The Writer is Out There.

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.

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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.

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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.