I blog about India at www.memsahibinindia.com, some sample posts below:

One perception of India is that it is a mainly vegetarian country.  This is true to a certain extent. Many people are pure vegetarian, some extend this to not including cheese or eggs - you should see the scramble for eggless cake recipes (no pun intended). Hindu’s don’t eat beef, Muslims don’t eat pork, and Jains won’t eat any meat, dairy, or even root vegetables, onions or garlic, the more strict ones wear masks over their mouths so that they don’t inadvertently breath in insects.  

So, when I was invited to a friend’s house on Tuesday of last week, the question ‘’How do you like your steak?’’ was the last thing I expected to be asked.   Not only was the menu steak (Holy cow!), washed down with some rather palatable Indian red wines, but it was a Tuesday, the day of the Goddess Vaishnov Devi, or the monkey god Hanuman, depending where in the country you are from.  For reasons which, despite me asking many Indian friends, remain far too convoluted for me to succinctly put into a short blog piece,  due to these gods, this is the day when even most only vaguely practising Hindu’s refrain from meat and alcohol.

Some people, in fact many people, have the notion that train travel in India is romantic. It is not. Interesting, entertaining, and an excellent way of witnessing culture up close and personal, yes, but romantic, no.  Basic is a word that springs to mind. If cleanliness is important, then it is best to find another form of transport.  If privacy is an issue, then train journeys are to be avoided at all costs.  I won’t mention the bathroom arrangements.

This sense of romance comes from the days of the Empire, when the British travelled using steam boats to get to their conquered lands and then built an impressive railway system throughout India to ferry their administrators far and wide. Their might was emphasised in the building of Victoria Terminus in Mumbai, a statement of ownership of the lifeblood of India if ever there was one - cue strains of Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance. A lot of what the British did in India often makes me want to hang my head in shame, but in terms of unifying the country and providing an excellent and inexpensive way to travel, the railways do come into their own.  

Step off the plane and the aroma of Delhi hits you. A stroll along the now infamously hideous airport carpet, luggage out in record time, skip through duty free, a taxi ride in a cab that should have been scrapped 20 years ago, the 3 inevitable questions from the taxi driver, ''Your country madam, your good name madam, You are married?''  But for just £3.00 for a 30 minute journey who cares? Arrive at the apartment that is strangely already home, everything looks so familiar. Yes, a new apartment but totally decked out with my furnishings, everything from my knives and forks to my four poster bed -  a ready-made home. Just time to unpack and shower before being collected by Shoba for a delicious home-cooked south Indian dinner - sorry UK, the curry houses just don't cut it!  Rice and rasam and avial (vegetables in a coconut curry sauce) seconds coped with, Should have slowed down as Dadi (family matriarch) approached with thirds and to refuse is just not the done thing, especially as I am angling after a breakfast of dosa with gunpowder from her on Thursday morning. READ MORE

India can’t be instantly appreciated, nor can she be rushed. She will reveal herself in her own time, she will move at her own pace. 





You can’t demand from her nor hurry her along. India is magical, baffling, confusing and unfathomable and frustrating. 

She is captivating and beguiling, fascinating, awe inspiring but most of all, enchanting. 

When she is working with you, she is an unstoppable force. When the time isn’t right, she will leave you hovering indeterminately. 

She is the land of the living oxymoron. Her features are multifaceted. She is a cruel mistress yet she will bewitch and tease and lure you with her endless charms. She will test and she will provoke. 

You can’t fight her or demand an outcome.  One merely has to accept her, love her and see where her journey takes you.

Boys can’t skip. This is a well-known fact, discovered by me at an early age but one which has recently been shattered in the most horrifying way possible and I have now had to amend this statement to ‘men really shouldn’t skip.’ Let me explain.  


I was fortunate enough to attend junior school at St. Hilda’s Convent School in a small town in west Yorkshire.  Boys were allowed to attend up to the age of seven, girls went on to eleven. I have no idea why this was the case.  Once a year we celebrated Commemoration Day which involved weeks’ worth of practising country dances on the ‘little field’, and more pertinently, maypole dancing.