A Sobering Chat

I was at the Craft Guild of Chefs Awards the other week at Wembley Stadium with Pub and Bar magazine. With my bowtie straightened, my Prosecco topped up and my national fervour pleasantly aroused by staring out at the hallowed turf of Wem-ber-ley, I entered the throng of dinner jacketed folk and began to mingle.Before long I am chatting to Mehernosh Mody, who would later will the Ethnic Chef Award, and his wife, Sherin.
After they explain where they were originally from in India, I blurt out that I will be travelling through that very country in a few months time.
“Really, how wonderful,” says Mehernosh. “Where are you going?”
“Well,” I reply, puffing my chest out with pride and excitement. “We’re going from Shillong in the far north east to Jaisalmer near the Pakistani border.”
They nod sagely, clearly pleased with my choice of route.
“How long are you taking?”
“Two weeks,” comes the cheerful reply.
“That should be fine to see the sights,” they say. “Are you taking the train the whole way?””
“No,” I admit with a nervous grin. “We’re going by rickshaw.”
There is a silence for a few seconds as the couple digest what I have just told them. They glance at each other, as silently asking if this tuxedoed loon in front of them is pulling their leg.
Finally, Mrs Mody speaks up.
“Well, do be careful. Those drivers go very fast. Be sure to hold on tight and don’t bothering telling to slow down. He won’t.”
“Oh no,” I interject, realising there has been a misunderstanding. “We’re not being driven in the rickshaw. We’re driving the rickshaw.”
The silence that follows this is interspersed with some stunned coughs.
“You’re driving?” The tone is more concerned than condescending.
“Oh yes, there are three of us going.”
“And you’re driving?”
“Well, me and Alice. Clio doesn’t have a driving licence.”
Their eyes are wide, the only thing keeping their jaws from plummeting to the ground is their good manners. Mehernosh scratches his head absent-mindedly.
“And you have driven in India before?”
“Nope... never even been before.”
“You’ve driven in the Far East.”
“Jordan,” I say, the confidence and optimism in my voice changing to quavering cheerfulness with every answer.
They smile, as though comparing Jordanian traffic to Indian traffic is like comparing a Smirnoff Ice to Absinthe.
“That’s... not quite the same. They will drive wherever they want at whatever speed they want. Do be careful. So you’re friends... have they been to India before?”
“No.” The tone is now seriously lacking in confidence.
“Can any of you speak any Indian languages?”
“... No.” This is looking decidedly ominous.
“Well, I have to say. You’re very...” he struggles for a word that doesn’t mean ‘stupid’. “You’re very brave.”
“Thank you,” I say with a broad grin. “I think this’ll be something that I’ll hate when I’m doing it but will look back on with really fond memories.”
“Oh you won’t hate it,” they say with an encouraging smile. “You’ll have a wonderful time. India is a wonderful place. Do bring some stomach tablets though.”
I laugh. This, at least, I knew about.
“Oh yes, I’ll be packing those in abundance.”
“Well good luck and all the best,” the couple say with encouraging smiles that suggest that the next time they expect to see me will be on the news.
They move away into the crowd and I am left with an empty flute and a nervous smile.

It’ll be fine, I tell myself, shaking my head at the moment’s doubt. They said I’d have a wonderful time. Nothing to worry about. Now where’s that girl with the booze?