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INTRODUCTION

Squashed on a train unfit for cattle transport, in an Austin Reed suit and Kurt Geiger heels, I can think about only one thing. Rotis. Round, soft, fluffy rotis.

This is my life: 30-something girl about town, corporate superbitch and keen Indian cook. Ten years ago, just the thought of combining the three would have thrown me into a blind panic, and had me reaching for the nearest chicken tikka sandwich pack.

You see, growing up in India, I cared more about eating food than cooking it. Tantalising meals were assembled at home (although not by me) with little oil, fresh ingredients and lots of imagination, all served with limes, coriander, pickle and green finger chillies. From sweet coconut prawn curry and juicy tandoori chicken to buttery Tadka Dal and spicy-sour aloo. It was all accompanied by puffed rotis rolled and tawa-baked by our masterly cook, Dada. Oblivious to his talent, we two bespectacled sisters ate them hot, dripping with the butter we wore so proudly as lip-gloss at the dining table.

Dada was on an everyday mission – to keep it simple but delicious. As in most other Indian homes, aromatic pulaos, rich curries and deep-fried goodies were strictly reserved for weekends and special occasions. Then, Dada would turn sous-chef to my father and his elaborate kitchen feats. A keen and superb cook, my chain-smoking dad’s speciality was the rice delicacy biryani. It always arrived late from a battle-ravaged kitchen.

Mother, unlike my many aunties, stayed well away from the hotbed of fiery tempers and masalas that was our Kolkata kitchen. Dabbling with the occasional spaghetti Bolognese in her psychedelic kaftan, she preferred directing and overseeing Dada’s glorious Indian meals rather than troubling her good self by actually cooking them.

When I decided to leave it all behind for university in England, nobody thought to disrupt my hectic schedule of debates and rooftop parties with lessons in cooking Aloo Gobi. I arrived in rainy Buckingham, and plunged headlong into an undergraduate degree in business studies and an education in how not to eat. My experiments in the kitchen were short-lived. The burnt frozen pizzas. The tins that exploded in the microwave. The boil-in-the-bag rice that never quite cooked.

I didn’t give a damn. The 90s clubbing scene was exploding around me. My love life and my finances were imploding. Homemade chicken curry was hardly going to see me through it all. Besides, I was about to embark on a master’s degree in journalism. The future would be all about sharp suits, dictaphones, black cabs and mojitos. A far cry from the hair-in-bun, handloom-cotton image I had of aunties and seasoned cooks back home.

But after years of Taj Mahal takeaways and petrol station cuisine, I started aching for some good home-cooked food. I had no idea where to start, however. I needed help.

So I asked someone who had all the answers. Mother. She sent me a copy of the National Indian Association of Women Cookbook, given to newly wedded daughters, the soon-to-live-abroad and other hapless beings.

Armed with this seminal tome, I was ready to become Miss Masala. So what if I now worked long hours in London, spent evenings sampling cheap wine and didn’t know the first thing about cooking Indian food? It couldn’t be that difficult, right?

Wrong.

You see, professional Indian cooks can be a canny lot. Always happy to give you a quick breakdown of ingredients, they withhold some of the crucial basics. Perhaps as payback for all their hard graft as beginners. Aunties, on the other hand, are only too happy to oblige with recipes. But years of experience mean they use andaaz, giving little idea of quantities. Directions like ‘Cook the onions, add some turmeric and fry with a bit of garam masala’ are no good to a novice. We need specifics.

Most Indian cookbooks are no place for beginners, either. They assume the sort of basic knowledge I simply didn’t have, or expect a little too much in the way of free time. Instructions like ‘Soak overnight and then simmer for 3 hours’ scared me half to death.

Then you have the ingredients to contend with. Indian cooking uses a seemingly endless array of specialist spices, and the magic each one brings to a dish is a mystery of Bollywood-epic proportions. Like the foul-smelling asafoetida – a deeply offensive powder but which, once cooked, infuses dishes with a magical buttery flavour.

And finally there are all those secrets you can learn only from experience. No one ever tells you, for instance, that ready-made channa masala powder plus frying onions equals three days of spicy sofa. Or that fresh curry and methi (fenugreek) leaves can be frozen for months and still retain their flavour.

Altogether it’s a quagmire for the uninitiated. Thankfully, I craved the food enough to wade through it all. It was my labour of love – aided by the NIAW Cookbook, numerous international phone calls and Smirnoff vodka.

I started cooking for anyone who dared to sample it – whether keen colleague, hesitant sister or bewildered boyfriend. Low-oil and high-nutrient recipes from back home provided early inspiration, with a vindaloo or two thrown in for good measure. I was on the quest for mouth-watering dishes that I could rustle up after numbingly long days and harrowing weeks at work.

Along the way, I got married and dived into a public relations career. The art of frying onions to the perfect shade of gold now had to be combined with the science of juggling client deadlines with a hungry husband, lavish Indian functions and late-night partying. Time officially became money. Shortcuts de rigueur.

I have learnt lots of valuable lessons. That cooking when drunk is not a good idea, for instance. Especially when it’s your boss who is waiting to be fed. That I would rather eat my shoe than make a samosa from scratch. And that making round, fluffy rotis plays havoc with manicured fingernails.

Most importantly, I have learnt that authentic Indian cooking is, in fact, blindingly easy and can be a regular part of frantic lives. To make gloriously aromatic pulao and creamy korma, all you need are simple recipes and basic know-how. Once you crack the essentials, the rest is a piece of chappati.

This book is all about those invaluable lessons, transferred from my kitchen to yours. It’s about loving Indian food and cooking it from scratch while enjoying too many cocktails, after a steamy commute and faced with an empty fridge. The pages that follow are packed with simple recipes and handy tips for busy people who live full lives.

On some occasions an easy masala dinner will usually do the trick. But there are other nights when only a rich curry, served with heaps of basmati rice and lashings of dal and raita, will hit the spot. This book caters for such moments, whatever your mood, taste or time constraints. There are recipes for when time is of the essence, others that are big-crowd pleasers and ones for your own indulgence.

You, too, can keep it simple with quick Chicken Jhalfrezi on a bed of peppery salad leaves. Impress colleagues with a three-course dal, curry and sabzi combo. Hang out with friends, a few bottles of wine and heaps of melt-in-the-mouth lamb kebabs. And recover from it all with comforting rice Khichdi, aubergine raita and delicious little coconut bites.

Slip on your heels, keep a pair of old pyjamas handy and open your mind.

This is real Indian cooking for busy living!