"Inglorious Empire" strikes me as a very even-handed book - even in the face of monstrous inequality. It acknowledges that, yes, some aspects of colonisation left a long-term positive impact on the region. But that was more by accident than design. It meticulously sets out the facts behind the barbarism. It all builds to a compelling case that the British Empire in India was not a force for good, nor a broadly benign caretaker.

Meticulously referenced to quell all doubts about the atrocities perpetuated in the name of Empire. I found myself popping on to Wikipedia now and again to double-check something I found incredulous - only to be appalled by the truth.

I found it, at times, to be a difficult and relentless read. That's not the fault of the author - but in order to understand history, you have to understand the policies and personalities which led to difficult decisions. It's also worth reading on an eReader with in-built dictionary - there are plenty Indian words which I wasn't familiar with (e.g. "hartal" & "sepoy").

It is a must-read for any student of British history, or for anyone who believes they live in the afterglow of glory.

I like a good curry. Damn. Even the word curry is a generic Britishism designed to cover any spicy food from lands afar.

Every Indian restaurant in the UK offers "The Most Authentic Cuisine". I know what I like - but I've no way to judge its authenticity.

One of our hosts asked where I wanted to go out for dinner last night. "There's this great Japanese place round the corner," he suggested.

I love Japanese food. But having flown a few thousand miles to India, why would I try any cuisine other than Indian?

The food here is beautiful. As a vegetarian, I'm overwhelmed with choice. With the exception of some ill-advised chutney, I've been able to handle the spiciness.

I've eaten in both cheap canteens and high class restaurants - the food, drink, and service has been uniformly impeccable.

But is it better than my local Ruby Murray? That's hard to say. There are some great restaurants in the UK. The only way to tell, really, is to have just one more spoonful of this paneer, and a quick bite of this dosa and - oh my! - another sip of this delightful mango lassi, and... and.. and...

But not me. I'm white. Very white. More than that - I feel white and foreign. I feel out of place. The people I meet are friendly - but it's clear I don't really understand the culture, the way things work, or even how to cross the road.

My first sight of a swastika shocked me. I know its origins, its special meaning here. But even daubed in multicolour paint on the side of a taxi was enough to make me feel like I was totally separate in a way I've never felt before.

When I first travelled to South Africa, I wondered what it would be like to be a minority. An obvious outsider. I remembered George Takei - I think - talking about his first visit to Japan and being astonished that everyone there looked like him. He was no longer the odd one out walking down the street.

I had heard of international cities - like Beijing - where being "other" was enough to draw the stares of strangers on the street.

Bangalore isn't like that. I am different - but that is not enough to draw the attention of anyone. Why stare at the pale white guy when there's a cacophony of chromatic beauty surrounding you?

The face of the Indian street vendor clearly said "Oh, FFS!"

I had made the universal tourist mistake of paying for a cheap product with a ridiculously large bill. The bottle of mango juice I needed so desperately to cool down in the mad-dog sun came to 20 rupees. The smallest denomination I had was 500.

This created somewhat of an impasse.

Eventually, with much universal gesticulating on both sides, I received my change. It seemed broadly accurate, and I now had some more sociably acceptable currency, so I didn't feel hard done by.

I've always had a funny relationship with money. I baulk at paying £5 for popcorn at the cinema, but think nothing of buying a £200 hard drive. Just the way I'm wired, I guess. But spending money in a foreign land is very confusing. I mentally convert everything back to pounds sterling, and compare the price with what I'd pay at home. Common enough, I suppose. Then I try to mentally match it to the local economy.

"Yes, that's cheaper than what I'd pay at home - but it seems ridiculously expensive compared to that thing over there."

A group of us went out for a meal in an up-scale restaurant. The food was exquisite and the service was impeccable. Total cost? Maybe £30 per person plus tip. Not bad. Not bad at all. Cheaper than a similar meal in London. I tried hard not to think about the hoards of people outside the guarded perimeter who were on a dollar a day.

The next night a bunch of us went to dinner with our Indian hosts. There were eight of us. The beer flowed liberally, the food was piled high, the chocolate cake was en flambé.

Total cost was around £10 per person. This was a big deal. "Still," remarked one of our hosts, "it's good for team morale." "And it's only once a year," opined another.

On the journey back, the taxi charged us 700 rupees for a 200 rupee journey. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

Yes, cars everywhere. A fifteen minute walk quickly turns into a twenty minute taxi ride. No one walks here - the streets are too crowded for that.

Our hotel is hollowed out inside - very reminiscent of the Luxor. Same faux stone walls, unlimited buffet, and eager waiters.

The UB City shopping mall may as well be the Venetian in Vegas. Italian frescoes painted on the ceiling, soulless corridors housing luxury shops, chintzy Muzak permeates the air.

The background music of Bangalore isn't that of Vegas's chirruping slot machines - it's the constant cries of car horns.

I entered a modern looking mall. Partly out of tourist curiosity, mostly for the air conditioning! I saw something which shocked me.

As I was coming down as escalator, I noticed a teenage boy stood at the bottom of the "up" escalator. He was surrounded by half-a-dozen elderly women. Relatives, I assume. While I couldn't hear what he was saying, his meaning soon became apparent; he was teaching them how to use the escalator!

I was stunned. These women were all... let's say "mature" and yet, so it seemed, had never ridden an escalator.

The eldest, in a resplendent green sari, kept placing her palm on the moving handrail and laughing with glee as it carried her hand upwards.

The boy was eager to get them on to the moving staircase and was trying a mixture of cajoling, exasperated sighing, and physical demonstrations. Finally he got bored waiting and drifted upwards.

I reached the bottom of the staircase and pretended to be interested in a rack of sunglasses so I could observe what happened next.

Some of the younger women fearlessly stepped onto the escalator. A couple decided that this was more trouble than it was worth and took the regular staircase.

The eldest was a game old bird. Grinning widely she placed a trepidatory foot on the escalator and promptly took it off, shaking her head in confusion. The sole remaining woman gently helped her on and they lifted off together.

For half a second it was as though the old woman was flying. Breaking free of the bonds of gravity and soaring into the heavens. Then she fell over unceremoniously. Her friend picked her up and they glided out of view.

I drifted off.

I began to wonder how anyone could live their lives having never stood on an escalator. From my perspective, they just seem so commonplace. I occasionally see a small child being taught how to use them on the London Underground, but I don't think I've ever met an adult who had never encountered them.

Am I projecting too much on this one incident? Was this group of women an aberration? Or is there a whole class of rural people who don't interact much with the modern world and simply don't understand how it works?

Then, I realise, there's so much that I don't know about this culture. This country. My ignorance of shibboleths which instantly mark me as an outsider - as if my skin wasn't a big enough clue!

I don't even understand how to cross the road here. I see elderly old women dart out seemingly at random between the honking cars while I am left cowering on the pavement.

I stick a foot out into the road with great trepidation, and hope I don't fall over.