The vital statistics are somewhat lopsided in Europe and a majority of girls are over 5'8”, with quite a number above even 6 feet. A man of my height would have had better prospects in the University of Tokyo or Shanghai, but I had committed the blunder of choosing the University of Göttingen for my studies.

When this realization grew, I began to eye every girl with calibrated eyesight. After a long and laborious research into this vital statistic of girls, my eyes fell on Heiderung from the department of physiology. Heiderung (Heidi for short) was the answer to my prayers. My guardian angel seemed to guard me even beyond the shores of good old Bharat Mata.

Most un-Germanic in her looks, Heidi had black eyes and black hair (my favourite colour), but more important was that she stood around 5'2” in her pumps. I don't know what she weighed, but suffice it to say that weight was not a major concern. Luckily for me, she was quite an open and friendly girl, and she invited me for coffee after work at our first meeting.

I entered the cafeteria to find Heidi sitting alone at a corner table. Thanking my luck and my guardian angel, I made my way to her table and sat down.

"And, how are you?" I asked, immediately followed by, "What can I get you?"

"Don't worry," she said. "I have already ordered coffee and cakes for all of us."

I guessed that she was not good at English grammar and hence said "all of us" rather than "both of us". But then, one does not make a song and dance about grammar, especially when one is with a girl like Heidi.

She continued, "I am keen that you should meet Karl, my fiancé. He has a lot of interest in Indian culture and arts."

At this, a seventeen-foot giant appeared with three cups of coffee and a plate of cakes on a tray. My anger boiled over at this giant. He could choose almost any girl in the institute or the city. Did he have to choose the only one that fitted my specifications so snugly?

I do not recall another occasion when a slice of Black Forrest cake tasted like a lump of coal coated with a thin layer of chocolate.

Till today, I have not got over my dislike for people who are seventeen-feet tall. Heidi insisted that I attend her wedding and dance along with the rest of the guests. I did all that, all the while telling my guardian angel what I really thought of him, in choicest Punjabi.

Life continued in a lonely fashion, till one day I saw her in Hertie. Hertie is a supermarket, where I used to shop for my groceries and other needs. As I went down the aisle in search of pickles, I was pleasantly surprised to see this salesgirl hanging around in that area. She was short, may be just about 5'1” and trim. I thought she was very beautiful, but that was beside the point. Any girl less than 5'4” inches looked beautiful to me.

I wanted many Indian spices so that I could add taste to the otherwise tasteless German food. In order to visit this store and see the salesgirl again and again, I decided to pick up one spice every day.

"Excuse me, miss," I said to her.

She looked at me, her deep blue eyes showing a gamut of emotions and her mouth working up a steam to whisper something wonderful to me.

"She speak no English, only German," answered a tall, Teutonic beauty that hurried down to help us communicate. This is the trouble with Germany. When you are not searching for someone to translate for you, you will find hordes of translators around. Interpreters are scarce only when you search for them or really need them. Not only in Germany, I found the same problem in Denmark, Sweden, France and Italy.

The deal was conducted without the aid of the spoken word. After all, there are not many clarifications required when buying a pack of salt. Having established the commercial relationship, I withdrew, promising myself like General McArthur, "I will be back."

I was back the next day, and the next and the next. Buying chilly powder, pepper, turmeric powder, cumin seeds, cinnamon, cardamom, bay leaves, tamarind and nutmeg. Yes, I even bought nutmeg when I could think of nothing else. Every time I would ask Ina the German equivalent of the English name, which she would not understand, then we would jointly search the shelves. The search was very enjoyable.

When I was overstocked with spices, deviously I made her search for cumin seeds in the sauces' section of the store. Obviously, we did not find it, but then that was not my intention either.

Between coriander and cardamom, I learnt her name was Ina. By this time, I had picked up a little German and she was picking up English. We could communicate in bastardized versions of either language. Unfortunately, neither I knew the German word for 'date', nor did she show a way out of the deadlock.

One day, in need of pickles, I found my goddess of spices missing. Luckily, the helpful Teutonic beauty was around. I asked her where Ina was. She answered that she had been shifted to the clothing counter and was selling shirts. Come to think of it, I did need a few shirts, so I went to the shirts counter. She gave me a big smile of welcome. Pickles could wait.

"Ein hemd?" she asked.
(One shirt?)

"Ja," I said. "Ein hemd, bitte."
(Yes. A shirt please.)

I began my collection of shirts. Somewhere between the 5th and the 6th shirt, I found the exact word for invitation and dinner. So we had a quiet dinner at a Greek restaurant. To add to the fun of the party, we had a waitress who spoke neither German nor English. I also gave her (I mean Ina) my first present, a German-English dictionary.

My collection of shirts grew steadily. Sometimes I purchased a tie, for she looked after ties too. I must say she had the weirdest choice in ties, though she seemed sound about boyfriends. Her transfer soon to the suits department cut down my collection of shirts and ties. This was the costliest item she was selling and I was about to call it a day by the time I became the proud owner of three suits. After which I found her totally missing.

A number of exploratory visits to Hertie failed to show Ina. I searched her among ladies' shoes, men's nightwear, ladies' undergarments, toys, stationery, sports goods, magazines, wines, cheese, cold meats, fruits and vegetables, kitchenware, garden equipment, cosmetics and even the pets' section. But no Ina.

Now Hertie is a real supermarket. You could get anything there, from a safety pin to a tractor. Indian Pickles, Spanish Saffron, Scotch Whiskey, Australian Cheese, French Wine, Hungarian Goulash were available. But if there was any item that was missing from the inventory, it was Ina.

As I made another round of the entire market, my aching feet led me to the cafeteria. A hot coffee was what the doctor ordered, but beer tastes better, so it was beer with Bratwurst. As I sipped my poison, I found the Teutonic beauty sitting a table away.

The Teutonic beauty winked at me, and we began the usual casual conversation, “Guten abend.”

“Schön Guten abend.”

“Wie geht es?”

“Gut. Danke, und Sie?”

"Ouch Gut. Schön Wetter, Na?"

"Ja sicher."

One has to observe the formalities of courteous talk.

"Ina gone on holiday?"

"How you call it, after marriage, girl and boy go?"

I said the dreaded word. "Honeymoon?"

"Ja, honeymoon. I knowed it was to do with bees at night."

"Honeymoon?" I gulped again.

"Ja," she said. "Her chief very happy with her work. She make customers happy. He marry her."

I then realized that my mother's dream was to come true. While leaving for Germany, my mother told me of her dream, that I would marry a nice Maharashtrian girl. That very Maharashtrian girl now often asks me from where I purchased all those funny ties. So far, I have not told her. For, if I do so, I might have to look for another bride.