The small boy grinned at my husband. "Take a leak, take a leak," he said.

My husband flashed him a grateful smile. "However did he know what was on my mind?" he mumbled. Then he asked, "Where can I do that?"

"Right here, sir," the boy replied.

My husband looked around the field we stood in rather doubtfully. An assorted bunch of labourers was there, watching us as they went about their work.

"I think I should go somewhere more private," he said, in chaste Kannada. "Maybe behind that shed there?"

"Not necessary, sir," said the boy. "See, you just reach into the ground and pull, and up it comes." He waved a rather splendid leek at my husband, mud clinging to its roots.

We were out for an afternoon drive, on the suburbs of Bangalore. We had just reached the peaceful surroundings of Whitefield when my husband suddenly stopped the car. Until the boy made that crucial statement, I had assumed it was to see the purple, green and brown patches of vegetables by the road.

"Now I know why you really stopped," I said.

"Yes, of course," he replied, grinning cheekily. "I thought you would like some leek soup tonight."

I turned to see a burly man, obviously a farmer, walking up to us, brandishing an iron chopper.

"Want some Bruce Lee?" he asked ominously.

"Ho Chi!" I yelled in response, instantly assuming what I thought looked like a defensive taekwondo pose.

My six-year-old daughter Amala looked at me in disgust. Then, she flashed a sugary smile at the farmer. "Please kodi uncle, I love it!"

It was only then that I saw the green flowery vegetable the man was holding in his other hand -- a magnificent specimen of broccoli!

The farmer decided to ignore what he probably thought was a weird denizen from the city's concrete jungles. He turned to Amala.

"Yes, paapu," he said to her. "These are all English vegetables. We grow them for your posh five-star hotels and parties in Bangalore. We have all varieties of let-loose here."

By now, I had gotten the hang of his language. "Yes, you have some very unusual purple lettuce here, I notice," I agreed.

The man ignored me. He held out a large hand to Amala. "Come, I will show you some zoo praani," he said to her.

Amala's face crumpled. "I don't want to see zoo animals," she said. "I came to see some nice vegetables."

It was my turn to smile patronisingly at her. "He only meant zucchini, silly," I said, ruffling her hair.

And that was the least of it. We found, spread over that modest acre or two, every kind of what the man described as English vegetables. How did this man, who could not even get their names right, grow such exotic fare in ordinary South Indian soil, I wondered.

I spoke my thoughts aloud, and the farmer looked at me even more disdainfully. "We found out all about how to grow it from various farming societies and seed banks," he said.

From somewhere on my right, I heard some funny squelching sounds. I looked around.

Amala had happily abandoned her expensive shoes and was wading knee-deep through slushy vegetable patches, leaving behind a trail of broken lettuces and zoo china, er, zucchini.

Her friend the farmer was waving his chopper in what I now recognised as great friendliness. "Those were all weak vegetables anyway," he said rather sheepishly, refusing to meet my eye. "I told her she could stamp around in them."

Now I could hear disgusting noises from somewhere on my left. I did not need to look around this time. I knew I would see my greens-crazy health buff of a husband picking various ingleesu tarkarigalu (English vegetables).

Resigned to my fate, I threw caution to the winds and plonked myself in the middle of a cabbage patch. Maybe this is how they took it easy on English farms.

M D Riti prefers Indian veggies to their foreign counterparts.

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