, danced in the middle of the circular space left by the on-looking crowd. Though there was alcohol a-plenty, there was not a drop of tension in the air. There were no screams of outrage or cries of anguish, like you'd come to expect and events similar to this in England or India. In Germany you are allowed to drink in public and though this sometimes causes problems, by and large the right is respected and well policed when it isn't. I found the lack of confrontation refreshing.

Rosi's on Revaler Strasse was my kind of place. 2 Euro entry with 2 Euro beers and a band dropping some of the smoothest old school Jungle I've heard. We bounced around there for a bit before heading somewhere a little quieter - it was too early for such high-tempo sound. We went to a charming little bar in Kreuzberg where the mood was more jolly and the crowd were older. As we waited for our mugs of beer, we saw a man in a Steve Irwin style hat sitting on a high-chair at the bar, playing on his guitar. His eyes were closed. No one was even paying attention to him. There was a glance over in his direction every few seconds but we just sat there and silently thanked him for giving the dimly lit bar its character. His little terrier, tied to one of the legs of his high-chair, chirped up every once in a while before returning to the shelter of his muddy trouser legs.

Max told me Kreuzberg was always like this. He lived in the area and knew it well. Tucked between an alley and a rather shady looking currency exchange bureau, this was exactly the kind of bar tourists wouldn't find. We sat there and talked for an hour or so. Max told me how his parents, a lawyer and a school teacher, had moved out to the suburbs after the wall went down. After he finished high-school, Max had moved back to the area. He had been intrigued by the pseudo-gentrification that had taken place in the Kreuzberg-Freidrichshain area in the mid-90s. A fresh, young, creative crowd had made the previously neglected district their own. They had filled it with murals and a spirit of artisan-ship where art had been stamped out.

I am not saying Kreuzberg - or indeed Berlin - is a city only of artists and musicians floating from bar to bar, trying desperately to the avoid the conformity and 9-to-5-ness of other German cities. Far from it. Berlin is one of the poorest large cities in the country and it shows. It has its issues with far-right wing thugs and the other bad habits that result from high employment. What you feel there though, on a Saturday night, is a sense of adventure. It is as if the residents are open to discovering new ways to look at their shabby little slice of town on nights like these and the tremendous collective affinity they feel towards it comes out whenever you speak to them. I had so many conversations with strangers that night. With each little square came a new band and a new crowd. Great big bald men asked me what my views on Indian music as they rolled their cigarettes. They look up and nod earnestly as they lick the smoking paper and seal it in the now grainy twilight.

The sky was purple and the night was young. I talked to strangers almost as much as I did to my companions. When we did speak, it was about important things. Max, Yasemin, Bastian and Cecil all had their own opinions on perhaps the most important institutions in Berlin: the best Doner kebab stall in town.

"Mustafa's!" said Yasemin, "He puts feta cheese inside and it is yummy. Does your friend at Ostbahnhof have feta cheese?"

"No and he doesn't need it" fired back Cecil, "The sauce is what counts and his is the best!"

"If you want the real Doner, you need to go to the real Turkish guys at Neukoln" said Bastian sagely, as if his word was final, "If you tell him you are a Besiktas fan, its better. Shrav, I think you need to try them all."

These Berlin kids talked about it like we in India talk about finding that elusive, sacred Biryani. Whether you're from Bombay or Delhi, everyone has that one Biryani that they swear by. The one they will take their friends from out-of-station to eat. Doner was the street food Berlin was famous for. If you ask me - and I've only had four or five different ones, so I am a rank amateur - Mustafa's 'Gesumsekebap', which means vegetable-kebab, is the bestDoner I've had. The Feta cheese, the three kinds of sauce and the sauteed peppers add something to the standard meat-bread-lettuce combination that takes it to the next level. It is no wonder that every time I go to his stall, there is a half-an-hour queue outside come rain or shine. Doner was serious business.

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As evening turned to night we went to Oranienburgerstrasse, where the melancholic Ukranian prostitutes lived. It was an eye-opening experience for a sheltered kid like me. The girls stood wearing fur-coats on the balmy pavement, like smoking mannequins. Bastian told me how most of them were trafficked illegally into Western European countries. Back at home, they would have been taken age 15 and told that if they did anything untoward, their families would be killed. It was the cold unspoken pact of the mafia and there was nothing they could do about it. So every night they stood on Oranienburgerstrasse and sold their frightened bodies - they had sold their souls years ago.

The bar we went to to epitomised everything I loved about Berlin. It was left-wing/alternative like many other institutions in the city. Cafe Zapata was an old theatre/cinema converted into a bar and art gallery. From the ceiling, great balls of fire from flame-throwers burst forth, giving light and passion to the tech-house vibes that the reverberated around the place. There were graffiti artists and paintings in each corner and on every wall. The back part of the bar, which housed the obsolete 'smoking area' was decorated with projections of green-red light and artists' impressions of influential people. It was a thick-rimmed glasses wearing hipster's dream. The little whistles and chimes after each kick-drum beat are what make tech-house unique. It isn't as obnoxious as regular techno music and doesn't have the seizure-inducing lyrics of David Guetta-y type 'house' music. It is subtle and up-beat. It rids you of your inhibitions and nudges you onto the dance floor like your mum did at pre-school birthday parties.

The girls were pretty and slim and wore tights and leather jackets and the men were interesting. The men had tales of fleeing policemen and hiding art by the night's smokey cloak. The only thing cooler than the club was Cecil. She danced in the corner, oblivious to everyone around her. Girls really do go to clubs to dance. But then she walked towards me and we understood each other liked some cliched scene from a movie. I wonder if cliched movie scenes inform our actions? I wonder if what we see unfairly good looking actors do in far-fetched Hollywood plots, reflects in our own motives and actions? That evening it seemed that it did.

She was pretty. Far too pretty for me. She was tall, blonde and had eyes of earnest blue. Unlying, sincere eyes that spoke with unveiled emotion. Her hair was shoulder-length and did its best to hide her smile. She had a slender frame and a delicate movements that called to you across the crowd. She never talked for more than five seconds. She never rambled or waffled like those girls who think they are being ironic. She said only what could be accompanied by a playful glance - nothing more or her charm would escape. She spoke French and didn't know what she was doing with her life.

Yasemin and Max had gone home and Bastian was outside talking to his girlfriend on the phone. Inside the pulsating diaphragm of sound and light were Cecil and I. We danced. We kissed. We embraced. It was a great feeling. Being wanted by another human being - it is a great feeling. Maybe that is what we're here for: to have our vulnerability accepted and embraced by someone else for however long or short a time?

We left the place as the sun had begun to peer over the far horizon. It was an eery kind of dawn. A dawn that wasn't quite ready, a dawn still in bed. Those Northern European summer sun-rises are too early for their own good. Go back to bed. We stood on the platform of Alexanderstrasse station. It was the happiest I've ever been. I mean, we had no past and no future but there she stood in my arms - this beautiful girl who was wearing my leather-jacket. I can't remember what we said to each other. We got on the train and she murmured which stop to wake her up at as she rested her head on my shoulder and slumped onto my side. Is it sad that the happiest I've ever been was on the platform of a train station? Was it the girl or the city I was so hopelessly taken with?

I walked her home. We were both quite drunk and she could barely keep her eyes open. I don't know if it was a mistake that I didn't follow her inside her sister's apartment. I think about it all the time. I knew what would have happened had I gone inside. Instead I mumbled something about meeting another time, in less inebriated circumstances. She gave me one last look from her doorway and turned away. My naive hand reached for her's but it was too late. It was a gesture filled with futility, like trying to shout to someone across a crowded train station. But there was no noise on Felixstrasse; it was the silence that drowned me out.

Table for 3: Spain

Spain is an emotional country blessed with unfair weather and beautiful people. In its cities, it seems, cathedrals and cafes have come to a mutual understanding.

I've had the privilege of visiting on three separate occasions and can say with absolute certainty that I understand absolutely nothing of the complexities of this sun-kissed dream. What I do know is that is that these people know, perhaps better than anyone else, how to live life. How to eat, how to drink and how to enjoy good company under sultry star-light.

If I had a weekend in front of me, with a few bob and a few friends, this is one country in whose good hands I'd put myself in.

The Museum of Ham

Madrid was colder than I'd expected. There was a freak hail-storm the night we landed. I must have been about 10 years old so these streets upon streets of cafe dwelling Europeans came as a bit of a shock to me. In India you relax inside, in Spain you relax outside. You sit in quaint little squares under the shadow of a church and drink your coffee or beer. We were walking through the cities back-streets, searching for something authentic, homely and cheap - like most of us stingy desis tend to in Europe.

We walked past a restaurant and had to do a double-take because what we saw inside was astonishing. Hanging from the ceiling were literally hundreds of hams. Entire cured legs of red-orange meat hung tantalisingly; their earthy, salty aroma filled the restaurant with smells that made your stomach tug at your heart-strings like a child his parent's coat. We had to try this place. It was called el Museo del Jamon if I remember correctly and what we realised is that ham in Madrid is more than a dining experience, it is a spiritual experience. Around us, ham-connoisseurs far more educated than us were selecting their specific cut and tucking into each morsel like they were kissing their love for the last time. We ordered a few cuts and nibbled on them, exploring their sweetness, saltiness and character. Jamon should be nibbled.

I realised that eating in Spain is more about the journey than the destination. You need to soak in the dim light like you soak up the sauce from the suckling pig with your bread. We waited two hours for our Paella. My sister and I had lost interest in the restaurant and in fact the country, so strained was our patience! In the end though, the vast platter of still cooking rice and meat was by far the best Paella I can remember having. It is a dish that, sadly, has too many unworthy imposters all around Spain and the world. A real Paella takes time; like any woman worth caring about (or so I've heard) it will push you, tease you and even threaten to leave you but if you wait it will make you happy. Two hours is a long time, especially if you aren't of drinking age but luckily the 'exhibits' in the museum of ham kept us busy.

The Barceloneta

Literally the only thing I don't like about Barcelona is Sergio Busquets. It is probably as close to perfect a city for someone like me as one could hope to find on earth. Its people are the city. The shared sense of being Catalan is something you need to see around you to understand. It is a single entity. It loves football, food, the sea and the weekend. How long have I spent in Barcelona? 6 hours. You know how you see a girl across a room and it's enough? It was enough.

We were being shown around town by one of my dad's dear colleagues, Jordi (truly the coolest guy I've ever met), and after doing the whole touristy tour he took us to a park on a hill that overlooked the entire city. It was quiet but not empty. There no snapping cameras or gawking package-holidayers. Just the Catalans who liked looking at their home in the afternoon sunlight. Indeed, it was nearly 4 o'clock by the time we got to the Barceloneta. Jordi told us that in Barcelona, people have breakfast at noon, lunch from 4 to 6, you go for some beer and tapas at around 8 while watching the token English family have dinner in an empty restaurant, you watch the football from 9 till 11, eat dinner at midnight and go to the club at 4 in the morning. When do Spanish people go to work, I thought to myself? (*cough overvalued labour market cough*) Either ways, this life that Jordi described, soaked in olive oil and wine is something I think I could get used to!

The Barceloneta was right on the sea front and so the atmosphere was just wonderful. The sun was out, the sea breeze brought warmth and conversation and the food came in less than 45 minutes for a change! I remember vividly having squid ink rice with calamari and baby octopus. Squid ink rice? Yes. It was creamy, it was tasty and it gave the calamari an extra bit of gusto. The baby octopus was pickled and you could eat each one whole. What I remember most of that meal was what my dad had: the fisherman's basket. It was essentially a stew of fresh fish, squid and prawn (cooked whole- the Spanish, like us Indians, know that the flavour is in the shell). The fish was firm but fell off its grain with the slightest touch. The sea was all around us.

Morcilla

I like people-watching. At airports, in cafes or on the bus it is my pass time. Understanding their looks, their mannerisms and their style is something I really enjoy doing as I travel. I have never seen a more spectacularly good-looking bunch of people than I did in Andalucia. It was like being in a magazine. The men are not tall like those you see in northern Europe, but they take care of themselves and it shows. And everywhere you turn there is a beautiful girl with a Hazel eyes and autumn leaf skin and carefree hair that could only come from the Mediterranean.

I was in the south of Spain for a long-weekend along with two of my best friends and I suppose when you're with your mates every morsel tastes better, every beer tastes sweeter. On our first night, due to the arrival times of our flights, we missed the last bus to Granada (where one of my friends lived) from Malaga and so had to hang out in the sea-side city until 6am. I think the Spanish have cracked what it is to "hang out" - you need to have food, drink and atmosphere that is within reach and yet does not offend your peripheral vision. You should be able to have some to nibble on in one hand and a drink manageable to hold in your other, so that you can focus on the company sitting across the table.

I give you: tapas. What a great concept. Order 5 small plates of different little savouries and a few local beers, sit in the shade of a cathedral and watch the afternoon swim away off down the beach. Braised beef and potato wedges in garlic-tomato puree. Scallops sautéed with pancetta and mushrooms. Seafood cocktail. Crispy potato croquettes filled with chorizo and cheese. Deep fried calamari with lime and rock salt. One by one the little ceramic bowls came and everything moved in slow motion. We moved to a new bar near the city centre, tucked away in the folds of a cobble-stone street. The street-names were mosaics in medieval walls. With every beer, came a new plate of tapas. I remember most vividly a sort of blood-pudding called Morcilla. All these sophisticated Spaniards were unwinding after work around us and we sat in silence, spreading the delicious sweet sausage across freshly baked bread.

We laughed, we drank, we polished off the food and before we knew it, the evening was upon us. The mood had changed and that unmistakable 'buzz' that you get in a crowded square in Europe purrs into life. The carefree murmur of a young night. Everything in Andalucia is carefree. I find the Spanish don't take much interest in the rest of the world but when a simple evening among friends can be so special, why would you care what is happening elsewhere? I wouldn't.

Table for 3: Hong Kong

Hong Kong is like no place in earth. The skyscapers hit the hills and the hills hit the seas at angles that make you wonder how. 80% of Hong Kong is greenery and people ignore or forget this. It is no longer British but not quite Chinese: it is a seamless blend of old and new and it hits you all at once. At every turn a new experience, on every plate a new adventure. Schooling aside, I had a great time when I lived there and I want to share with you - in no particular order - my best experiences from the 'Fragrant Harbour'.

Pigeon Fried Rice

I met my dad for lunch on a weekday once. I didn't have school for some reason so I decided to walk down to Central and grab a bite to eat near his office. We lived very near the central business district and with Hong Kong's world class public transport, didn't need a car. Thus, my dad walked to work everyday, downhill, through Hong Kong's Botanical Gardens. I met him at the foot of his building which was called, The Centre.

He took me to a hole-in-the-wall, just under the Escalator (the remarkable public transport system set up the ease commuter traffic, which runs from the Peak right down to Central - incidentally, the world's largest outdoor escalator). Around us, thousands of other hungry office workers made their way to their favourite eateries, jostling for position under the skyscrapers, waiting to cross the roads. Giant plasma screens displayed the trailer for the new Harry Potter movie, that everyone - and I mean everyone- stopped to watch, before continuing on their way - phone in one hand, jacket in the other. It was like swimming in a giant school of fish. Who knew walking could be so much fun.

We came to a tiny, crowded place, sheltered from the mid-day sun by the Escalator itself. The single room restaurant was no bigger than the room I'm sat in right now. It could seat about six tables of 4, on worn out wooden stools. The steam from the adjacent kitchen spilled out into the dimly light dining area, filling the air around us with the most divine smells. The sounds were those of frying, steaming and boiling and they were the soundtrack to our meal. The conductor, front and centre, was an ancient Chinese lady who acted as waitress, usher and megaphone. Five minutes after every scream she threw at the kitchen, a steaming dish would come out, accompanied only by a plastic glass of water and disposable chopsticks.

I love food. I especially love trying exotic meats. Pigeon was a first for me, and so I examined the bowl flung in front for a moment. The meat itself was a grey-ish brown; not the most appetising. The rice was glistening in the oil and spices it had been cooked in. It had finely diced greens mixed in as well. Rice, greens and poultry was all this dish was in reality, and yet it was gone from my bowl before I knew what had happened. The rice was sticky enough to easily shovel into my mouth with chopsticks and the meat was tender enough to break under their pressure. My father and I didn't speak until the meal was over, until every last grain of flavourful rice was gone.

The food in Hong Kong is amongst my favourite anywhere in the world, because of how the Cantonese manage to keep it mild and yet pack each morsel with so many different subtle personalities. Unlike with Indian food, which I find too hot (I know, I know...) my taste-buds are treated to spice, not tortured by it. Those 10 minutes captured the essence of lunch-hour in Central Hong Kong: the steam, the smells, the crowds and the frenetic pace of the it all. It's a game of musical chairs - I don't know who moved faster, the people in the kitchen or the people outside.

Lamma Island

This is simply a 'must do', for all those who go to Hong Kong. Rent a Junk boat and go to Lamma Island. I have been there on a few separate occasions and each time was as good as the last. A trip to this beautiful hilly island is as much about the journey as the destination.

The Junk Boats that you can rent these days are a tourist inspired spin-off of the classical Chinese vessels of old. They are perfect for short day trips to the hundreds of surrounding islands or for simply enjoying a day out on the sea with a group of friends. I remember going with a large group of my parent's friends. There were about 6 others kids my age and we kept getting disapproving adults to relay us cold cans of soft drinks from the fridge below. The walk from the top deck was too much effort - and why waste even a second when you're relaxing on this:

The boat seemed to stroll across the water. It ambled over the mid-morning swells, amidst the chatter and laughter our group enjoyed. Once we left Victoria Harbour behind, the sea breeze was pleasant and moist and the waters were not as choppy as near the ferry terminal. We cruised for about an hour, as the kids run around on the main deck and the adults relaxed upstairs. There were short eats and cold drinks aplenty and the junk's manager was very friendly.

It took us about an hour to get to Lama Island. I recommend you do what we did: get off on the less touristy side of the island and work up an apetite by embarking on a little trek through the island's lush interiors. I remember walking for 40 minutes and not being bored by the nature - think back to how big an achievement that was when you were a kid. By the time we got to the pier on the other side of the island, we were glad we'd spent the better part of an hour clearing room in our bellies because what followed what a gastronomic extravaganza I will never forget. You can take your pick from any of the seafood places that line the coast of Lama but I urge you to go to Rainbow if ever you have the chance.

You can pick out your fish from the tanks that form the wall of the restaurant. Not one for the faint-hearted I suppose but then I don't know what the Cantonese phrase for 'man-up' is. Our large group sat down and were served the biggest bowl of prawns I have ever seen. There must have been 200 king prawns on that platter, each one fried in garlic and spring-onions and to a brown-red crisp on its outside. Prawn is very much a luxury food for me; whenever it is made at home we each get 10 pieces and savour each one but here I gorged on them. I swam in them. Other dishes included the ubiquitous fried rice and beef and broccolli served in oyster sauce. The one that really stood out for me were the giant scallops pan-seard and served back in-shell, topped with garlic vermicelli noodles. Scallops are such a tender, sweet meat and their juiciness was retained and then some. Simple, subtle, delicious. The Chinese are masters.

We snoozed on the junk-ride back to Hong Kong island, prawn-drunk.

Glass Trolleys: The Dim Sum Experience

Like a kid in a candy store, I gazed in awe at the trolley coming towards me. We were at Maxim's Palace in City Hall, right on Victoria Harbour to sample the real Hong Kong Dim Sum experience. If you manage to get a table there at lunch-time, you are in for a treat. It is where Hong Kong comes to salivate. It is one of these iconic places in a city that will cleave opinion among locals but I love it. The seating area looks rather like a Soviet ball-room and is slightly characterless in that sense but the views from the windows of the bustling harbour are great. In any case, you aren't there for the decor. You are there for those bamboo boxes of joy.

You can order a-la-carte but that is like going to Carnegie's in Manhattan and ordering a cheeseburger. What you should do is camp yourself strategically so that you are in the catchment area of as many waiters as possible. As they pass each table, you can stop them, peer through the glass into their heated trolleys and pick out whatever catches your fancy. I recall vividly choosing the deep-fried octopus tentacles while my mum choose some famous Shanghainese 'soup' dumplings which were filled with hot broth that explode out of the soft white dough as you bit down.

I pick this one because other than the food being excellent, it is somewhere where you can go to see people be happy. I don't think there are enough places like that in the world. People eat, laugh and be happy and I wish every city had a spot like that. There is a buzz in the air, the conversations are loud and the waiters are constantly weaving and winding through the tables like winds that bring good tidings. Stack your empty boxes as high as you can and see which of the skyscrapers outside you can build!

I hope that this has made you as hungry as it has made me.

"Sorry dude, I've got tuition today"

I like maths. I was taught to enjoy it. And this happened well before I tackled it seriously in school with my teachers; my indoctrination began at home. I was taught by my mother and her mother, the value of not only understanding the purpose of mathematics but enjoying the thrill of it. Not just mathematics but physics, chemistry and biology too. I suspect the same is true for most Indian students, whether they study in India or abroad. Even those who don't like it or those like me who aren't especially good at it, spend a disproportionate amount of time on maths and sciences both in and out of school. The other day I wondered why.

Most of my friends in the UK seem to hate maths with a passion usually reserved for rival football teams or celebrities. Now I'm not saying that all Indian kids love maths and science, but traditionally they have been the bedrock upon which we've founded our careers. For most of the older generation, the "Son, do you want to be a doctor or an engineer" jibe that we joke about now, was straightforward and logical reality 20-30 years ago. "Excel at maths and science and you will excel in life" is something you hear a lot from those Indians who grew up before the 80s. Yet my impression here in the 'West' - having lived roughly half my life in Asia and half in Europe- is that maths and science are a bitter medicine, painfully swallowed by kids in school who can't wait to drop it. "When am I ever going to use maths later on in life?" is something I hear a lot from students in England. Is it a cultural thing?

Compared to my colleagues in India, my level of maths is spectacularly mediocre but here in England people ask me for help with numerical questions. I say without a shadow of a doubt, that this is down solely to tuition or "tutions" as extra classes are known in India. I don't think it is any wonder why British kids are better at sports than Indian kids, but Indian kids are better at maths. In India, from the age of 13, football, cricket, badminton and table-tennis are forsaken for that unrelenting monster, "tutions". Where a child in Europe or America would come home from school and go play his or her sport or extra-curricular activity, most kids in India come home from school, have some Bournvita and biscuits and go back to school. To those Indians who are reading this, think back to your childhood and remember your "tution sir/master", that mythical being who spoke with a funny lisp and who had 7 kids suckling him for knowledge like puppies do their mother. You would go to a nearby tuition centre or the teacher's house and along with 8 or 9 other kids your age and spend 3 hours a day there. Monday and Wednesday were Physics. Tuesdays and Thursdays were Maths. Fridays were Chemistry with 'nani'.

There was also a sense of importance given to your grade 10 and 12 examination results that I don't think we see in Europe. In India your board exam marks are like your driver's license or birth certificate. They quantify you as a human being. They rank you. They form part of your identity whether you are proud of them or not. To be a 'topper' is to succeed for the first time in something real. To be a 'topper' is to be revered by fellow students and their jealous parents. "Why didn't you get more than _____? Where does he go for tutions?". I think on one level it is unhealthy. It drives children and their mothers to the brink at times - it makes them crave competition for the sake of it, rather than for improving the child's academic calibre.

At another level I think the sense of competition, especially in maths and the sciences brings out the best in many people. With so many students fighting for so few seats at so few top universities, the scrap and battle for the last 1% makes everyone push themselves further. In Bombay, children who go to the top schools start training for the Indian Institute of Technology entrance exams 5 years before they are set to take them. I know many people who wake up at 5am, go to specialised IIT entrance classes till 7am and then to school, come back at 4pm and then go to school-exam tuitions untill 7pm or 8pm. All for that last 1%. When you are competing with a thousand other hopefuls from all over the country for that one seat, you foresake football for Mr Giri's stuffy tuition centre. Not that I would know. I went to an International School and I suspect my parent's money got me into university rather than my grades.

That being said, I still have that love for maths, science and the will to score more than my friends. Four years of travel, political discussions, parties, international relations seminars and writing have not diminished my will to get a 1st class honours, only my ability.