I tried a duck egg the other day, just prior from leaving Srinagar. With my nose turned up and my mouth already in the 'yuck' position I put a piece of the fried egg in my mouth. I has the same texture as, though much brighter than, the average chicken egg... its yolk is orangy-red and its size is a tad larger and the shell is softly spotted with a sandy colour. The taste is somewhat similar but I just couldn't get past the whole 'duck-thing'. They come about in flocks around the HB and I talk to them... how am I supposed to eat one of their eggs? Nonetheless, I tried a bite and then tried another but I stopped at two. I've decided that duck eggs are best left for the locals and besides they are much to heavy on the stomach first thing in the morning.

This also reminds me of the time when I was fishing of the side of the boat. A favourite past time on Dal Lake on those hot days, under the shade of a lily pad leaf (find a great big one, snip the stem and 'voila'... a perfect sun hat for fishing). Usually I fish when other members of the family are around or I sit back with whoever is fishing, stare at the water and urge the fish to eat... of course I learned to speak to the fish in Kashmiri as these fish have always lived here. Everyone thinks I'm crazy that I talk with the fish but they encourage me probably so that they can have a good laugh at my accent! This particular time I sat quietly on the front of the boat. no nibbling was happenning... they weren't to interested in flour and water today. The bit of dough on a hook hanging from a bamboo pole just wasn't fooling them. But than out of nowhere, the little floaty 'thingy' started to bob up and down, I was getting excited, I now understood the thrill of the hunt! At the opportune moment I yanked the line up and there he was... about the size of my foot (well, maybe not quite as wide!). I called someone... anyone... because in the past someone was always around to take the fish off the hook. But no on came. It was just me and the fish. The fish didn't look too happy... in fact his eyes were bulging and his gills were puffing in and out. And I just stood there dumbstruck with the rod in my hand watching the fish thrashing about... my eyes wide open, practically hyperventilating wondering what to do next. I took a deep breath and took hold of the fish... he was slimy and thrashing which made it hard to get the hook out of his mouth. The more he moved the more I panicked. The look of death in the eyes of the fish matched my wild eyes of fear for it was at this moment that I realized that it was I who had the power to keep him alive or let him suffer. So I did what any other noble fisherman would do... I tossed him back into the lake, said a prayer and ran like hell to find soap to wash the smell of Dal Lake fish from my hands.

I haven't eaten fish since.