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It Would Be Saturday Morning
We'd be watching Anderson Cooper on the World version of CNN until our driver, Channa came to pick us up for a day downtown. If we were in Bangalore, I'd look out the living-room drapes of the villa we rented at the various types of roses in the front garden and see that it was sunny, and probably cool, but not cold; a salamander might scurry under the fridge when I came into the kitchen to make my Activia yogurt with walnuts and a chopped pear or apple; over breakfast, I might scan marriage classifieds in "The Times of India," with the advertiser's caste specified in many, if not most, cases; Channa would arrive in his silver, Chevy Tavera 4x4 and drive us into town for the day from Whitefield.
If we were fortunate, our friend Chitra and her daughters would meet us at the Blossom Book House on Church Street. And then we'd have lunch at Ebony, including tandoori gobi (cauliflower) or Ruby Tuesday, where at the Bangalore version, I could order paneer marinara with broccoli while everyone else ordered American dishes.
We had no kitties then, but we had each other and local friends from IBM. Now that we have cats named Phoebe and Toonces, Pat coined a couple of new nicknames for them tonight, inspired by P. Diddy: P. Kitty and T. Kitty.
P. Kitty is kneading my right thigh right now, but it's bed-time. She has taken to lounging in a shallow Amazon books box. French Milk, Sweet Tea and my friend Rick Schroeder's book came in that box earlier this week. I've gotta make time for some pleasure-reading!
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