—

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.

As Christmas drew nearer, my heart shrank in on itself. The Civil Surgeon and the Commissioner were ‘out of town’ and ‘unavailable’. Stalking had little effect. And though the complaint we placed about the Civil Surgeon rang true the Commissioner’s Board’s ears (one very, very odd experience, walking unprepared into an interview with 15 suited men, to pitch our concerns for the kids/ lodge our complaint) they did not act upon it. We had Narayanan and RK accompany us to talk to the Civil Surgeon. We made an official apology for our complaint (not my idea. Still, desperation’s kicking in. When you see evidence of sexual and physical abuse, when people LAUGH at it, you’ll do anything). We withdrew the request to shift Shubahn and Adesh (again, not my idea, but as adult males they were a lot safer than the others) because the evil, evil woman was continuing to refuse, because MH uses the pair as extra (ie. all of the) labour.

I was absent from Mercy Home for a couple of weeks during The Curse Of The Vampyrs’ attack, and then on my first return. Maggie left, the others were traveling, so nobody went. By the time new arrival Cate and I finally get to MH, The Girl Without A Name has bitten through to the bone on her own finger, to cope with the trauma of everything she’s been subjected to.

Still, they do nothing. Why should they. 4 nameless kids, out of sight on the outskirts of town, who have a bed (if they’re lucky, and then they’re rat-infested, shit-coated beds) and food (I guess that’s what you’d call it. God help you if you cannot feed yourself, or get to the courtyard at mealtimes); who cares!

And Christmas draws closer. It’s surprising how much decoration goes on in Gwalior, where Christian input is so small. The M.Theresa’s thing detailed in another post, coupled with a few of our staff getting rather excited at their ‘first real Christmas’ mean we can’t ignore it.

I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Christmas traditions won’t be happening out here. Of course I’ll miss it, but that’s okay. Cate and I are getting the kids to make decorations, despite protests from certain people who don’t see the point. Actually, sneaking the kids into the classroom 2 at a time, all top-secret-mission stylie, is kind of fun. And we have a tree! Not a fir tree, but a tree, with bright streamers and shiny stars  and baubles. And I might’ve lost the battle to get the kids building a mud-man, but they decorated the tree, and we made more mess with the paint and glitter than we ever could with dirt!

I’ve come to terms with the lack of Christmas food. Doesn’t matter.  Not having Christmas Eve stories; I can replay them in my head. Family; we’ll talk on the phone. Presents; actually don’t care. But I can’t no matter what I do, reconcile the idea that after months of argument – after hard evidence that All is Not Right – Lali (she has a name, on official papers, the staff simply never bothered to learn it) and the others will be at Mercy Home. I’ve hoped, I’ve prayed to every possible God there is, I’ve screamed, and cried, and had a crazy moment when I couldn’t stop laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. I even reached back into the realms of childhood after a few too many drinks, and burned over a candle, my letter to Santa, with one, single request: Let us get them out before Christmas.

The most regularly played song on the volunteer floor, is Olivia Olson’s All I Want For Christmas.

But time goes by, their chances and my Christmas spirit are dwindling.

Until, on the 22nd, as I return yet another blue-handed child to class, Megan walks into the building, returned for Christmas. And then, miraculously, we get the call. If we put off our Mercy Home trip today, we can pick up the kids tomorrow, they’re being signed over as we speak.

Saturday holds the stressful shifting, including traumatic shaving after 3 hours of nit-picking has little effect. Megan and I, with terrified bodies pushed against us, cry all the way home.

That night, the four of them are snuggled under blankets, clean blankets. They’ve had their fill of food which isn’t going to kill them. Lali has a bear beside her on the pillow. And nobody will touch them in that way again.

—

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.

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.

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.

And I was rather afraid that Baratpur might be a colossal re-enactment of all this. The early morning excitement (rather marred by an adult need for caffeine), the trudging through undergrowth, and sitting statuesque until the light rose and fell.

Still, there’s something about a twitcher-wannabe’s enthusiasm that’s infectious, and I WAS looking forward to it.

—

— 

I was a little put off by the guide, to be honest; nothing personal, I just prefer independent exploration. Still, he knew his shit.

The Very Friendly Antelope – a tourist trap one suspects – met and nuzzled at us not far down the path.

Forestry workers wrapped themselves in blankets, huddles beside mini wood-fires, as we, hardened
Yorkshire folk, braved the dawn’s frostiness in search of Creatures Yet Unseen.

The Hoopoe, a thespian bird, kept us as entertained as the random guy at the temple, who ‘has two job – god and animals’. He feeds most of the park. Odd, given the ‘please don’t feed the animals’ signs up everywhere.

If you want a detailed account of what we saw, I’m afraid you will not find one. You’d have to ask Dad.

Other highlights – GJ took off with one of the cycle rickshaws. He was making good headway, until someone placed a tree in his path.

Stuffed Paratas and Mango Pickle for lunch. Yum.  Mango pickle juices stain, by the way. And tiffins aren’t leak-proof.

interesting point – somewhere between Snehalaya and Bharatpur, I made a shocking discovery. My Dad and Bill Oddie are one and the same!! Seriously, the tone of voice, the exaggerated gestures, the laugh, the PHRASES when he sees something interesting, all clones. I don’t know whether this, or the fact that it’s the first time I’ve noticed, disturbs me more. Eeeep.

x

As white breath-trails lighten the black night air, everyone – station guards, food vendors and travellers – waits wrapped in woollen cloaks or rugs, bobble hats and scarves. An occasional western jacket makes a show, but everyone I see in one glances half enviously at their rugged-up counterparts, as though, perhaps, looking trendy just shifted down the list of priorities as they stepped out into the cold. Some huddle together, some vigorously stamp their feet and rub hands together beneath folds of cloth. Some crouch low and try to wrap sandaled feet in blanket ends.

Steam rises with attractive scents of freshly fried hot pastries, coffee/ chai urns, and peanut-roasting carts, making my mouth water.

There’s a fantastical air about night-time travel; something warm and exciting about having someplace to go when you’re out in the cold, passing endless welcoming-lighted windows/ stores, montages clearly put on just for you, and passed by in an instant. It’s the same thing early in the morning, when you rise before the sun, let alone the saner members of the species; up with those who se hardships are more than you could ever guess. You’re half-frozen, and in your semi-conscious state your head pounds from interrupted rest. But it’s worth it for that buzz of purpose. Incidently, the whole of
Agra smells like woodsmoke, or maybe roasting chestnuts. And it’s always stronger in the darker hours.

Food: There was a strange contrast of foods in
Agra. First, let me tell you of the phenomenom that is Kashmiri Biriyani. On your plate sits a vegetable biriyani (a drier breed than your
UK takeaway variety). There are small chunks of potato, baby carrots and peas nestled in the spiced, salted fried rice. On top of this are slices of uncooked tomato and banana, sprinkled liberally with dessicated coconut, their coolness combating as much as rgeir sweetness with the rice. It was very, very odd, but very, very good. And the hot fresh lemon was a beautiful thing.

Then there was the fish curry at the Rainbow Restaurant, about which I was awfully excited. It was a beautifully decked out rooftop place, almost Grecian with their blue tiles and floor cushions/ low tables. And having lived as I have for 2 months in a strictly vegetarian establishment, I was craving something more. Somehow I had visions of a culinary creation akin to those wonderful fish curries of
Malaysia.

Sadly, as is often the case it seems, this upmarket, rather pricy (by Indian standards) place let me down.

My hopes fell as the waiter delivered my dish, with the patronisingly understanding statement “we have made it mild for you madame. It is very mild.”

Shit. The fragile white girl can’t handle your manly Indian curries, is that it?

‘Mild’ was one way to put it. The watery ‘creamy’ sauce had a vaguely, unhealthy fish flavour, but nothing more, at all, and the fish flakes were mushy, locked onto harsh, thich, sharpened bones. Miserable.

Finally, I feel I must mention the coffee which thawed us out after an early morning trip to the Taj. In a tiny back-alley, a hole-in-the-wall café advertises coffee, so we gratefully stop.

“you want it strong, or not strong?” the owner asks.

“Strong.” We chorus in unison.

For 15 minutes, we sit in this 5-sided concrete cube, on garden chairs, as the man stands over a gas ring, built into the counter next to the till. Warm coffee scents bubble over towards us.

When finally our beverages appeared – a welcome sight for my thus-far-deprived caffeine addict self – they were not as we expected. Rather than the gut-wrenching electric jolt of black tar I had imagined, our cups contained a frothy, creamer-coloured liquid. Dubiously, I sniffed at the sugary substance before I sipped it, discovering to my surprise that it tasted like chocolate. A mocha, in the back streets of
India! And as my drink depleted, I found that it still contained the zing I craved; a buzz strong enough to fight away withdrawal for a while.

The tourist bit: So, obviously, we went to
Agra for the Taj, as does everybody else; the very reason I was doubtful about this portion of the itinerary. I’m not a ‘buildings’ person, I would much rather spend my time around people going about their lives as they always do, somehow it seems much more relevant, more real, to me. And despite it’s story, despite everything anyone’s ever said about the place, despite the thousands upon thousands who flock through the gates every year, I was convinced that it was going to be just another building; a place I had to see or I would never hear the end of it, but which I’d trawl through with disinterest.

I was wrong. Yep, that’s what I said. Wrong. Although I doubt that at the end of it all the Taj will be in my top three most memorable things in
India, it was undeniably amazing.

There’s something zany about the ‘logical’ symmetry, something unfathomable about the scale of the design, the hours of work, the fiddly wafer-thin inset designs. And it is, quite simply, beautiful.

There was some confusion over where, exactly, you had to utilise the shoe-covers you’re handed at the gate to allow you to keep on your footwear in the freezing cold. Still, that was easily solved.

Padding across the huge silken floors beside my kin, somehow, in spite of all the other tourists – or perhaps because of them – I felt like an intruder in someone’s private, innermost world.

Perhaps the most surreal thing though, was the moment when I turned around to see something post-box-red flashing through the mist.

“Dad, is that – is that an LED screen?”

Amidst this ancient creation of serenity and pleasing tones, indeed, an unreadable message scrolled across a large black screen. When we investtgated, it turned out to be a display of the air pollution levels as of three days back. Something to do with building preservation, we assume.

As well as the Taj, we took the time to see Agra and the Baby Taj, both fine examples of Moughal architecture and design, and with fewer tourists, both far more pleasant to exploer. I think the baby Taj, though the least impressive, was my favourite of the three. I kinda liked the slight decay of the designs, and the weird networking of rooms; it made it interesting. Whatever, if you’re in
Agra and not too stretched for time, I’d recommend these as addition to the main attraction.

Best Bit: my favourite place in
Agra is an unconventional one. To get from one side of the city to the other, you have to cross the river using an old suspension bridge. And it was crossing this bridge in the lunch time rush that I felt closest to the city behind its touristy façade. It takes 17 minutes to get across (and 90 seconds on the traffic free return several hours later), dodging and weaving through snails-pace traffic. Shabby horses pull brightly painted
tongas with well dressed cheery Indians atop. Oxen with painted horns trudge forwards, towing rough carts of grain or fruit, an emaciated form or two perched amongst the produce. Endless black and yellow tuk-tuks of varied repair trundle along; one or two deafen folks with the latest bollywood hits, fuzzy as they blare from crummy speakers. Three donkeys lope past dolefully, bulging sacks of manure-bricks used as fuel, hanging almost as big as they are, swaying threateningly above their straining muscles. Men and boys in shabby sack-coloured clothes lug bundles underarm whilst sari clad women and girls balance miscellany on their heads and deftly find space to walk amongst the larger beasts One man, with a bristled grey beard, heads back the way we’ve come, resembling a plastic porcupine on rollers, for every inch of his calf-length coat and bicycle frame is strung with primanry-coloured brushes, bristles pointing out as a threat to passers’ by.

As if this weren’t enough, there was the view. Peering over peoples heads and the tops of rickshaws you could see out across the muddied ground and remaining patchy water trickles. To the left, several hundred cattle waded ankle-deep in grey silt, and to the right, row after row of giant meta drums, glistening with water catching the sun, several leasing steam into the air, and each manned by one or two figures who shined with sweat and soapy suds as they beat, whirled and agitated their prey. All this activity was surrounded by a homage of gently flapping coloured cloths, in rainbow patchwork as they dried. The washing ghats. Awesome.