Year of the Pig

Happy New Year - if you are Chinese, in China or thereabouts or are feeling happy. It is the Year of the Pig.

While on the subject of pigs - watched a rerun of Jimmy's farm diaries on the Beeb. Focussed on Essex pigs. It was rather sad to watch Blaze meet his end like that. Though good to see Porridge again. I still can't believe they are reared for eating. And to think that I ate a slice of Beenham this morning for breakfast.

If you are interested in knowing more about rare breeds-checkout the Essex Pig Company

Smoke on the Water

So I didn't quite come out to Montreux on the Lake Geneva shoreline, but found myself in Geneva, by Lac Leman (as it should correctly be called, I am told). Did I say 'found myself' ? That would imply that I hopped on a broomstick, said Goodbye Paddock, Hello Greymalkin and arrived in Geneva.

Sigh..if only life were quite as simple. When you decide to tag along with your lord and master on a work trip, and then decide the sprog must go as well, life becomes a trifle complicated. Then there is the business of finding yourself in Geneva airport - one of the 3 people that are missing their bag! Apparently the airline decided loading skis was more exciting than bags containing diapers and baby food (not sure I blame them), so there we were, 6 pm on a Saturday, with the bare essentials. Like all good European cities, Genevans had shut shop at 5.30 pm on Saturdays - so one hoped the bag was going to arrive.

Bags not withstanding , B, the sprog and I found ourselves in Brasserie Baloise drowning our sorrows in what else but fondue, longeole (a raw sausage which I quite took to till I discovered it was raw), and plenty of Kirsch and Gamay ( a local red, I was told). It was a pleasant meal, the service was excellent - which included the sprog being passed around the restaurant like she was a toy, till the waitress ruined it all (for me) by telling me she really liked my husband! Clearly she figured I wasn't the tipper!

The evening ended well enough, till B and I suddenly realised - help, we had no bags! At 1.00 am I suddenly woke up and called the Hotel reception to remind them that we were still expecting our bags. I was pleased with my efficiency and woke B up to tell him that I had spoken the the new chap at the reception, his name was Philip Bonsoir and he would keep us posted. Turns out his name was just Philip, and the Bonsoir bit was the greeting. Du-h. B's not going to let me forget this one for a bit. Though I am blaming it on too much cider and all the Kirsch.

The bag did arrive the next morning, would have been nicer if the reception had informed us, rather than me punching redial like a woman possessed, only to be greeted by a lazy French voice on a machine proclaiming they were open 9 am to 8pm - this at 10 am!

Suitcase in room, and having found my favourite mittens, we decided to explore. February isn't the best of months to explore most place north of 40 degrees ,but here we were. Went to Lausanne etc. , walked, explored, shopped (hard to achieve on a sunday!), and ate of course. Was told off by a French lady for drinking at lunch - who pointed to my wine and said 'poisson'. Determined to interpret , i told B , i think she recommends this wine with Fish! Turns out she meant 'poison' ! So much for the French and wine!

The next few days flew into each other. N and I explored, while B worked and explored when free! The weather improved dramatically, and it was a shame we were not going to ski. I stumbled across the charming restaurant my sister D ate in last summer - was rather exciting! Also found a lovely little store with plenty of fleur de sel - so all gourmet sensibilites were satisfied! One night we ate at the Edelweiss - raclette, fresh lake perch etc. The food was rather good, though the thing with being Indian is that most other types of cuisine seem so basic - sometimes I don't really get what the song and dance is about! Speaking of song - I was invited to play the alphorn by the musicians who had a lively thing going - was quite a lot of fun other than i sounded like a bull frog! Don't think am getting any invites to play at the Montreux Jazz fest!

B and I wondered if time, or Den Bosch had spoilt us. Seven years ago (longer for B), Switzerland seemed a veritable magic land. Perhaps something to do with a honeymoon?

Anyway, so St. Valentine's Day it was, when we jaded souls (!) found ourselves back in the Netherlands. Some rude woman pushed me in Schiphol airport, and minutes later, B found my wallet missing from my backpack!

Not so great end to a lovely few days. Magical it might not have been, but we could get used to this. The Alps, Jet D'eau, Lac Leman and the Longeole, of course!

C'est la vie.

Our Little Babe

Speaking of pigs - here go some winter wonderland pics of our little Babe! They are taken right behind our house.

Pot Bellied Pigs

Was watching Nature Watch on the Beeb today - and came across a pair of the most adorable pot bellied pigs ever! They were called Blossom and Bruno. They were busy eating tomatoes, bananas etc. Bruno is such a man - he was eating the banana with the peel on ! I couldn't find any photos of them on the web but found 2 that sort of look like them!













Enjoy!

Tequila and the Snake Poison Man

Eyes of liquid gold. Destroyer of daisy beds. Duchess of the Drm Bungalow. Floppy eared rabbit. Little licking devil.

It's hard to tell all of these names apply to a little dachshund with shiny brown skin and cuervo gold eyes. Much has been written about Tequila and her little brother Mowgli on this blog. But it's hard to believe neither one of those little devils is around any more.

Just yesterday my mother absentmindedly admonished my father for putting his hand below the dinner table while she was on the phone. She thought he was feeding Tequila yet again!

Tequila was our 1st pet (if you don't count all my imaginary ones including pumpkin, my chimerical dog). My mother fetched her from a colleague one morning around the 1st week of December. She was barely a month old, and understandably disliked her little bed on the floor.

I arrived home from college to be surprised by the entrance of the daintiest little dog in the whole world. At night i would sneak her into my bed, and soon the only place she'd sleep would be our beds! My mother was trying to find a name for her, ranging from Daisy to Chrysanthemum - all the flower beds she chewed and stomped all over with her little paws.

My friend R who was visiting, and had a Cuban connection decided Tequila was a good name for her. Tequila it was. Tah-keeh-laah according the forty odd souls who looked after the bungalow. Word spread fast, if one were to curry favour with Sahib and Memsahib - the route was here. If Tequila liked you, you had instant access. If she didn't , the guards at the gate, nor Ramu the "House Manager" could help.

Tequi as she was soon referred to - nothing to do with little insects that plague dogs, was every bit the top dog. She ruled the house, the gardens, the paddy fields and of course, our hearts. All the crows that had drunk water from the garden fountains for several generations found themselves chased by her. The same goes for the monkeys that used to frequent the lichee and jamun trees. Our Dhobi's son found his already tattered clothes further damaged. The living room carpet which was for constant use soon found disuse as she zealously worked on the tassels with her sharp little teeth.

Her friends were many - right from the visiting out of town dignitaries who threatened to adopt her if my father didn't find one just like her, to Singhji, a bearded old man who came twice a week to put out the bottles of Snake poison. Even before the guard at the gate rang on the old winding phone, we knew he had arrived as Tequila made a mad dash for the gardens!

Just like every whimsical girl, she too had her moments. Like the time she sneaked out from my mother careful watch and came back from the paddy fields - soaked, muddy and smelling of something other than the buffaloes. Further investigation revealed she had found a skunk for company. I am not surprised skunks don't have too many friends. Tequi despite a couple of baths was in danger of being given up for adoption thanks to the odour from Stinky.

Then there was the time she spent an afternoon locked inside with us, while we took siestas in the long, faineant summer afternoons. I woke up and reached for the book I was reading - only to find that Tequi had chewed off the cover, destroyed the foreword, but somehow left the label that said it was a prize awarded to me in college intact! I could have killed her - but what do you say to a little dog, who sits amongst the remains of your book, and strangely enough doesn't ruin the part you consider most important?

Like all good things that come to an end, Tequi's sole reign ended with the arrival of Mowgli. Their love -hate relationship is another long story.

My grandmother always said Tequi was more than a dog. Extremely discerning about her likes and dislikes , once S. , one of the maids asked my other rather sadly, 'how does she know I am the help'? Unlike Mowgs who ate everything in sight, Tequi was very finicky. The test of a sandesh was whether Tequi ate it - if not, it was probably doggy, sorry dodgy!

The same deeper wisdom was to reveal itself more recently. A week before my mother was to leave for the Netherlands to prepare for the arrival of baby N. , she had a minor domestic crisis with the help vanishing all at once for a couple of days etc. My parents worried about who would look after Tequi if the maids didn't return. One evening after her usual walk with my mother, usual biscuit with my father, she was lying on her favourite sofa, and produced a sudden yelp. Without a fuss, she decided to make things simple for my folks, as she made her way to the Happy Hunting grounds.

So if you look up and see what looks like two dachshunds playing in the sky, throw them a biscuit, because those are two great dogs!

The inheritance of Pujo

Just like countless other migratory birds, it's that time of the year when we suddenly flock to seek our own kind. Cooler weather, fall foliage, cinnamon lattes and a whiff of nostalgia all seem to draw us together. Not that vivid vermilion sugar maples are remotely similar to the fragrant shiuli found in Shorot kal, nor does the sleepy, sedate silence of suburbia compare to the drumming of the dhaks. But flock together we must. Be it Billerica, Generica , whatever. Durga Puja is here.

Last year we found ourselves on yet another continent, seeking yet another flocking zone. We had some options, none within the Netherlands. B was relieved, I was not.
Armed with the determination to converge, we found ourselves in Koln Chorweiler (perhaps not the best of names to carry out sacerdotal activities, such as they are!). Bravely we shed all inhibitions, and found ourselves carrying conversations ranging from where the best Bangladeshi Hilsa was to be found in Brussels, why Aachen seemed to draw so many aliens , and of shoes, ships and sealing wax. You get the idea.

Come September, I found myself seeking to flock again. This time with renewed vigour - it being baby N's 1st pujo and all that. We found ourselves - B's parents included, heading to Chorweiler again! Somethings are as eternal as the rain..or in this case the Bengalis. The arati scheduled for 4pm hadn't begun till 7.30 ! The samosas promised for tea hadn't arrived till 7 pm ! All the well greased efficient German organisation couldn't hurry the Bengalis along! While all of them discussed last year's pujo, the year before and the one 20 years ago, the German spouses attempted to sell tea, peel potols and collect chanda!

It was nice enough this year, just like it is every year, every pujo. Made more so by the sudden entrance of family - B's, part Bengali, part German cousins with promises to see each other more often.

All in all , a day well spent. So what if we missed the anjali, the arati , the samosas and the cultural program..as someone once said, most delights are sweeter in expectation than
enjoyment.

Big Wheel Keep On Turning

Ok...so I fell off the map last year. Unfortunately i also fell in and out of the blogosphere. But fallen off yhe wagon I have not for sometime. Most of you know the reason.
Having promised myself and myriad other souls i will not cause diaper rash....am not at liberty to ramble on about every goo and gaa of my latest obsession.

But here go a couple of pics!

's-Hertogenbosch International Women'sClub

I'm a member of an expat womens club in Den Bosch which helps to keep me sane. Here's an article about them on expatica.com - which is a webzine for expats across the EU.
http://www.expatica.com/source/site_article.asp?subchannel_id=1&story_id=31629

To underscore the diversity of the group, that's me(Indian) in the picture , 2nd from left - with Jacqueline(English), Sharon(Scottish) and Charlotte(Danish) - as international as you can get !

Nayantara

 



Born Jul 15 2006 at 2345 hrs CEST, weighing in at 2.85 kilos …. Nayantara Deb, Ladies and gentlemen! 

Baby Shower

I am not big on surprises. Probably something to do with the control freak in me. But this weekend was different!

Having managed to pull my ever increasing self together to go with B for afternoon tea to Pilkingtons, I found tea in my living room instead! A bunch of my friends from the HIWC threw me a surprise Baby shower!

It was a lot of fun! It was amazing how much effort had been put into the entire affair! S had organised tons of games, ranging from Baby lotto and scrambles, to guessing the size of the tummy ( a variation of 'weigh the pig' at country fairs!).

Turns out the entire thing was started by M & J who set the ball rolling! There was tons to eat, right from fresh scones to samosas! There were tons of gifts for the little one. More importantly there were tons of funny stories - fortunately non about child birth!

The piece d'resistance was of course the diaper cake! I can't believe I am saying this - but the entire affair felt rather sex and city like!

Now the countdown has truly begun.

Keukenhof Revisited!

Spring is Here!

Back from the Land of the Porcelain Goddess to 't Misverstant

It's been a while since I blogged. I guess it's been a busy busy 3 months. So much has happened. Single friends decided to settle in. Little children arrived in different parts of the world. And B's diaper rash seems to have transmogrified into diaper love.

It's been an exciting and not so exciting last few months. Worshipping the porcelain goddess is not my idea of time well spent..but such is life! However that phase being over, B & I are looking forward to the next few months!

It was nice to be home last month, be pampered endlessly and feel wholesome again! It's funny how being sick can make you long for things you typically turn your nose up at! Try the 'Indian menu' on the KLM flight to Delhi for instance. I wolved it down with such gusto, B thought I was going to be sick!

Tomorrow B is taking me out to dinner. He has promised to make amends for last year. Remember my birthday ? When i found myself locked in, in a new land, with no friends in sight, having quit my job, turning to carrot stubs for sustenance?

So a seven course French meal it is this year. In a quiet neat restaurant tucked away in the by lanes of Den Bosch. The name of the place is interesting though - 't Misverstant (apparently means misunderstanding)!?

Doesn't bode well given the experience I had last birthday. Will keep you posted!

Sinter Klaas & Zwarte Piet

In this new age of political correctness its often hard to distinguish candour from crudity, or fun from foibles. Be that as it may - its always amusing when one gets into these discussions with other expats, with most decrying what they describe as the lack of political correctness in the Netherlands.
With Sinter Klaas arriving in different towns over the last few weeks, and little Zwarte Piete running here and there, its time for heated arguments yet again!
'What dreadful characterisation, how do i explain to my 7 year old that colour doesn't define 'helpers' fumed my oh-so-correct American friend aka S. She soon found rebuttal in in J's reply - But darling , they are merely dark because they came down the chimney!
S responded with - But what about the hair!
Which actually takes me back to Oeteldonk last year - when a couple of women were walking down the street, with Afro hairdos - that supposedly being their costume. In the meantime, a South African friend who couldn't stop staring at them, and remarked to me with a wry grin - is looking like me entertaining? I responded with - "probably you'd be as entertaining in a blond wig and blue contact lenses!"
One does have to admit that once we've lived in a culture of political correctness ´- many things can seem rather odd here. Like the time my Uncle's Dutch business partner - remarked that his wife had gone on holiday to Turkey with her sister, and was probably getting robbed by all the 'black people' there! This coming from a well travelled, cosmopolitan businessman with work and social interests in many countries in Asia!
But for many expats to generalise based on a few specific instances is probably as dangerous as political incorrectness itself. After all , isn't being pc about not creating stereotypes?
On that doctrinaire note, I must rush. I am not about to miss out on my gevulde speculaas in my little friend -Amelia's school - and get a hug from the Zwarte Piets . Being a sucker for traditional fun - am happy to forget political correctness for today.
Wens je fijne kerstdagen en een gelukkig nieuwjaar ! (Merry Xmas and Happy New Year for the uninitiated!)

Depths of Despair

It's been the best of times, and the worst of times. The best of times since there's all this excitement of a little person soon to arrive in our lives. Not the best of times - thanks to all the horrible sickness and stuff that goes with having little rug rats arrive - like worshipping the porcelain goddess several times a day. That coupled with some of the idiosyncrasies of the Dutch system -make for entertaining times.

First, there was this business of finding a Huisart - (aGP or primary care physician) since a sprog was on the way. Having lived here for close to 7 months, and not having signed up with one was probably quite silly. All this lady of leisure business with holidays every other week - made me believe I was on a holiday ( albeit extended) and would soon return to my crazy, wonderful (through the hazy film of time) job back home.

After spending a couple of days trying to find a Huisart not too far from the centre of town, I found a practice and made an appointment to go see them. After the usual apologies for my rudimentary Dutch, I found the lady behind the counter rather effortlessly slid into English as well. After getting our personal details (B's and mine), I explained to her we possibly had a little rug rat on its way. After congratulating me heartily, she gave me a note to see a doctor at the Jeroen Bosch Ziekenhuis .

I was much relieved since I was used to a cultures of Doctors, for some irrational reason, midwives and home births seemed awfully frightening. Esp. after all the horror stories from the women's club about midwives (turns out even the male ones are called midwife), placentas that refuse to emerge (what's a placenta you may ask), and almost giving birth in the woods, with no pain relief (and you were wondering what that yelp two doors away was - probably a woman, not a cat in labour)! It's always interesting how no one mentions the good stuff, the Kraam care, the Verloskundigen visiting you at home and making sure all's well with you and the wee one. Anyway - I am diverting.

I was rather surprised and pleased the lady at the Huisart was sending me to the doctor. I said as much to her when she responded with - 'At your age, its best if you see the doctor instead of a midwife'. I must confess I was rather squashed and didn't feel so kindly disposed any longer. So I was 30, i know it's old, and people do feel touchy about it, but must she remind me? Also - I was concerned, I didn't realise being 30 put me in a high risk - too old to have a baby category. Ok, so 30 wasn't young, but my friend in NY city had just been told that at 31 she was amongst the younger people having a baby in New York.

Oh well - I would just cope with being an old mother, etc etc, I mumbled and stumbled to the Ziekenhuis. After crawling through the labyrinth that was the hospital, i arrived at the front desk to get a hospital card made. The lady at the desk looked at me rather quizzically, and asked if I was sure I was pregnant! Told her I was as sure as can be - needed to see the Doctor to confirm the same! She asked for id just to make sure she got my hospital card right - when she exclaimed. 'It says on the Huisart's record that you are born in 1957, but your passport says 1975!'

DUH. Now that explained everything. Despite having gone through this several times at stores etc, I forgot to check! The Dutch system of repeating numbers is different from English - where the units number is mentioned 1st , and then the tens no. For e.g.- the time I thought I had spent 'negen(9) and veertig'(4) , so 94 euros at the body shop on 3 little jars, and was thinking, hmmn, the products are sort of expensive in the Netherlands. Turns out the shop assistant meant 49 euros, they merely say the 2nd no. 1st!

One would think they would apply the English no. logic when conversing in English , but not quite. So the girl at the Huisart's assumed I was born in 1957 when I told her I was born in Nineteen Seventy Five! No wonder she thought I needed to see a doctor! At the age of 48 it would need to be pretty close to a medical miracle.

English - Dutch - Semantics apart, the hardest blow was the fact that she thought I looked like I was born in 1957. Hmmn. So you are 30, unemployed currently since you decide to follow the lord and master on yet another expat assignment, find yourself in yet another foreign country, and the lady at the Doctor's thinks you look 48 years old.

Find me a corner quick, I need to curl up and perish! Just like Anne (of the Green Gables, one of my favourite books), I have finally reached the depths of my despair.

One post @ the risk of sounding like the fox

"A hungry fox passed below a fine bunch of grapes hanging high from a vine. After trying in vain to jump and reach for them he gave up, saying to himself as he walked off, 'the grapes looked ripe, but i see now they are quite sour."

This morning my sister sent me the link to a review for a 'popular' author's new Bestseller. She unfortunately received a copy of this 'best seller' from a well- meaning relative who knows she likes to 'read'. Ha. Did i say unfortunately, her expression, not mine, i would like to hastily clarify.

Another book by the same popular author was published sometime ago. Yet another well-meaning relative bought the book and gave it to B as a birthday present. The hapless soul thought he was giving B a relevant book, after all it featured his engineering school!

I have to confess i was excited when i heard about the 1st book. Seemed like the desi answer to Snapshots from Hell was finally here. Needless to say, i was getting a bit carried away. About 50 pages on, i was convinced, what's good sauce for goose is not always good sauce for the gander. Or vice versa. Bad editing not withstanding, I did attempt to labour on, but work and all that got in the way, so the book remained unfinished.

Once I attempted to discuss the pros and cons of the book with a friend, she responded with ' My husband who doesn't like to read, says this is a great book'! My point exactly!

Many months followed, as did a brilliant pr job by the author/his publishers. Suddenly this was the stuff dreams are made of! Not literary dreams, but marketing dreams certainly. Every now and then i heard people discuss this book, the intellectuals from their high horse, peeved with the quality of his writing. A former class of the author's, sorely referred to him as 'Vernie' (snobbish public school speak for those who don't speak English quite correctly, with plenty of unforced grammatical errors etc.) Who would read this, he agonised.

But someone obviously did! Also, no matter how critical the reader / non-reader, everyone, just everyone, grudgingly admitting that the marketing plan was immaculate.

I have to admit though, for some time now i have been grappling with a basic dilemma. It probably started bothering me 5 years ago, when after attending a book reading with VS Naipaul at the Boston Public Library. In the q&a, he said that 'The study of English was becoming common and bastardized' A strong remark there, he was referring to the 'dumbing down' of literary courses in the UK, even in the hallowed portals of Oxbridge to make them more inclusive. Or relevant perhaps?

The reviewer echoes this in her article in Business Standard, 'He (the popular author) writes for a generation that sees very few reflections of its aims, heartbreaks and language in contemporary literature.'

So lower the bar, let others in, and stop being pretentious. Or does it mean, stop attempting to understand things that are difficult, let's play to the lowest common denominator? Let's sell instant novels - ' Bas, Do minute, aur chatpata swadisht kitab ' ? Another take - be more egalitarian, move over Hoi Oligoi, the Polloi are here!

As one fan of the popular author delightfully proclaims on yet another website (appropriately named mouthshut.com!) about his latest book, ON@TCC , ' His language is not heavy duty, story is filmy, and i read in 5 hours flat , man'.

See what i mean? Is it fair that my sister, larger groups of highbrow friends, and caustic, cerebral critics clip the poor popular author's wings in this manner?

I mean, that last comment there, isn't it just the stuff your literary dreams are made of?
Hic.

The Great Indian Kadhai or Dutch Oven ?

Ok. So am almost borrowing the title of A’s TV show. But there really is no better way to describe this.

It probably all started many moons ago when i took the plunge. Went one early june night to meet the Cookie Baking company. Or Bon Bon Babes Inc. Or the Desperate Housewives, always desperate, not necessarily House wives. Took my friend M's advice, ignored the highbrow intellectual advise from well meaning Men-tors, dementors whatever.

There I was, breaking bread in Den Bosch. Be it souped up dinners, pretentious picnics, wild pub nights, I had a life again! It was fun to be the new flavour in this melting pot. To amuse and entertain, and change perceptions about the little Indian girl! Not so much fun trying to clarify for the nth time, no my partner is not Dutch, not American, not English, and definitely not Norwegian. And agreeing heartily, oh yes, he has an unpronounceable name; you know what they say about for bet...or worse and for worse. Just call him U Haul!

In this newfound vacuous existence i actually found myself living, and letting others too! I used the V word because one afternoon as i chattered away excitedly to my sister about a particularly insane, inane girl’s night out, she reminded me ' who has a vacuous existence now? ' I'll bet revenge was sweet. For not so long ago I had dismissed her evening coffee meetings with her numerous friends as 'such a vacuous existence, what trite conversations', while i laboured on in endless and such meaningful meetings!

Yeah. Whatever. There have been weeks when my most pressing concern has been ' oh dear, what shall i wear to J's cocktail do'. Or times when i have have found myself concocting exotic Indian recipes - as a food ambassador. Imagine my delight when in this crowd of English, American, Danish, Dutch, Russian, Swiss etc. girls - i found someone not very different from me! An Indian girl from South Africa, who incidentally has never been to India, but looks, breathes, cooks and eats Indian!

There was the beginning of a Grand Diwali Dinner. No efforts spared. Everything imaginable was on the table. While the Brits claimed to be stakeholders for the Saag Aloo, the Americans insisted with great fervour - Josh Rogan, Rogan Josh was theirs (It even sounds like the son of an ex President!).

But if you think dinner is all this melting pot is about - you are absolutely wrong. There are wheels within wheels. There is the Book club (with plenty of intellectual pretensions) featuring the Smarties. The Fashionistas. The mums’ n tots. The Hate mums n tots. Most importantly - the Critici van het Nederlandse. Aka - what you don't like about the Dutch!

And so it goes. Every time you are at a party, and have stopped tearing to tatters a pretty girl's green disaster (a short, shiny green dress the men are eyeing), and are running short of conversation, it's pretty easy. Just switch to the topic of typical Dutch toilets. Why they are designed the way they are. Know what i mean? If not, you will have to visit!

Yep, this is the new life. The pot. Melting pot. The women's club. The house elf's hermitage. Aha, yes, also the Vacuous Life. A good life?

Pros and Cons of being a House Elf

Me Dobbie. I became attached to my master 5.5 years ago. And enslaved sometime ago, around the time that me completed 3 elf decades. My entry to the house - elf world was not necessarily the best one. Master enslaved me, brought me to an alien country far far away, filled with mutants, giants and other creepy kreachers. My office elf days vanished, to be replaced by a new timid house elf.

I bet i already told you the event that finally signified the beginning of house elf days. When master filled his oft repeated promise of a dog biscuit and glass of water for me, only to replace it with 2 carrot stubs and a half chewed stroop waffel. (i do know how to spell, the mutants however, don't). There i sat at home , locked in, with the fabulous feast i just mentioned.

Such is the story of the house elf. Once Master had 15 of his evil hobbit friends over, and me cooked and cleaned as a house elf should. Before i could say - Master, what are those drum rolls? I found them to be Master's snores instead!

At times master forgets to call home, so i make tons of dinner and eat by myself (am quite a well fed house elf, thank you). Master says am not really a house elf. the one who comes tuesdays to clean is. Well, anyone who must stay at home and follow master's orders, must be one.

I have other house elves i am friendly with. Some of them like me follow their master's bidding. Sometimes we elves go shopping to spend our Masters' money. If it's a very nice pair of party elf boots, we get them quietly, on a Master card, invisible to most. The we drink some elfacinno, or earl fey tea, or at times, just whine.

Sometimes Master looks like he might not need such a tiny house elf after all. I have caught him fancying a rather large, hippograffe in disguise as house elf. Though Master very smart, and doesn't reveal his thoughts.

Today i discovered from a former house elf that our story with Harry is being shown right here, in what the mutants call the 'bioscopen'. Master said it wasn't of any importance. Perhaps he is right, being a house elf and all , one must know one's place.

Did i say something about the pros of being an elf? tgfg vjijg ... drfgag g...
Master says too much time on the laptop. Must go now before master erase this.

May the force (of the House Elf) be with you!

And you're still the same

It's been an incredible summer, the icing on the cake probably being the icy glaciers of Norway. But more about the summer later - this is about the end of the summer. Fall. And a visit to my most favourite city in the world- Boston.

B & I went back together to the States after nearly 3 plus years. I say together because B has done his fair share of traveling without me the last 3 years, as i have done mine! It was nice to be back in New York, as always the city and its electricity tends to get me a little dazed. But it felt good nevertheless. Staying with old friends. Meeting others. Catching up. So much to talk about. So little time. The generica that is America suddenly had it's own charm. It was nice to be able to walk into a Starbucks, order a pumpkin latte, share a joke with the girl getting my coffee and feel the cinnamon like warmth of fall again. Nice to be able to get to stores, know my size, explain i didn't live in the states when offered a store card. When asked where i live, the sheer delight on the salesperson's face, "Ohhh my Gaawhd!" - which probably translated to " You eat Hash Brownies every morning? And its legal!"

Met a friend from work, i hadn't seen in 3 years, reminisced about the good days, old days. Wandering around in Soho, i found myself rummaging racks with an attractive girl. Assuming she was yet another ABCD (the figure didn't show traces of a greasy curry & rice diet), i suddenly realised it was a famous bollywood actress, sadly when at the checkout counter. Which was funny - given that my bro in law had spent the last weekend cozying up with her (hopefully not literally) in the Himalayas!

It was nice getting in a cab, and have the driver understand what i am saying & vice versa, even nicer when i recognised one such accent as that of a Pushtu speaker! The delighted driver insisted on not taking any money from me!

When i told R later that people in NY seemed really friendly, including her 6 year old neighbour, Taylor, she said it must be me! Not sure if she meant my delighted expression at understanding the language people spoke or my mental age, but i will assume the former!

But more about NY later. If its fall, it must be Boston. At times i wondered if i was biased in thinking Boston was 'it'. It was the 1st city of the western world i had ever lived in. B & I spent the early years of our marriage here, the years when I was trying to make sense of an aunt's famous quote,' the wedding is over and the marriage has begun!'

But 3 years later, having travelled and lived in other parts of the world, i don't think i was predisposed without reason. Well, at least this is how i feel in the fall. Ask me about February in Boston, i might have different ideas!

But it was the fall. The Pru (now ever special, as an ex employer!) , John Hancock, the River Charles, the Atlantic - could anything be more blue? For all those who complain about lack of charm in America, i think Brattle street in Cambridge, compares more favourably to European towns than most places! If you want to get away from generica, all you have to do is enter LA Burdick, get your large mug of chocolate, find little chocolate mice and penguins (acc. to me, strictly not for eating). Of course, i had forgotten about large American portions, so the 'usual' at Legal seafood, turned out to be way larger than usual. By the time i was done with the steamers and mussels, i couldn't get to my lobster. What a shame!

A drive along route 2 to the country, with me hopelessly painting partially red trees into pure crimson in my mind's eye! M in helpless giggles, watching me roll along with the pumpkins in the patches. Dunkin' Donuts and the special spiced pumpkin doughnut! B navigating around the inner streets like he had never left! M & I vanishing inside Jasmine Sola. A ride into Downtown on the T - to familiar haunts. Most of all - so many friends. Dinner here, breakfast there, interspersed with lunch, brunch, tea, high tea and drinks! All our time was divided into BM & AM - before & after meals!

Of course - all wasn't the same. Outside Boston, on the Mass Pike was a sign that read " Boston Red Sox - Home of the 2004 World Champions". That was new! Also, B developed diaper rash. Not to diapers, but to diaper talk. He proclaimed one night, suddenly - 'Finished. That's what people become with kids.' While i agreed mostly, i think this phenomenon seemed to apply more to the US Indian parents. Obsessive is a good description perhaps.

One particularly torturous evening, i found myself seated between 2 mothers discussing the pros and cons of potty training & its psychological impact. Did it strike them - that perhaps it wasn't appropriate dinner conversation? Also - that maybe there was the slightest chance i wasn't interested in anyone's bowel movements? Unfortunately my polite, always smiley self didn't want to look like a cruel apathetic witch, so i feigned interest like a constipated jack o lantern, that wasn't lit any more! Any recommendations to B that we might as well join 'em if we couldn't beat 'em, is greeted with dire threats ' do you want to be finished? '. Probably not!

Diaper rash not withstanding, it was great to be back. To see all things familiar. Meet all faces familiar. One evening B took a particularly circuitous route to Newton via Lexington. Red sugar maples, 100.7 WZLX, the smell of cinnamon laced coffee, it was good to see our 1st home again!

'And you'’re still the same, I caught up with you yesterday' - Bob Seger, "Stranger in Town"

Finding Tyler

I fell in love with a tall, dark, obese and adorable creature in the summer of 2000. The year i got married. No, am not referring to B. But Tyler, in fact. He weighs 775 pounds. Has bright beady eyes and cute little flapping ears. And by the time I spent 15 minutes with him - my heart was falling off my sleeve.

I spent the rest of the summer pleading with B to imitate Tyler's opinion of litterbugs. On rare days B obliged, only to curry favour. Or spaghetti flavours as the case may be.

More about Tyler: He lived at the New England Aquarium in Boston. He is a sea lion. When i 1st met him he was 6 years old. He was incredibly smart, good looking and odd! He stuck his tongue out at strangers he didn't like. Kissed little girls and didn't make them cry. Sigh. And for the rest of my life, whenever i hear "ymca" - am tempted to dance to his tune, like the summer of 2000.

The love affair continued. Every visitor i had in Boston must see the aquarium. How else was i to explain this odd fascination? When my parents visited, my mother had already been referring to me as Tyler in deference to my obsession. When we went to watch him, unfortunately Zuma was on show that day. Did i use the adjective unfortunate? Not very accurate, but Tyler he was not. Probably more agile, but not quite as obese.

Time sped by. In the rush of all things modern, and coping with the chaos that is Delhi, and the workplace that resembled an eddy, Tyler was relegated to the back burners of my memory. Other than an occasional sad glimpse into the life of a seal on Discovery, such as Gomez who was sent back to sea after living with a family for a year.

Till one winter morning in Delhi i woke up, switched on the telly, and there it was again. Ok, so not Tyler, But Andre. A film based on a true story, starring one of Tyler's cousins possibly, named Tory. As i became increasingly absorbed in the film, DG (the Rosario in my life) suddenly brought me photo albums with pictures of Tyler and Zuma, and thought they resembled "Handy" in the film. Handy = Her version of "Andre".

A bit of a sad commentary on my life, and the sea lions I had almost forgotten. A few months followed, as did my move to the Netherlands. On vacation in Norway, the much hyped Bergen aquarium didn't yield too many of Tyler's cousins, unless you count the baby seals. They incidentally get clubbed to death often - by fisherman who consider them greedy. The next time you attack that slab of pink salmon, look over your shoulder!

A couple of weeks ago, one Sunday, B decided it was time to find my sea lions again. It was a cold summer's day at the Dolfinarium in Harderwijk. The weather was disappointing but the day was not. There were walruses. (No carpenters, before you ask me, like my mother). And Seals, called Zee Honds (dogs of the sea, just like dachshunds). Dolphins, lots of them.
And Tyler's Dutch cousins, the Sea Lions. Fairly fit and lean. Sort of like the Dutch girls in contrast to their American counterparts. Perhaps, Dutch sea lions can cycle!

But still no Tyler. A recent visit to the New England aquarium site informed me that Tyler & Zuma are currently in the Chicago aquarium, till their new home in Boston gets fixed. Looks as though my pending visit to Boston will be short one trip to the aquarium.

Well as the song goes, Sweet dreams are made of this,Who am I to disagree? Travel the world and the seven seas, Everybody's looking for something. Tyler perhaps?

PS - if you were always curious about differences between Sealions & Seals - and were too lazy to look it up, here's the url for a brief list of differences!