Big India in little England

London is exactly as charming and grand as the movies make it out to be. The city oozes wealth and glamour and an old-world splendour that clashes spectacularly with its own brand of globo-culture that can’t quite be replicated anywhere else. Not even in New York or Paris.

And if you listen hard enough, you can hear the diverse undertones of London - a cocktail of Afro-Caribbean, Asian and European cultures — that make the city heave and hum.

Take a close look around and you’ll discover, ironically enough, just how much of an impact Britain’s former colonies have had on London’s cultural identity (not to be confused with British cultural identity).

In the five and a half months that I’ve lived in London, I’ve constantly bumped into instances of the collective Indian identity, which has often left me with a curiously indefinable feeling of never having really left home.

I’m not surprised at the proliferation of Indian culture in London. After all, Southall and Wembley are swarming with Indians and the paraphernalia that defines our Indianness. I have heard stories of dhol-beating Punjabis parading down the streets of Southall to celebrate the inconsiderable achievements of a brother, and of Bhuleshwar-like markets swallowing the pavements of inner Wembley.

What I am surprised about, however, is the consistency and frequency with which I have stumbled into a piece of India.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I live in Harrow, home to the largest number of Indians outside of Southall. Which explains why the local news agent, the people manning the check out counters at Sainsbury and half the  officers at the bank on the High Street are brown.

In fact, the Indian-origin, Uganda-born accounts manager and I bonded over savings and current accounts and talked about the bad roads of Mumbai (she has a flat in Kandivli) and holidaying in Goa.

Then there’s the fact that Jawaharlal Nehru was schooled in Harrow, as an aunt very excitedly pointed out to me. So, I’m also trampling down the same paths a former Indian prime minister did, as he headed the class at the famous school.

In fact, the Mahatma has also made his presence felt in the city, as he serenely watches over Londoners from his pedestal at the garden in Tavistock Square in Euston.

Other references to the British Raj can be found in oddest places, like St Paul’s Church, under whose iconic dome Prince Charles married Lady Diana. A pillar at the back of the church is inscribed with the names of those Indian subjects who laid down their lives for King and country.

There’s also a marvellous toy — a mechanical tiger that rips into a British soldier when wound up — commissioned by Tipu Sultan and held in the Victoria and Albert Museum’s collection.

And right next to the plinth commemorating the battle of Trafalgar is a smaller statue dedicated to Major General Sir Henry Havelock and ‘his brave companions in arms during the campaign in India, 1857’. It’s like reading a page right out of my Standard IX history book. 

But my most fascinating taste of the Indian identity in London has been through food — more specifically the dosa. Eating at Chennai Dossa, a small but rapidly growing restaurant chain found only very deep in the Indian pockets of London, transported me straight to Shiv Sagar at Chruchgate.

Three masala dosas, one plate of idli and two portions of chilli paneer later (there were three of us eating) I was ready to take a yellow and black taxi home.

The writer is a freelancer.