In which ‘the Bombay Blog’ threatens to become a woefully inaccurate moniker

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Bengalaru, Is It You?

The Indian renaming extravaganza that started in earnest in the mid-90s, with Bombay, Madras and Calcutta all disappearing from the cartographical lexicon, shows no sign of abating. Luckily I find it easy to remember the new name for Bangalore, as I can sing it to the tune of the T-Rex classic Metal Guru. I do get some funny looks in my 24 hours there, from people who might not appreciate my fondness for Marc Bolan and his magnificent hair.

Meanwhile, I sample a proper Kannada biryani. If you’re used to the tasty but mild dish beloved of the British curry house bargain-hunter, you’re in for a shock. This one packs a hell of a punch. Jeez.

Return to Deak Ferenc Ter

My stay in Kolkata, city of literature and leftism, is sadly a short one. But I’m looking forward to going back for more, from what I’ve seen – and heard.

To my hopelessly uneducated ear, Hindi, Marathi and Gujarati all sound quite similar: in Mumbai, you hear plenty of all three, but I can’t tell which is which. Bengali, heard on its home turf, is very different: wonderfully gutteral and percussive, like a Hungarian underground train announcement.

A tree! A real tree!

I don’t see too much of Delhi either, but I get a quick look at New Delhi – the British bit, planned by Lutyens, now home to the Indian government. By comparison with Bombay it’s elegant and green, with broad, tree-lined avenues and well-kept flowerbeds. It’s like Port Sunlight with auto-rickshaws.

But then anywhere is green compared with dear old Bombay: it makes Manchester look like Borneo. Trees don’t make anyone money, which in downtown Bombay means they are surplus to requirements.

They say that everything in Kolkata is devoted to the pursuit of learning; in Delhi, to the pursuit of power; and in Bombay, to the pursuit of money. It’s a crude generalisation, but there could be more than a grain of truth in it.

(Which got me thinking about the English cities I’ve lived in.
Since we're in crude generalisations mode, you might say that everything in Bristol is devoted to the pursuit of lentil-eating, sandal-wearing sustainability; everything in Manchester is devoted to the pursuit of a good fight; and everything in Birmingham is devoted to the pursuit of the bus you’ve just missed).

Fruit and nutcase

Back in Bombay, and that brief smile that comes from passing the India headquarters of Cadbury every day, two minutes' walk from my temporary home. Growing up in suburban South Birmingham in the 1980s, we didn't have much to write away about: having the world’s most famous chocolate factory down the road in Bournville was our one and only claim to global fame.

In Bombay, the HQ has some plants outside, all of whose leaves are sprouting resplendent in Cadbury purple. It reminds me of Bournville railway station: it should be offensively crass, but in my hopelessly biased Brummy way, I've decided it's charming.