Passage to India

We took the ship from Marseilles, and I have no memory whatsoever of how we got there or embarked for the sea voyage. But I do remember that our first stop was Barcelona, which for me will always be a narrow cobbled road steeply descending to the sea. Aden was a place with candle-stemmed palms, and goats that were fascinatingly equipped with cloth bags around their udders to prevent the milk from being stolen. I had no difficulty seeing how red the Red Sea was, and in the Suez Canal I was convinced that I had spotted a black panther prowling the endless bleached sands. My mother listened with gratifying awe to my description of the animal.

On the last night of the voyage there was a farewell get-together, and the German contribution to this international occasion was a rendering of Unter den Linden. The next morning we were spewed out into the sticky heat of the Bombay Customs enclosure. My father, occasionally given to impish humour, had circulated among relatives demanding to know what the Missus looked like a photo of his mother-in-law in domestic disarray, energetically wielding a rugbeater on a carpet. If the members of the welcoming committee of relatives were relieved that my mother bore little resemblance to this photo, they did not show it. Food containers were opened amidst the static confusion of the Customs shed, and I had my first taste of shrikhand.

And it was good.

new world

even the buzzing of flies

sounds different