For the purposes of this story, and for the purpose of maintaining what little shred of respect both you and I have for me, I must preface by noting that Little India was the name given to this area of London by my friend (who, for the duration of this installation, I shall name Ronald), a notable someone who has been to this lovely area of London many times throughout his life. In other words, if the name does happen to be offensive or insensitive, I assure you, for once, it’s not my fault (and obviously that I am sorry). However, in my case I truly hope that it is a name that offends none, because in my immensely, overwhelmingly, almost obnoxiously unprofessional opinion, no name could better suit it. Ronald, who deserves all the praise for the triumph that this day was, had taken me through a portal to another country, another world… and at the very least another London. One in the form of a fair forty minute bus ride. Two thousand four hundred seconds was all it took for all the shops to shift, and begin selling clothes of exuberant colours in exquisite patterns. For all the supermarkets to become multicultural havens of produce and people, imported from all corners of the globe, stocked with vegetables from enormous to eensy in every effervescent shade imaginable, and shaped in all conceivable contortions while being sold at unbelievably reasonable prices. Every business, as far as my (admittedly dismal) eyes could see, was filled with equally unique and lively characters of all different shapes and sizes, all wearing clothes of endless different makes and styles, and even though in fairness most of their faces weren’t exactly placed with smiles, there was a pervasive sense of serenity, kindness and calm. But this was just the very beginning. In all his wisdom and experience, Ronald elected to wake me up from my stasis of voyeuristic awe, and took us to the local hindu temple. One who’s silhouette itself imposed upon its witness an irrefutable sense of holiness and summoned from within, without request, a respect and deference for itself as well as the culture that it harboured within its ornate walls. Despite a lack of any lack of vastness in its objective size, the building was grand and failed in no respects to impose itself upon us. It was a desert beige, the kind of colour that when surrounding you, has the effect of transporting you to a far and distant land. Beyond this, it was ordained, inside and out, with indentations of immense artistic skill and patience, carved depictions of holy scripture like some divine, artful overgrowth. The devotion required to complete such a task itself acted as an immediate testament to the belief and faith that the religion inspires within its subjects. While, symmetrically littered throughout, were striking pillars and archways. It, in all honesty, was like nothing I had ever seen in my life. Having all coherent thought and speech taken from me by the sheer majesty of this temple, I spluttered at Ronald ‘this is… amazing’, he responded with a look that suggested he knew exactly what was going to come out my mouth before I even thought to say it, and with it, we entered. Within its wondrous wall were shrines of radiant silver, red and gold, each god depicted, conferring its own unique image of splendour and divinity. One helped on by the melody of devotion that echoed throughout the temple. Chords that seemed to, if only for a moment, strip me of all strain and suffering, like a warm light or a soft embrace, filling my heart, cleansing my soul, for that brief instant… I was free. However, the transient nature of this enlightenment was one exemplified to me upon my exit of the temple, where, just as hastily as I had been delivered, I was returned, on this occasion by a screaming man dressed in booty shorts and a torn t-shirt who glared into the very depths of my now not-so-enlightened soul and yarped a great unintelligible grumble, just in time to remind me that I was, in fact, still in London. Misery aside, it was time to eat! The moment I had, in all ashamed honesty, been looking forward to since the very start of the day (And really, since Ronald had suggested the trip to little India in the first place). We arrived at the restaurant and almost immediately I could tell that the food we were about to eat would be unlike any other indian food I had come across in London. The interior design was clearly decades old and of a bygone era - although, in all fairness seemed cheap enough to suggest that such decor never really did have its ‘era’- and the signage on the windows was peeling. An optimistic combination which served to suggest that, in the best case, nothing mattered to the owners apart from the food, and in the worst case that the restaurant had been cursed by a witch to remain forever trapped twenty years in the past. In either case, nothing in its appearance suggested the food would be poor, a great start. But, far more telling than the beaten and battered aesthetic of the restaurant, was the fact that almost everyone sat was speaking in the native tongue, a slightly brash observation, but one I have always found to be synonymous with a quality native dish (when off all people, even the natives themselves can’t resist). A glimmering implication that, beyond the novelty that the cuisine (in its mere existence in a foreign country) provides, the dishes themselves are of a great and, more importantly, of an authentic quality. Following my equally brief and expert scan of the goings on of the restaurant and its patrons, the waiter came over and, as if rehearsed, Ronald listed out three dishes for us to devour. Suddenly, after ordering, he shot up and began heading over to a set of sinks, confused and intrigued, I found myself following him, a habit that by the end of this day had become something of an instinct. He began washing his hands and so naturally, I imitated, at which point in a strained discharge of disarray and confusion, I asked him what was happening, appearing slightly puzzled (I’m assuming because of the confidence with which I mirrored his actions), he informed me we would be eating with our hands. Nearly simultaneous to the exit of the words from his mouth, I felt shoot through me a torrent of delirious exhilaration as I realised two things. The first, that I would have the chance to try something new (that I will unashamedly admit I had always wanted to), and the second, how good the food we were about to consume would be. Soon after our return from the expedition of hand hygiene, arrived a paneer curry and two different dosas, all of which were dispatched with efficiency and ease. At least on my end. At some point during the midst of the fog of battle, there is an admittedly clouded (I can only assume due to the excess of adrenaline pumping through my veins) recollection of a look that appeared some mixture of confusion, intimidation and adulation as Ronald witnessed me gollop down the feast he had laid out for us. What I did not account for, in the midst of my golloping nirvana, was the double edged demolition that occurred during the inhalation of Indian food. Despite the appearance, in the immediate aftermath of the meals conclusion, that I, lord of lassis, prince of paneers and destroyer of dosas, exited the victor, the damage to my internal organs that ensued, and continues to ensue as I write this, was by all means a demolition worthy of marking the occasion a draw. Following our banquet, Ronald insisted we go buy some traditional sweets, and once again, I was arrested into a realm of disbelief. This time not by the various shapes or colours of the candy, of which there were endless, but rather by the flavours. Spicy desserts with chickpeas and potatoes, deep fried sweetnesses, milky balls of heaven, and a plethora of tantallizing tastes, all foreign and unfamiliar to my tongue. A kind of off-sweet flavour that while undoubtedly a result of excessive sugar percentages, almost had a herbal and pallid aftertaste; in the most curious (and delicious) way. After this glucose-fueled joyride, anticipating a sugar crash which, considering how much I had just told myself I couldn’t not eat, would be more dutifully dubbed a candy coma, or perhaps stasis of sweetness, I decided with regret, that it was time to go home. I napped, I crashed and I crapped (and continue to do so), but what I will always have are the memories of what was a great trip with an amazing friend whose company would make any quest to a little country a big day.