The Writer is Out There.

Christmas eve was charged with energy. There was a bust-up over balloons, which the kids all wanted, and then Niranjan tried to lock everyone in the building. But when the three volunteers snuck downstairs to stack presents for the kids, add finishing tweaks to the tree, and make use of the tv for the end of the latest Bollywood movie, all was right in the world.

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25th Dec.

The plan for the day goes as follows:

9.30am Christmas brunch, kids, staff, volunteers, in the lobby.

Present giving.

Games.

Christmas lunch.

2pm: transport to Mercy Home, to give out Christmas sweets and give them something to smile about.

Drop-off at hotel in town, where the 3 volunteers shall revel in luxuries: new foods, alcohol aplenty, tv, the chance to wander freely, tv, and a bathtub!

Simple, right?

Ha!

7am. Cate and I embark on a very surreal pre-breakfast Christmas occupation. It involved a tube of veet .

And we’re back upstairs, starved enough for nutella on toast and mugs of hot chocolate, as Pravar slopes in, practicing the ‘HoHoHo’-ing we challenged him with during the Great Christmas Eve Wrap-up.

All goes to plan, and I couldn’t be happier as I see Beebo and Lali cuddled up with carers, investigating wrappings.

All goes to plan, that is, until Manoj has a drop seizure and causes himself major damage to his cheek and upper gum. We’re asked to drop him off at the hospital for a consultation on our way to M/H. No problem. Except that, still having seizures, in pain, and scared, they want the kid to go in alone.

Megan’s sloshed, and entertains us with bangle throwing and raucous singing en route;I think it disturbed Manoj a little.

I’m not sure why Sanjay is surprised when I put our plans (mine, anyway) on hold, and offer to stay with him. So, the others head off to Mercy for a singalong.

It reminds me of home, of endless trips to Jimmy’s with clients, and of being on call the previous Christmas day. Some stuff never changes.

The hospital staff are crap as ever. They want to stitch up the outside part of his wounds with that old-fashioned wire thread stuff, and a dodgy looking needle.There’s no mention of painkillers, no explanation for Manoj, until I push hard for it (which gets easier with Hindi phrases, but I couldn’t have done it without Narayanan). They don’t want to do anything for the inner wounds, despite it still bleeding hours after he fell. They don’t want him to see the dentist to check that his teeth will be ok, but eventually see sense.  The dentist might be in, in a few hours.

By the time us lowly volunteers get to the hotel, it’s dark, and Megan’s fallen asleep (or passed out, never determined which) in the back of the vikram. We get her inside, but she sleeps through the evening.

Cate and I indulge in vodka-orange’s in the restaurant, along with a huge selection of foods. And then we head out into the streets.

There’s so much life on the streets of Gwalior in the evenings. And contrary to what we were led to believe would happen, neither of us were groped, raped, stabbed, or anything worse than being wished a merry Christmas in a dodgy English accent. We vow to get out here again, maybe even to get on a bus and see where it takes us.

I make use of the city’s power to call R, and not only do I get to hear her voice, but I’m passed around the family, too, which was exactly what the Christmas Elves had ordered, even if it did make me miss folk.

And we head back to the room for more vodka, with a strange-tasting juice drink, and tv.

And as for the bathtub, there may have been no plug, but there were bubbles.