The Writer is Out There.

31^st October: It turned out to be a pretty good estimation of the Halloween Atmosphere this evening; if not in spookiness and reflection, then at least in it’s holiday atmosphere.

The power had been out all day, and it made no allowances for darkness. So, because it was lighter outside than in, we all  - carers, kids, cooks, and Damien and I – stayed outside, re-discovering the inner infant. The same inner infant that relishes trick-or-treating, even though you’re ‘far too old for it’. We skidded to ungainly stops at the bottom of the slide. We span around and around just to feel the world crash around our ears. We hung upside down from the monkey bars.

We crashed, exhausted, to the grass, savouring the last almost-light of the Indian sky.

And then a budding-artisan’s voice shines like a torch through the gloom. He’s reciting nursery rhymes, in – I swear – the exact same voice as the caterpillar in Disney’s Alice in Wonderland uses. With the pauses and everything! He starts with twinkle twinkle, and moves on through baa baa black sheep, and all the way to ring-a-ring-o’-roses. It’s not exactly ghost-tales, but he has that same urgency sparkling in his eyes; it’s a story he has to get out tonight. I wish I could remember ‘the jaberwock’, or ‘they went to sea in a sieve’, or even ‘the peobble that had no toes’.

We retreat inside, where sparse candles give their now-familiar inspiring glow. Only, tonight it feels special, like it was destined to happen to help the Halloween mood. Both Damien and I start to write beside candles on the balcony, but we’re interrupted by a giddy Radha, and roped into a game of hide-and-seek. The gloom made it far more interesting, but even in the half-light, Radha’s irrepressible laugh gave her away every single time.

We swing from our wicker-chair, until plaster starts to fall on my form like dandruff.

I’m slightly disappointed that there’s no pumpkin curry for dinner. Too good a thought to be true, although the pumpkin is, apparently, the most common vegetable in India.

And later that bight, armed with pots of tea in place of beer, the two English musicians host a private jam upon the roof, talking of demons-of-personal-past between the songs.

Monday 30th: I spent much of the morning, when the power was off and the laptop battery depleated, and I could not work on the communication thing, trying to work out what I’m doing, where my life is going. I was getting pretty muddled, simultaneously despondent and excited (which was confusing in itself, to say nothing of not really knowing what I was getting all worked up about).

Then, a new ‘volunteer’ (a British visitor who’s band fundraised for the place before – Damien) arrives. He’s staying 2 days, but quickly decides to extend it until Thursday. He sees the guitar hanging on the wall and gets stuck in – later plays for the kids and all and sundry on the grass, fading light ignored as he continues to play (see video). He’s a writer (epic poetry: 6-years on one piece, destined to finish here in India), too. The two of us spend the free afternoon creatively: writing, doodling and playing music, seemingly sparking each other off. It’s nice to be talking English again. It’s nice to be around another creative mind. It’s nice to talk, out loud, about what I’d like to achieve here ideally. He points out what a wonderful relaxed, constructive atmosphere the place has. He’s right. It’s good to have perspective.

—
Sanjay has agreed that he and Mansi’ll teach me Hindi. He seemed pleased to be asked. Maybe I’m starting to fit in, feel more confident about my place here. It’ll be nice to start communicating properly with people. Lord knows I have the time to learn. And it’d be appalling if I were to stay here for 18 months without learning to hold a conversation in the native tongue. It’d be a depressing failure, and rude (the 1st thing you notice about western tourists is their lax attitude towards cultures. I don’t want to be here as one of them).