The Writer is Out There.

Once upon a time, there was a scatty young girl living in
India. She always meant to do things. In fact, her favourite phrase was ‘when I’ve done this, I’ll do that.’ Only, the problem was, that in
India there are far too many distractions and things take so long anyway, so she never managed to get things done. 

One day, she had a close shave with her computer, and although she lost some of her work, most of her files remained intact.

 

After that, she meant to back everything up; she really did. Only there was never any power, except when she was eating, or playing with the children, or wanted to watch tv. So the weeks went by and still she didn’t save anything.

 

And suddenly, as she was pre-writing content for her website, the computer switches itself off. And won’t turn back on again.

 

Only this time the kindly gentleman in the repair shop could find nothing. Not a single song, or word file, or photo. Months of work, of pictures she could never recapture, and music and video enough to entertain you solidly for a fortnight, gone.

Following a sequence of bizarre events, it is suspected that we have unwittingly been drafted into some cruel reality TV show. Volunteers of Snehalaya ask that any persons with information come forward. Please.

—

Cate and I wake excited today; we’ve been asked to attend a Christmas Goodwill thing at Mother Theresa’s, where 500 of the poorest people in Gwalior will be provided with food, blankets, and clothes parcels. Narayan’s going too, we’re told. There’s no mention of the Sharma’s joining us, or I might have questioned our expectations. Anyway, we set off thinking we’ve been asked to help with the mammoth but worthwhile task of handing out 500 parcels. We’re both dressed accordingly, in clothes scuzzy enough to be jostled and dirtied.

It’s not what we anticipated.

We’re paraded (named and all) at the front of a very bizarre performance: school-kids’ music and dancing, which, though well meaning, would torture all but a handful of the crowd with what they have not got. Several of the kids looked less than pleased to be there. Traditional Indian dances – much like Morris dancing, without the bells – were mixed with odd Indian-tuned versions of English Christmas songs like Rudolf, and ‘We wish you a merry Christmas’. It’s a shame I can’t post videos here.

 Then, ‘token’ parcels were distributed with a flourish – each recipient kissing the donor. One man dropped his bundle. Not one person stepped forward to help him as he scrabbled to get everything together. Cate and I squirmed, not daring to move from our ‘VIP guest’ position, lest we cause the others to lose face.

not going near a package (grateful that we don’t have to partake in the weird distribution thing) we’re ushered into a room beside the nursery, visible to all the resident women (who I’m not allowed to talk to today, although all the guests are taken to see the babies) for cakes and chai that I really don’t want, but they so obviously do.

When we leave, Mrs Sharma insists on pulling down the 3-wheeler’s plastic blinds to shield us/ her from the outside world. Incidently, being stuck in a Sharma-sandwich is not the most comfortable way to travel.

—

Back at Snehalaya everyone is staring at us/ standing behind us and failing to conceal discussions about us. Everyone. People who see us every day, who work alongside us easily, on a normal day. We never did work out why.

 Naranjan continued his jumper-envy fuelled theatrics.

So convinced are we of BB action by nightfall, that we bolt my door and sit, lights off, around (in as much as two people can) a candle, whispering so they could not hear us as we hit the vodka. Somehow, we didn’t think of decent microphones or night-vision cameras. It became quite a tradition – the candle-drinks – even on saner days.

19^th Dec.

 

Things have been getting a little weirder round here. Naranjan in particular. He’s been weird around volunteers since being reprimanded for eating my stash (including the Sacred Hobnobs) and told to work chiefly downstairs. He’s simultaneously aloof with us and clingy – clamouring around us and vying for attention.

 

Yesterday and today, as night wraps us in its ice-box, Naranjan shuns his jumper. Every time he passes me, he audibly shivers, shakes enthusiastically as he wraps his arms about himself, and, pained expression on his face as he eyes my fleece, says “Sarah, cold.”

 

“Naranjan, you, jumper/ jacket?”

 

“Yes.” He looks hopeful.

 

“Ka ha?” Where?

 

“No. Me, no.” his eyes flick back to my jacket.

 

“You have. I’ve seen.”

 

“No.” pause “Sarah,” he points at my fleece “me, jacket?”

 

“No, Naranjan.”

 

So he returns to his shivering, hoping I’ll feel guilty enough to change my mind.

 

What tips the balance from annoyance to hilarity, though, is that when he’s 5 paces away, almost in the kitchen or on the stairs, he drops the act in favour of his usual ‘I’m cool’ strut, only to act pathetic when he returns.

Zey suck your bllood and zey change your life forever!  

Only, in
Gwalior, the vampires have none of the cool SFX perks, like changing into bats, or invisibility in mirrors or what have you. I’m talking about the mozzies, obviously. Mysteriously, as the sun sinks below the skanky river, the vampyric flocks are out in force. They’re not afraid of garlic, or ancient holy symbols, and these guys don’t have to wait for an invite before they come into your abode. They’ll guzzle your life force and curse you… once you’re infected, you’re stuck with it for life. Kinda like a full-moon werewolf deal, gone wrong; you never know when the Curse of Gwalior might hit you again.

 

It’s not fair – just so you know – that some of the volunteers were rather lax in the anti-malarial department, whilst I take yukky tablets every week, and it’s me – ME – who gets malaria. *Pout*.

 

The whole thing started with what I thought was a nasty stomach bug. Nope. After 4 days of barfing every 15minutes, test results prove otherwise. And then the rest of it starts, the shivery-sweating, the shaking (so much that you can’t turn book pages), the prickly aching, everywhere. I wouldn’t wish it on my worstest enemy.

 

Thanks have to go to Maggie and Katie, both of whom created one-sided conversations with skill. And to Narayan, all round good-egg. I’m sure I wouldn’t have survived malaria without em.

Just hope I don’t have to do it all over again.

GJ’s not feeling so hot as we arrive at the train station, it’s only Dad and I who marvel at the sea of people crouched on the opposite platform, anguished expressions on most of their faces. Every single one of them found a space on the train which pulled up looking pretty full already.

 

And when OUR train pulls up, we find ourselves rushing down the platform in search of our carriage, figuring it would be easier than struggling down the carriages, filled as they always are with miscellaneous luggage and children to negotiate. GJ scared me with a moment of uncontrolled staggering, where, unable to grab him, I thought he’d topple from the platform. So whilst Dad rushes ahead to locate our car, I hang back with GJ, moving as quickly as his health allows.

 

A porter, in his bright red arm-banded shirt and turban, gestures wildly towards the train.

 

“Dad.” “Mike” We yell, pointing madly in the hopes he’ll understand, “get on the train, get ON the TRAIN.”

 

So busy are we trying to catch Dad’s attention that the train’s in motion before we ourselves heave our stuff up to the rather high doorway. For a horrible second I thought we were leaving GJ on the platform.

 

There were far more westerners on the train than I had expected, and all around us there was excited talk of tracking tigers. Seems we’re all for the same stop.

— 

Tigers: Ranthambore is awesome. Once you pass the flock of wild souvenir touts at the gate, you enter a striking natural environment, strange in its contrast to the outside world.

 

There’s something terrifically exciting and memorable about sitting in the back of a jeep, with your Dad and Grandad – 2 of the coolest travel companions on this earth – hunting for tigers; it’s every kid’s dream. Or maybe that’s just me :-S

 

The park’s wildlife, though unquestionably wild, is mostly unperturbed by the strange green metal beasts which share their space, and we found ourselves face to face with everything from bucking deer and wild boars, to a baby crocodile. And we DID see our tiger, a matter of metres from us, so close that as he cooled off in the stream, you could see every droplet of water trickling down his whiskers and forming fur-icles along his belly, so close that as he tore his meal to shreds you could see his claws unsheathe. We tailed him for almost an hour. He was huge, he was impressive. He was beautiful.

 

If you’re ever tracking large stripey cats, by the way, they, apparently make a loud ‘meeeeeow-womp’ noise. None of us were convinced by the guide’s attempt at tiger-talk, but you never know. It was amusing, anyway.

 —

Also in Sawai Madhopu: It’s a quiet little place, and besides our feline search and a late night trip to the doctor for GJ, who it seems was hit with pneumonia (scaring both Dad and I with the possibilities) there’s not a lot to tell.

 

Everyone in the town is tiger-mad. Each stranger you meet greets you with a cheery “Hello – have you seen the tigers?”

 

2 street-side restaurants advertised ‘Chinese food’ in bold lettering, but contained nothing remotely Chinese in their menus, which rather disappointed me.

 

And one man was convinced that my father and I were an item;“you 50, she 20, you – strong man!’. We laughed about it all the way back to the hotel.