Day 14, Jaipur to Agra
I miss my parents’ cooking. I miss fat fluffy chips, co op sausage rolls, juicy steaks, ham sandwiches, pasta, pies, pringles and trustworthy fruit.
I miss my mum’s lovely, soft arms.
I even miss the rice from home and puffy naans from the take aways, they’re all flat here and Matt’s upset there’s no peshwari. They have pringles here as well but they’re more expensive than back home and that’s just not on. Even most of the crisps are curry flavoured. Why must everything be curry? Chill with the spice.
I’m not doing too well with the food. I started off with an open mind but after losing my dinner last night I feel conditioned against the very smell of curry and naan. I’ve had more curries in the last two weeks than in my whole life. It just wasn’t something that I’d ever choose back home; I might agree to it with some reluctance if everyone else wanted it. Even when I order western food here, I just feel confused. I know what it’s meant to taste like and what ingredients are meant to be in it, and it’s just not matching up. I’m starting to get a bit sick of it, and Indian cities in general. They’re noisy and polluted and men make no attempt to be inconspicuous when they stare at me, even slowing right down on their bikes to gape right in my face. Some men have stared at me with pure venom as well, giving me the foulest look, like they hate me for wearing a strappy top.