Donkeyshott & Xuitlacoche

Swami Yogananda One of the more deeply personal experiences of my life happened at the age of 15. I was living in New Delhi and we were due to return to the UK overland in a blue Volkswagen Combi. But I conceived an invincible desire to go to the Himalayas. It was from my heart. I just had to go. I asked and then fought with my parents until they agreed. Then I asked my friend to come, Sunil. He was willing to keep me company. I went to his house to convince his parents and ultimately we managed to do so. Coming back to our house in Lajpat Nagar my parents had changed their mind again, but I fought until they allowed us to go to the Himalayas. We went to New Delhi train station and were due to board the train to Nainital - or somewhere in the foothills. I had left my father furious at home so I wanted to call to reassure him and say goodbye. When I phoned he said he was about to send the police after us. At that point I gave in. I am sorry to say I was so angry I made everyone's li

Plateau de fruit de mer at Le Dome My grandfather, Richard Steinhardt, was a gourmet. Before the war he used to make special trips, even crossing borders to try recipes from restaurants he had heard about. His father was the foreign editor of a national daily in Vienna and you can see him on the steps in the famous picture of the Archduke Ferdinand who is in his silly hat and about to be assassinated. My great grandfather, used to go out into the Vienna like a " Grand Seigneur " and occasionally leave his little family at home to fend for themselves, while he had to meet and chat with luminaries. He must have met a lot of interesting people and had some influence. Vienna between the wars was the centre of Europe together with Paris. In winter my grandfather remembered him going out into the night, sophisticated and lordly, wrapped in rich furs, leaving them at home to enjoy dumplings and stews. Some people say my great grandfather didn't share his lustre. Grandpa so lo

We all piled into the Land cruiser and headed for shark's bay, about 15 kilometres outside the city of Mogadishu.Much nearer town my father, with very occasional help from me, had taken time to do up the UN beach club, to smear plaster lovingly over the crumbling pillars and, when all the plaster had dried, to paint the club a beachy beige. The UN club was a simple, small, rectangular, flat roofed Italian house with a veranda that looked out over the sea. (Later it became a nightclub and then the property of a warlord.) While drinking and watching the sun go down UN staff sitting on the veranda had witnessed a shark attack. A young boy in the shallows was grabbed at the calf and bled copiously into the sea. He was rushed away to hospital. I don't know if he survived. So swimming on Mogadisciu's town beaches was off limits. The Soviets, guests of Siad Barre, were to blame. with typically manic disregard for environmental fallout, they had put an abattoir for cattle and camel

We drove down the winding, sloping path, through a canopy of whirring, singing, scented bush to take my small family to their weekly "celestial festival". The old gold painted, low slung, Mercedes crunched its bottom one last time on the gravel of the 1 Kilometre drive before we finally reached the smooth grey blueness of the Sudwala road. Swiftly now, left, then across the smooth tarmac, through a gate and into the Macadamia plantation. Monkey families scoot across the path. The road runs out just before we reach a small breeze block, corrugated hut. It's Mass and I am here anyway, so my family ask me to keep them company. We wait near the Mercedes until the priest arrives in his battered Toyota. Everyone goes inside and standing together, the ceremony starts in the cool interior. The small building doubles as the school house and there are children's pictures in crayon showing scenes from the bible. The priest intones, and everyone answers back. My family in mumbled

We lived in Laj Pat Nagaar, right near the market. We had a wedding hall on one side working at the rate of about three weddings a week and on the other side there was a clandestine factory. The factory would only switch on its machines at night. The best Vegetarian meals in New Delhi were in the Lodhi hotel and there was a Tandoori restaurant near Connaught Circle. You could watch as the cooks slapped the dough onto the inside of the large clay ovens at the back and the sweet tasting beer was served in teacups, flouting the anti-alcohol law. Monahar, an elderly man, the former cook to a British general, made every meal into something of a performance. There were swans from mashed potato and huge pink blancmanges. He made sure there was always cold nimbu pani and lemon and barley water in the fridge. Near the house, now a government office, the large school bus would come out from a side street onto the main road and we would see pigs rooting around in the rubbish tip. We all suspected

Yes, I am Nezahualcoyotl. Nezahualcoyotl's Hidden God was Tezcatlipoca One of the greatest pleasures in my grandfather's life was to visit the market in Cannes, admire the variety and quality of the produce on offer and chat to some of the stallholders. Covered markets in Spain are impressive. The food is relatively less expensive, there is less variety and there is somewhat less knowledge of the products on display, but the quality is fantastic. A market in India has a wide variety of products, many more prepared foods than in France or Spain, but suffers from a lack of hygiene. You get extra in India, gold leaf with your fudge, tamarind on your puffed rice, masala in your tea, hepatitis with your gulab jamun, Delhi belly with your salt lassi, cholera with your Limca nimbu; cockroaches running around your rice, weevils in your bread and beer in your teacup. In Africa markets are like wells. You go to the well to rest from the fields, to stay in the shade, to sit together and t

The part of the school where we boarded.  My window was on the third floor third along. I find the quality of a Quaker silence to be far superior, for a Westerner. At least we don't have to dwell on half understood, abstract and culturally removed concepts that turn the silence into the silence of aspirational puzzlement. Quaker silence is easy enough, isn't it? Be quiet. Quiet yourself. Calm right down. Reflect quietly on what you have done that day. Can you hear a still, small quiet voice within? Is that your conscience? Is that little voice God talking to you? Yes it is. Probably. Reflect on the inspiration you have just had. Stand up and share it with the community. Sit down again. Listen to anyone else who may want to share a thought. Silence again. The sun moves across the windows. The light changes. Sounds intrude from outside the hall. Someone coughs unnecessarily. There is a clear sense of time passing and you cop a feel of smooth vastness you hear the whirr