Post Script

I have now been home for more than three weeks and have finally got used to the extortionate prices, the absence of roadside ablutions, the lack of visibly dangerous activities, undercrowding on the buses and blessed peace to my ears. I am also enjoying driving again, despite having already called out the AA, a mere 2 days after renwing my membership and an even narrower margin of one day after my car's MOT. However, I am enjoying the fact that people definitely stop at junctions, horn-use is restricted to sufferers of road rage and cow-slaloming skills are not required. I do miss that no-one cycles in a lunghi and the lorries are really boring with no decorations at all.

Since my return, I have reported back to one of the trustees of the charity which has funded the project about what has been going on for the last eight months. He was very pleased with everything and has asked me to come to the AGM in June to update the remainder of the trustees. I hope that we can discuss fund raising plans, specifically the idea of developing community to community funding for future projects, as well as the future of the pilot project. Also by then, I hope, we would have had the first report from RUHSA following their May evaluation, which will give us a good idea of how the project is progressing and whether they are managing to hold meetings when I am not around to bully them into coming!

My plan for the next few months is to find varied and interesting jobs incorporating clinical work and teaching, but still allow me time off for good behaviour; continue my search for a non-anorexic worm in this country to avoid putting on all the weight I left behind in India and capitalisng on my new found interest in socialising. Step three is coming along nicely, steps one and two need work.

As for the rest of it, you will have to await part two of this gripping tale, which will be coming to a computer near you in January 2008.

Going going gone

So here I am, once again sitting in an airport lounge awaiting a flight, this time to leave India and my fantastic sabbatical behind. There is something about airports which drains you of the ability to feel any emotion, which is a good thing, although I have been surprisingly calm about leaving, despite not looking forward to having to be a responsible adult with a job, once more. Obviously, I am keen to see my family, my dog, my friends and my house; equally obviously, I am sad to be leaving India which has provided me with such rich and unique experiences over the last 8 months.

Being totally knackered from driving all night in a rickshaw the above paragraph was all I managed to write at the airport. Now I am back in England, enjoying the bright, cool spring sunshine, showing off my tan to anyone who is interested (and quite a few who aren't) and wallowing for hours in a hot, fragrant bath. It is strange to be back for several reasons. Firstly, England and my parents' house, where I am staying for a while, is so familiar having been my home since I was 2 years old, that it barely seems as if I have been away at all. Secondly, flying is no way to join two destinations in a seamless fashion. Spending time in an airport and on a plane, creates a delineated separation, like a portal between two worlds where you are cleansed and reassembled before arriving at the next place. There is no ceremony in flying; it is the full stop and capital letter between locations. Obviously, unless I had wanted to spend two months on a ship travelling around the Cape of Good Hope or, perhaps to save a few weeks, through the Suez canal, flying is the only option, but it is a featureless, dry activity, that wrenches you from one place, shakes you around to disorientate you and drops you into another place without any warning.

Having said that, there was an observable transition during the trip. People became progressively greyer and more passing English language intruded into my consciousness as I left India, travelled through Dubai, got on a London bound plane and arrived in Gatwick. Eventually, the transformation was complete as everyone, with the exception of a Sikh Customs Official, looked pink and pale and their dull, quotidien, conversational snippets crashed through my consciousness like stones against a window. I don't want to know that Steve phoned yesterday and you wouldn't believe what he said. I don't want to hear that an Irishman is always behaving badly and not to, on this occasion, shame his wife at the Imigration counter. I especially don't then want to hear him showing her up, schmoozing the supremely uninterested Immigration Officer, who is wondering what he did in a former life which meant he had to work over the Easter Weekend. But, after months of blissful ignorance about the mindless chit chat people indulge in, on returning home it becomes claustrophobic. I must remember to change my "Bus-compressed-air-horn Ear Filter" for my "Drivel-people-talk-on-a -daily-basis Ear Filter".

You may think, reading the above that I am unhappy to be home and wish I were back in India. Well, that's not true. This trip came to a natural conclusion, and the law of diminishing returns was beginning to apply. It was time for the toddler of a project to take it's first independent steps and see whether, without my extreme bullying presence, it can develop further. Also, I have been away from clinical practice for a longtime and I was beginning to enjoy too much the freedom and lack of responsibility being thousands of miles away from your home confers. I really felt that staying longer would need justification to myself and any future employers. The best aspect of this trip is that it has not been a "once-in-a-lifetime" "never-to-be-repeated" opportunity, but the beginning of a professional and personal relationship which will enrich and inform my future practice and give me a perspective on issues to which I would have no access if I stayed all my working life in Cumbria. As someone said to me, it has become woven into my life and will be a continuous thread. That is why it doesn't feel strange enough being home. I now have the exciting task of figuring out how I am going to mould a professional life for myself which allows me to develop this new perspective and apply the learning experience I have had for the future.

Of course, at the moment, the thought of actually having a job, makes me nauseous.

Last Day

This is the last morning of my time at RUHSA and I have woken early, surrounded by too many, too heavy bags, for which I am sure Emirates will charge me a ridiculous amount. As has been the case every place I have stayed in for longer than a week, I have accumulated so many things that packing is an ordeal, a mathematical impossibility. I have no idea where the stuff comes from. It seems, especially here, that I have lived a Spartan existence. I have no bedspreads, no ornaments, no kitchen things to pack up. OK I have a couple of cushions but that is because the pillows provided are like bricks and smell of mushrooms. The main problem is books. I have lots. They are cheap to buy here and I have had no television for the last 8 months. Also, I have had a lot of salwar suits made, they are the only thing to wear and being such a hot climate, a new one is needed every day, so two or three is not enough as the dhobi (laundry man) takes 3-4 days to get the clothes back. I do occasionally wash them myself by hand in a bucket and then spend the next few days with swinging, dripping pants draped across my room, but as the dhobi only charges 11p per item for washing and ironing, it is churlish to refuse him the business, especially as my washing attempts are pathetically ineffective.

It seems amazing that finally this extraordinary experience is drawing to a close. Up until the last days I have been seeing and doing new things, meeting new people and it has not seemed as if I am leaving at all. Yesterday, we had our last team meeting with me present. It was a sombre affair. There are concerns about the future of the leadership at RUHSA, staff are unhappy, and I think they enjoyed my involvement because I was able to be a bridge between themselves and their erratically brilliant and compassionate, but very tricky head of Department, who is undergoing so much stress at present that the brilliant/erratic balance is tipping further towards the undesirable end. However, there are some good signs. The staff are proud of what has been achieved so far and are keen our efforts should not be wasted. Mathew and I have written a clear, simple and achievable timeplan for the next year, with specific dates for monitoring and evaluation and goals to be achieved at the end of the first year. The team members know what needs to be done and they know how to do it, so with luck, despite the difficulties, I will return in a year and see that it has been achieved. Although, I understand their concerns, I trust them to be able to carry this embryonic venture forward into maturity, for it is only with its successful expansion into the wider community that it will achieve what it intends, which is addressing the needs of all vulnerable people and providing a workable prototype to develop in other areas.

Knowing I’m coming back in January and that this is the start, I hope, of a long professional and personal relationship with everyone here makes leaving much easier. I haven’t felt sad, because I don’t feel anything is ending but that something is beginning. Pandian, my fiance, does not feel the same way. He is very sad. I thought he had got over the whole fiance thing, but yesterday he asked me to marry him again. I said no.
"When you coming back?"
"January"
"OK, I wait, then."
"No don’t wait, I’m not going to marry you at all."
"I wait. 9 months, 9 years. I wait"
I gave up. I thought perhaps it was the quirks in my character which attract him, but, call me cynical and callous, I fear the vast difference in our relative incomes has a bearing on his adoration.

As for saying goodbye to everyone at RUHSA, some are happy to see me go. I have been a thorn in their side and rocked their comfortable existence by being challenging and demanding, but some seem, on the face of it, to be sorry I am leaving. Being a delusional optimist, I like to think the latter group forms the majority.

I shall miss the ride to the village through the unruly headed coconut palms. The effort but release of cycling in the heat, concentrating on the ground when there is a slight incline, seeing only the spiky shadows of the leaves cast on the hot tarmac. I shall miss the transient company of the other cyclists as we pass each other: the old men in dhotis travelling at snail’s pace without wobbling or falling; the young men carrying mountains of pots or wide, drooping bundles of sugar cane; and the young girls, their hair still in plaits, tied with jasmine and bows, two or three to a bicycle, slyly looking and giggling as sweatily I pass them, usually singing loudly to Rigoletto on my MP3 player. I wonder if the ladies of the rope making village, who wave cheerily as I pedal and they weave, will notice that I no longer pass on occasional mornings.

I shall definitely be sad to say goodbye to the oldies in the village, whose names, I have only just managed to remember, Sukkupattu, Chinnathambi, Rajamani, Pushpa, Chandrammal and many others. Today, they are giving me lunch to say goodbye. I hope they will still be here in January. I shall enjoy our last morning together, all of us wobbling our heads, united in our mystification of the other’s language. My cheek muscles will be aching by the end of lunch from all the smiling, the only avenue of international communication open to us, but it will be worth it.

The rest of the day will be spent wrapping books in packages of less than 2kg to send back to UK at ¼ of the minimum potential cost of excess baggage; weighing my suitcases to see how much overweight they still are and traumatically chucking out salwar suits that I will never use in England but to which I have a sentimental attachment. I have bags containing old clothes and medicines for Rita, read books and pots for Jackie and Alex who are in Vellore for the year, stationery for Mathew and socks for Dr John. That still leaves three enormous suitcases. No presents this time, I have too much of my own stuff.

The funny thing is, the ants know I’m leaving and they have invaded my space already, scavenging for any hitherto unnoticed crumbs and dead insects. The ongoing Battle for Supremacy which has been raging for 8 months is in the balance. At present the ants are winning, but I have a secret plan up my sleeve. As soon as the suitcases are outside. I am going to sweep like a maniac and clear them, plus all their food out, so it will just be a bare concrete block again. Hah. I will win.

Karuna Niwas

Means Home of Compassion. At present I am staying in the guest house of a lady called Celine Mayanai who runs Karuna Niwas, in Bangalore. She is an extraordinary women. I was introduced to her, remotely, by the wife of a college friend of my brother’s, Karina FitzPatrick, who lives in New York. She has been a fundraiser for Celine’s project for the last 20 years.

Celine is an ex-catholic nun from Kerala, who, when she was a Novice in Bombay, was visiting local women with her superiors, when she heard about a Goan girl who was very young, frightened and pregnant. She felt this young girl should be seen immediately to see how they could help, but her superiors were reluctant to break the order in which they had decided to see people. We’ll get to her eventually, don’t worry, another few days only, she can wait her turn. Tragically, when they finally got round to seeing her, they learnt that she had committed suicide. This was when India was even more unforgiving than now and there was nowhere to whom single mothers, ostracised by their communities, could turn. It was at that point that Celine felt her calling was not to be in a Convent, but to set up a home for women in similar circumstances. Her vision was to create a safe, accepting environment where women could repair their lives without judgement. During their stay, they could learn a trade, for example beautician work, computing and ultimately leave Karuna Niwas as independent women, some to jobs, some to new marriages.

In order to realise her dreams, Celine herself went through hardships. Her family felt disgraced by her leaving the convent, partly because it was unacceptable, and partly because they worried about her becoming a burden to them instead of being taken care of in the convent. Luckily, she found a job in America where she earnt some money and found sponsors to help build her first refuge centre. These American sponsors have been the only source of income for the last 20 years.

Now, Karuna Niwas has a beauty parlour, computing centre, hostel as well as the original refuge and the inauguration of the Day Care centre and Creche is on 9th April. It is a very peaceful, happy place housing 10 women and 10 children. Celine’s current worry is the schooling of the children for whom, even if the mothers have left, she retains a continuing responsibility. Good schools are expensive and if these children are to have a future and worthwhile education, they need to go to good schools. Additional costs such as school books, uniforms and transport to and from school make it impossible for the mothers, starting new lives afresh, to afford.

What I found astonishing about Celine is that, despite being extremely religious, she casts no judgement on others’ religions. For her, having a personal relationship with "your God" is most important and whether that is through Christianity, Hinduism, Islam or Judaism is a matter of personal choice. Similarly, she expects no Damascene conversion from the women she helps, all she wants is that they regain their sense of worth and become independent. She is happy and fulfilled doing what she does and does not expect people to feel grateful to her. She said to me that if she expected gratitude from people all the time, she would spend her life unhappy. She attributed her success to God’s will. I attributed it to this amazing woman.

Squirrel Curry

A few days ago, I went on an impromptu visit to a tribal village at supper time, with a group of people who were carrying out a nutritional assessment there.

Tribal people are a complex entity in India. There are many different tribal populations throughout the country, mainly in remote and hilly places, but they don’t seem to be equivalent to the indigenous Maoris of New Zealand, or the Native Americans for example. For example, in Tamil Nadu, the tribal members are viewed with suspicion and distrust by the “locals” as having weird and strange customs, yet they are Hindu, speak Tamil and look Dravidian. To the outsider, they seem to be culturally equivalent, but not to those in the know. Their main difficulty is lack of land rights. Without land-owner ship they are destined to work for others, as they cannot generate any income from farming. The tribal people I visited are traditionally snake catchers. In this capacity only, they are tolerated by the locals, who are happy to have snakes removed from their homes, but don’t want to mingle with them socially or allow their women folk to marry any of them. Again, to an outsider, this seems no different to the other many, many castes prevalent in India, which dictate the job, for example rope-makers, latrine cleaners, sweet-makers, leather tanners and lifestyle you and your entire family for generations must have. The strength of these castes is most powerful in the villages where there is little social mobility or migration. It strikes me that the tribal people are just another bottom-dwelling caste ostracised by those microscopically higher up the social scale. They are another marginalised group amongst the myriad of others scattered liberally throughout the land.

Unfortunately, as if life weren’t hard enough, having been too successful at catching snakes, they have worked themselves out of a job. There are not to many snakes endangering villages, and the few serpentine intruders seen are not enough to keep those, for whom this is their only source of income, in the money. They have tried to redress this by diversifying to catching rats, but this too is hardly going to reverse their fortunes and make them millionaires.

As they have no land to farm, not only is their income restricted, but their diet is also limited to what they can find or catch. It is for this reason that RUHSA staff wanted to carry out a nutritional assessment and what better time to go than suppertime, when pots are steaming and people are gathering.

At first, they seem genuinely irritated to be disturbed at such a crucial moment in order to answer impertinent questions about what they eat, when, how often etc; especially as their stomachs were probably gurgling in anticipation at the smells coming from the pots and having Important People barging in simply meant a delay in tucking in.

Questions flew backwards and forwards about the contents of the pot. Did it contain enough carbs, protein, vitamins. It looked like brinjal (aubergine) at first and then I looked more closely. There was a tiny leg floating in it. Having relaxed slightly and accepted our intrusion as an inevitable delay to eating, and probably in an attempt to hurry us on our way, they offered us moresels of this delectable feast to the Honoured Guests. Of course I couldn't refuse, that would be rude and I'm always ready for new gastronomic experiences.

It tasted like chicken. Just kidding, more like pheasant and even more stringy. I think they left the skin on and I was picking squirrel fur out of my teeth for ages afterwards. It could have been much worse. The next door-neighbours were having rat curry.

Performa

This posting is not for the faint-hearted, so anyone of a queasy nature, look away now. My neighbour has been living a lie. In order for her to have her partner of several years staying in her room when he visits – they live together in Boston – she told RUHSA that they were married. Not knowing who was friend and who was foe initially she told every one the same lie. For six weeks she maintained this façade as we became friends, until one day she could bear it no longer and, with an anguished face, suddenly blurted out to me that her marriage was a farce.
Concerned, I thought she was intimating her husband was actually gay, or referring to the fact that he could only perform if she dressed up as a Buddhist nun with fishnets or some other fetish which made her outwardly normal life a falsehood.
"Oh no," I said, "what’s up?" Still with a look of complete distress, she went on.
"We not married. I lied so we could stay together." Practically in tears, she said, "I don’t even believe in marriage." I burst out laughing, it was all too much.
"You know, I don’t really care whether you are married or not, I don’t feel betrayed that you lied to me. This is not a big deal."

However, she was right to look anxious, because in India, land of Karmic destiny, no action goes unpunished. In order to reap the benefits of having lied about their marital status, she told me, they bought some home-crafted Indian condoms, called Performa, with, or so she believed, a reliable Durex label on. Stamped across the packet in bold letters, was the legend "For Sale in India Only". She foolishly ignored this and bought them anyway. They boasted that they would prolong sexual intercourse and ensure the "Lady’s" complete satisfaction, with the use of a "special" lubricant. Bonus, she thought.

The next time her "husband" came to stay they were all set. It all started out fine and sure enough, it did seem to last a bit longer. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice anything was wrong until he took the condom off.
Lying there afterwards, having a metaphorical fag, he started getting distressed. "It feel’s weird, what’s going on, it doesn’t feel normal."
"What do you mean," she asked, concerned.
"I can’t feel it properly, it feels really peculiar."

They looked closely at the packet. In tiny, tiny letters they found the reason for his feeling so odd. The "special" lubricant contained in the condoms was a local anaesthetic. He had a totally numb dick. He felt a totally numb dick. Only in India would they think that being able to go all night without feeling anything is an improvement in sexual enjoyment. Obviously, here, it’s not what you feel that counts, it’s how long you last. As if that wasn’t enough, it didn’t wear off for hours, causing more humiliation later. During the night, not being able to feel anything, he failed to notice that he had peed himself. She woke up to another anguished cry. There’s no doubt in my mind that Karma has a cruel and unusual sense of humour.

RUHSA Update

Including Sri Lanka and travelling with Mum and Dad, I have been away from RUHSA in one way or another for about month so when I got back there was a lot to catch up on. In order for Mum and Dad to meet as many people as possible in the short time they had, we organised a special lunch in the canteen for everyone involved in the project and of course, we went to the village to see the centre and meet some of the oldies.

Pleasingly, there has been quite some progress since my last visit. The main improvement is the addition of a temporary kitchen in the corner of the backyard. The women from the self-help group were no longer having to carry heavy pots of rice and sambar on their heads for a mile from their houses to the centre. This temporary "kitchen" consists of a concrete sheet leaning against the side of the building, propped up by two bamboo poles. I had a moment of concern when I heard the roof was asbestos, which is clearly unethical, but when I made a fuss everyone said no, no it's not asbestos it's concrete. So who knows whether it is or it isn't, but they assure me it's not, so let's hope so.

Underneath the sheeting, on the ground is a makeshift firewood stove which can cook one pot at a time. A woman is crouching down, building up the fire with sticks they've carried in as bundles on their heads and stoke the flames by blowing down an old plastic water pipe. From this raw, crude scene emanate delicious smells as the sambar gently steams to one side and the rice boils on the fire. Another woman is chopping onions, chilli and coriander to add to the pot.

Water is a huge problem for us, as Keelalathur is a drought-prone area and the government supply is insufficient. There is a 30 foot well with not a drop in it. At present we are having to buy water in pots for cooking, eating and washing from a private supplier. A final solution to this conundrum has still not been found. We are aiming for a kitchen with a working tap, but I'm not sure how we will achieve it.

As the steamy aroma of lunch wafts through the building, about 26 elderly people are sitting on mats occupied by reading newspapers, chatting, playing games with beans on a board marked out on the floor in chalk, and doing simple jigsaws. I look closer at one of the jigsaws. It is a health education puzzle. I feel it may not be in the hands of the intended target audience. As I watch, an elderly lady, with grey hair and a thin sari, shakily makes a picture of male genitalia with a condom on, bearing the legend in English and Tamil "Safe sex protects from HIV". I hope she takes note.

Whilst they wait for their lunch, Kalaimanai introduces my parents to the group. Everyone is smiling, their hands together in front of their faces, touching their foreheads with their fingers. Vannakum to Dr Arabella's Amma and Appa. There is a marked difference between the Indian and the English sexagenarians. Certainly, no-one would feel the need to start a feeding program for the visitors. Then the most amazing thing happened. One of the gentlemen stood up and spoke in Tamil. Kalaimanai translated. He was asking us if we would like to join them for lunch. How incredible is that? They are so comfortable and settled in the centre that they now regard it as their own. Being asked to share their food was an extreme honour, which we had to decline as it was the day of the special lunch at RUHSA and we were expected back, but I was deeply touched and excited by the implications of that invitation. We will have my last lunch in India together at the centre, which is fitting.

In a flurry of Vannakums (which means hello and goodbye) we take leave and go back to RUHSA. Vimala, the lady in charge of the canteen has outdone herself and prepared a delicious lunch for us. South Indian food is very different to that found in flock-wallpapered curry houses in England. Rice is the staple and not light, elegant basmati, but stocky, slightly sticky grains which absorb the spicy sambar, a thin, lentil gravy, heavy with curry leaves and the occasional floating drumstick (a woody stalk plentiful in the area). Rasam is even thinner, called South Indian Firewater, almost a soup not a sauce, with a delicious, tart, coriander and black mustard seed flavour. Again, curry leaves float on the top, lonely for the company of other vegetables. There are overflowing dishes with carrots, chopped and cooked so they are still slightly crunchy, with onions, sesame seeds and chillies; spinach with coconut; a deep yellow potato masala, speckled with black mustard seeds, and delicious chicken lightly covered with a rich fiery tomato masala. There are two other types of rice, fried with peanuts and curd rice with pomegranate seeds. And of course poppadums. As we tuck in, I think of the elderly at Keelalathur, slightly shamed by the amount of food in front of us, but glad that they at least have something to eat at lunch.

Now Mum and Dad have left, I have been able to concentrate whole-heartedly on completing my role here at RUHSA. For the last few days, I have been compiling and updating the medical records; picking up important issues and discussing them with the other doctor on the team who is arranging referrals and investigations for those who need it. For example, the lady with a thyroid nodule will see the surgeon in a week's time; several people with high blood pressure will get regular check ups and medication. A couple of men with persistent coughs will have sputum samples to check for TB. Some have been cleared already, which is good.

On Saturday, I took everyone’s photo for their medical records. This is an unusual solution to the fact that unique identification is difficult for people who have no date of birth, address or last name. All things we take for granted in the UK. Interestingly, one lady did not recognise herself in the photo, which makes one think – if she has no mirror, how would she know what she looked like?

The final jobs include developing a questionnaire for evaluation, compiling all the meeting minutes and writing a report on the months I have been here. In addition, in my last 2 weeks, I am visiting a women’s refuge in Bangalore, going on a four day trip to the mountains and trying to meet up with Justine, which I think is going to be impossible, as she has not been in contact for weeks. She’s probably staggering around Kerala looking for vodka and samosas, oblivious to the ringing of her phone.

I have some concerns about the project once my bullying presence leaves, because each time there is a meeting, I go in thinking that we are all in agreement, but everyone is astonished by the plans when I recap the last meeting and we rehash the same ground until everyone agrees again. Between meetings, which don’t really happen when I’m not there, people carry on with their own ways not really working as a team. It’s as difficult to get a consensus on action as it is easy to get a consensus on saying yes, yes to shut me up. However, Mathew, who will be the driving force once I’ve left, and I, have drawn up a tight, manageable and logical schedule for the next 10 months with dates for reports and evaluations for which he has taken responsibility. I have his mobile and his email. I will be calling. He is scared. Very, very scared.

M&D's BIA Part 2: The World’s Smallest Eggs and the World’s Largest Chandeliers

The other day, when looking in my cupboard, I found, most extraordinarily, underneath a pair of pants, what looked like two tiny birds eggs. Knowing that the hummingbird is the smallest bird in the world and that a) they are not indigenous to these parts, b) I would surely have noticed one hovering above my underwear and c) even these eggs looked too small to have come from the not enormous HB's bottom, I dismissed the idea that they were eggs, but couldn’t at all figure out what they were. Being a collectomaniac, I put them to one side and every now and then would contemplatively pick them up and roll them between my thumb and forefinger, wondering what the hell they could be. They looked a little like those mints you get in small decorative tins with an aniseed at the centre, but again, a) there was no minty smell and b) I definitely hadn’t been secreting sweets amongst my smalls. For four days, I gazed at these peculiar objects, half hoping, I think, that they would hatch and a fairy would emerge. Finally, yesterday, while trying to tidy a few bits and pieces on my desk, one of them rolled off and landed on the floor. Bugger me, it WAS an egg. A tiny, weeny splattered egg, with microscopic fragments of shell around the spilt yolk. I was, and remain, mystified. I did recall that reptiles lay eggs, but theirs are usually soft-shelled, I thought, and this egg had a shell just like a grit-eating, dolls-house bantam. Completely amazing, perhaps I have discovered a new species of Underwear Bird, which lives amongst gussets and lacy seams and is all but invisible to the naked eye. I fear that I may have disturbed the nest of the only breeding pair in the world and that my discovery will never gain recognition. If anyone else has any experience of eggs in their underwear, I would love to know.

As for the remainder of my parents' trip, it was wonderful, although it already seems an age ago. We left Ram at Agra and found Ram II at Jaipur, who was a slightly bigger toothpick. He too was very nice, but laughed less enthusiastically at my jokes. He was also frustrated because, unlike Ram I, he actually knew a thing or two about the history of Jaipur and was keen to show us around and tell us, but we spent most of the time at the local tailor so Dad could replenish his wardrobe. This meant that, whenever Ram II said, “ Where next?”, no matter what our intentions to visit monuments, sites, forts and palaces (and we did squeeze a few in) were, the answer was invariably, “Back to the tailors.” He would roll his eyes, no doubt wondering what we had brought with us in our enormous suitcases if we were so short of clothes. Shamefully, as we emerged for the last time from the tailors with 14 carrier bags full of suits, shirts, a dress or two for me and Mum and a couple of outlandish waistcoats, we gave the reputation for the profligacy of foreigners an unnecessary boost.

Before Jaipur, we visited Gwalior, which has a history spanning 1000 years, is named for a legendary hermit, Gwalipa, who cured the founder of the city, Suraj Sen, of leprosy. Not much of a reward for a good deed if you are an isolation-loving hermit, having someone found a town on the previously empty, inaccessible place you lived, but perhaps being remembered for 1000 years is some consolation for that.

Gwalior is most famous for its spectacular fort, perched high on a 100m basalt outcrop above the plain. The walls are 10m high at the edges of the rock, resulting in a sheer drop to the dusty, busy town below, scintillating through a haze of reflected sunlight and an orchestrated symphony of horns, hooters and whistles, music, shouting and laughing. The fort has been the scene of centuries of conflict between Hindu rulers - such as the Tomars; the Mughals - Babur, Shah Jehan and Jenangir all have fought battles here and the British who acceded the fort to the Maratha Scindias, still bigwigs in the town today. A Tomar Ruler, Raja Man Singh, in the fifteenth century built the majority of the fort as it stands, although there have been defence structures on the same site since Ol’ Suraj’s times and whenever the fort was taken over by new rulers, new palaces and structures were built to make their mark, resulting in an architectural timeline reflecting it’s history.

In the town, the nineteenth century Jai Vilas Palace was built for the Maharajah of Gwalior (one of the aforementioned Scindias) by his Architect, Sir Michael Filose, who is notable for having the riskiest technique for establishing roof strength. The maharajah, in a typical display of Nouveau Riche pretension, wanted his palace to house the largest chandeliers in the world. He ordered, from Venice, two enormous glass constructions of 13m width and weighing 3 tonnes each. When they arrived, although not stated exactly, we can guess that Sir Michael felt a little queasy at the prospect of dangling these gigantic objects from the ceiling. I expect they were a little pricey and would be worth considerably less if reduced to a pile of shattered glass. Luckily, he had a brainwave. He would test the strength of the roof before hanging the lights. Brilliant. Using only the best local tools and equipment, he built a ramp outside the palace and marched several of the least vertigo-suffering elephants up to the roof to ensure it could take the weight of the chandeliers. Fortunately, although we can all see how utterly flawed and foolish this plan is, the roof held and the elephants, Sir Michael’s reputation and the chandeliers were safe. Unsurprisingly, this technique did not become common architectural practice.

The rest of the trip through the North was a feast of stunning palaces, majestic forts and brilliant shopping. An unexpected delight were the step wells, unique to Gujurat, of which I had neither heard nor seen before. These step wells, called Vavs or baolis in Gujurat, are a highly decorative and ingenious way of ensuring cool water in this arid region. They tend to be built by women of high birth and serve as places of recreation as well as a source of water. Unlike the more traditional well, which is simply a shaft down to the water table, they are huge structures. One enters the Vav at ground level, then descends 30m down a series of steps and platforms in increasing coolness to the subterranean tanks of refreshing water. The different levels, all beautifully carved, serve as shady areas of recreation away from the burning Gujurati heat. Adalaj Vav, a little out of town, built by Queen Rudabai in 1499, is exquisite and is still in use today for the locals who come and sit, chatting amongst its decorated pillars and galleries.

Exhausted by all our sightseeing, we flew south to spend Dad’s 69th birthday relaxing by the beach at Mamallapuram, with which I was now thoroughly familiar, but, having saved my tour guide energies for relatives’ visits, I had yet to revisit the fabulous Pallava temples since I had been in 1989. These are a series of magnificent, naturalistic carved temples dating from the 6th century. I had been quite anxious about Mum hating the heavily stylised and over decorative Hindu sculpture, vastly different from Western European art, but these temples were so fluidly carved and lacked the grapefruit-breasted, sinuous Apsari dancing girls which abound in later temples, that she was smitten. We managed to fit it all in: shore temples, elephant sculptures, lobster, birthday cake, swimming in the sea and a bit of a tan. Not bad for 3 days. It was lovely.

Finally, they spent a few days at RUHSA seeing what I had been spending my time on for the last 7 months. The next entry is going to be a full RUHSA update so you’ll hear all about it then.

Krishna and the 60,000 Cocoa Beans

Despite Agra being a shit heap, it does have scattered within it, some quite nice buildings. Having seen the Taj in January, I was a little more composed this time, but Mum was blown away. Her first view was at sunset, glowing golden across the Yamuna river, and we raced across town to see it during the last moment of the dying sun. What is extraordinary, is that, no matter what expectations one has, no matter how many times one has seen pictures of it on Indian Restaurant walls or on boxes of joss sticks, it exceeds them all. We ended up going round separately, as we were trying to escape a phenomenally, irritating and patronisingly opinionated guide with an indifference to personal hygiene, whom the travel agency had sent without asking, so whilst he was sorting out the tickets we gave him the slip. Mum sobbed her way around clockwise, I meandered an anti-clockwise circuit and Dad raced up and back in half the time.



Next day, luckily, we had a different guide, Ram, who was fab. He was smaller than a toothpick and laughed at my jokes. I liked him. We sat in the back chatting away, with his contributions emerging somewhere from underneath my left elbow. He expressed the desire to find a beautiful English wife. I told him I’d let him know if I found anyone suitable. Of course at the monuments he was hopeless, knowing very little about any of them, but he was great at getting us from A to B weaving through tiny backstreets, seemingly half the width of the car and half filled with cows, to get from beautiful building to beautiful building in record time.

Between sites, we talked about Hinduism and the many, many gods within it. In essence, Hinduism, like Greek mythology, is based on a series of folk tales, which describe the Godly and less than Godly activities of the Holy Trinity - Brahma, the Creator, Vishnu, the Preservor and Siva the Destroyer. These three Gods are not three different Gods, but manifestations of the highest God, the Supreme Iswara or Dynamic Brahmin. The other Gods worshipped in Hinduism are all manifestations of the Holy Trinity and their consorts, Saraswathi, Lakshmi & Parvati respectively. The great advantage of this is that instead of one God being all things to all people, believers can pick and chose the God they like or relate to the best.

Shiva is probably the most popular. He's the one most like a Bollywood action hero, unpredictable, violent (remember the story of how Ganesh got his elephant head), but with oomph and pizazz. His machissmo is perfectly exemplified by the following story. Vishnu and Brahma were arguing one day when a fiery pillar appeared between them. It was so long that they could see neither top nor bottom. Forgetting their argument, they became curious about the origins of this pillar. Lord Brahma, in the guise of a swan flew upwards and Lord Vishnu as a Boar buried through the ground. For thousands of miles they travelled, but neither reached the end. Brahma, sneakily, induced a flower he had passed to lie for him and say that he had indeed reached the top. Exhausted, they returned, defeated, whereapon Shiva appeared from the midst and revealed that the pillar was his phallus, showing how futile they were against his awesome power. I mean, really. Boys and their toys. However, it does give Hindus the excuse of worshipping Shiva's Lingam (phallic symbol) and explains why there are few temples to Brahma, which was a result of his lying about having reached the top.

Vishnu and his incarnations or Avatars, for example Rama and Krishna, are almost as popular as Shiva. Lord Krishma is the blue one, who's very cheeky and Rama is the one who defeated the Demon Ravanna who had stolen his wife and taken her to Sri Lanka.

I asked Ram who his favourite God was. He said Krishna. In reverential tones, he described how Krishna was like a Playboy; a prankster who played the flute so beautifully that women fell instantly in love with him (Ram was learning the flute). Once he saw some women swimming and he stole their clothes so they had to climb out of the water naked whilst he was watching from a tree. Instead of being furious at his childish behaviour, they gathered around and let him have his wicked way with all of them. With immense pride and not a little envy, Ram told me that Krishna, due to his irrisistable ways, had 60,000 Cocoa Beans. I was incensed, imagining that this was a derogative term for small brown women who lay about doing not much but awaiting the pleasure of their Lord and Master.

"You can't talk about women like that," I said, "and anyway, no English wife would tolerate being called a Cocoa Bean and certainly wouldn't allow you have have other Cocoa Beans on the side."

We wandered around the stunning baby Taj and the majestic Red Fort, with me tutting every now and then, muttering, "Cocoa Beans, indeed!" under my breath. Especially as we heard that having Cocoa Beans seemed to be a national pastime. In the Red Fort, we learnt that Shah Jehan's last days, as he wandered broken-hearted around his prison overlooking the Taj Mahal where the love of his life lay, was consoled by 5,000 Cocoa beans. Akbar, was also a big Cocoa Bean fan. He had three official wives, but he secreted a few Cocoa Beans in between times.

Three days later, we realised he had been trying to say concubines.

Mum and Dad’s Big Indian Adventure: Part One

Mum and Dad: First day of their Big Indian Adventure

I have just had a fabulous 3 weeks with Mum and Dad, travelling around India from Delhi to Gwalior, Jaipur to Ahmedabad and Mamallapuram to Vellore. I have been having so much fun that I haven’t had a chance to write anything on my blog for weeks. Also, it must be confessed, despite being nearer 40 than college age, I had an essay crisis, so any writing to be done had to be in the context of International primary care and not telling joyful tales of guides called Ram and unlit camels coming towards us on the wrong side of the dual carriageway. Finally, at 0713 this morning after a non-stop marathon of writing during the night, which has the distinct advantage of being so much cooler than the day, I sent in my essay, a mere 7 days overdue. So now, I can settle down and tell you all about Mum and Dad’s Big Indian Adventure.

I left you last at Hotel Singh, awaiting their arrival. Shortly later, I went to the airport to pick them up with our driver for the week ahead who was called Ajay and utterly adorable. He only spoke Hindi at first, and my only Hindi phrase is hum shakakari hai, which means, I am a vegetarian. Not very useful for giving directions, but it did lead me to discover early on that Ajay was full shakahari (vegan) – and also learned the slightly more truthful phrase hum masahari hai, which means, I am a non-vegetarian. Actually I discovered that he spoke fluent pidgin English, which I too have learnt since being here, so, much to the amusement of my parents who could neither understand him nor make themselves understood, we had lengthy conversations, both sounding like Peter Sellers.

After meeting M & D at the airport, looking as everyone does on arrival, slightly shell-shocked and ruffled, we went straight to the hotel. The next morning, it was clear the Rain Goddess had arrived. I woke to the unmistakable and unseasonal sound of wet tyres rolling along wet tarmac.
It’s amazing, we really should market Mum to sub-Saharan Africa and other drought-prone areas, because, regardless of how long it is since they saw a molecule of water dropping from the sky, as soon as Mum arrives anywhere it pours. Every holiday she has taken is punctuated by expletives from her and gasps of astonishment from the locals who say things like, “It hasn’t rained in July in the desert before in living memory.” Luckily, it didn’t last long and apart from a downpour in Udaipur (another drought-prone area, in fact a few years ago the lake dried up completely) the weather was lovely.

Delhi is a strange introduction to India. It’s oddly soulless compared to other places, but in some ways, not being as full frontal as, say Mumbai or Chennai, makes it a little easier on novice initiates. The most Indian thing about it of course is the traffic, which astonished Mum and Dad from the beginning. Ajay, knew how wide his car was to the millimetre (I think he had whiskers attached to the front) so he would weave into tiny gaps between buses and lorries without breaking pace, honking indignantly, as if it was his right of way to make a fifteenth lane amidst standing traffic. Mum spent a lot of time clutching the seat in front of her whenever a dog/cow/goat/person/rickshaw sauntered across his path as if they were going for a stroll in a meadow, but Ajay, with the enthusiasm, if not the skill of Ayrton Senna, missed them all. It seems at first, as one’s head reels from the cacophony of horns, hooters, whistles, bells and other peepi-peepi devices, as if no one is paying any attention to the noise, which seems a reasonable tactic for preservation of sanity, but actually, it causes a barely perceptible, but definite drift to the left.

Through the amazement of Mum and Dad I was reacquainted with the hilarity of cyclists coming towards you through thick lanes of traffic, of camels and elephants on the road with no headlights, of mopeds carrying whole families including furniture, of rickshaws bulging with schoolchildren, of buses carrying as many people outside as English buses carry inside and the hair-raising experience of being inside a vehicle in the midst of this chaos. Dad had the most brilliant idea. He is hoping to introduce in parliament at the first opportunity a bill proposing that anyone who is convicted of road rage in the UK has to come to India, at their own expense, and spend a week driving around Delhi. They will either die of apoplexy in the first day or learn inner tranquility for survival.

On day one, mindful of the lure of Indian handicrafts and shopping opportunities, Mum said very firmly that she wasn’t going to make any purchases until she had “got her eye in”. Very sensible, I agreed, it’s easy to be taken for a ride in the first days when you’ve got no idea of the real price of things. Dad had no such reservations. His day’s tally was one briefcase, one shawl, one emerald and diamond ring, one wallet and 24 handkerchiefs. His shopping continued at roughly the same pace throughout the trip.

In Delhi, we saw many and varied sites. We started at India Gate and then drove up to Raisana Hill, where British architects Sir Edward Lutyens and Herbert Baker, instructed to design a new capital for India in 1911, built, in my view, quite heavy neo-classical administrative buildings. They are stretched out in uncharacterististic spaciousness amidst elegant Mughal style gardens, with rows of Ambassador cars parked in front of the Embassy, which amused me.
Your Ambassador, Ambassador.
Monsieur Ambassador, with this Ambassador you are really spoiling us. etc etc
Of course the buildings turned out to be extortionate to build and the British only got a few years out of them. However, whilst occupying them, they employed 340 gardeners of whom 50, apparently, were bird scarers. This job is still available for the ambitious in India today. We saw some in the gardens of the more lavish hotels we visited. Usually, the post involved walking round and round languidly waving a white flag about, which the pigeons ignored. One, who was obviously high up in the ranks of Bird Scaredom, had a catapult.

My favourite site in Delhi was the beautiful octagonal tomb of Isa Khan. He was an Afghan nobleman involved in Sher Shah's coup which resulted in the interruption of the Mughal dynasty for over a decade. Ironically, it is in the gardens where the Mughal he helped displace, Humayan, the second great moghul and grandfather of the Taj creator, Shah Jehan, also has a tomb. Humayan's tomb is much grander and heavier and was built by his favourite (!) wife. Isa Khan's tomb was built many years before the Taj but has the same lightness about it. Humayan's barber also has a tomb in the same complex.

We left Delhi after two days, having stayed in on of my favourite hotels of the trip, mainly because I had a bed the size of my whole room at RUHSA and of a delicious softness. Also, the room service menu was joyous. On the front it said:

For room service ring 7. For delayed service (if any) ring 14 or 9.

I was very tempted to ring 14 when I couldn’t decide if I wanted a sandwich or not. I thought maybe by the time it arrived I would be hungry, but then I wouldn’t really care if it didn’t come at all.

After Delhi we moved onto Agra, which is basically a shit heap so we stayed in our poshest hotel of the whole trip, the Trident Hilton. It was really quite posh, but there was still an Indian flavour, as demonstrated by the fourteen year old receptionist who said when I came in dressed in a Salwar Kameez - "Oh! You look really strange in Indian Dress."

I suggested he might need to polish up his welcoming repartee for the sake of improved customer relations.

Another train to Delhi

I am sitting on a train to Delhi from Vellore in my 16th of 34 hours amidst a bunch of rowdy, vocal men speaking in loud tones about women, food and inevitably, cricket. Of course all this is taking place in an unknown Indian language, probably Hindi, because they are variously from Kerala (native language Malayalam), Tamil Nadu (Tamil), Jaipur, (Rajasthani) and noisest of the lot, three Sikhs from Chandrigar (Punjabi). The reason I know they are talking about women, food and cricket is partly because of the scattered, tell-tell english words, like girlfriend, fast bowling and roti, and the enormous amount of guffawing and thigh slapping which is going on, both of their own and each others, despite the fact that apart from the 3 Sikhs, none of them have ever met before. One of them even started howling like a wolf when another was on the phone to his "fiancee".

Occasionally they refer to me, the mysterious lone white woman, in their conversations (a give-away, with their sideways look and a "ma'am" thrust in the middle of their volubility). On one occasion when I looked up, after slight embarrassment that I had twigged they were talking about me, they said that if they ever travelled together again, I should fly over from England to join them. I'm sure that's not what they were talking about, but it was a valiant effort.

Of course I have had the whole, where are you from, what is your name, why aren��t you married conversation, in about hour 5 of the trip (the first four being taken up by sleeping, so hour 5 was the first legitimate opportunity.) It's so funny the response I get when I say I'm not married. The man sitting next to me who has a teak farm in Jaipur, was no exception, and so, as expected, said, "Why?"

How does one answer that? There isn't a why. I usually struggle with this question, but today, I found a whole new avenue to take it down. I told them, being a busy and dedicated doctor, I couldn't possibly forfeit my career for a house and family, so I was looking for a house husband. Brief, but tangible silence, before renewed and exaggerated thigh-slapping at the thought of a male housewife.
"They have them in England?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Really?"
"Definitely," I said, "but still they are quite hard to find."
"No problem," said the Rajastani, heartily, "I will find you a house-husband in India. How do you like them. Thin? Healthy? Tall? Someone from town, or, what about a strong villager? Someone, who will do all the cooking?"
"No, no," I protested, "I like cooking, I just want someone to do the washing up and the hoovering." More astonished, explosive guffaws, accompanied by painful sounding thigh-slapping.

Net result, the Rajastani has asked me along with Mum and Dad to dinner on the 20th February in Jaipur, in order to show them the selection of Good Indian Boys he has found who are prepared to be my house-husband. I'm thinking we should definitely go.
Obviously, I didn't tell the Rajastani that I already have a fiance in Vellore, I thought that might diminish his enthusiasm for finding me a selection of men to chose from, especially, as Pandian is my fiance only in his own eyes. As it is, the Pandian saga is turning into a drama of Bollywood-sized proportions.

Immediately I returned from Sri Lanka, he phoned sounding as eager as ever. Planning ahead and knowing I needed an auto to take me to the station at 2am, I didn't want to be too offish, also I was quite keen to have a ride on the back of his motorbike, so when he suggested a sunset cruise to the mountains I agreed. It was lovely to see a part of the countryside I would never have otherwise seen and, give or take a few of the more predictable conversations ("Do you love me?" "No" and "Will you marry me?" "No" etc etc), his company is fun and we have a laugh. Of course, it is highly inappropriate that I should be seen with him, but luckily I am not a young Indian girl, but a nearly middle-aged English Doctor, with no reputation to be sullied and no family honour to be upheld.

On the way up to the mountain, I noticed he had a nasty burn on his arm. I asked him how he got it. He told me that his aunt was trying to marry him off to her daughter, his cousin, but he doesn't like her, so when he said he wouldn't marry her, someone took a hot poker and put it on his arm. His aunt's family are rich, they want him to marry their daughter so he can contribute his hard-earned money to their coffers. He works very hard. He has a day job as an auto driver and a night job as a watchman at the hospital, managing to sleep between 6am and lunchtime. But, after marriage, they would stop him from seeing his brothers, who are the only people he cares about. His mother, who was blind, died when Pandian was about 4 or 5. He was then neglected by his father who was and remains a useless drunk. When he was at school he excelled at sports, winning prizes in athletics and team sports and as such was noticed by a better, private school offering a scholarship via one of the many charities whose members sponsored children's education. He was given a place and the remainder of his education took place at a catholic seminary run by a Father Joseph, of whom he speaks in loving tones. Somebody, probably in Reigate or Hampstead, in the nineties, regularly sent a cheque to a school in India, maybe receiving, once in a while, a photo of a toothy young boy in shorts and a hand-written thank-you letter, and now that boy is an adult with good English, earning a good wage, in turn sending money to help his brother who is at college. His brother is training to be a doctor. Ever since then, Pandian has felt that he could only marry a white woman, and now he thinks he has found that person. Nothing I say seems to diminish his hope, even the fact that I am practically old enough (if I had been incredibly precocious) to be his mother. I fear, however, that I am bringing him bad luck, just because I am selfishly enjoying spending time with someone, for whom I have no romantic inclinations, in a situation when I can hardly pick and chose my friends. Yesterday, on the train, my phone rings. It says Pandian mobile. I pick up and say hello. There is a woman on the other end.
"Is this Arabella?" she says.
"Yes, who is this?"
"I am Pandian wife. Please don't phone this number anymore."

Ah. Well, either he has been lying all along (not an entirely unreasonable idea) or this is his girl-cousin who wants to marry him, being possessive. Either way, I am not happy about the situation. My presence seems to be causing real problems. Jealousy, frustration and a lifetime of adversity and hardship can make human life seem less precious. We already know that the suicide rate in this area is 100 times that of the UK, mainly of young people, frustrated at the lack of power in their lives, their destiny dictated by religion, poverty and stricture. I fear that, even though I have done nothing except be friendly to a young boy, this is so beyond what is normal for his world that I may have inadvertently created an explosive situation. Perhaps I am overestimating my impact, but I am definitely twitchy about this whole scenario. Luckily, I am out of town for a few weeks so maybe things will calm down, but I feel a little sad that I can't just get to know someone without there being disastrous consequences within his culture.

Apart from the phone call from Pandian's "wife", the train trip was wonderful. A slice of Indian Millefeuille. Apart from the noisy bunch of men, there was a single Tamil man, who spent the whole trip until Bopal, where he disembarked, looking utterly traumatised by the noise made by his fellow passengers. He sat, still as a mouse, staring almost unblinkingly out of the window, his hands folded neatly in his lap while the maelstrom of Hindi swirled around him.

The train is divided into compartments which contain berths for 8 people. Three on one side, three on the other and two perpendicular against the long side of the train. The two middle berths double as seat backs, so only the people with top berths or either of the two side berths can keep their beds during the day. I had one of the middle berths. The man who slept in the top side bunk perpendicular to mine, lay so he could stare straight down my bed. And he did, also unblinkingly, for 36 hours. He didn't even seem to sleep. Whenever I looked up, there he was, with his badly dyed hair pasted onto his head like a painted cap, and his small toothbrush moustache twitching intermittently, unmoved from the last time I looked, appearing to be staring at my feet or up my trousers, it was hard to tell which. I was delighted to note, when he finally did climb down from his eyrie as we approached the outskirts of Delhi, that both his big toenails were painted bright silver.

As we moved slowly towards New Delhi railway station, the speed of the train meant that it was possible to observe in more detail life along the tracks. The early mist framed a group of men perched on the rails playing a game of cards on the sleepers. Behind, from the villages, watching as the train passed, children with shirts and no trousers squatted on the embankment performing morning rituals more usually occurring in the privacy of a bathroom. A man, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, stood on the roof of his house, holding a long stick in the air rhythmically swirling a shirt around on its tip as a pair of white doves flew around the house. Eventually, with corn in his hand he allowed the pigeons to settle and he watched them, happily, smoking his cigarette as they ate, unchallenged by the rooks and ravens scared away by the flapping shirt.

In one of the station water pumps, a saddhu sat in the marble-lined basin, covered from head to foot in bright yellow turmeric paste, his matted hair standing stiffly, like a child playing with jaundiced bubble bath foam. Unselfconsciously, surrounded by morning commuters, he gradually washed off the paste and returned to a more natural hue.

The two Sikhs sharing my compartment, were uncle and nephew and during the trip wore bandanas instead of the more usual turban, which is presumably their casual headgear. It felt strange seeing them "naked" of their turbans. Both of their scarf things, which probably have a proper name, but I've no idea what it is, were emblazoned with the Nike logo. They were charming, the uncle was more serious and couldn't speak English, but the nephew was sweet and told me that his cousin was coming over from England to stay for a few weeks. He was one of the main thigh-slappers of the journey.

As we neared their disembarkation, the Uncle took a long length of black cloth from a plastic bag. It was his turban. It felt very intimate and intrusive to watch as he took the bandana off and uncurled his amazingly long hair. I should have been polite and looked away but I was fascinated to see how a nondescript length of black cotton could end up in such a dramatic and elegant design as a Sikh's turban. Lying on the bottom berth, I watched voyeuristically as he wrapped it around his head, twisting and winding it into the familiar oval shape, pulling an inside edge over the top of his head. He finished by tucking his symbolic dagger into the folds.

I am now checked into Hotel Singh and Sons, waiting for Mum and Dad to arrive for their Big Adventure in India. Dad has been gearing up to full Maharajah Mode for weeks, so I expect he will return to England with a team of elephants to wow them at Lowther next season.

The Corundum Conundrum

Corundum is the crystal form of aluminium oxide, which can also take the form of bauxite, one of the earths most abundant minerals. So what's the conundrum and why am I boring (boom boom) on about minerals? Well, because, like carbon, which produces graphite and diamond amongst its varieties, the crystal form of Al2O3, corundum, is the gem, sapphire, which is mined in Sri Lanka. And, boy, have I been having fun shopping. I have been on commission from various people at home (can't say who, in case any partners get excited) to buy "big, flashy" stones. Actually, that clearly gives away who I am buying for, but never mind.

To the delight of a nice man in the Aida Gem store, I wandered past one day and then turned back and sauntered in. The reason I chose his shop rather, than any of the other three or four next to him, was that the other shopkeepers, on seeing my sweaty face, ruffled hair, mended plastice flip flops and tiedyed salwar kameez, with a curry stain down the front, slightly sneered. However, the lucky owner of Aida Gems, just smiled at me, so he got my custom. All 1400 quid of it on my now nearly melted credit card ( I expect rapid reimbursement). As his shop is located in the unfortunately named World Trade Centre, which has maximum security, surrounded by several army check points, only the most determined go there for necessity. If Sri Lankan Airlines hadn't been based in there I wouldn't have gone myself.

Apart from the joy of buying jewels and the relief of being the possessor of a passport containing a new 6 month Indian visa within its pages, I feel quite sad about my visit to Sri lanka, because it has been somewhat of an ordeal. Although, clearly, my anxiety about my visa has had its effect on the ability and degree to which could enjoy myself, there have been two main contributing factors to my changed opinion about Sri Lanka. I came here 10 years ago, and although I can remember precisely nothing about it apart from the women being absolutely tiny and needing help with their ENORMOUS suitcases off the carousel, I do have the impression that it was a beautiful place and I generally enjoyed my trip.

What I do not remember, is what total wankers the men are. Bloody hell, they are incredible. It is impossible to walk down the street without being jostled and stared at (with that noxious smirk which makes my blood boil), a mexican wave of Hell-ooooooo, madam's crescendoing as you pass. Forget about Cricket being a national sport, they could lead the world stage in Boob Cricket. You know the one. A single for a brush with any part of the body, a four for brushing it with your hand and a six if you manage to actually grab it. You're out if you get slapped. They all excel at this and I haven't managed to slap one yet. Glaring, unfortunately, as they scurry off out of reach, only makes the game more exciting. And there's no Umpire to appeal to. So far however, no-one has managed to score more than a single off me, I'm pleased to report. Even the many, many soldiers at the many, many checkpoints play this game. What on earth is one supposed to do when a youth (who looks about 3 1/2) carrying a loaded rifle makes suggestive comments at you. You really are at a disadvantage. I have perfected my Lady Bracknell look, which works on some but unfortunately, clearly turns others on. I shall be glad to get back to India where they tend to stare in astonishment rather than lechery.

The other bane of my brief Sri Lankan existence has been the auto drivers. Firstly, there are thousands and thousands of them. The rickshaws are quite fun because unlike India, they are all different colours, red, blue green, purple. The drivers however are not. Every single one, on passing anyone with less of a tan than a local, slows down and hoots, whilst leaning precariously out of the side yelling "Hello, madam. Taxi?" I feel like looking around and saying "Where? I can only see an umbrella on three wheels". But that would obviously take up too much effort, so my strategies are, variously, just ignoring them (not very effective), saying "No, thanks" (also not very effective) or waving imperiously, (marginally more effective, but makes you feel like a prat. The only consolation is that it really is impossible for them to attempt Boob Cricket in such an unstable vehicle, although, it might be fun to see them try.

I think to be fair, I need to come and spend some proper time here on a dedicated holiday to Sri Lanka, rather than a boring, inconvenient trip at a bad time to get something awkward done, so I can settle in and buy some serious gems, I mean, do some serious sightseeing, and see the beauty of this tiny island so beloved of Marco Polo. As it is, it seems extraordinary, that I can't wait to get back to the hurly burly of India with it's frantic horns, loony drivers, piles of rubbish, people pissing on the streets, hawking and spitting replacing BC as the national pastime, wandering cows and mangy, sore-ridden dogs for a bit of peace and quiet. I shall probably miss Sri Lanka hugely when I've left.

Visa shmisa

Am currently in Colombo trying to renew my Indian Visa which has been a raffle from start to finish.

I could have done this when I was at home for Christmas, but before I left India, Arun told me not to, because he could definitely get it extended for me. When I expressed amazement and asked if he was sure, he looked slightly hurt and said of course he was, he had a foreign wife and worked in the tourist industry after all. Forgetting my golden rule of, if in any doubt, find out for yourself, I believed him, thankfully, because in truth I really did not want to waste any of my precious holiday at the Indian High Commission in London.

Coming back to India with a visa about to run out I asked Arun what I needed to do to renew it. He forgot that I asked and so no answer came back. Feeling like a nag, I asked again, and he sounded quite pained and irritated that I was asking and with much huffing and puffing found out that, with a probable bribe (!!!!) I could extend it for 30 days only. Well, that was no use because that would leave me in the middle of my parents trip needing to leave the country and renew it, but I only had a few days to sort it out now. So I now had to get to Sri Lanka asap (visa expiring in 2 days time) and be back in time for a friends visit on the 7th and my parents trip starting on the 12th, leaving me a crucial 3 days to get my visa renewed. As we now know, that is not enough.

On our first morning in Colombo, I said to Justine, look I need to get to the HC asap, be bright and breezy, do a little begging/sobbing and get my visa sorted, do you mind if I go on ahead. With not a care in the world, Justine, who wafts through life and manages not to fall flat on her face, said no probs, I'll join you later.

I arrived and the queue was ENORMOUS, out of the building and snaking three times around the forecourt. I remained about 10 from the end for at least an hour which was most irritating, God knows what time the real keenies got there. Finally, at 10.45 I got to the front of the queue which consisted of a series of desks placed in the middle of the room, where someone, prior to wasting the "visa" person's time, simply checked that the forms were filled out correctly. He told me to go and pay and pointed downstairs, away from the room where all the official action seemed to be happening. I was swept downstairs to a large room with about three other people in it. Everyone else seemed to be upstairs queuing for kiosks. Meanwhile, Justine had just arrived and was queuing in a significantly smaller queue than I had been in.

I rather belatedly asked the cashier if it was possible for me to get my visa done quicker. She looked pityingly at me (they see 1000 people per day for visas) and gave me a number to call. I told her about my flight and she pointed again to the number. Is there any chance of it being done sooner? I asked. Phone and see she said. I was clearly not going to get any more answers from her.

Meanwhile, and here is the absolutely infuriating thing, Justine had practically got to the front of the queue. I said I would wait in a coffee shop around the corner for her. One cup of tea and a fresh lime soda later, she comes out and, to give her credit, she was looking slightly embarrassed, said, they told me to come back this afternoon to pick up my visa.

WHHAAAATTTT!!!

The sodding cow, who has nearly 3 weeks in Sri Lanka and anyway has another 6 weeks left on her old visa went and got her visa renewed in ONE DAY, having queued for about 1/3 of the time and without having made any effort to get it done quicker at all. I was barely able to speak to her for the rest of the day I was so furious. I know it wasn't her fault, but it was SO unfair. Especially as she said gaily, I expect it's because everybody loves Australia. I bloody well don't. And anyway, Australia is the country which shoot immigrants coming in by boat to stop them landing, they are totally paranoid about people coming to their precious, bloody, bastard land. I am never going there. Ever. That'll show'em. It has always been low on my list and now I AM TAKING IT OFF ALTOGETHER.

Not just passing through Colombo this time.

For the third time in just over a month, I find myself in Colombo. Justine and I have come to Sri Lanka in order to renew our Indian visas. I shall only stay briefly but she is staying for a couple of weeks or more.

We arrived this morning and it has already been quite eventful one way and another.

Firstly, J took the unsurprising but foolish decision to empty her room of alcohol before leaving - into her stomach. I think there was a good 3/4 bottle of vodka left before her "spring clean".

All last night, whilst I sat chatting to Margaret, our new hostel mate, Justine wafted in and out of her room with increasing unsteadiness, having made the mandatory request for samosas, which the dog then ate as she left them the steps during one of her forays back into her room.

We were due to leave at 5.00am and finally, at midnight I finally went in to pack, knowing that I was only going for a few days and my things were still packed from Bangalore anyway. It took only about half an hour, despite frequent interruptions from J firstly telling me she was really annoyed with me (no idea why), then coming back to tell me (slightly tearfully) that I had helped her a lot whilst she had been in RUHSA, before a bout of paranoia half way through her speech made her reiterate that she thought I was really annoying. Then she came to ask me if I could help her upload her music onto her MP3 player from her computer, which owing to a lead issue I couldn't. I went to bed as she was still pootling ineffectually around her room crunching on puffed rice which she had scattered liberally across her floor, with no sign of any bag being out, let alone packed.

This morning at 5am when the car arrived, I went to wake her. Her light was on, the door was open, the puffed rice, looking a little more crushed than last night, was still everywhere and a bag, containing unknown items, appeared to be packed.

I checked she had her passport and tickets. She staggered to the car and fell in. Amazingly, the driver, despite the fumes, managed to stay sober for the drive and got us to the aiport literally in perfect time.

It was quite hair-raising trying to contain the whirlwind that was Justine (still pissed obviously) but I reckoned that she had been doing this for years without needing me to mother her so I wasn't going to start now. I also said to her that, no matter what, I was getting on the plane as I needed to sort my visa out immediately.

Halfway around through the airport procedures she realised she had left her wallet behind. Completely. She had a total of 7 rupees in Indian coins and that was it. She now has the prospect of spending nearly 3 weeks in Sri Lanka with no access to money. Oh well, something will occur.

Luckily for me, owing to check-in shenanigans we were not sitting together on the flight so I, unlike those on row 15, had a peaceful trip.

On arrival, having read about the rip-off taxis at the airport charging 1400rs for a 35km trip, we rather stubbornly set off walking toards the bus stop which was 2km away. After a short while a bus arrived and charged us 50rs each. We felt very smug. I handed over the smallest note I had - 1000rs - and waited for my change. He didn't have it to start with and unlike the Vellore bus drivers, who hack their way through 100's of people crammed in and out of the bus in order to give you your 50 paise change, this young man, conveniently "forgot" and I even more conveniently for him, forgot to ask. This was partly due to the fact that we had 2 police check points when all the passengers or just the driver and his dishonest sidekick had to get out and have their bags checked while J and I sat on the bus looking a bit bewildered.

Amidst a repetitive refrain from J of "I can't believe I don't have my wallet!", we got to the Indian High Commission to be told that it was too late to put my application form in today (I wasn't surprised), but I could do it tomorrow. Great, I thought. It will take 5 working days. Fuck, I thought. I have three working days in Sri Lanka. I am obviously going to have to be very, very persuasive. I may even have to cry a little.

We are staying in a nice place, which has an old Dutch colonial feel, it is open and breezy with cooling gardens surrounding it, so it feels somewhat like we are still at RUHSA. Tomorrow, I tackle the Visa Problem. Wish me luck.

Frittering away my precious time in Bangalore

Discovered what Pandian's friend is called, he's called Babu. Justine was not so keen to learn his name, as she was fervently hoping she would never see him again. Sadly, his enthusiasm for her now far outstrips Pandian's for me and so we met the very next day. Her foul bate, stemming from acute embarrassment, was mollified somewhat by being allowed to drive the rickshaw home (What is foreplay to an auto driver? "Do you want to drive my rickshaw home?"). However, it also gave Babu the opportunity to stroke her hand with his, previously unnoticed, 1" long finger nail on his little finger, whilst they fought over the throttle. Must have brought back memories.

Am currently in Bangalore (again, feel like I practically live here sometimes) in order to sort out changing my flight home, which had been booked for 3rd february; send off an application form, at vast expense by DHL, as I forgot that I should have sent it weeks ago (deadline is 1st February) and book flights to Sri Lanka to renew my visa which runs out on the 2nd February. It has been quite a rush trying to organise everything, but I am off to Sri Lanka on Thursday for a few days with Justine - goodness knows what we will get up to there, she has a bad influence on me - then back to Vellore for a few days before going to Delhi to meet Mum and Dad on the 12th. In the meantime, my godbrother Damian Arnold, who is my Dad's godson as I am his Dad's goddaughter, is coming to Vellore for a few days between Sri Lanka and Delhi. It will be nice to see him as I haven't seen him for at least ten or more years. I have a vague memory of kermit the frog puppet, but I think that belongs to an older memory that a 10-year-old one.

Today, I was sitting in a very smart shopping complex eating a sandwich made with sugarless bread. I was thinking to myself how ubiquitous shopping centres were. There was a Marks and Sparks; smart sportswear shops; shops selling overpriced and pointless ornaments; a huge plush-seated cinema (went last night to a traumatic film about the Gujarati riots of 2002) and loads of fast food joints. Only the chaat masala flavoured sweetcorn gave away the fact that it was in the heart of India, otherwise, we could have been anywhere in the world. Then, as I tucked into my nasty but curry/sugar free sandwich, there was a powercut. The lights went out, the escalators stopped, the toxic canned music was silenced and I felt curiously relieved that nothing escapes being Indianified, even posh shops and characterless arcades. It only lasted a few minutes - well, each of the three cuts only lasted a few minutes each - but it served to remind me that I was still in India.

Yesterday, I passed a group of transvestites/transgender eunuchs called Hijras by whom it is apparently lucky to be blessed. I have seen them a couple of times around India and what always amazes me is how enormous they are. Ironically, they are amongst the only truly manly sized male Indians and these guys were no exception. They all, to a man/woman, were incredibly tall, at least over 6 foot, broad-shouldered with firm, strong jawlines and masculine limbs, but were all also wearing brightly coloured, silver-adorned saris and walking with a distinctive sashay. I watched, fascinated, as they bore down on a terrified-looking, more usually sized Indian man, ie about 5'4", with a vigourous moustache designed to detract from his lack of stature, with shoulders more suited to a contender for the Mr Puniverse title and thighs the size of my wrist, encased in trousers so tight they looked painted on. As the bangle-bedecked wrist ending in a hand the size of a ping pong bat, with enormous purple talons, slowly moved towards the unfortunate passerby's forehead, his blinking became rapid and frantic, undoubtably in rhythm with his heartbeat. The hand laid briefly on his head as there was faint ululations from the other sari-clad giants. It was like watching trout-tickling. Robotically, his head fixed, as if glued to the Hijra's hand, he rummaged around in his overtight trouser pockets for a coin which would be the magic release from this hell. I bet he now wishes he had worn baggier trousers with more accessible pockets. The girls, having made easy money, moved on and I saw them again later, triumphantly celebrating their earnings with a cup of tea. It's really hard to know what to think about this kind of community. They must have membership of some kind but it comes at a terrible price. I saw on the station platform a group of albino beggars, a few couples and several playing children, and I thought the same about them. How incredibly difficult must it be to be an albino in India, but on the other hand, they have acceptance within their own, albeit entirely excluded from mainstream, community.

A stalker, a mistaken identity and a double date

Yesterday was another surreal day in India. It started with a series of phone calls in the morning.

For about the last 6 weeks, I have intermittently received phone calls from some loony Indian man who professes to want to “make friends with me”. He phones from different phones each time he calls meaning I can’t block his number, so every now and then I hear his familiar pleading tones saying,
“Please madam, don’t hang up, I just want to make friend with you. Please madam, come and see me. I am an orphan.”

All very heartwrenching stuff, but not the most ideal basis from which to start a friendship. The conversation usually continues briefly with me asking him if he actually knows who I am (he doesn’t appear to), who he is (he seems equally ignorant of that), how he got my number (someone called Joe in Delhi gave it to him apparently. Who Joe? No idea, I know no Joe) or vaguely and not very enthusiastically asking him why he keeps calling and what he actually wants (similar lack of knowledge in that department also).

Yesterday, he played a blinder. Bored of his calls, I tried having a more fulsome conversation with him to find out exactly what was going on. He burbled something about wanting to look at me. Ok, so that sounds distinctly dodgy; at which point, I got uppity and, in my most Lady Bracknell tones, asked him if he thought it was entirely appropriate to be conducting such a conversation with an unknown lady, would he allow his sister to be spoken to like this etc etc. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I hung up decisively.

There was silence for about 15 minutes. Then, from a different number, he called back. His voice sounded less pleading and more determined this time.

“I want you to come and see me tomorrow,” he said firmly.
“No,” I said, equally firmly.
“Well, if you don’t come, I am going to kill your colleague. I know where you live, I know your address. I will come and find you.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” I said. “You know nothing about me. How do you imagine this line of conversation is going to make me want to be your friend?”
“Will you come tomorrow or not?”
“No.”

Phone cut off again. I can’t believe I have a bloody loony stalker in India who, if I don’t make friends with him, is threatening to kill people. What can be going through his head?

About 20 minutes later the phone rings again with a different number but the same code. Obviously, the majority of people with whom I have a telephone relationship and whose friendships are not based on threat and extortion, have their numbers programmed in with their names. It was patently going to be my stalker.

“Hello,” I said amiably. “Are you ringing up to threaten to kill me again?”
“Til now I haven’t bothered you,” he said menacingly. “Til now.”
“Actually,” I pointed out, not unreasonably, “you have been a real pain in the arse.”
“You haven’t been bothered. Til Now,” he repeated.

Then he hung up.

That, so far, is the last I have heard from him. The numbers he is calling from are all in Coimbatore, which is about 12 hours away. I feel it is unlikely that he will carry out his threats. I wonder if he thinks I am someone else? Nothing like this ever happens to me in Cumbria. Which, I suppose, being quite a lot closer to home, is a good thing.

After this telephonic encounter with a stalker, there was a flag raising ceremony at RUHSA to mark Republic Day. Apparently, India became a Republic on 26th January 1951, 4 years after Independence, and after a flurry of local holidays, this is one of the few nationally celebrated days. We had a sweet gathering around the campus flagpole whilst a local figurehead, a woman who spends time fighting for women’s rights and ensuring that eligible people can get pensions and welfare as appropriate, raised the Indian flag, scattering petals on the heads of those watching. She made a good speech about fighting for rights and individuals doing their duty by society. She seemed to be one of the few politicians here who (a) doesn’t look like a fat frog (b) seems be consistent between what she says and what she does and (c) fights for the rights of the underdog instead of getting fatter and more frog-like by lining her own pockets.

Whilst listening to the singing and speeches, I noticed someone whom I thought was the wife of a friend of mine, with whom I had had dinner just before I went home for Christmas. Having not seen this woman since, I made a beeline for her, in order to tell her what a lovely time we’d had at her house. She seemed a bit puzzled at the attention I was paying her and even more puzzled when I thanked her profusely for dinner, saying how lovely her home was and what a nice family she had. She persisted in looking puzzled, and even a bit scared, but, knowing that most people have great difficulty following what I say, I reiterated everything louder and more slowly, adding that I was surprised Selvakumar (the aforementioned friend) hadn’t mentioned to her what a lovely time I’d had, I had especially asked him to. No, no he hadn’t said anything to her, she said, backing away slowly. Oh men, I tutted, they are so hopeless. She agreed, for lack of an alternative. After a few more fruitless minutes of platitudes, I eventually gave up trying to thank this ungracious person, who seemed most reluctant to accept any good wishes.

Today I went to the library to return some books and there sitting behind the counter, looking a tiny bit apprehensive at my entrance, sat the librarian. Not Selvakumar’s wife. The librarian. I’ve seen her lots of times, sitting in exactly the same place. I have never been to her house. I have never met her family. We have never even eaten a meal together. In fact, I have only ever exchanged the briefest of greetings over a library book with her.

I brazened it out.

“Did you have a lovely day yesterday,” I said breezily.
“Yes,” she said, nervously.
“Good,” I boomed heartily. “I thought it was lovely too.”
I made a swift exit, giggling feebly to myself.

After the first two episodes of the day, I should have known better than to go into Vellore, as history proves that most Ridiculous Days have three Ridiculous Episodes in them, but Justine and I wanted to do a couple of things in town, so off we went.

Justine is a great lass and I enjoy her company a lot, but she can be a slight liability, having, as she does, a familiar and casual relationship with any kind of alcohol. Unbeknownst to me (initially), she had a water bottle which I thought contained water, but which in fact contained a ¼ bottle of vodka. I did wonder why, whilst we were wandering around the shops in Vellore, she was loudly demanding we find samosas, with which she developed an immovable fixation.

After a couple of hours, we were both getting increasingly crotchety with each other and I was ready to go home. We were wandering aimlessly towards the bus station, when a rickshaw with a grinning driver slid in front of us. It was Pandian, my fiance. I greeted him with more enthusiasm than was probably seemly, but I was a bit relieved to see someone who appeared to be sober. We chatted for a while and then he asked us to go for a coffee. Quite enjoying his company by this stage, I agreed and off we went.

On the way he picked up a friend of his who looked about 12, wore impossibly tight jeans and sported a quiff of architectural proportions, but who owned the rickshaw Pandian drove. We ended up, essentially, on a double date, starting with dinner and continuing with a Tamil movie.
The evening was going quite well. Justine had perked up, temporarily forgetting her obsession with samosas, and Pandian and friend were good company. It was clear that he was hoping for some sort of return for his attentions, but I was good naturedly ignoring his hopeful, lustful glances. In truth, I was quite enjoying the attention, and he was doing great, until he asked me if I slept well. I replied that, owing to the fact that I now had three mattresses, I did sleep very well. I didn’t mean that, he said, I meant, you’re so fat, how do you sleep? After a resounding slap to the head (his) our relations remained frosty for several hours until, after the film (completely incomprehensible) he allowed me to drive his auto all the way home, a good 30 km.

Obviously, he did it to give him an excuse to put his arm around me whilst driving, claiming that there wasn’t enough room on the seat and he had to hang onto me. After a few kilometres, he squeezed me and after a few more he laid his head on my shoulders.

“Enough of that,” I said sharply, “or I’ll drive into the ditch at a great speed.” The squeezing ceased and I could feel the palpable disappointment, especially in light of what was going on in the back.

Justine, by now a further half bottle ahead of herself in the vodka stakes and reunited with her samosa obsession, was cosying up to the friend (who’s name we never learnt, or if we did, we forgot) and, between suspicious slurping noises, was giving us a running commentary on various portions of his anatomy, trying to dispel the myth viciously started in a report on condom sizes for Indian men by the BBC. (I am not sure precisely what was being slurped over, I was concentrating on the road ahead and the hands behind, but Justine assured me later that it couldn’t have been as bad as it sounded, she’s just not that type of girl.)

All this served to increase Pandian’s expectations, despite the fact that he knew I was not in the same accommodating state as Justine and I had already slapped his hands away a couple of times. Actually, I almost felt sorry for him. He gets the fatty who doesn’t put out and doesn’t get drunk either to enable him to take advantage of vodka-induced willingness.

In the end, he acted like a perfect gentleman. We arrive back safely, I pay over the odds to try and minimise hope for alternative forms of payment and he and friend leave - me to sleep and Justine to stagger around the campus waking various people up in her unrelenting quest for samosas.

Today of course, I feel fine and have great fun laughing at Justine who feels far from fine; plus, I have the added enjoyment of relating her nocturnal activities, about which she is completely amnesic, back to her with great relish.

Abso-loo-tly marvellous!

I wrote this posting immediately I returned from Delhi, but with one thing and another I haven’t posted it yet. It is a rave about my new loo. After 4 months ruining my knees during my early morning activities, lovely Donald, my arch-nemesis, actually did job number 27 before jobs numbered 1-26, which, as #27 was installing a western loo for me, I will love him forever.

So my first thoughts on seeing the vision of loveliness were as follows:

Today I sat for at least half an hour on my new, gorgeous, beautiful, glistening, masterpiece of a Western loo. What a welcome back to my little room at RUHSA. It was the first thing of which I took a photo. Its elegant curves sweep upwards to the delicately moulded seat, perched high above the concrete floor, the slim-line cistern with it’s modern flush system complimenting the pale blue walls perfectly. All in all, it is a marvellous thing to behold. You may think that, as I have been in the UK for Christmas, I need not be so poetic about a lavatory, but I can assure you, it is a very exciting thing indeed to see in my bathroom.

My time is drawing to an end

Today we had a brilliant staff meeting about the elderly care program. It has been running now for nearly 2 weeks and there is a core group of 20 members who are regularly coming for meals. We went to see them again yesterday, taking some Australian Social Workers from a RUHSA appreciation society back in Australia, people who have been to RUHSA in the past, working on various projects over the years. They were very interested in the program. Several of them had done projects involving the elderly, some of which we used as references, and so they knew very well what sort of problems they face.

What is very interesting to observe is how the elderly are being empowered by the program. It seems that even the fact that someone is paying attention to them and asking their opinion has given them strength and an identity in the village once again.

Today everyone met for a discussion about the future of the program. I have been anxious that my plans for the future in term of expansion and development weren’t matched by the other team members; that people were so pleased to see the feeding program successfully starting that they would place less importance on the further development of other services etc. I was worried that people would concentrate on the feeding program and ensure that it all ran smoothly that they would forget that spending £3000 on feeding 20 elderly people for a year cannot really be classed as a success, anyone can do that, given that amount of money; for the program to be a success it has to be developed further and involve the wider community, including other vulnerable groups.

However, my fears were foundless. We had a fantastic meeting. Everyone is so keen to move the project forward and develop it according to exactly how we envisaged, there is very little bullying and cajoling needed to be done by me now. Everything that I have been hoping would happen is being planned for and everyone is in accordance with the ideology of how it will develop further in the future. It really was an amazingly fantastic meeting. The only sadness for me is that my time here is drawing to it’s natural conclusion. It is clear that there is enough momentum to keep everything moving forward without further input needed from me. Obviously, this is exactly the plan as intended but it’s still sad to know that this is ultimately neither my project or my responsibility, I have just been a guest – and a troublesome, difficult, noisy, bossy one at that! It was quite sad to listen to them planning how they were going to manage things in the future, knowing that I couldn’t be included in the plans as I was not going to be around for much longer.

All that is left for me to do now is to finish the medicals and do full nutritional assessments on everyone attending the program, some of whom slipped through the net before it started, as part of the evaluation and monitoring process.

There is one other thing that I would like to do before I leave and that is hold a focus group in the village to discuss their perceptions of what local health services can, do and should provide. I was discussing this with Dr Rita today, who is developing expansion of the mobile nurse and medical clinics and she was excited at the idea. CMC outpatients departments are overrun by people “inappropriately” attending for things which could be dealt with in primary care. There are primary care centres (of sorts), RUHSA has a weekly clinic in the village and there are various private doctors in the area. With such a smorgasbord of medical care theoretically available, it is important to find out how these services are being used. This will help us understand were the service gaps are and where health education is needed to ensure that services are used optimally. It will also help us to understand why people don’t use medical services, even though it’s clear they should. I think this will be a phenomenally useful piece of research and will help in developing the primary care facilities more efficiently.

So, my plan is to spend a few more weeks here and then leave in March, which is a little earlier than I was planning before Christmas. I definitely do not want to be hanging around, not doing very much except being an “executive” at the meetings, I need to be remembering that first and foremost I am a GP and I need, at some stage, to be planning getting back into work at home. Also, I had an exciting email from a previous teaching colleague, who said that the University of Liverpool was enquiring about my return, hopefully because there is another opening doing GP teaching next academic year, which is tres exciting.

Mum and Dad are coming out to India in mid February, and apart from having to negotiate renewing my visa, which runs out in about 10 days time, I anticipate being at RUHSA until about the end of March. I may or may not then go travelling, I haven’t decided. Depends, I think on how frivolous I think I’ve been and how much responsibility I feel for me to return to a proper job!

The downside to all this is that I’ve got to start thinking about packing. Oh my God. Why am I not surprised at the amount of stuff I have accumulated. Maybe they will let me leave stuff in the attic. I have left stuff in attics wherever I have been; one day I’ll go back to my first year room at Oxford, climb into the roof space and see what I left behind 16 years ago! I can’t remember at all what it was, but I’m sure I would be delighted to be reunited with it again after all these years.

Revenge of the Mouse

As the last posting showed, my Karma took a serious dent and although I was expecting it, I wasn't expecting to feel the repercussions of my mousetake so soon. Unfortunately for me, the cycle of karmic destiny inexorably turned and the needle landed on "Payback" the very next day.

My sister and her boyfriend, Robert, with whom I had spent a lovely few days in the North for New Year, ended their trip by visiting me in the South. Prior to their arrival I made loads of excited plans. I wanted to show them the campus and introduce them to everyone. I arranged for Vimala, who is in charge of the canteen, to give us a biryani lesson. I hired bicycles so we could visit all the local sites and go and spend some time in the villages, meeting some of the village people involved in the project, ie the self-help group women and some of the elderly people. Obviously, I wanted to show them the community centre and get them to meet Dr John.

Their visit co-incided with Pongal, which is a 4 day Tamil festival, a combination of New Year and Harvest Festival. Tamils celebrate all things new, together with blessing and giving thanks for the fertility of the land in a typically exuberant way. Every house is decorated with familiar floral pujas and sugar cane sticks; outside on the floor are beautifully coloured and intricately drawn Kolom - the chalk patterns traced on the dusty ground, which are usually monochromatic, but for Pongal take on a new dimension with vibrant colours creating interwoven images of flowers, butterflies, birds, animals or just geometric designs.

Each day there is a new activity. The first day, Bhogi Pongal, is a day for the family. Old unwanted items are taken outside and painted or washed to give them a new life. The farmers bless the fields prior to the harvesting of the crop. Surya Pongal, the second day, is dedicated to the worship of Surya, the Sun God who is offered boiled milk and jaggery (sugar syrup). The third day, Mattu Pongal, is the most important for the farmers, because it is dedicated to cows or Mattu.

These already highly revered creatures receive special attention on this day. They are scrubbed, their horns are polished and then they are painted, decorated and garlanded to extreme means. The whole of Tamil Nadu is awash with slightly sheepish looking bullocks, their horns brightly painted a rainbow myriad of spots, stripes and swirls, on the tips of which bob garlands, tassles and even balloons.

One of the legends of Pongal suggests a reason why cattle are destined, despite being worshipped, to work for man. Shiva, that most Manly of Gods, previously seen starring in the tragic episode about a small mud child and an elephant's head, had a faithful bull called Basava. Shiva wanted humans to show due deference to the Gods and thus, he entrusted, perhaps foolishly, his Bull with the task of telling humans that they needed to take an oil bath every day and eat once a month.

Repeating to himself, religiously, the mantra: "Bathe daily. Eat monthly", Basava, with misplaced confidence went down from heaven to earth to deliver the message.

You guessed it. He told the mortals to bathe monthly and eat daily. Shiva, not famed for his tolerant and forgiving nature, cursed Basava and banished him to live on the earth forever. He would have to spend the rest of his life ploughing the fields and helping the humans produce the food they would now, courtesy of his incompetence, need to be eating on a more regular basis than was planned. Thus, the association between man and beast was formed. I suspect that a further part of his punishment was that he would have to have balloons tied to his horns once a year to remind him of his stupidity.

On the last day, Pongal festival climaxes with the eating of a disgusting sweet rice porridge mixture called......Pongal.....which ends up being fed to the poor beleaguered cattle and birds "In Thanks", although, I suspect it's actually because it is so unpalatable.

So Lottie and Robert were arriving in perfect time to witness this crazy mayhem of livestock adornment and I envisaged us cycling around the villages, maybe being asked to lend a creative hand to a horn or two.

Unfortunately, the day they arrived, I was struck down with a lesser known form of the Mouse's Revenge (or flu) and retired to bed with a temperature of 38.5C. For the next three days, I was incapable of lifting my head off the pillow without a) a coughing fit b) sobbing uncontrollably in frustration and self pity c) generating unfeasible amounts of mucus from both nostrils d) feeling like shit.

For their entire visit, except for the last day, I was bed ridden and the best I could do was wave feebly from my pressure-sore inducing, crispbread-resembling mattress as they went and had biryani lessons on their own. Robbie Burns, who also clearly fell foul of the Rodent's Curse, never penned a truer word with the immortal lines "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley".

Luckily, I perked up a little bit for the last day, for which I had planned various exciting things, including going to my friendly tailor, doing a bit of shopping, going to the Pongal fair which had exciting rides and candyfloss stalls and culminating in staying over in Vellore at a Nice Hotel so we could have a good dinner and a couple of beers. I managed to galvanise enough energy to go into Vellore and check into, what turned out to be the most ridiculous hotel in the world. I also had just enough energy to potter around the fair, watching Justine fearlessly go on a ride which turned her upside-down whilst notionally tied into her seat by a granny knot in a single, puny-looking strap.

The fair was great, it has to be said. It was heaving with excited families, many of whom were sitting around on the floor picnicking on the wares of the many different food stalls. There were lots of rides, varying hugely in the fear factor. My favourite one, from a strictly spectator point of view, was a slightly down-sized maruti car in pea green going round in tiny circles containing a large number of beaming children, the greatest beam of all coming from the one sitting behind and turning the pointless steering wheel. The bumper cars, probably put in for essential training for rickshaw drivers, were also great fun to watch.

At the end of the day, we went back to our Ridiculous Hotel, where they wanted us to register at the Police Station in order to stay there; where their Room Service, which finished at 11pm, was not available for food at half past ten ("What to do, Madam?"); where, when we asked for plates and eating utensils for the food we had to go out and buy, they took half an hour to bring one plastic plate and a spoon and where, the receptionist had a wall eye and a pot belly and no charm. At least the bed was comfortable and my pressure sores began to recede.

The next morning, horribly early, I waved goodbye to Lottie and Robert, with whom, despite the flu, I had had a really lovely time. I then went back to bed not knowing that I was to re-awaken in the Ridiculous Hotel, to have to most Ridiculous Day yet in India.

My most Ridiculous Day started with the less deformed receptionist, who looked normal, but had the tenacity of a Rottweiler, waking me to tell me again that I needed to go down to the police station to register (I am currently already registered anyway, and have been since August). Suffice it to say that, my mood, consisting as it did of the potent mixture of Day 1 period, dregs of a virus and insufficient sleep was not conducive to a reasonable conversation. I told her over the phone and then I went down in person to tell her and, by then, her other charmingly unique co-worker, that, unless they wanted to carry me (I was fairly confident that they wouldn't want to do this) I WAS NOT GOING TO THE BLOODY POLICE STATION. Hotel relationship was severed with me storming out, screeching like a banshee.

Fuming, I stomped off and found a rickshaw to take me back to the relative sanity of RUHSA. The guy I found, when asked how much, said 100 rupees, clearly indicating that he had no idea where RUHSA was. As I wanted to stop at the supermarket and fruit stall, I said I would give him 150. Once home, having had an uneventful ride, just long enough to enable me to cool off, I gave the driver 200rs and awaited my change. Of course he tried to pull the "No-change-madam" ploy, so you end up giving them more than agreed. Today was not the day for him to try that stunt on me. My furious bate reignited, I stomped off (I did a lot of stomping that day) to find change myself. The driver followed me, pointing to his rickshaw, saying, "Madam, madam, inside". I stubbornly refused to and so ended up walking across the campus, stamping up little puffs of furious dust with each step, with a slowly moving auto following close behind.

By far the most ridiculous aspect of my Ridiculous Day occurred later that evening, after a small amount of recuperative sleep. I was feeling much better and was sitting outside my room, talking to Lottie on the phone before she got on the plane home, when another auto driver, Pandian, whom I had met a few months previously, having heard I was sick, arrived unexpectedly outside my building. Unfased by the fact that I resembled a startled and slightly greasy cockatoo with a very red shiny nose and Bed Head, he proceded to give me advice on how to get well again, all under the distrusting, watchful eye of RUHSA security, who take a dim view of the sexes fraternising between themselves. Their suspicion proved well-placed, when, between guidance on effective cold remedies and tips for fever reduction, Pandian expressed a desire that one day, God-willing, I might be his wife. So, my Ridiculous Day concluded with me having a Ridiculous Conversation with a relative stranger trying to justify why it was not likely that a Cumbrian GP would want to settle down in wedded bliss with a charming, if ambitious, rickshaw driver in Vellore.

The net result of all these events is a new found respect for the power of Mice. It's live and let live from now on.