Shakespeare revisited: (From left) Indira Varma, Zubin Varla and Derek Jacobi

Fair Indian in Illyria

The first play I saw in England, as a small boy 'fresh off the boat from India, was Twelfth Night, which was the set Shakespeare comedy in our fourth form English syllabus. It was just as enchanting to see it again last week at Donmar West End at Wyndams, with Sir Derek Jacobi, one of England's great actors, giving a memorable performance, cross-gartered and in yellow stockings, as Malvolio.

And then there is the girl who plays the Countess Olivia.

To most Indians, there is only Indira as in Dev Kant Barooah’s “Indira is India and India is Indira.”

But perhaps this is an opportune moment to toss another Indira into the Indian consciousness — Indira Varma.

The Indian origin actress could lay claim to the Most Beautiful Woman in Britain title after her performance as Olivia. Any Indian who happens to be in London should try to get a ticket as a new year treat before the run ends on March 7.

Another Indian origin actor, Parsi boy Zubin Varla, who is blessed with a mellifluous voice, has been cast as Feste the Fool, thereby demonstrating that the holy grail of colour blind casting is well on the way to being achieved in British theatre, which is the best in the world. When we first see Indira, she is in mourning and looks regal in black. She reminded me a little of Grace Kelly in an old classic called The Swan. In the second half, in summer slacks and shirt and a pale, wide brimmed hat, she could slip effortlessly into any Noel Coward play about the English upper classes.

Indira was born in Bath, Somerset, in 1973, the only daughter of an Indian father and a Swiss mother, and graduated from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London in 1995.

Indira has done several Indian parts. She played a rich bitch in Gurinder Chadha’s Bride and Prejudice, and displayed her charms in Kama Sutra: A Tale of Love, Mira Nair’s not entirely successful experiment with soft porn. Waris Hussein directed her in Sixth Happiness, based on Firdaus Kanga’s autobiographical tale, Trying to Grow. She also played Jinnah’s second wife in the movie, Jinnah.

A friend of mine, Ahmed Jamal, who directed Indira in a feature film called Mad Dogs, says: “She’s very good, an excellent theatre actress.”

Indira is a beauty made for Bollywood. But I reckon it would require someone like Ray to bring out the best in her.

Tales of yore: (Top) A painting of Durga Puja on mica (circa 1820); (baove) an idol in north Calcutta, 2008

Durga days

Indar Pasricha, who runs a fine arts gallery in Connaught Street, London, can be relied upon to come up with unusual Indian objects. The latest are paintings done on mica dating back to 1820.

“It required great skill because paint does not stick to mica but the advantage of mica is that it is resistant to termites,” says Indar.

One depicting Durga Puja, the work of an unknown artist in Murshidabad and part of an exhibition, “Mica and More”, caught my eye.

“These works are a microcosm of life in India from the 17th-19th centuries,” adds Indar. “These pieces hark back to a lost India.”

Maybe, but judging by the little pandal hopping I did in the company of my brother-in-law in north Calcutta this October, this is one tradition that appears not to have changed that much in nearly two centuries.

Relatively speaking

It’s all a matter of degree. After the current below freezing temperatures in England, Calcutta will resemble an oven when Professor Alison Richard, the vice-chancellor of Cambridge University, and Sharon Bamford, the chief executive of the UK India Business Council, hit the city later this week. I know the environmentally friendly ladies will be keen to take a cooling ride ons Calcutta’s famed rickshaws, which are being reborn in London’s West End.

Globetrotter: Michael Palin

Palin’s prophecy

As editor of The Sunday Times, Andrew Neil asked me one Christmas to write a fun story: recreate Phileas Fogg’s journey around the world but in contemporary times. Andrew was baffled but indulgently ran my findings that Fogg would take 106 days, instead of 80, to complete the journey, and that his Parsi love, Aouda, would be denied entry into the UK by immigration officials.

It was my turn to be baffled when shortly afterwards actor and globetrotter Michael Palin did a documentary for BBC television, Around the World in 80 Days. Last week, the BBC showed Palin, now an immensely engaging household celebrity, returning to India 20 years after his famous documentary and catching up with the Indian captain and crew who had sailed with him in 1988 from Dubai to Bombay in a dhow.

Back in 1988, he had said: “It is impossible to accept that I shall never see them again,” and, lo and behold, 20 years later, he tracks down the delighted captain and crew near Mandvi in Gujarat.

Palin dismisses the notion that the terrorist attacks in Mumbai will put off travellers from exploring India.

On the contrary, he says: “People should get a bit more adventurous about how they travel and use the local public transport.”

Of little value: A child victim in Gaza

Mind the children

Those Indians who demand war with Pakistan as a “befitting reply” to the Mumbai massacre are the ones who know least about war. In international media terms, it is obvious in London that Mumbai has become yesterday’s story for the journalistic caravan has moved on to Gaza where twice as many people have died. The anger is over the children being killed, as would be the case if India was to try to emulate the Israelis with smart bombs, which are anything but smart. They are aimed at “military targets” but invariably seek out schools.

Tittle tattle

Writing about cricket in England is much more than reporting sport: it is more an art form. This explains why Christopher Martin-Jenkins, former cricket correspondent of The Times, was awarded an MBE in the Queen’s New Year Honours list.

One writer highly regarded to this day is Neville Cardus who wrote that when Prince Ranji batted, “a strange light was seen for the first time on English fields, a light out of the East”.

Cardus went on: “Happy the man who today can close his eyes and see again the vision of Ranji, his rippling shirt of silk, his bat like a yielding cane ….. He saw the ball quicker than any other batsman; he made his strokes later, so late indeed, that Lockwood almost saw his great breakback crashing on the leg stump while Ranji remained there at his crease, apparently immobile. Then, at the last fraction of the last second, Ranji’s body leaned gently over his front leg, the bat glinted in the sun, and we saw Lockwood throw up his hands to heaven as the ball went to the boundary, exquisitely to fine leg, with the speed of thought.”

If cricket writing in India is to come up with matching prose, a few simple rules could perhaps be adopted. To start with, all references to Sachin as the “master blaster” are best avoided, along with Sehwag being “on song” and the top order “not firing”. And do teams really have to have a “second essay”?