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The startlingly white building was locked that morning, to the consternation of a tourist waiting in his stockinged feet. My taxi driver, Mr Raj, was a little miffed too because he had wanted to show off the mosque's interior beauty. "Well, mum" he said eventually in an accent soft as velvet, "I suggest we instead visit the bazaars." So off we went along streets named Calcutta and Bombay and Delhi to inspect ivory and jade carvings, and teak furniture exquisitely inlaid with mother of pearl. I bought a leather box, noted that Indian skirts and blouses cost less at home, and had a fine old time choosing a cotton bedspread of such proportions it will make a long dress and probably a short one too.

Our final stop was at a tiny café. All over town I had seen hot rotis sold from bars and pushcarts. Now I ordered one with a moderately spiced goat filling popped into a dough pouch that was cooked while we waited. Mr. Raj had a fiery looking chicken in curry with a side order of rice, and as we ate told me how the entire community was invited to his daughter's wedding in accordance with the custom of his people. When we were through, he said, "I think you enjoyed your morning in India, mum." And so I did. Except that we were in Port of Spain, capital of Trinidad.