The Belle Jar

I came to France on December 17, 2000, a week after my marriage and moved into an appartement meublé on the Left Bank in Paris. This was a completely new scenario for me: marriage (which happened suddenly), France (a country about which I had zero knowledge) and domesticity (of which I had, if possible, minus knowledge).

Our cute apartment with wooden beamed ceiling, uneven floors came with an assortment of wonderful furniture, pictures, lamps of all shapes and sizes, bedcovers, quilts, table cloth, serviettes and a fully equipped kitchen. I found crockery, cutlery that I have never heard of, let alone seen. A zester? To de-zest citric fruits. What in the world? Coffee mill – I didn’t even know how to make instant coffee.

Those where early days when I was battling situations like what to cook? And after spending half a day cooking lunch, I found it over within minutes with only a dishful of dirty dishes to show for it and back to question of what’s for dinner. What to buy? How much to buy? How to fit it all in our tiny frigo? Why does the same recipe taste so wonderful at times and so disgusting at others? How do I get rid of this grease on the range? Why do I find a soapy film on dishes after 2 hours of washing in the dish washer? Why is our house so dusty if I give dusting a miss even for a day? Why? Why? Why? And all this in a country where I couldn’t speak or understand a line of what any one was saying. It took me ages to locate anything in the supermarket and if by good luck, I found it, it took me ages to decide which one to take. I had no idea that there were at least 50 varieties of vinegar. All I ever heard of was white or black vinegar. Difficult days indeed.

To add to my woes, the year that I spent in that apartment was interspersed with me making four trips back to India, thanks to visa problems. So I didn’t have much time to settle down to domesticity or enjoy the wonderfully stocked little kitchen and house in general. That happened in my second sojourn in France, when we moved to neighbouring region Seine et Marne in mid 2002. This felt like the real thing. We did everything from scratch. Get a list of house agents, look at flats, select one and then buy everything…furniture, crockery, cutlery, other essentials like television etc and move in. It felt great to do up my first home, bit by bit, and all on our own.

I soon settled down to domesticity and surprise surprise, I was getting quite good at it. The only problem I faced was the lack of jars and bottles. I took to buying and consuming juices and jams (which comes in handy glass bottles and in interesting shapes). Juice is easy to consume. But jam takes time. Especially since A does not like jam at all. Here I was helped by the weather. Jam develops fungus and spoils if not consumed really fast. Hence in no time at all, I had a nifty collection of jam jars to store all my spices – French and Indian! Jeerey, dhoney, halud, jowan, radhuni, mouri, kalo jeerey, sorshey, posto, dal, rajma, chal, thyme, persil, laurier, romarin. Pretty herbs all in a row!! I could just spend time staring at the neat rows of jars.

Then of course came the other jars - little yoghurt glass jars with / without plastic caps, terracotta ones, ice cream tubs, tubs in which one could buy paella, grilled chicken from the marché, plastic pastry boxes. I found uses for all of it. Tomatoes stay fresh and really long in these plastic pastry boxes. Roasted spices (dhania, cumin) keep their aroma in the glass jars with plastic tops. Ice cream and paella tubs make great containers for leftover food. I sometimes do forget that I have some leftover vegetables in a small tub lurking somewhere in my frigo and discover it too late and have to throw it out. And once, horrors, I discovered some rui macher jhol that I had forgotten all about (this is, to us in france and so far away from India, is akin to wasting caviar or pate or something really gourmet in India). Little accidents apart, they have been of great help and have given me a great sense of well being – made me feel like a domestic goddess.

I browse through ‘Brocantes’ – garage sales – a fairly frequent phenomenon. One can pick up great bargains and unusual things from other people’s junks! I keep looking for jars. Once, I saw this great big glass jar with a dome shaped lid and hand painted going for 1E. Another lady had beaten me to it. She had looked it over and once or twice and then put it back to look for some tiny liqueur glasses hand painted with famous French monuments. I sidled up to her and smiled and said ‘ the glasses look great’. She said ‘ yes very kitschy’ and the minute she turned to ask how much they were, I pounced on the glass jar and handed out 1E to the owner. She looked at me and said somewhat ruefully ‘hmm….that’s very nice too’. Yes indeed!! Found another one, which I was told, was 160E, being part of a series of some early product and now of antique value. No, I didn’t buy it. But I am always on the lookout for brocantes and jars.

But only if it had ended there. Like a compulsive, obsessive collector, I keep collecting them.
I have run out of things to store in them. They are taking up precious storage space – space I need to keep things I really need. I know I should throw them out – clutter is the worst enemy of a housewife (not really…clutter was my worst enemy when I was a busy corporate person). I must throw them out today, I muse, as I finish the most acidic, yucky tasting yoghurt that I picked up yesterday….only because it came in a two-toned ceramic jar!

Glossary French Words
Belle - beautiful
Appartement meublé – furnished apartment
Zester – a cutlery to de-zest lemon, orange; Peel the white coating inside the peel.
Brocante – Garage sale
Frigo – French familiar for refrigerator

Glossary Bengali words
Rui macher jhol – Rohu Fish curry

Phera

Whoooooooooooooosh and its over: Our trip to India. 1 month and 2 days. Just a little over 4 weeks. Not bad, but not enough after one and a half years.

After a long and tiring flight, full of delays, transit lounges and complementary meals, we reached Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose International Airport, Kolkata, more than 24 hours after we left for Orly airport, France.

After one and a half years, bien sûr, things would have changed a bit. They sure had. But so had perhaps our perceptions! Calcutta suddenly looked so BIG. Cars, people, buses, roads, giant hoardings, new shopping malls, multiplexes, smart apartment blocks, hospitals, hotels, flyovers everywhere. It all seemed too much to us after our quiet, orderly little French town (big by French standards with a population of 50,000)! I found myself squirming in my seat when a car whizzed too close, despite our expert chauffeur Dinesh being at the wheels of our trusty but rusty ambassador car. How we used to laugh at baba who used to squirm on his annual trips to Calcutta!

Our apartment looked so big, so spacious despite so much furniture. Baba, Ma looked so old and tiny and frail, with the two of us looming gigantically over them.

Delhi too had changed. A got lost several times on the newly constructed roads, flyovers, his familiar landmarks having had disappeared.

It was a rush of grabbing the maximum in the little time we had. Family and friends – his and mine, cities - Delhi (for A) and Kolkata, for me; a short trip to Rajasthan, some sporadic shopping (fear of excess baggage).

The two main topics of conversation were - Weather and Food.

Weather
Okhaney thanda kemon? Must be used to it. India tey oto thanda lagchey naa right? Wrong. I had to wear thermal underwear, fleece jacket, sweater, shawl and socks to keep warm at my in-laws large airy bungalow in Delhi. The house, hemmed in three sides by tall houses was simply arctic. My brother in law spent most of his time indoors, under a thick razai, kitted in gloves and monkey tupi. Made us yearn for warm, heated European winters! Atleast we can pile on as much as we like when we go outdoors here. But a sweater and shawl is all that is worn by women in India!! (Admittedly, gloves and cap and boots would look silly with a sari or salwar kameez). Hot water which turns cold as it runs out of the tap. Grey skies, thick fog. Read in the papers that it was responsible for an increase in the rate of suicide in northern India. Something I remember a Swedish friend of mine telling me about Stockholm!

Food:
- Sabji nischoi pao naa?
- Phulcopi, bandhakopi, motor, sheem, begun, spinach, gajar, beet, shalgam, shojney danta, bhindi, kumro…
- O! Sobi to pao taholey.
- Mach?
- Tao pai.
- Taholey ki pao naa…
- Panthar mangsho. And home cooking. Even though I cook at home, mine doesn’t count. For me it is anything cooked by Ma, R and ofcourse by our temperamental but excellent K.
After some seriously heavy eating in Rajasthan, I suffered from indigestion for the remainder of my stay and couldn’t do justice to ‘home cooking’ served by Ma, R and K.

It was in a way a very full trip. Mid December to Mid January, France – Calcutta – Delhi – Rajasthan – Delhi – Calcutta – France.

Onek dekha holo, onek ghora holo, kora holo. But at the end of the trip, what remains is a long list of “Holo Na’s”.

Cinema. I had a huge list of hindi and Bengali movies that I wanted to see. Managed only one - the latest feluda and enjoyed it very very much.
Plays at the Academy – anyone would have done. But couldn’t manage even a single one.
Friends - Met a few of my close friends and relatives. Managed to fit most of them in. But Miffed loads of those whom I couldn’t. “Paris-er Madam kay to Paris giye ebaar dekha kortey hobey, dekchi”. That jomiye adda ta holo na.

Books – Ma and R had faithfully collected some interesting Bengali books for me. Managed to bring 4 of them back. Left several behind.
Flyovers – Didn’t try a single one. All my destinations where in between the giant legs supporting the flyovers and now darker, grimer because of them. No one except those who have lived in Calcutta for an extended period of time will understand this. What fun to cover in a few minutes the stretch that you have once spent hours on, in full blown summer and in a bursting at the seams bus (the conductor of which, was still pushing people inside insisting that bhetorey gorer maath)!!

Then suddenly we were on our way back to France. More delays, transit lounges, complementary meals, swollen feet (from sitting for too long), bleary eyes etc. But flights such as these serve an important purpose. Never have we felt gladder to reach our destination. And if we were glad beforehand, then it was surely multiplied mani-fold after it.

Its 2 am, we land at Charles de Gaulle instead of Orly. Thankgod. CDG is just half an hour from home. Our luggage arrives quite early. And hey presto, here is a guy offering us to take us home for only 50E. (Cheap). “Aap ko Urdu aata hai”? He asks!! He, as it turns out, is a tech guy who is currently unemployed and is therefore supplementing his income as an un licensed taxi-driver. ‘Pas facile’ he tell me. He informs me that it snowed the day after Christmas. Tous le monde était content. Mois aussi, I too am contente, having been to India and more so to finally reached our home (thanks to the seemingly never ending flight).

Glossary French Words
Bien sûr – Of course
Moi Aussi – Me too
Tous le monde etait content – Everyone was happy

Glossary Bengali Words
Okhaney thanda kemon? How cold is it, over there (France)?
India tey oto thanda lagchey naa – You must not be feeling the cold here in India.
Razai – Thick quilt
Tupi – cap
Sabji nischoi naa? Not surely vegetables ?
Phulcopi, bandhakopi, motor, sheem, begun, spinach, gajar, beet, shalgam, shojney danta, bhindi, kumro…Cauliflowers, cabbage, peas, broad beans, aubergine, carrot, turnip, okra, pumpkin
O! Sobi to pao taholey – Oh, so you get everything then?
Mach - Fish
Tao pai. – We get that as well
Taholey ki pao naa – Then what is it that you don’t get?
Panthar mangsho – Goat Meat
Onek dekha holo, onek ghora holo, kora holo – Saw a lot, roamed a lot, did a lot
Holo Na – didn’t happen / couldn’t happen
Feluda – Possibly the most popular of Bengali detective characters, if not one of the most.
Paris-er Madam kay to Paris giye ebaar dekha kortey hobey, dekchi– looks like we’ll have to go to Paris to meet with Madam (meaning me)
jomiye adda – Favourite Bengali pastime of conversing with close friends.
bhetorey gorer math – Literally, like the Calcutta Maidan ( a huge park) meaning Loads of space inside (the bus).
“Aap ko Urdu aata hai” – Can you speak Urdu ?

Fil d'attente

FIL D'ATTENTE
One wintry morning, while taking a walk, A and I got lost in the maze of roads behind the Pantheon and found ourselves in a giant park – Le Jardin Du Luxembourg. The murky, cold weather took off some of our delight. We vowed to come back in better weather. And so we did, on a Sunday, several months later, in June.

What a change. The park was overflowing. Not an empty bench or chair in sight. Under trees, in the open, everywhere in the multi-leveled park, people, children, lazing, basking, playing, reading. Enjoying the sun. The focal centre of it all was the big round basin in the centre, which was full with children sailing boats. This consisted of pushing a boat with a long wooden stick and then running to the opposite end to receive it and start all over again.

A had a go at the boats with N’s kids, while N and I lazed around. The kids had kicked up a veritable storm screaming bateaux, bateaux as loudly as their little voices were able to (pretty loudly, I’d say)!

A tried to help them. But they had firm ideas of their own. Instead of giving the boat a firm push on the prow, they beat at it randomly so that soon both of them(the boats) were considerably battered and lay on their side instead of floating. Tiring of it, they decided to go in for some one else’s boat – a decision not very favourably looked upon by the owners!

We did return a few times more but never on a weekend for the express purpose of lazing around in good weather, even though it was quite close from where we then lived. Instead, we always came with guests, pointing out the finer details of the park, interesting places to photograph – the statue of pan, the famous fountain, the Senate which is housed within the garden itself.

September, last year, in the metro, a publicity poster caught my eye. That of Amedeo Modigliani’s l'ange au visage grave; The blue, the red, the oblong face…intrigued me immensely. There are at any point of time 50 to 100 or perhaps more exhibitions going on in Paris (they call it exposition; Exhibition has a slightly negative connotation in the sense of a some one who exhibits, a streaker, a flasher!’). All metros, road crossings, news paper kiosk are plastered with posters or one or another happening, each one more attractive than the other. And yet, this one caught my eye. Later on, I found out that In December 1917, an exhibition of paintings by Modigliani - his only one-man show - held in Paris at the Berthe Weill galerie was raided by the police who, acting on complaints, confiscated several nude paintings and drawings because "they were offensive to modesty", the day before the show was to open. January 1920, Modigliani died in hospital at the age of 35 from tubercular meningitis. The following day, Jeanne Hebuterne, his wife, who was eight months pregnant, committed suicide. I had to see this exhibition.

Since then, this would be the first major exhibition of his works. It was going on at Musée du Luxemburg September to March 2003. Enough time. Somehow, the time slipped by. Aaj jabo, kaal jabo and suddenly, there was just couple of days left for the exhibition to end. And so I found myself on the pen-ultimate day, inside the jardin. I walked about quite a bit without spying the musée. In the end, asked one of the Senate gendarmes who told me Prenez àdroite et encore àdroite. But this two àdroite covering some 100 metres to the musée took me three and a half hours! After an hour of queuing, I turned the first right and saw a little board on the wrought iron boundary grills which said ‘2 heures d’attente ici’. I couldn’t believe it and continued to disbelieve it although the minutes ticked by. Actually they dragged by. I had J Krishnamurthi’s Life Ahead with me; Not exactly ‘read while standing in the queue' material is it? Couldn’t strike up a conversation with others. This was before my intensive French course and anyhow most took me to for a tourist / Non-french speaker and wouldn’t speak other than sharing a sympathetic smile!

We had some entertainment (to break the monotony) when a longish procession passed by. Some Union demanding something or the other (very similar to kolkata…a procession at the drop of a hat, like we do at ‘pan thekey chun khostey’); We didn’t see the procession at first. Just some police on foot, bikes, car and vans who drew up to the crossing of the two bigs roads, used road markers to block a part of this road, divert the traffic onto that road. And then came the procession. And the television cameras; The procession waving banners, chanting slogans went by. Camera men filmed, reporters waylaid couple of them and asked questions, for about 15 – 20 minutes. And then they turned a corner and all vanished, noise, slogans, banners and all. The police removed the markers left. Traffic flowed normally again. 5 minutes later, no on would ever have known that a large procession had passed by, minutes ago. Should this mean – Police are more effective in France or Processions are more effective in kolkata where the effects of a single one are felt for hours afterwards!

The weather had turned cold, a sharp wind was blowing. Many people left the queue half way … but all them were standing behind me anyway and did not shorten my wait! An old woman came up and said in a quavering voice that she had a spare ticket for the ‘coupe-fil’. Was any one interested? Before I could react, someone had said yes, paid the money and left the line to enter the museum. Well, it was not easy you know. I had to first take in her quavering French. Then translate it and then understand it! It was too late by then. All of us (some 5 of us before me) shrugged and said things like ‘ah well, she was an old lady' – the one who took the ticket and 'just as well for her…she was getting tired etc’!!

I finally reached the ticket counter. Yes! I was aching all over, thirsty, a bit hungry as well. There was not much space inside but a fantastic collection. There was so much crowd that one couldn’t saunter, take ones time in front of each of the tableau. The wonderful colours, the poignant faces all went by in a blur. There was one pencil sketch of a village that entranced me. I kept returning to take a look at it. And there were the nudes which had led to cancellation of his first and only one man exhibition, so many years ago, here in Paris.

He would have been happy to see people queuing up day after day for 4 months to watch his paintings! 587,000 came.

Finally, sitting in the train, on my way back home, I realised it had taken me 3 and a half hours to get in and only 45 minutes to see it all. And the thirst and hunger and body aches and the cold. It quite scared me off from visiting other exhibitions. I missed the Gauguin –Pont Avon one at the musée again – a historic one because it was the same musée which had turned down his painting for an exhibition and now on his centennary the museum was exhibiting his works as a redressal.

Since then, I have taken up yoga, and seriously. Resistance berechey. Now I am, I think, ready to take on any waiting line. Perhaps once a month...from next year onwards?!

Glossary French Words
l'ange au visage grave - The angel with the sad face
Fil d'attente - Waiting Line / queue
Jardin - garden
bateaux - boats
Prenez àdroite et encore àdroite - take a right and then another right
heures d’attente ici’ - 2 hours of waiting from here
coupe-fil - literally cut the line, here refers to tickets with no queuing.

Glossary Bengali Words
Aaj jabo, kaal jabo - (Will) go today, go tomorrow
pan thekey chun khostey’ - Idiomatic expression meaning very frequently or at any excuse
berechey - has grown, increased

Reading in French

Finished reading my first French ‘Roman’ – Marcel Pagnol's ‘La gloire de mon père. Though I bought the book in August, I could finish it only now. Took my time reading it. In the meantime, I read English books (sounds funny but the distinction is one of great import, here in France) from ALP and a few bengali ones (sent by ma and very kindly brought by mon cousin) – Desh and Anondo mela puja barshiki(yes…I still read it), Nabanita Devsen’s Onnodip. I average about 3 books per week.

In august last year, I had read an article about Le Château du Comte de Monte Cristo in Seine et Marne. Alexander Dumas (père) built it with the profits that his books brought him. Suddenly felt like re-reading the book. Got a copy from ALP and had to finish it one sitting. Couldn't stop even though I had to shut myself in the loo at night, to read it since the lights were attracting bugs from the open windows!

A friend was ‘maha’ impressed at my reading in French. Alas! No. I was reading it in English. It took me exactly a year to pick up my first French novel - Le Gloire de Mon Père from the second hand book stall at our mardi and samedi marché.

I had seen this stall almost as soon as I had arrived here. But all I could do then was to just browse through the two tubs of ‘les classiques’. There were many other tubs with racy romances with scantily clad buxoms ‘belles’, policiers, band dessinees and other stuff.

Early this year, I did a 10 week intensive French language course (my third such course…which has been in fits and spurts). This helped enormously and now I could pick up a french book and could comprehend! It however took me a few more months to screw up courage to buy one! My ‘comprehension’ was far better than my ‘écriture’ which was better than my ability to ‘parle’!

What if the book seller struck up a conversation with me and asked me questions to which I could only stutter in response and perhaps he’d smile sarcastically say ‘Marçel pagnol pora hocchey’( or the French equivalent of it)?! Snicker snicker!! I occasionally pick up a copy of a satirical hebdomadaire ‘La Canard Enchaine’ and roll it up and secret it home incase some one strikes up a conversation with me (seeing the copy in my hands and thinking I speak fluently?).

As far as choices go, this autobiography (the first volume) by Pagnol was a good one to begin with. Simple language, funny story. At first, I had to stop frequently to consult my ‘dico’ as many as 10 or sometimes 15 times per page. I would look up the meanings, then reread the whole page. This made progress slow. Finished around 100 pages or so vowing to pick a new one up every Tuesday. But some how lost steam. The books from ALP were calling me, beckoning me.

Last week, I returned all my books to ALP but didn’t take out any, since A and I will be away for a month or so. I was having severe withdrawl symptoms when I spied ‘La gloire de mon père’ in one of the untidy piles dotting our tiny flat (oof how they pile up) and pounced on it. And hey presto…finished it in two sittings. I simply raced through it, stopping only to read out parts of it to poor A(as I have earlier to ma – her pitiful ‘aar parchi naa’ still ring in my ears). The exploits of the Pompous ‘Oncle’ Jules, cherubic brother Paul, the school teacher father who triumphs en fin, in the hunting trip with the hero (7 year old) Marcel Pagnol’s help! I had to look up a word once in a while. My French has improved vastly and seems to improve day by day. I am far from being fluent but I can see how far I have come since January, since June and even since last month!

Am on to my 2nd French book – one I had bought much earlier but begun only now. Claudine à Paris. One of the series of Claudine novels about the improper adventures of a teenage girl, by Sidonie Gabriele Colette , more popularly known as Colette. I have read the first and the third of this series in English.

‘Claudine in school’ is the first of this series and is very unlike any others school story that I have read. The wicked, intelligent, outspoken Claudine and the head mistress vie for the attention of the charming teacher Aimée!The chaste and goody goody Enid Blyton school stories or the chalet school series were our staple diet, growing up in India. At least they were when I did…don’t know what has taken its place now – sound terribly aged, don’t I? But the reality is that the songs of my teen years are now Classics!!

The second one is about her move from her rural Montigny to Paris and her friendship with the homosexual Marcel and his dashing father Renaud whom she marries in the 3rd novel.

The third one gets even more interesting. She gets married to the worldly 40 year old Renaud and gets caught up in the whirl of Parisian High Society and thereafter gets into a curious triangle with her husband and a fiery woman Rezie!

Despite the raunchy, sensational theme, it does not detract from the quality of her prose at all (sounds a tad patronising coming from me with only 2 weeks of blogging to show)…She was after all a member of Academie Goncourt and its first woman member incidentally with a writing career that spanned 50 years.

Interestingly, she was in the headlines again this year but for another reason - a sad one. The French actress Marie Trintignant was shooting a bio-pic of Colette in Lithuania when she went into a coma and then died in august this year, after sustaining fatal injuries following a fight with her companion Betrand Cantat of the hugely popular French band Desir Noir. She was hit on her face by Cantat during a spat in their hotel. Cantat who later tried to commit suicide, is, even as I write, still holed up in a prison in Lithuania. And the movie is probably shelved.

But I still have Claudine à Paris to curl up with on this cold, grey December day. And I will, once I have finished cooking and then eating our niramish lunch of – phulcopir dalna, rajma, moosoor dal with radhuni phoron and bhat.

Glossary French Words
Roman – Novel
La gloire de mon père – the Glory of my father
mon cousin – my cousin (male; female would be ma cousine)
Les Classiques – The Classics
Belles - beauties
Policiers – Mysteries, detective novels
Band dessinées – Comic strips
Ecriture – writing
Parler – to speak
Hebdomadaire – weekly
dico’ –slang for dictionary
Oncle – Uncle
En fin – at last, in the end
Desir Noir – Black Desire

Glossary Bengali Words
Desh – A literary bengali magazine
Anondo mela – popular childrens Bengali magazine
Puja Barshiki – Annual issue published during Durga Puja in September / October.
Nabanita Devsen – Poet, author, professor, need I say more?
Onnodip – Another Island (literal meaning).
‘maha’ – not strictly Bengali, Indian rather to mean highly or greatly
Marçel pagnol pora hocchey? – reading Marcel pagnol?
Aar parchi naa – Cant help it anymore literally, but really it means Help, stop, enough, when will it end etc.
niramish - vegetarian
phulcopir dalna – cauliflower curry
rajma – Red Kidney beans
Moosoor dal – Orange lentils
Radhuni phoron – a herb used to temper moosoor dal
Bhat - Rice

La Canicule

This is my third year in France. The first year, I was too beset with visa problems to notice anything properly. 2002, I could enjoy much more, though I missed spring. I arrived end June and enjoyed a marvellous Indian summer. Then came autumn and rains and marvellous colours and finally blustery winds which left the trees bare. Winter followed with snows in January to my delight!! My first. (Actually I did see some snow fall in Stockholm and then Chamonix in 2001 –but I was on holiday and it didn’t count). The 5000 stranded in their cars on the national auto route weren’t so thrilled!

And then, this year, one fine day, I woke up to find that it was Spring! The trees all had bright green leaves. When did they sprout? Colours everywhere and distinctly different from summer or autumn colours. Blue, blue sky, fluffy white clouds. Paradise. We Calcuttans / Kolkatiya are so used to just two types of seasons– summer, endless summer (rainy summer) and a mild winter (though R reported that winter in Kolkata, last year was cold). I really enjoyed each weather though I hoped spring would last longer. It gave way
to progressively warmer lazy days. The scene from my large windows were unbelievably idyllic. The tall spire of the 11th century cathedral, red tiled roofs, green lawns of neighbours where they had long lazy lunches under gay umbrella, birds chirping, the enormous fat cat next door
sunning itself! Wow! This is the 'belle vie'. Too beautiful to take in all at once. I felt the urge to write about it, photograph it, paint it rather than simply stand at the window and take it in.

Though global warming, green house effect has been an issue of concern for some time now, this year, it has been proven beyond a shadow of doubt. This has been the world’s hottest year ever. I should know, I experienced ‘La Canicule’ (Heat wave) first hand! Looking back, I now realise that the signs were there from march onwards. A sweater and a wind cheater had
been sufficient for me, on my way to the early morning French classes. Quite unlike in 2001 when wrapped from head to toe and weighed down by their sheer weight, I walked unhappily on the banks of the Seine in paris and wondered why everybody made such a hoo haa about ‘April in Paris’. It was cold, grey, damp and miserable. And back then, three of days of
glorious sunshine was enough to merit a big downpour on the 4th day, sending the temperatures down and out with the sweaters and coats. No wonder, wherever, whenever there would be a sliver of sunlight (no matter how cold it was), off with their clothes, the shivering Parisians trying to capture some of the sunlight onto their pale skins. This
reminds me of the exact opposite situation in Calcutta where in November with the temperature still quite warm, one can see hoards of elderly men and women taking their daily walks wrapped up in shawls, socks, sweaters and the all time favourite Bengali winter accessory – The Monkey Tupi!!

Summer had been hot in 2002 with temperatures reaching 36°. Our west facing flat got a daily blast of sunshine from après midi and onto sundown at 11pm. We spent the late evenings strolling on the banks of La Marne or lolling on the benches of Place Henri IV. Quite pleasant and
might have been romantic but for the millions of tiny black insects crawling all over, nearly invisible to the naked eye, except for ‘hypersensitive’ people like me.

This year too, the trend continued. Out came cotton, summery clothes. I was most excited for my friend who was to visit us in June. What luck! Such lovely weather. But by the time we finished the usual tour of Paris, we were très fatiguées. We were more interested in finding a shady spot inside the boat, while taking a cruise down the Siene on the Bateaux Parisienne, rather than taking in the view.

The heat took out most of the fun and thrill of attending the ‘Paris Air Show’ the most prestigious of air shows. My friend had kindly got us tickets for it. And this coming from a seasonal Kolkatan. Was I getting unused to Calcutta weather and used to European weather?! Sacré blue!

Mais le pire n’est encore pas arriver! The worst was yet to come. Come August, the mercury soared to 40°. And continued for 10 days. We did our best to cope with it. Bought ‘ventilateur’ – a stand fan, which we carried room to room, downed shutters and windows (after several
mis-trials of how to keep the rooms cool or rather around 30° and not 40°). It was a vrai cauchemar (real nightmare). Initially, the French weren’t quick to understand what was happening. I would be met with amused grins and stares if I ventured out with my bright yellow (tour de france) umbrella. Sun to them meant a chance for some free ‘bronzage’!

When our apartment became too hot (in the afternoons and all evening), we took to lengthy swimming sessions in our local community pool – Piscine Parc Frot. But so did many and it got more and more crowded and extremely dirty and not much fun. I even thought of strolling up and down the ‘rayons surgeles’ or frozen food sections of our supermarchés and found that many had the same idea!!

A, who detests heat (unlike me, who till last year was quite happy in
summer, hotter the better etc), had a very tough time. But then nothing, not even heat can keep his mind off food and we decided to try some Turkish food on what was probably the hottest day of the season. Heavy Turkish food – jarret d’agneau (a cut of lamb with brinjal/aubergines, tomato, potato and cheese) and moussaka for me. I nearly fainted on the
way back. We drank gallons of slighty salty water, lemonade etc to keep from being dehydrated.

There was ‘sécheresse’ (drought) in department after deparment (France is divided geographically into regions which are sub-divided into departments) leading to tightening of water usage. An ancient hull of a ship long submerged, suddenly came up after 40 years. The water levels had run so dry. Boats and ships were stranded in ports were the water levels had
dropped.

Then the bad news came in. The deaths. First in 10’s and then in 100’s and then 1000’s. Summer and august is Les Vacance and most places are either shut or run on skeletal staff. The dead bodies piled up in the morgues and the dying in the colouir(corridor) of hospitals which themselves were unequipped to deal with first the numbers and then the heat. They had to
make alternative arrangements for medicines which would spoil in these temperatures without air conditioning! But these were the lucky ones.

The unlucky were discovered weeks later, dead in their apartments by neighbours or family returning from vacation.

Most ministers and even PM Chirac was on leave. La Canicule did enormous damage to their reputations since the French voters do not have so short a memory unlike their more forgiving Indian counterparts.

A freak cold wave in temperature in autumn had the government running red alerts to prevent deaths of SDFs or ‘Sans domicile fixé (homeless).

And now after autumn, the winter is here. Its quite cold in the morning. My hands were hurting when I went sans gants (without gloves) to the marché. But quite pleasant in all, with the Noel (Christmas) decorations up. Not so for those in south of France. Les inondations(Floods) have taken their toll. Village after village, town after town, completely flooded, houses
ruined, water logged. The german and Italian pompiers have come to help pump out water. The same, who had come couple of months earlier to help extinguish the wild forest fire.

As some one commented on television, although we are doing our best to tackle with the situation at hand, has anyone thought about next year? Its going to be a repeat performance once again....the hole in the ozone layer continues to grown bigger and bigger as we wait and watch, preferring immediate economic gains to some warming problem in the distant future...only this year onwards, the choice is between immediate economic gains Vs Immediate hellish weather, deaths, cancer, droughts....

Glossary Bengali Words
Monkey Tupi - A cap, which covers the head and ears and neck leaving only the face visible, much preferred by the bengali!

This time last year contd...Day 4

Rest Day. We are not going anywhere today. In trying to avoid expensive hotel operated tours, we have spent way too much by striking out on our own. Moreover most things are closed being off-season. A slept till noon. We did however, manage to get up around 7.30 and manage a sumptuous breakfast (and then A went back to sleep). Took a bus to Iraklion and ate at a tavern. The food was tasty but extremely greasy. The tavern was a bit dirty. But it seemed to be very popular. Poshly dressed hip people sat next to farmer types. After lunch A decided to get a haircut and a shave at the barber’s next door. I roamed all around and walked into an ‘Agora’ (market). The shutters were rapidly being downed by the stall owners since it was 2pm. Some of the shops were eerily like those in Calcutta - scarfs, plastic toys, buckets hanging from the shutters, like those that can be found around Deshopriyo Park or in the erstwhile Gariahat Boulevard.

A and I walked to the old port and on the venetian wall jutting out into the sea. At first it seemed we had the whole place to ourselves. Just a few cats. Then we spied a few old men, a solitary jogger, a young couple cootchie-cooing. We walked up to the first look out point and then I climbed up a steep flight of stairs onto the wall itself. A suffers from vertigo, waited below. The view was great but so the gusts of wind were so strong that I felt I would be blown over any moment. But descent proved tricky. There were no banistairs and steps were very wide apart and narrow. Got stuck there till poor A had to come up and lead me down. What a fine pair, the two of us!!

Nothing of note happened except a tiny black shaggy dog chased cars up and down the busy avenue barking its tiny head off. We bought a small terracotta plaque – an etching of the famous cretan bull fresco from a shop. The shopkeeper, a pleasant chap did a bit of very high speed selling while an old and very cretan lady sat in solidly in a chair in one corner of the shop and ignored us completely.

Day 5

Our 2nd anniversary. We stayed in. It was bright and sunny. We decided to walk around the surrounding hills. But half way through, the skies darkened ominously and we quickly returned. Spent some time on the beach. Didn’t I mention it before? Our hotel was on edge of a beach. This beach was dirty and most unimpressive.

Went for lunch at the Jeep Safari place. They are a travel agency cum hotel cum supermarket all rolled into one. I took a ‘gyros’ – found it OK. Just OK. A didn’t think too much of his moussaka. We have tasted far better ones. Two enormous ladies from our hotel were the only others there. The owner had an enforced air of joviality. He put on some local tunes – lovely, lilting melodies.

Spent the day lazing around. Due to bad connections, it was only in the afternoon that first my parents and then my in-laws rang to wish us happy anniversary! Dinner and walk. Slowly but surely, we are growing a distate for this sumptuous buffet at the hotel: One we cannot resist, yet one which we can’t digest.

Day 6

A short trip to Iraklion also sometimes pronounced as Herakleon (or Heraklion) to check our email. But we found the sun shining bright and hot and so we rushed back to our hotel (meaning we took a bus which got us back in 40 minutes) all the while praying it would stay hot. A changed into his swimming trunks and ran into the sea. Very bravely I think, since it was chilly. He took a couple of dips and came out. He cut his knees on hidden rocks and dismissed the beach as horrible.

Took a walk in the afternoon along the road which wound in and out of the hills. These hill were dotted with sheep. We passed very close to one of these, at which, all of the sheep stopped grazing, turned as one towards us and started bleating. The walk was very pleasant. Huge empty roads and rural sounds, an odd house here, another there, mostly brand new, brightly painted and uncannily like one we might find anywhere in India. On our way daily to Iraklion each day, we passed houses with partly paved tiny front porches that have a few straggly plants, used tyres, dusty old scooter and one can be forgiven if one forgets that this is Crete and not India!! Only the people look different.

After our dinner and walk, we are now watching an English movie on cable. Tonights is The green line – starring Tom Hanks. I have also taken to reading the Gideon bible – the hotel copy. Have begun with God creating the world, Adam and upto Noah and the flood.

A located a pharmacy at Iraklion and bought a packet of Laxatives.

Day 7

We spent the whole day, our last at Iraklion. Did some cursory shopping and then went to the Fish Tavern overlooking the old port. It was charming with checked table clothes, brightly painted chairs but full of fat cats. A got extremely panicky and wanted to cancel the order and then wanted to have the food packed. How can you pack grilled fish? And then a waiter solved our problem by seating us indoor where the cats couldn’t enter. No magnificent vies though. A took a platter of grilled mixed fishes. I settled for grilled prawns, sprinkled with olive oil and lemon juice. We took a long slow walk back to the bus stand. On the way, I looked up to see a house full of beautiful potted plants when I saw a theatre with a Harry potter sign. HP 2 was showing. I dragged A to the theatre and bought tickets after the lady behind the counter assured me twice that the movie was in English. It was a very pretty theatre, small but very curiously designed. There were hardly any seats upstairs where we were. Only two rows, crawling with kids giggling, changing seats, throwing pop corn at each other.

A is taking a bath while I write this. After this dinner. A had settled our bill at the counter since we leave for the airport at 5.30 tomorrow. Hurrah!

Day 8

Waking up early is taxing for me since I get up much before and keep checking the time! At the airport, nothing interesting happened except that most of the passengers kept waiting while the ground staff had already announced "now boarding" for our Paris bound flight in English. We understood and made our way while the rest kept huddling to themselves even though they saw up leave!

Arrived to a very cold, dark, grey Paris. But with happy thoughts of our own plain home cooking and the comfort of our own WC!

Back home, as we sat happily over a cup of tea, we cast our thoughts over lessons learnt:
- 'Promos' might not be a great ‘deal’!
- One must carry a small electric kettle with one(for the all important morning beverage)
- Two back to back trips aren’t all that great! No matter what the promos say!

The End!

This time, last year: Crete Day 3

Awoke to a bright and sunny day. It was difficult to believe that we were in December. After breakfast, we caught a bus to the Port in Iraklion and from there, a bus to Aghios Nikolaos (2 and a 1/2 hours). AN is a bustling cosmopolitan town in southern Crete with smart hotels and cafes. Although it’s history dates from ancient times, in the 15th century, the turks gave it, its name from the Church of Saint Nicholas, which stood on the small peninsula in the harbour. It was relatively empty being off season.

From the tourist office, we learnt that we had chosen a bad day to come to AN. Had we come a day later, we would have been able to take the ferry to the nearby isle of Spinalonga. In winter, ferries run only on Thursdays and Fridays. (We had come on a Wednesday). And our hotel was organising a trip to Spinalonga, the next day…the one we didn’t want to take. So we sat at one of the cafes on the edge of lake Voulismeni (which is linked to the sea by a canal) and pondered over what to do next. Spinalonga was the place everyone went to; A former Venetian military outpost converted in recent times to a leper colony, now of course empty. We decided to check out Plaka, a nearby fishing village (although, I can’t quite fathom why we chose Plaka over anything else).

We took a taxi since everything else was closed or not running on that day and we were not sure when the bus would arrive. Our road curved up and down with the sea on one side and a continuous row of holiday homes, villas and hotels on the other. At places, the single lane road was so narrow that we had to pull off it to allow the cars from other directions to pass by. We arrived in Plaka within 15 minutes. It’s a small sleepy fishing village of about 50 odd houses. All closed for the winters. We found two restaurants open. Our driver Yanni (what else) dropped us at one and said he would be back in 45 minutes time to take us back to AN. We were the only two tourists in the whole of Plaka. The restaurant was run by a plump jolly aged couple. The husband set up a place for us in the verandah behind the restaurant, bang on the edge of the sea(the waves were lapping at the walls), with a fine and unobstructed view of Spinalonga.

The lady let us select the fish – to the extent of A telling her we want the fish and not calamar (squid). Then she added the extras and the bill came to a nice round 79E (!!) After a bit of haggling by A (while I stayed away…painful memories of the carpet shop), the bill was settled at 60E. Not cheap. But the fresh grilled fish, the view, the solitude and the waves lapping at our foot….it was possibly the most memorable lunch we have ever had.

It was not so wonderful for A however! He has a cat phobia. He had been attacked by a cornered cat as a child and never got over it. Our restaurant(and indeed Crete) was crawling with fat, greedy and extremely tame cats. A kept getting up from his chair and running here and there. The couple finally came and stood guard while A finished his meal!! And what a meal it was. 3 types of fish grilled over charcoals, fresh bread, greek yogurt with garlic and cucumber and red wine!! Ah! The man asked us the usual questions: where were we from, where have we put up etc. On learning we were from India, he said he had once been to Mumbai and said he liked Indians – they were nice people at heart. Aren’t we? Specially us. We practically forced them to open their restaurants, ate fish they caught for themselves and paid for it!! But they were very nice. As were generally all of the locals everywhere in Crete.

Yanni was back in 45 minutes and brought us back to AN. He told us that during summer months, the road was packed with 1000s of tourists and their cars, making this 15 minute more like an hour’s! Quite believable(though a bit weird since only we two seemed to be visiting). Apart from the hotels and villas, we saw plenty of new ones being constructed!! Endless signboards for car rentals, bike rentals and boat rentals dotted the house tops. All shut now. Did a bit of a shopping in AN. Picked up olive oil bath soaps, an enormous loofah at a charming shop selling soaps, loofahs, wines, olive oil, and sponges, all attractively priced. The way back to Iraklion was nice since we took the old route which ran alongside the shore – the incredible blue surrounded by small mountains or perhaps they were hills, fluffy white clouds dotting the blue sky. Olive trees, date palms, cacti, pink hibiscus(jaba to us Bengalis), banana plantations (actually plastic covered sheds), a strange blue flower – a regular pot pourri.

Back in Amoudara, we went to find out about the Jeep Safari to the mountainous northern Crete only to find out that it had left early that very morning and would again be available same day next week(by when we would be back in France). Not content with telling us that we had missed it, he also told us that 4 couples from our hotel had the supreme fortune and good sense to go on that trip. No he didn’t put it into so many words!! We could of course hire a jeep for 48E per person and he would make us a trail for us complete with directions. And we noticed that 39E for 3 days for a car had gone up to 49E for three days, thankyou very much! The owner had been answering all our questions with lots of enthusiasm till A wanted the jeep for the rate of a car. At this, he promptly ended the conversation by saying “You are crazy”!

Dinner for us was mainly ‘ghas-phus’ (greens) and then a lengthy walk around the front drive and one outside to supermarket past the noisy geese. (The enormous spread, the salty water and no bed tea had us both constipated). A heard English being spoken at quite a few tables at dinner and decided that the new hiked prices of the car rentals was courtesy this new group of tourist from UK.

To be contd…

At this time, last year : Crete

AT THIS TIME, LAST YEAR – CRETE

Last year, at this time, A and I were in Crete. I was doing a bit of a spring cleaning today when I came across a sheaf of papers where I had kept a daily journal of our one week in Crete.

We had just returned from a weekend in the Eternal city of Rome when A spied a great ‘promo’ on Crete at one of the several ‘Agence de Voyage’ and rang me up, first to tell me about it; then a little later to convince me about it and a third time to tell me could I meet him so that we could book it! I felt a bit guilty about going on another trip immediately after one with just a week in between. I told myself that it would be our way of celebrating our 2nd anniversary!

Crete (in the Brochures we got) looked heavenly. Crete Ancient Crete of King Minos and the legend of the Minotaur! Lying at the crossroads of Europe, Asia and Africe, at the southernmost tip of Greece, the last outpost of Hellenism. Here is a day by day account of that trip.

Day 1
Our flight was in the afternoon, Charles De Gaulle airport. There is a direct bus to CDG from our station. There were only a handful of us going to the airport. We reached it in good time and found out that our flight was from the newly inaugurated Terminal 3. There was no bus to it…we had to walk to it. But it was a short walk. At the dutyfree, A in a very expansive mood bought me a set of nice perfumes!! Onboard our flight, we got a pleasant surprise: The airhostess spoke English despite the full plane load of French passengers. There was a bit of a turbulence which got A quite scared. I wasnt, so I suggested that we play ‘hangman’ to while away the 3 and a half hour flight time. Saw that A got quite angry at this. During our descent into the airport at Iraklion, the captain announced that the temperature outside was 18°C!! What a relief having left behind a foggy, dark, dreary, damp Paris behind.

Once we collected our luggage, which took its time coming (the french passengers stood right under the no smoking sign and lit up) we were herded up into buses by our travel agents. Our hostess gave a short introduction in such heavily accented French that we could hardly understand anything of it and I am sure I could have done a better job. We were handed slips to fill in our passport details which took up all my time it took to reach our hotel about 12kms away, while A took in the view outside the window. Crete reminded him of Delhi or Noida. Our hotel was 3 stories high and very sprawling. It was white with deep brown windows. Both of us got a shock at the registration desk when I couldn’t find our passports. I went and asked one of our attendants who gave me a sermon in french (since most of the tourists were french, they couldn’t be bothered to speak to me in english)to which some of the tourists, around her, laughed. It made me quite depressed. The same language problem here too? Luckily, they were not lost but somewhere in the bottomless pit that my shoulder bag is. Again they asked us for some papers which we didn’t have. Luckily they found our names on their list, scribbled in pencil at the end of their printed list. Phew! Room no 343. It turned out to be at the end of a long corridor, where the rooms started at 371 and went back towards 343!! The room had rough white walls, 2 beds – a single one and the other not quite a double though larger than a single one. And then the problem arose, how to switch on the lights? A had been given a white watch on a blue band without any dials. Had seen others wearing it on their wrists. Do we press that onto the depression by the door? Doesn’t seem to be working. Now what? I asked our Japanese neighbours, who told me it was (as is usual), the key(Stupid)! It was a magnet which had to be put into that depressed area by the door.

We had been asked to meet at the reception at 6.30pm. From there, we were taken to a hall where first, a man gave a short introduction which included him humming the first bars of the track of the Good, the bad and the Ugly and making us sing the “Waah waah waah” refrain. Then we were given a long lecture by the lady (the same one who had sermonised me before), which consisted of practical tips about Crete and transport (very lax, Cretoise don’t like any thing stressful like city routine), roads are OK (but only one lane wide). And people speak only Greek or English (quel horreur). So the unspoken sentiment was don’t venture out on your own, spend all your money on our organised trips!! Meeting over, the convinced tourists immediately swarmed over the tour desk. We and a few others, went our own ways - Presumably, ones who found the trips expensive or were intrepid/ foolish enough to tackle Crete alone!

We went to the lounge for some aperitif. A had a special – a green-pink, very sweet drink with low alcohol content, which came with a straw, a pink swizzle stick, a Greek flag, a slice of lemon and a burning sparkler. A had to wait till it burnt itself out before taking a sip. I had a prosaic vanilla tea. Very refreshing. We bought a tourist map of Crete from the mini-market with the hotel complex. The guide books were all in French though.

Then came dinner. Buffet. A few 1000 of us (or so it seemed). Enormous quantities of food. Salad Bars, breads, soups, main courses – meat, fish, poultry, rice, pasta, deserts, wine. The two of us ate like true descendants of survivors of the Bengal Famine. Very naturally, we didn’t feel like going to the disco. Instead, we returned to our room, settled down to some English TV – BBC and CNN (something we don’t get, not having cable – don’t ask – a long long story).

Day 2
Got up at 6.30am and found that A got up without without any prompting. Breakfast. Then we had a bit of a rush around for our bus tickets to the city of Iraklion. Our hotel was at Amoudara 12kms away. The smiling receptionist told us that we could get them at the mini-market, but not only did the mini-market not have the tickets, the woman behind the counter did not respond to our questions at all (when will you get them, where else can we get them); A thought they were discouraging any sort of experimentation in travelling alone(book our trips)! Back to the reception. This time, we were told that there was a supermarket outside. Sure enough there was. We had to walk past a bunch of heckling geese to get there. They too were out of tickets. But they were renting out cars for 39E for 3 days. A thought we should first get to the tourism office at Iraklion and then decide on the car rental. There was another supermarket (more like a large convenience store) that did have a pretty, young Greek lady selling the tickets. We got a bus at 9 and reached Iraklion at 9.40 but not before we had some palpitations. The road signs were all Greek to us. I do remember a few of them – alpha, beta, gamma, delta, lambda…but try reading directions. Luckily, there were couple of students who told us where to get down – Infront of Hotel Astoria bang in the centre of Iraklion. From there, we took another bus to Knossos. We also picked up a fat, glossy guide book. Knossos is 5km away from Iraklion and is said to be the kingdom of the mythical king Minos. Sir Arthur Evans ( a british archaeologist) who excavated the palace of Minos at Knossos, date this civilisation the Minoan Civilisation from2600BC to 1100 BC.

A bit of history: Interesting details only.
According to legend, Crete is the birthplace of Zeus. And Minos, son of Zeus by Europa ruled from Knossos. Minos’s wife gave birth to a monster(after mating with a bull) – with the head of a bull on a human body – The Minotaur. King Minos constructed a labyrinth under the palace where Minotaur was kept till Theseus, son of Aegeus, king of Athens killed it. While waiting for his son to return, Aegeus mistakenly took the black sail on a ship to mean the death of Theseus and threw himself into the sea and drowned; And thus, the Aegean sea got its name.

Then there is the legend of Daedalus, master craftsman who had incurred the wrath of King Minos and together with his son Icarus, they fled the island using wings glued with wax. Icarus flew too close to the sun, the wax melted and he drowned in the sea which was henceforth known as the Icarian sea. Daedelus however reached Sicily.

At the entrance of Knossos ruins, we got a joint ticket for Knossos and the archaeological museum of Iraklion. A guide asked if we could understand English. 'Yes we can'. 'Good. I offer you services for 10E per person'. But we had a book and so we went on ourselves. Well it was all ruins. Here a bright fragment of an ancient fresco, there a broken shard of a pot. And despite the very detailed maps and layout plans in the guide book, we couldn’t figure out much. We tried very hard to imagine where the big palace, the little palace, the granaries or the labyrinth might have been. The only sign we saw was one which said there were no signs due to excavations. But the fact that it was so old, so very very old, was somehow awe inspiring. There was another sign which said Stairways closed. We walked up and down and around, getting a feel of couple of millenia worth of history and took photos in some renovated frescoes and a hugs pair of bull’s horns.

There was a small boutique selling lovely potteries, postcards and souvenirs and was unbelievably cheap. When we walked up to the cash counter to ask about some price, we were told that they were closed. So we had some cold coffee instead and took a bus back to Iraklion and to the museum of archaeology.

It was raining cats and dogs as we ran across heavy traffic to an imposing, flag strewn building which turned out to be a government office (an unemployment exchange, I think) and then a dash back again to where we started from and this time found it. They had a great collection covering some 4000 (or more) years. Downstairs, some 7 to 8 large rooms were full of Minoan pottery, seals, ornaments, urns etc. Upstairs, magnificent frescoes from Knossos, some spoilt due to bad reconstruction jobs.

Afterwards, we took a walk through the shopping area, ate lunch at a small restaurants with exactly two tables. The tourist office was quite useful. We got bus routes and schedules. We sat on the steps of the Venetian Loggia, now Town Hall for some chalking out our plan of action. The Hall was closed (thankgod), otherwise I would have felt obliged to take a tour of it. We walked towards the harbour in the pouring rain (we had bought a cheap umbrella in the morning but after a while, I saw A trying to dump it in a dustbin – it had broken when A had tried to shut it), on the way we did a bit of impulse shopping. I got a great wool carpet in Cretan geometric motifs for 26E, which A said he could have got for 20, had I not sided with the shop-owner so much. There is this long wall running into the sea, dating from Venetian times. We walked by the sea side where there were more Venetian buildings – ancient arsenal, huge arches, 4 to 5 stories high, bus station, ferries, huge ships carrying entire loaded lorries. Found out that most of the tours were closed being off season. We walked back to Astoria, up a series of steps from the sea front past a huge building under construction. A drop cloth hid the façade but we could see the impression of the famous ‘Prince with the lilies’(from a Minoan fresco). Then we took a bus back to Amoudara. Aching Feet. Enormous Dinner. We should have taken that guided tour of Knossos.


To be contd….

Teething Problems

We are the only non-french family in our building. There are about 20 or so apartments in our 3 storied house but because of its sprawling T-Shape, we rarely come in contact with any except our immediate neighbours. This was a private clinic once upon a time but it has moved away leaving only the ground floor to private doctors chambers: ENT, Dentist, Neurologist, Opthalmologist, gynaecologist, Psychiatrist. I don’t have to go very far should I fall ill! Infact our entire road is filled with doctor’s chambers and our Hosptial is at the end of this long road! The whole atmosphere on the ground floor is one of a well appointed doctors chambers. Large potted plants, squeaky clean golden plaques of the doctors. The residential upper two floors too are very clean and quiet. One wouldn’t think there are 20 families living here.

We are on the 2nd floor at one end of the ‘T’, with a great view of our neighbours sprawling gardens. The other part of the ‘T’ is just opposite us. Enclosed in between is the parking space and three ground floor flats opposite our side of the apartments. Above them is the terrace of one of the lucky occupants – a very nice elderly couple.

Our immediate neighbours were a young couple with a new born baby. The grand parents kept visiting them and were the first people I spoke to here. The grandmother was very surprised to see me here. She said that she has never seen anyone in our flat. First time in four years it turned out!! They whole family were nice. The young lady first met A coming up in the elevator and spoke to him at length while all he could manage (back then) was to nod his head. She must have assumed that both of us knew no French and thereafter whenever we chanced to meet in the corridors, she would always beam a bonjour at me. No more! Pity. I knew some french but didn’t have enough courage to initiate a conversation on my own. Soon after, they moved away. The flat however did not remain empty for long. It was soon occupied by a couple, an elderly one this time. Their grandchild, an energetic toddler, often comes to visit them. The flat at the far end of our corridor belongs to another couple with another child. By now we have come to know them well enough to merit a “from the waist” bow, when we went to their recently opened Italian deli!!

In between is the apartment of a beautiful young lady, who A claims is always smiling at him and funnily enough, her burly, shaven headed boy friend seems to be smiling at me, when he bumps into me now and then!!

Opposite ofcourse are the elderly couple. Come summer, they set up a table and chairs on the terrace and enjoy their dinners on particularly sultry summer nights. In winter, they wrap the chairs in plastic and the table is turned upside down and weighted by a large pot. The rest of the house is not visible to us. Occasionally, we get to see some of the occupants with attic windows, popping their heads out of the windows to enjoy a smoke or just sniff the fresh air. They get to see directly into our apartment but never do.

Our apartment came with a parking space. Although we don’t have a car and therefore don’t need the parking, we have to pay a chunk for it every month. Our house agent, the amiable F suggested that we could find someone who needs a parking within our building itself and come to some unofficial agreement. That sounded good. But there is some car in our parking space already. Has been, since the first time came with F to see the flat. It belonged to a tall thin lady, a very trendy dresser, with two daughters. Perhaps she didn’t know it was ours. After all, this flat was empty for four years. N helped us to draft a note saying that this parking was available for hire and our telephone number. A put it on Thin lady’s windshield. She completely ignored us for couple of days and then she went and parked onto another empty space. That was where the occupant of the third ground floor apartment, a couple of men (it was their office). They had an argument with the lady who was not budging. So they parked in our space. Out went A with his note. But they kept on juggling between our space and the other one. In fact at first most residents had no idea that we had moved in and that space was ours and they would use it to park a second car or a friend’s. A made quite a habit of dashing out with notes. Finally everyone got the message except Thin lady and the office-men who chose to ignore us and our chits.

A got so angry at their blatant disregard ( this had continued for two months or so), that he took me along to speak to the office people – two men – a curly headed fast talker and a quiet older man. At first Curly was quite nice and said thin lady wants their place. But when we told them we had moved in and had a contract to show that it was ours, he started getting a bit nasty. He said what am I going to do about my car then? Not our problem. The Quiet Man stepped into say they were infact moving away soon, in two weeks time and till then could they keep their car in our space? We agreed. And the matter should have ended there but it didn’t. Even after two weeks, their car was still parked there. Then Thin Lady’s. A went to speak to the Thin Lady who calmly told him that she spoke no English and downed her shutters. Next morning, A went and got F to help sort out matters. I hated all of this and refused to go down with him. They knew that A knew practically no French and started telling F all sorts of lies. A it seems chased after them screaming Money Money. A knocked on Thin Lady’s door at midnight when her husband was away (?!) and that they has just kept their car once or twice. By the time I decided to go down, it was too late. The conversation was over. F was telling A that I have explained to them but really this is your problem and you should try and adjust with your neighbours. That made me very angry. It seemed F was believing them. It was then that I opened my mouth and came out with a beauty: Come on A, no point discussing anything with them…all of them are mad”. F looked really pissed off and walked away. A was very upset with me and so was I…but words once spoken cannot be withdrawn.

Thin Lady and office-men removed their cars soon after. But Thin Lady did her bit. She told the nice old man (who day and night, summer and winter potters around in his garden) her version of the affair, causing him to sarcastically tell A to “Bien Gardez”(Guard it well). A ofcourse had no idea what that meant, smiled and waved at the old man.

It left a very very unpleasant feeling in me. At the same time, there was another unpleasant lady at the only cyber café at our end of the town who would always looks so displeased with us if ever we asked her for some help with the PCs or some other problem. She would bark out “What is the matter, Now?”, while beaming and smiling at other surfers. The two taken together made me very miserable for quit sometime. I kept imagining that the entire building would turn up and vote us out of the house or something. Of course it was not so. The others still smiled and said bonjour. Only the thin lady avoided us like plague!!

I really liked to see our old man neighbour pottering around his garden and the first time he met me in the road, he looked sort of smilingly at me. I thought that one day I would screw up enough courage to tell him that I loved his garden. I don’t think he would talk to me after this episode.

Time is a great healer though. Slowly over time, I can now think about it all without getting depressed. 5 months ago, a young couple moved in with their baby in the ground floor apartment which had been an office. They have hired the parking space from us. And so there is a car parked there. The grumpy lady's cyber cafe shut down. Couldn’t take the competition from another one which opened up with more reasonable prices. And the Thin Lady? Well she got her just deserts. Somedays ago, I heard a commotion. I leaned out to see that the suave doctor with the BMW had come in to find the Thin Lady’s car blocking his parking space. It being Sunday, she probably didn’t think he’d turn up and she had being doing this for quite some time. The doctor spared her no words and spewed long strings of French loudly and thin lady stammering and stuttering her excuses, drove her car away! Ah! Sweet victory!!

Nuts and Bolts

Ma plaque électrique est en panne. Pas Encore ! Troisième fois!. But thankgod for small mercies. Only one is giving problems. Switch it on and the mains blow off. Water must have leaked into it. It’s right next to the draining board and sink. The rear plaque is working and so I cooked lunch today (Mussoor dal with peppers, south Indian potato and carrot curry, and cabbages with panch phoron) leaning over the front plaque hoping I don’t get electrocuted or something.

And now I must get this whole process rolling to get this problem sorted out. I will have to get in touch with my agence mobilier (house agents) who will take down my problem and call the electrician who will call me and fix an appointment (within this week if I am lucky) and will arrive on the appointed hour and day to not only repair it but also to give the all important pronouncement: Whose fault is it? If it is ours, we pay. If not, the landlord.

Our electrician and general purpose fixer is a Mr C: Stout Frenchman with shinning chubby cheeks, stubby golden hair, round and large blue eyes and is always in a good humour. Should be, he is so very popular. At any point of time, he is fully booked for weeks. The first time we met him was when we had just moved here. All the light fixtures were on the ceiling at the centre of each room and without a staircase, it was very difficult to put the bulbs in. We asked our house agent, the amiable F for help. F not only spoke English, helped us figure out the instructions in French of our television, but also had a brother who goes once in a few years to Benaras to learn the tabla! He adviced us against calling in someone for help since it will cost a lot and we should try do it ourselves.

The only thing on which we could stand up on, was a heavy kitchen chest with a tiled top. We dragged it under the light fixture (not an easy task since it was already full of my crockery and cutlery and was too much of a bother to take it all out) and A stood on it to fix the light bulb. Our bedroom was more difficult since there was no way we could drag the chest over the carpeted floor without ruining it. So, we lugged in a stout armchair, I stood on the hand with A hanging onto my legs and standing on tiptoe, I managed to get the bulb fixed. It took the two out-of- shape middle aged people quite some time to recover only to realise that all was not well. The lights blinked on and off. So, Mr C arrived. The diagnosis (after much miming on our parts since I knew only present and past tense and A could only say Oui Oui vigourously), was that one of the bulb we had bought was faulty. And we had bought a plastic douillet which will melt with the powerful halogen bulbs and would one day go BOOM! And he very kindly fixed everything and changed the douillet and didn’t charge us anything – assume the landlord paid.

Couple of months later, A had gone to London for a night. And that very evening, one of the plaque buttons lost its ‘pyanch’. I couldn’t switch it off. Argh! The only way to do was to switch off the mains. But I was all alone and I didn’t have a torch, not even candles. It was 15 to 8. I rushed to the supermarket to look for candles…what are they called? Chandelles? Found out later that they are colloquially called bougies; Couldn’t find them. My agence immobilier too had closed for the day. Ki KORI???

I stopped panicking and took a deep breath and on the third try, found the fuse for the plaque and switched it off. And then I could switch on the mains again. Bancha gelo. Despite the lights now on, I could fall into an exhausted sleep only at 3am. The creaks and groans of the house kept me awake. Our house, the only apartment block in this residential area full of beautiful bungalows or two or three storey houses, had been a private clinic once. The day we moved in N, scared me by telling me that this was a clinic with the sick and dying and it was better to do some purifying pujo when we move in. Imagine my state if I hadn’t been able to fix the mains.

Mr C came in the morning and fixed the button in two minutes.

After this, he visited us twice more: once very promptly when one of our plaques had to be changed. I noticed that I was getting a tiny but sharp shock every morning when I touched the button to switch it on. At first, I took it to be nothing more than this static problem (how I suffered this winter…nylon stockings and woollen clothes…I was in agony…anything I touched would give me a sharp shock…balustrade of staircase, the over head rods in metro for support, seats; Wow). But no, some water had leaked under the plaque and causing it to give shocks. He replaced the plaque with a new one put the old one into a box and gave it to me saying cadeau and bent down to take one of A’s wine bottles as if in exchange!! (I will give him a cadeau if he arrives in time and fixes it before we leave for India!!).

And the last time, he graced us with his presence was due to a different reason.

In early June, my old pal and buddy SB was going to be here for couple of weeks. I was all excited and doing a general spring cleaning when the shelves in our inbuilt almirah collapsed. This meant, I had to keep all our clothes on the floor in our bedroom, covered with a sheet. All our clothes. A’s and mine including our heavy winter woollens. And SB came, spent two weeks with us and left and the clothes still remained on the floor in an unholy mess shaming the Mrs Domestic Bliss in me to the core.

When we first reported the matter both our agence immobilier and our insurance agents looked incredulous. Why couldn’t we fix it ourselves? Why did we go to them for something so little? After hectic tos and fros, and by now we had discovered office of the elusive Mr C – he and his wife had this electrical supplies’ store. After two months of hectic to-ing and fro-ing on my part, Mr C breezed in one day, took a look and said ‘Pas votre faute’ meaning not our fault (and therefore we didn’t have to pay – just as a precaution, I did put all our heavy coats into a suitcase and out of sight incase he’d think it was our fault, having put too many clothes on the shelves) disappeared and then reappeared after two days (the time it took him to buy sturdy nails) and fixed the shelf up. And left whistling, with àla prochain (till next time). I hoped there wouldn’t be a prochain fois (next time), but here it is again. I went down this morning to our agence immobilier and reported the problem which was duly noted by a smiling and really nice girl who told me Mr C is closed on Monday and therefore will be informed tomorrow. I nipped around to his store and sure enough he was closed (a common practice to be closed on Mondays). So here we go again….

In a few weeks time, we will be leaving for India and will be there for a month during which our mail will be delivered by the facteur of La Poste. A’s newspapers, our bills etc. It will be quite a pile. So what, I hear you think? The lock is broken. No, not broken, its faulty. You can turn the key and yet the door will swing open. So what? Get it fixed! Yes. We would like that. Unfortunately, our serreuier is even more elusive that Mr C. Infact he wins hands down in the stakes of elusiveness. We have reported this problem several time to the house agents who have followed it up with the serreuier but he hasn’t shown up yet. Its been 1 and a half years since we have moved in and had the problem with our post box!! The post boxes are all inside the building and quite secure. Anyone entering needs either a key or some onto buzz them in. When we go for short trips, we sellotape our post box shut. Guess we will be using stronger scotch tape this time.

I do miss the simple systems we had in Kolkata. Missing key, broken lock, faulty connection, gas leak whatever the problem….Call up or send some one down to the para’r electric shop and within minutes Jadab or Manik will come and fix the problem and will say ‘jaa ichey deen naa’ when asked about the charge.

La vie maybe belle ici, mais La vie was definitely ‘plus facile’ in Calcutta!!

Glossary French Words
Ma plaque électrique est en panne – My electric plate is not working .
Pas Encore - Not again
Troisième fois – third time
Agence immobilier – house agent
Cadeau - gift
Facteur – postman / woman
La Poste – French Postal system
Sereuier – locksmith
La vie – Life
Belle – beautiful
Ici- here
Plus facile – more easy
Douillet – er…the thingie that goes behind a bulb

Glossary Bengali Words
Jadab or Mallik – common bengali names akin to Tom, dick
Para – neighbourhood
Panch Phoron – Bengali 5 spice
jaa ichey deen naa – give (pay) whatever you want to
Bancha gelo – saved
Pujo - prayer

Green Fingers and Blue Eyes

On our arrival in France, one of the first things we did was to find out the nearest food sources! We had 4 or 5 supermarkets in our vicinity including a tiny Chinese grocers who kept among other things ‘kancha lanka’, ‘dhonay pata’ and bhindi: a life saver for me in those early days when artichauts, endives, bette rave, celery, poireuax, champignons, girofles were such mysteries to me (and still are)!

There were the Indian Stores at Gare Du Nord and just a walk away, The Bangladeshi store for all sorts of fishes, bori, and other Bengali essentials etc at Gare de L’est. There was a problems however. Isn’t there always? Our ‘appartement meuble’ or furnished apartment had a tiny ‘frigo’ and one that was of an ancient model and not the frost free variety and was not very efficient. So whatever we bought, we bought in small quantities. They would spoil quickly otherwise.

One afternoon when A was in office, I decided to cook one of his favourites – korola bhaja : Simple enough. Wash and cut the korola, season with salt and halud and fry. I picked up the knife and as I sliced throught the korolas, some of seeds too were split and they fell away on to the cutting board. But what’s this? Why are they writhing? Moving? EEeeeeeeeeeeeeeks. Worms. They are crawling with worms. (I shudder even as I write this nearly 2 years later). I dropped the knife and ran to the sofa and sat there feet up, shuddering. After a few minutes, I rang A and demanded he come home immediately and remove them. He couldn’t ofcourse and so till he did as usual at half past six, I sat there shuddering. Ofcourse we did not eat at home that night. No question of me venturing into the kitchen.

Many women and men share my dislike of worms but mine is not just a dislike. It’s a phobia. It started when I was six. I was running around barefoot in our garden in Assam when I stepped on and thus crushed an earthworm. It had me screaming and jumping around hysterically for half an hour and completely turned me into this wreck ever since. Before that, I would spend hours in our garden crawling with all sorts of creepy crawly including snakes without turning a hair.

This has of course taken away many small enjoyments – things others would not even notice. For example, I can never relax on a patch of green on a lazy summers day when practically all of Paris (perhaps all of France) is lolling around on grass. Or enjoy a walk in the garden in springtime, or even a bouquet of flowers. No gardening , not even indoor plants thankyou. At first, I was quite content in my plant less existence and would infrequently water the enormous potted plant which came along with the furniture and not too bothered by the fact that the expensive tulip bulbs that A presented to me – my first Valentine Day’s gift from my husband (and the last) died because I mixed up the watering instructions: Instead of watering twice a week, I watered it once in two weeks.

But as I slipped more and more into my Domestic Bliss avatar, the idea of having a bit of greenery indoors began to appeal to me. But how was that too be? Just a couple of months ago, I raised hell when a tiny black worm was seen crawling on the creamy tiles of our apartment? It had apparently come out of bouquet A had got for me that morning when I had asked him to get me some flowers for my Durga Thakur. It was on ashtomi’s day in 2002. He picked up a bouquet from the florist and I used some petals in my puja. The rest I put into a large bottle. But the minute I saw that worm…bye bye bouquet! A had to go and throw it away. What a pity.

I did manage to overcome this problem of worm phobia and get my own bit of greenery indoors: 5 Potted Plants. I got one as a gift, soon after I bought one. Then two more and then yet another given free by a local nursery. How green was my windowsill! But I said I had. Now I have only two. That too in 3 short months. This is how.

Passing by the florists one day, I had a Brainwave: What about some Cacti? They are green and I have never heard of worms in Cacti. (Maybe I am wrong but please please…don’t anyone of you enlighten me on this).

I took to looking at the tiny cacti at the local florists and the enormous price tags and sigh. Then A surprised me by getting me my first plant / cactus. On my birthday, he went out early saying he was going to get cigarettes and came back with a fan shaped cactus. I didn’t suspect a thing because just days before we had returned from a trip to Cote D’ Azur, which was he told me, my birthday gift. It took me quite some time to notice the cactus waiting on my kitchen table!! I didn’t notice it till A dropped some very obvious HINTS!!

Wow! How sweet of A, how thoughtful…whenever did he think this up? But what’s this? Bits of the cactus looks eaten away?! So we went out to the florist to get it changed who didn’t think much of the eaten away cactus. She said we should have looked carefully before picking up. I let A do the taking. His lack of French is such a deterrent even to the most tenacious vendors! The florist gave up her stance and quickly led us to the cacti, where I selected a healthy but a plain, normal sort of a cactus. It’s a smallish blob with two or three blobs on its sides, dark green with grey spikes. Not as elegant with the other one, but it would do. It came in a teeny-tiny pot and I would soon have to repot it. I brought it home lovingly and promptly dropped it on to my palms and got stuck with 100’s of tiny thorns which A had to pluck out using my eyebrow tweezers.

Bien Commencé!

A few days later, I got another cactus from our supermarket which was giving a ‘promo’ on potted plants. This one was a beauty. Three long bright green tubes covered with yellow thorns. Now there were 2 of them on my windowsill. A tall one and a short one. Reminded me of us two sisters. I have always been a feet and a half taller than my sis!

My enthusiasm knew no bounds. I looked up the watering schedules on the net. I tried looking for their names but gave up after going through a few pages of photos of cacti which did not remotely look like mine, since I had only a 1000 or more odd pages to go through! Doesn’t matter. What’s in a name, anyway?

Both of them came in very tiny pots and I was worried they would die if I didn’t repot them soon. But where could I find pots? Or the small dishes in which the pots rest? Or soil? I looked around in the supermarkets and soon discovered a variety of plain earthen pots, very affordable at one. Now, soil. A said he would nip out one night and dig up some from the fields!! Eeeeeks. I had to act fast to deter A who would carry out something if he got it into his head. I asked N (who came here 10 years ago and therefore is my yellow pages for most things).
Before answering my query, she said:
“gardening’er bhoot chepeychey? Amaro chepeychilo, ekhon aar nei…(pointing to the row of wilted dried plants on her balcony). Bricomarché tay paabey”.

It’s this enormous store which sells hardware, Do it Yourself stuff. I searched for nearly half an hour in the bewildering array in the ‘jardinage’ (gardening) section. Found some sacks too but these were on closer inspection fertilizers. Ki jay Kori? I tried to ask a burly guy (a shop security) but quite forgot the French word for soil / earth. I pointed to a potted plant. At first he thought I wanted a pot.

Non, non…(No, No)
Terre? (Earth / Soil)
Oui Oui! Terre! (yes, yes! Soil)
Venez avec moi (Come with me)

And he took me behind the store to an enormous enclosed area – a good sized nursery. I found sacks and sacks of soil. I picked a 5 kg of one for 1E50 only!! Yippee. I thanked the guy profusely and flashed him a brilliant smile of gratitude but perhaps he got it wrong since he sort of swivelled on one of his heels, and gave me a slow and leery wink. Eeeeks. I ran out despite the 5kg bag in my hands.

Back home, A and I got to repotting the two cacti. Easier said than done. Nothing to scoop out the earth (had to use on of my table spoons), no thick gardening gloves to hold the prickly cactus. We managed it at last…But our results were a bit shoddy. I had one short lopsided bulbous cactus and 3 wobbly leaning towers. And soil all over the floor. Oh well. I watered them once in 15 days. And made sure they got plenty of sunlight, shifting them around so that each side got plenty of sunlight!!

A month later, I added 3 more plants to my collection. During the Foire d’Autone or Autumn Fair, a nursery was selling saplings for 1E each. Picked up a pot of mint and bergamot and another of a succulent plant with green leaves arranged just like the petals of a flower. Succulents are very hardy and do not require much care. (How blissful, my own herbs…mint, bergamot)!

The owner of the nursery had set up a small corner where he was urging people to pick up a tiny sapling from a tray, a pot from another and soil from a third and take away a plant home! I stood in the line for my own free sapling. When my turn came, I scooped earth using a pot and put it into another one instead of using my hands. The chap looked at me and said mock-seriously “Mais non Madame, Vous trichez. C’est n’est pas sale”. (No Madam, You are cheating. Its not dirty). Sheepishly I put down the pot and used my hands. Heartened by his talking to me even though only to rebuke me, I managed to ask him if I needed to repot it. “Non! Non! Leave it like it is and in printemps(springtime), they will blossom into flowers as blue as my eyes; Look at them then, and think of me”!! For once I was glad that A could not follow the chap’s high speed French. A might have just upset the whole tray of soil on the poor chap’s head!

I spent a happy week with all my five plants in a row till end of October when I had to switch on the heater just below the window sill. Kothai rakhi? Idea? I put them on a carton in which we bought our CPU. I put the pots on it and placed it on the wall opposite to the window and heater. It looked quite nice there.

But, problems struck soon. Firstly, A who is generously built ashtey jetey would often bump into the box and which would upset my already wobbly leaning cacti, throwing soil all over the place. Once, I too knocked them over with the edge of my blanket, which I had wrapped myself in while watching a late night movie….again repotting…cleaning the soil, the mud stains and lastly…the thorns and spikes that had stuck onto my blankets at that late hour. Aargh!

Soon after this, I heard a strange scratching noise from the mint pot. It went on for couple of days and A said he would change the earth in the pot with some fresh earth that I had bought. But that night I was woken up by those same noises (as if some tiny thing scratching its way out of the pot, trapped under all that soil) …. So loud they sounded in the stillness of our flat. I managed to convince a very sleepy A to put the pot outside our apartment, in the landing where it stayed for couple of days. I watered it everyday but it was obvious that it was dying in the hot and dark corridor. One day, A picked it up and put it among the green shrubs in the green swathe nearby, very scrupulously maintained by the town municipality. Couple of days later, A found the pot gone. Hurrah! It had found a home and kinder and braver(than me) owners. It was not a poor, abandoned, orphelin (orphan) anymore.

The tiny sapling however, flourished. When I had first brought it home, it was level with the edge of the pot. But it grew slowly, first sending up a shoot up straight and then tiny branches and pale green leaves. It gladdened my heart. I watered it dutifully, a few drops, morning and evening. Put it on the window sill whenever a bit of sunlight broke in through the murky autumn skies. We would be leaving for India soon. What would become of this sapling? I don’t know my neighbours well enough to ask them to water it twice daily. I could give it to N…but she has three kids, one of them a 3 month old baby. Suppose she forgot to water it? Etc Etc. The shoot was now 10cm high and I thought a bit leaning on to one side (because of its weight). A suggested sticking in couple of the thin wooden sticks from the Chinese chicken brochettes that A had eaten the day before. Next morning proved to be too late. The plant was not leaning, it was wilting. By evening, it has shrunk and drooped life less over the side of the pot. I thought it was the heat in our apartment. A thought I watered it too much. He was right. On closer inspection I found a sort of whitish mould all over the pot. My poor sapling. Now I won’t be able to see “blue as his eyes” flowers in printemp. Not in my apartment atleast. My cacti still exist…a bit wobbly, a bit uncertain…but still there and hopefully will be there in the new year as well.

Glossary French Words
Bien Commencé! - Well begun
promo - A special deal
artichauts - artichokes
endives - Endives (thats what my dictionary says)
bette rave - Beet
poireuax - leeks
champignons - Mushrooms
frigo - french slang for fridge

Glossary Bengali words
kancha lanka - green chillies
dhonay pata - fresh coriander
bhindi- Okra
korola - a type of bitter vegetable
bhaja - fry
halud - turmeric
Oshtomi - 8th day of the bengali festival of Durga Puja
gardening’er bhoot chepeychey? - Got a gardening craze?
Amaro chepeychilo, ekhon aar nei…Bricomarché tay paabey”. - I too had it, not any more
Ki jay Kori? - What shall I do?
Kothai rakhi? - Where shall I keep (it)?
Astey jetey - while coming and going

Of Cabbage Soup and Christmas Lights

After the sumptuous beans and rice lunch yesterday, A did not want a repeat for dinner. He asked me what I would be cooking. “Something vegetarian; Carrots, cabbages, potatoes…lets see”. Cabbages Please! With Lardon fumés!! And before I knew what was happening, A was back from the supermarché with 2 packs of smoked ham strips. I had first chanced upon a recipe for a quick onion (shallots really), noodle soup in a French cook book. Later on, another similar one with sausages. With a little variation, it soon became our favourite soup meal. First take a heavy pot, put the lardon fumes into it and stir till the fat melts (you don’t need any additional oil for this soup), then add onions and fry and then tomatoes and any vegetable of your choice – shredded cabbage, carrots, potatoes, turnips, beans etc. Add water, chicken stock (known as court bouillon) and cover. When the vegetables are half cooked, add in a handful of pasta / noodle of your choice. And hey presto!!

As usual, I couldn’t not stop myself after two large bowls full and forced down another bowl which left me feeling heavy to put it mildly. “Hansh Phansh” would describe it better.

As soon as I was able to, I pulled on my sweater, coat, and shoes and went out with A for a post-soup walk. A, who had gone out earlier, had seen the Christmas lights up and wanted me to see them.

In fact last night, the lights in Champs Elysees were officially inaugurated, this year by actress Carol Bouquet who did the honours. I thought I spied (on Tele) ex-PM Jospin grinning away, next to her.

Anyhow, our town decided to light up today. So, 1st we went straight down to ‘Hotel de Ville’ or the Town Hall an impressive old building with a large clock in front and a small bell on top. The windows were bordered with strands of green holly and golden lights entwined together. The foreyard had a christmas tree strung up with red ribbons and lights. All pillars were covered with what looked like showers of golden lights.

The Quay Victor Hugo (quai in French) adjacent to the Mairie (Mayor’s office, here the town hall) with the five bridges spanning the river La Marne, was all lit up. The old bridge which is closed to the public too was lit up. The next bridge which is also the marché bridge on account of the vendors plying their wares each Samedi, was done up beautifully. The lamp poles were lit as were the large potted plants suspended from the poles had long lengths of tiny lights suspended from it. The other day, on my way to somewhere, I had seen municipal workers fixing spiky white branches onto the bare trees on the roads along the river front. Turns out, the white spikes were tiny lights!!

We walked down on a big avenue away from the river front down to ‘Place Henri Quatre’. It’s a large paved square strewn with benches, bordered by flower beds and trees. But what a transformation! Each tree was strung with lights, cardboard boxes, gift-wrapped in bright colours – orange, yellow, red, blue and cardboard cut outs of elves perched on the braches. An enormous Christmas tree stood in a barrel, unlit. I don’t think the lighting is yet complete. Last year, the two weeping willows were lit up as well. Some of the inner streets are lit too…each one in a different way. The store fronts are changing their window dressing!! Soon each one will try and out do the others with sleds and reindeers and santas and holly and lights and cotton snow!!

Reminds me of Calcutta and the puja lights. Unfair to compare this with the magnificent puja light. I keep trying to describe it to A, who has never seen a puja in Calcutta, yet. Nevertheless, I caught myself several times, gaping happily in admiration up at the light festooned trees. This brought to my mind an incident from long ago.

It happened during one of our annual trips to Calcutta from Assam, where we used to then live. That year too, we put up with our mother’s elder sister (mashi to us). Her only child, a son, ‘dada’ to me and R, had an uncle ‘Kaka’ who took the three of us out one day. Kaka, a young bachelor then, took us all over Calcutta – to places of his interests and intriguing to us because of the novelty of his choices. Football grounds (East Bengal first followed by Mohemmadan Sporting), Eden Gardens, in between a heavy lunch at ‘Aminia’, where he ordered a ‘Special’ – the dish was called special. Mughlai Chicken curry with two eggs apiece. Neither R, nor I would eat our eggs and so dada and Kaka ended up eating 4 eggs each!

The day was far from over though!! Around sun-set (6ish I should think), the 4 of us boarded a bus (another novelty for R and I since we did not go around in buses in Assam) and went to Howrah Station to see the ‘lights’.

It does sound puzzling today, here and now. Howrah and Lights? A million people, cars, buses, lorries, animals, carts, rickshaws, smoke, exhaust fumes, heat and dust. But Lights??

But we did see the ‘Lights’ that day.

Lights twinkling in the huge red Victorian station building.
Lights on the massive cantilever Howrah Bridge.
Lights twinkling in the boats and streamers under the bridge in the murky waters of the Hooghly.
And from the bridge, 1000’s of twinkling lights in the city we had left behind!!

It was quite interesting to us then, at least interesting enough not to have questioned kaka’s choices of venues!!

We came home, clothes crumpled, faces grimy, very tired but CONTENT! Ma and mashi asked us where we had been (the answer to which they already knew, but wanted to hear it from us). They burst out laughing when we replied Howrah Station to see the Lights!

They laughed uncontrollably, their laughter growing progressively hysterical each time we asked them what was so funny about our answer?!

It took me a fair number of years to understand the meaning of something mashi had managed to spew out, incoherent as she was with laughter: Ga thekey esheychey era sob! Howrah station’er light dekhtey gechilo!!!


Glossary french words:
supermarché - supermarket
Lardon Fumés - smoked ham
Mairie - Mayor's office

Glossary bengali words
Hansh Phansh - Huffing and Puffing
Samedi - Saturday
Quai - Quay
Mashi - mother's sister
Dada - brother
kaka - dad's younger brother
Aminia - a famous eatery in Calcutta serving Mughlai cuisine
Ga thekey esheychey era sob! Howrah station’er light dekhtey gechilo!!!- Villagers all, went to see the lights of Howrah Station!!