Paniyaram and Poffertjes

 This blog began with a motive of observing Holland through Indian lens. I made comparisons, I made connects and sometimes I even grieved the loss of a homeland. And so, to soothe myself, I went home every January and stayed there for a couple of months. This has been a classic case of win-win because this way I escaped the Dutch winter and also the Indian summer; at the same time I could give a break to all the grumbling about needing a break.

Paniyaram and me

I always went back with huge lists about where to go and what to eat. However, I can make no claim of creativity because the list has been duplicated several times over the years. One of the stars of my food galaxy is Paniyaram. It’s a typical south Indian snack and goes by several names amongst the southern brethren. It has the three necessities of South-Indianness – rice, spice and is certainly nice. Let me introduce it to the unenlightened – the base is a fermented batter of rice and lentils, spiced with ginger, green chillies, curry leaves. This is fried in an indented pan. The result is a glorious golden-brown ball; crisp on the outside, fluffy soft inside. This dunked into coconut chutney puts me in a food coma. There is also the sweet variant, made with rice, coconut sugar, cardamom and a sprinkling of cinnamon, fried in clarified butter. Fear not, there is something for everyone!

Dutch paniyarams?!

It goes without a doubt that Paniyaram Is what I miss this year ( along with my family and warmth and sunshine…etc). Imagine my surprise when I found a Dutch snack joint serving these, smack in the middle of a lockdown to a group of people huddled together for warmth and (possibly) better transmission of Covid. However not drifting away from the point, it smelled strongly of butter and was attacked by a powdered sugar storm. This I learn is the sweet Dutch variant made of flour and called Poffertjes. These are favorites of Dutch kids and also adults with the heart of a child. I even know of a family that stocks them frozen for midnight emergencies!

All paniyarams in different forms?

Apparently, several countries have their own versions of Paniyarams. While Dutch have their Poffertjes, Aebleskiver is the Danish sweetheart made with wheat flour. South East Asia is famous for its roadside eateries, all of which sell some kind of Paniyaram as a starter or desert. Filipinos are famous for Panyalams. Also, baby pancakes made of rice, coconut milk and brown sugar. Say hello to the Thai version – khanom khrok which could be both sweet and savory, also made of rice flour.

What does this teach us? I would like to say something spiritual like despite different races, we are all the same, but the truth is, humankind loves bits of fried dough be it savory or sweet. And also that it is time for me to act (this year’s resolution!) albeit on my temptation. So, I bought a pan meant for poffertjes, filled it with my paniyaram batter with extra spice, onions and carrots (yes, I am complicated) and made my ‘India on a plate’ phenomenon!

 

Dutch much?

The Dutch speak not with tongues, but with their throats propelled by an energy drawn deep from the pits of their stomachs. Even after spending a few months on this land I can only hear winds and gurgling streams from the mouths of those who speak the tongue. Be it a question, a statement or just an exclamation someone expresses to me, the only reply I can give is, “can you speak English?” or play dumb charades. Whilst, some are nice enough to repeat in English, I have come across a few who exasperatedly shake their heads or worse, move their wrists in front of my face (like swatting a fly) and say ‘never mind’ in the most superior tone one can muster. Back in India, it is difficult to shut me up. I would talk to anyone I come across and when there is no one, I would talk even to the omnipresent crows that feast on the most disgusting things possible. Here, irrespective of where I go, I feel like the sole human being who is oblivious to all that is being said and can’t act until someone stabs me or I see a truck right in front of my face that might run me down in seconds. It starts to seem like people are either studiously ignoring me (which they are) or when they are not, jeering at me in a language I don’t know. In fact, at home, the crack of eggshells, the sizzling oil, the bubbling broth and even the whooshing of hot steam from the shower sound like Dutch to me.

Unable to put up with it anymore, I march to the public library with the wind whispering into my ear-muffed ears (in Dutch of course!) in search of any book that would help me regain the use of my vocal chords in public. After about an hour of finding only a Dutch to Dutch beginners book, I approach the authorities for help. While I request the librarian to assist me in my cause, my mind draws up its own imagination of me huffing, gargling and puffing away in Dutch as my husband watches me with a gobsmacked expression. “ Fee do not haf fought you fant,” the librarian peers at me through her thick glasses with absolutely no sign of repentance. “Fe only haf the Dutch to Dutch book,” she says, waving the book in air.

And teaching Dutch seems to be quite a business. Looking it up online, I found several schools all charging between 1000 and 5000 Euros! Oh! And you need to wait at least for half a year before you can start class. On recounting my experience, my cool husband whips up his phone to download Duolingo, an app that teaches Dutch. Duo, the owl its mascot is now my teacher. And I should say, it has started changing my life. I have begun to take baby steps in Dutch and wish my mom a goede morgen (good morning) every day. I learnt the names of vegetables, fruits and animals in Dutch and have now proceeded to learn simple sentences too. It sure isn’t easy to construct grammatically right sentences with words that use the sounds of every other alphabet but their own (for example, vegetables are groente, pronounced hoonte), but I think I am getting there. At least I hope I am. Meanwhile, I have also started to practice pranayama(breathing exercise) and stomach-muscle strengthening exercises that would help me speak Dutch from my navel.

Knock down lockdown?

It has been eight months since Coronavirus has had its visa stamped in Holland. And it certainly looks like the people have warmed up to it with the country spewing about 8500 cases a day now.

Back in February when the coronavirus was still ‘novel’, the Dutch went about their business like it was no one’s business. When other countries were putting up borders and burning bridges to minimize damage, the Dutch simply shrugged and made comments about how the world needs to grow up. When things started to snowball and the government called out for some responsible behavior, my law-abiding Dutch neighbor and his friends finally stopped going to discotheques and clubs. But then, they started hosting smoke-up parties.

In less than a month when such responsible behavior wasn’t helping, the President finally started ‘imposing’ rules, like requesting everyone to keep their public interactions to the minimum, keep their distance and wash their hands frequently. Meanwhile, India was in firm lockdown that was curfew-esque even when the virus hadn’t made its landfall yet. Singapore was locking up families by the dozen enforcing forced quarantines and fumigating the city every few hours.

On one hand when third world countries equipped themselves with temperature guns, no-touch sanitizer dispensers and UV lamps, the advice people here received was to cough and sneeze into their elbows even as shops put up hastily printed copies of “NO PEOPLE WITH FLU-LIKE SYMPTOMS ALLOWED”. Even before the first wave abated, people were clamoring to shut down the lockdown. There was a nation-wide grumbling of how we were giving special privilege to a flu. And truth be told, it was completely un-Dutch-like to care about a virus because most of my visits to the doctor with a range of complaints always fetch me the same medicine – Paracetamol. “Often the best way to treat illness is to not treat it at all”, seems to be most doctors' motto.

In South East Asia, facemask has become like underwear, most people don’t step out without it. In fact, it has become a fashionable accessory with an advantage of hiding problematic skin without the need to ‘mask’ it with makeup. India has of course embraced the concept, even churning out designer facemasks studded with gold and all things bold, to match the big, fat Indian weddings. I also hear that it is fast becoming a social indicator of sorts, also very Indian indeed.

In Holland, non-medical facemasks are still a raging argument, arguments ensuing to such lengths that the arguers often lose track of what they are arguing over. The government itself torn between both sides, imposed half-hearted face covering rules, making it mandatory on public transport which the people follow less keenly by covering not even half their faces. For some misdirected reason, facemasks are called mouth masks in Dutch and so many treat it as such leaving their noses free to exhale clouds of germs

                                   

But what really surprises me is the way senior citizens handle the pandemic. Netherlands is home to senior citizens and many-a-time their parent/s as well. Oldies in India have been under house arrest for almost half year now, but here the older people go about lives with a vigour that almost matches their pre-corona levels. They are more careful than most about taking precautions and accepting help. I say the latter because I witnessed a fellow countryman being snubbed by an old lady for offering to hold her bag of shopping. Apparently, she didn’t need the extra germ load.

On a crisp Autumn day when a private garden opened in honor of Neighbor’s Day, I found it being manned by people easily over 70 years old. They wore superior grins and no protective gear. I was awed by their enthusiasm for gardening. No amount of rain, slugs or even viruses seemed to throw a dampener on it. But when I asked an almost 7 feet tall septuagenarian about risks of Covid, he genially laughed and said,” I am in the twilight of my life and I don’t want to stay indoors through it all. I want to go out and see the stars.” 

That my friends, summed up his personality in a sentence and gave me a new perspective. There is a pandemic raging, nature changing course and an existential crisis, but the Sun continues to rise. And the one thing we rise to do together is to hoard toilet paper at the face of eminent danger...without facemasks.

 

 

 

 

Rooting and Fruiting

One pleasant Spring day as the family was otherwise engaged with gadgets, I came across a new concept - Food-mile. It apparently refers to the distance your food has traveled to reach the plate. And the shorter it is, the better it is for oneself and also the ecosystem. This is a kind of re-emphasis on the 'Eat Local' phenomenon.

As someone who grew up in a tropical developing country, I remember all the fuss over 'exotic' food. For many it was a sort of social status, to be able to afford and source those ingredients that for many years had only been read about or seen in photographs. In fact, for the longest time the most expensive vegetables were English vegetables, like carrots and beets, 'French' beans (?!)  fresh peas and cauliflower blooms. My parents often speak about piling their plates with vegetables that have almost disappeared from the markets today. It is with wonder that I think of red and black corn that served as after-school snacks for them, lotus stem fries that went well with 'rasam' rice and the coconut flower that was a delicacy,not to mention red okra, a plethora of wild greens and berries all of which constituted their diet. I can only vaguely remember the taste of desi corn before the craze for American sweet corn took over. As a teenager, I tasted the succulent coconut flower (bought from a roadside cart), which resides inside a sprouted coconut, is off-white and refreshingly coconutty. 

With near-lost native vegetables and fruits, we have also lost a part of our culinary heritage. But on looking closer, we see that most of our ancient cookery books as well as medicine all stress on the importance of eating locally available and home-grown food, which is something that Western science has reiterated. And so, with the new luxury of having a back as well as a front yard, I decided to exercise my green fingers, thereby attempting to shorten the food-mile. Two pumpkin vines merrily flowered in the front garden as potatoes and peas plants were gaining height behind. As their growth pace was that of the snails that I fought to keep at bay, I knew that they would only be ready when the autumn strikes. And so I brainwashed a friend to go with me to a farm that promised fresh produce, fun experience and photo sessions.

On a sunny day, we drove through the Dutch countryside to Plukkerij Framblij, a family-run farm and a Facebook-famous spot. Walking through a greenhouse we each picked up small buckets to fill with fruits. Rows and rows of strawberry bushes welcomed us. I have never understood the popularity of this sour little fruit which were very few in number. Next, we walked through aisles of raspberry plants, richly laden with fruit. I ate while filling my bucket, only to realise that I was singularly responsible for almost all of the raspberry harvest this season. The children's excitement vaporised upon plucking a few handfulls of produce. And so, leaving them in the play area with their fathers for security, we moved on.The series of interconnected greenhouses meant that we could pluck fresh aubergines, capsicums, tomatoes, beans that even a picky eater like me wouldn't fuss about. (I understood later that it was simply the high of plucking fresh veggies and that I really couldn't make myself eat them :P)

It was amazing how they could tame grape vines that yielded green, red and black grapes, cherry and apricot trees, blackberry gorse and red currants when I have so much trouble in getting my few plants to behave. 

In addition, they had farm fresh honey, home made jams and preserves, all of which caught my fancy but no one else's. 

With fruits that started to weigh more than they did an hour back, we trooped into their cafe shushing the children's hunger for ice creams. I use the word cafe here for the lack of an apt term. It was a dingy little space that kept out the sun and was a combination of few mismatched tables, chairs and sofas that seemed to be picked up at the local recycling centre. All of them had a layer of dust and the sofa also had a rip, adding to the antique feel. Thanks to Corona times, we each had a supply of sanitizers and tissues, so could clean up one rickety table and feed the kids. Hurrying outside, I was again able to enjoy the experience, more so when I saw a pony giving rides to squealing children.

 

I was amazed at how the family commercialized such a simple concept. A creative business venture. True, farming is no mean feat, but for a small farm which cant really deal with scaling up in order to profit enormously, they have done well. From charging an entrance fee and charge per 100g of produce, they have planned their profits efficiently. Also, they seem to have friendly old men (brothers/cousins) stationed near every type of fruit, who gladly help us in choosing the best fruits available. 

This seems like a very doable and adaptable concept, even for India. The tropical weather is bound to be best for our native plants, the only glitch may be water procurement. If that is managed, with so much attention being given to organic, local produce; it might turn out to be a money spinner for our poor farmers. 

Meanwhile, the summer has come to a spluttering end. I haven't managed to do as much or as well with my garden, but am glad that I haven't inflicted much damage to my crops. Feeding them with kitchen scraps and rice water diligently, I am now the proud mother of a bunch of potatoes, some peas and two dwarfed pumpkins! 

Pandemic Parenting

 Pandemic Parenting. When each word in itself is alarming, one can only imagine how dangerous the combined effect could be.

People knew 2020 is going to be a special year, even back in 2000s. Most policymakers were enthralled by the number and its distance from 2000. Almost every country I know of came up with a Vision 2020. They spoke of Mars missions and robot maids. Now that 2020 is finally here, we have now learnt to wash our hands properly, forget flying cars.

Whilst all of us have been cooped up at home, living through a limbo; those trapped with their children are the real victims. As the neurotic mother who traced the journey of this virus right from Wuhan to where it is today, I kept my daughter under house arrest long before the actual lockdown began; only to realize as to who was really under arrest.

The first few days were lovely and long like the first days of holidays. We slept in, woke up together, played games in bed and generally just lounged around. Then came the cooking phase when we ate exotic brunches and dinners interspersed with cholesterol spiking snacks. Two months in, mornings began at 9.00 am when “Ammaa, TV!” became my daughter’s way of wishing me a good morning. Nay sayers were treated with a bout of crying or ‘angapradakshan’ and on those days when one wakes up on the wrong side of the bed – a combination of both. For the Uninitiated, ‘angapradakshan’ is an extreme Indian bribe that a devotee offers if the deity grants his wish. Roll about on the floor, after the deed is done. Over here, my daughter does it in advance. And truth be told, it does work.   

After a healthy breakfast of toast with cookie spread, she would sprawl on the sofa to watch Peppa Pig, Ben and Holly, Finnie the shark, Paw Patrol, Hatchimals, Super Simple Songs,… let me take a breath; PJ Mask and when all else bores, Alex and Gaby. Alex and Gaby is a brother-sister duo in the UK that speak terrible English and play with sponsored toys, Swarovski crystals, Mercedes Benz play models. Ira is a sport. Although she dislikes playing with any toys, she does love to see these kids play with theirs’.

All in all, she spends about 6 hours glued on to screens of various kinds and the rest of the time is dedicated to demanding my attention or eating junk. Those days when I have some patience and inspiration, I can get her to practice alphabets and numbers. Upon trying ignite her creativity, I presented her with various paints and brushes. She ended up exceeding my expectation by mixing colors and decorating our dining chairs with a disgusting brownish-yellow color. After that, we quite lost our appetites and stopped using the dining table until we bought new chairs.

Outside, the number of Covid cases increased sharply and fell again. Inside, my patience mimicked the graph, it rose in the beginning and fell steeply. Ask the dented pots and broken pans, the know the story. The daughter of mine started to lose interest in screens and began to attach herself to my back. A trip to the toilet started to feel like a luxury. Her pre-school teachers kept our letterbox full of activity sheets and coloring pages. So now, we were also importing paper waste. Ira wouldn’t look twice at them and when forced she took a single black crayon and scratched the faces of Minnie and Mickey, declaring them burnt.

The next activity I chose was gardening. It was Ira’s task to sow seeds and tend to them. This meant that I would get asked every 20 minutes if they have grown and that ‘waiting is booooooring.’ She did learn about plant life but decided that she is a ‘clever clogs’ and knows everything already. Next was the playdough experiment. No big surprises. All clays mixed and flushed down the toilet.

The home office added to the misery. With continuous client calls, team meetings, business calls, escalation meetings and video conferences, one needs to keep Ira away from the room, keep her from yelling or making noise, talk in hushed tones and not switch on the blender. Despite my best efforts, she  managed to slip into some of her father’s meetings to give her precious opinion and ask pertinent questions like “who is that grown up boy? Can you blow bubbles? Why are you saying ‘shh’?”

Calls made to family and friends to keep tabs on their welfare became indirect pleas of ‘save me!’ But what could anyone do if everyone is stuck indoors doing the same things as me? Yet there were a few who continued to call despite the risk of boring conversations and my crankiness. Like someone said, friends are those who know that you are talking crap, tell you so and continue to listen to your  crap.

It has been five long months doing the above in permutations and combination. The only change I see is in myself. Five more kilograms and a double chin later I started to fill the entire mirror with my image. Ira though was just as scrawny as ever despite being a couch potato. Soon people started wondering if I was feeding only myself. Tired of them and the person in the mirror, I started venturing outside.

It was a whole new world. I felt like a long-time prisoner who had been released. The air smelled purer and the fragrance of flowers wafted all around. Each trip to the opposite shop felt like salvation. Every visit to the park was an excursion. That is, until Ira started to get bored of it. And then it was always a customary visit before moving on to other parks. So, I went prepared with a bag full of snacks, water and of course, a truck load of hand sanitizer. We took long walks in pursuit of other parks, discovered new lanes and hidden beauty spots all around the neighborhood.

With half the year gone already and other kids hanging on to online learning sessions, it is the four-year-olds that are caught doing nothing (unless eating their parents’ heads counts.) It is a difficult predicament for everyone. Schedules have gone haywire, both theirs’ and ours’. After a long day of irritating each other, when she finally goes to sleep, I smile in contentment, glad that there is no morning rush, glad for this unprecedented break before she begins the long journey of schooling. Despite all my fears and paranoia, this little dent in time will only remind me of those long walks, laugh-till-cry moments, star struck eyes, pigging away and the sheer relief that we don’t need to be bound by time as yet.
Children grow up too fast, but this period feels like a momentary pause.

And meanwhile, go, Corona, go!

 

Mulling over Dwelling - Homecoming and How!? Part 2

I remember the first ever house viewing appointment. It was Dutch weather at its best – a grey sky with whiny clouds that sent forth a continuous cold shower. While the husband happily chilled in warm Spain, my daughter and I bundled in jackets and coats, trudged along the wet pathway. We were trying to find a house in a neighborhood full of clones.

Finally, we came to the ancient (antique!) door just ahead of the scheduled time. On ringing the bell, the real estate agent opened the door. “You are too early. Ring again in 23 seconds,” he said in a gruff voice before closing the door on my face. After exactly 23 seconds, he pulled the door open and ushered us into a long, dark passageway, brightened by two naked zero-watt bulbs.

Picture courtesy: Google Baba

And that in my experience is the normal trait - love for punctuality and passages. In my observation, never are two neighborhoods similar, but every house in one is identical. The floor plan, built-area, doors and sometimes even the taps and utilities! Unless of course one gives up an arm and a leg for a house and then decides to forego another arm to renovate it.

Pics in collaboration with Satya Nadella and G Baba

After a year of living in a house that showcased its toilet before the living room, I was looking forward to others that exhibited their best before the rest. But after rejecting a handful of houses, I realized that an ideal house exists only imagination and not anywhere in the platteland(land). Thus, after one year and one hundred missed houses, I have drawn some conclusions about the Dutch habitation.

Dutch houses are of two types. Free standing ones (that you might have to starve to afford) and row houses that share walls and therefore some secrets. On deciding on the latter, I can further split them into two variants. One, where the house is modeled around a curved staircase and the other, a house that is modeled around a single passage, in case of ground floor residences. Other things are pretty much the same. Mis-shaped bedrooms (in worse cases, broom cupboards that are passed off as bedrooms), toilets that accommodate only half a human and finally the kitchens that are basically glorified closets that can hold some electrical appliances, two pans and exactly one pot of basil.

All houses without stairs are much the same. They fall under the second category of being modeled around a passageway. Think of this tunnel as the main trunk of the tree with rooms jutting out like branches at various weird angles. The passage leads through to a kitchen and the back yard.

As soon as the main door opens, one is greeted with 17^th century coat-hangers that are abode to a heap of jackets, raincoats, scarves and hats that vie with each other to stay at top. Go past that and you will first see a bedroom shaped along the underside of the staircase that runs next to the house. Given the size and shapelessness of the room, it is generally assigned to the kid. After that comes the toilet, a cramped facility with a toy-sized basin and tap that spouts an icy jet of water. Next door is the spartan ‘bad’room with a wash basin and shower cabin which hints at the need to conserve water. Then comes the master bedroom which can accommodate a queen-sized bed and a closet. It opens to or looks out at the garden, which is usually the star of any house, maintained impeccably by the nature-loving Dutch.

The living room is the biggest room in the house. Often, it comes with a fireplace to give a cozy vibe – a great accessory that can be the centre piece, pushing your television to a corner. After all, in a cold country one would like to look into the fake fireplace rather than Game of Thrones, even if Winter is coming.

Dutch kitchens are magazine models. They are super shiny and clean, probably because they are used for making quick sandwiches or half cooked delicacies from the supermarket that only ask for some oven time. It is either that or copious use of stove cleaning, tile brightening, odor removing, nose burning and eye stinging liquids at rigorous work that keep them new. They are furnished with cupboards that have anorexia. In fact, I know of one desi family, that uses a part of their bedroom to store sacks of rice and pulses!

The house we found follows much the same road map but has been designed with some clever quirks. Inside, we got three bedrooms instead of the usual two, something almost unheard of in this neighborhood. A kitchen with smart cupboards and hidden spaces that could hold all the ingredients for a good Indian feast, which is saying something because I use three different kinds of rice, four types of flours, a plethora of spices and some vessels and edibles imported from the loving kitchens of my mother and mother-in-law. To this compact, well-thought dwelling, we added our own essentials, a roomy bathtub, an extra toilet and the quintessential Indian bidet shower for a luxurious morning clean up.  

But what really drew us to this house were the front garden and spacious, tree filled backyard that transported me to the pre-apartment era of India.

Finding the perfect house is like finding the perfect partner. Most good ones are taken anyway. But, jokes apart, they are seldom ideal and when you do find that one house/person, even faults look beautiful. At least for the first few years.

The best part? We are all geared up to live the Indian summer in Netherlands, complete with hammocks, clothes-drying and poppadam making!

(The content and opinions on this blog are mine alone and do not intend to hurt anyone) 

Homecoming and How!? - Part 1

Think Netherlands and what most people picture is Amsterdam with its canals, houses along them and of course, the tulips. It seems to be built just to satisfy the whims of the tourist and floating population. Interesting architecture, wonderful museums, great clubs and of course, a world-famous red-light area.

The truth is Amsterdam is a small part of this small country. It is so small that it is almost impossible to find a decent living space that doesn’t charge an arm and a leg. In fact, the city is chock-a-block with scammers letting a ‘beautiful room near tourist attractions’ for rent, that turn out to be little more than tincans. Like how Netherlands stretches beyond its capital city, this problem stretches throughout the country.

Real estate has been prime property right from times immemorial. During the Golden age, despite rolling in gold, the Dutch maritime traders couldn’t build big houses without being fined. Such is the space constraint. And thus, they decided to invest in quantity rather than quality. The doorways narrowed down to a little more than a pathway leading to a multitude of staircases and several narrow rooms on top of one other. The typical Dutch staircase is treacherous curved con’trap’tion with steps that are no more than a few inches wide, inclined at 90 degrees, leading right into the sky with hardly any hand or even foothold. I suppose that’s also a way for the Dutch to make up for the absence of hills and mountains in the country. Coincidentally, they are called ‘trappen’ in the local language.

How did these people manage to furnish their rooms when even a slightly large person has to turn sideways in order to fit through the narrow doorway? Again Dutch ingenuity to the rescue – fit hooks to the top of the houses and run a pulley through them. The furniture is hauled on ropes and passed in through the windows!! These houses of the rich and mighty are built along the canals and remind me of the rush hour inside public transport – people standing shoulder to shoulder. And just like how they sway with the motion of the vehicle, these buildings move along with the strong wind!

The Golden age has passed, but this style of architecture has stuck on, even in Den Haag where I live. This city is a bit more family-friendly, thanks to a little breathing space and a roaring business of international schools. However, The Hague is plagued by an increasing immigrant population and decreasing number of houses. Back when we were a young couple, one could possibly rent a double bedroom house for €800. As we started to get older (which happens immediately after having a kid), the rent went up to 1200 and in extreme cases €2500 for an all-inclusive ‘classic’ Dutch house. 

Immigrant Indians powered by rice and spice took the revolutionary step of buying houses and paying a lesser EMI than the rent. As the rest began to follow in their footsteps, it kick-started a chain of events that tightened the noose around an already tight real estate market. Oblivious to this fact, we decided just then to join the bandwagon.

And so, we began the process in the typical Indian way hoping to not buy the typical Dutch house. We chose an auspicious day and venerated the elephant God, Ganesha. Met the real estate agent and handed him a list of don’t-wants that was longer than the long-legged Dutch. We spent the next 18 months roaming the streets of Den Haag and internet. A year and a half is a long time. You could have birthed an elephant in this period. Was it a sign that Ganesha was taking us seriously?

Perhaps buying a house is also like having a child. You start with great plans, thoughts and aspirations. In the end, when the baby is in your arms, all these grand plans are tossed out the window and you are happy to simply call this being as your own. (And also because you are so tired that you couldn’t have taken any more effort!)

Just like I love my daughter after all the trouble I went through and am going through for/because her, my house has started to become my home with much love.