Sunday at Kaya

At the end of our last blog, we indicated that we hoped to return to Seva Mandir’s Residential Learning Camp at Kaya for some extracurricular activities.  Thanks to Vikas, who made the arrangements, and Prem, who accompanied us, and the wonderful staff at the camp (to all of whom, many thanks), we were able to do this last Sunday for singing and cricket!  Sir Neville Cardus would have been proud of us!

As we walked into the Camp we could hear lusty singing.  The children were in their respective classrooms singing cheerily.  When we were last there, it was the first day of this two-month camp and most of the children had just arrived for their first taste of education in this boarding environment far from their remote rural villages, parents, siblings and everything familiar.  I had been amazed and very touched that day to hear so many of the children singing in their classrooms, always led by one child who would sing each line before it was repeated by the others.  These were traditional songs and I wondered how much comfort the children were deriving from repeating these familiar tunes in this strange new environment.  So I certainly knew they could sing before I planned Sunday’s sessions.

On this visit, I spent a few minutes in the office finding laminated sheets to use as props for the songs I planned to teach the children, and then worked out that, with 197 children in the camp, it would perhaps be best to take four groups of roughly 50 – somewhat daunting, but there was no question of leaving anyone out.

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We walked out to the open area in front of the camp buildings to find all 197 children, already in the four groups, sitting on the ground, with attendant teachers and an air of expectancy.  The first group assembled in a circle and I began the session by introducing myself and asking a few of the children their names.  We then started on the first song, ‘Heads and shoulders, knees and toes’, complete with actions.

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Much amusement, particularly as we speeded up,

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bobbing up and down touching knees and toes, and as we pointed to ears and eyes and mouth and nose!

Projecting so I could teach 50 children a song they didn’t know, in the open air, was a challenge for a voice that was seriously out of practice and I wondered how I would be faring by the fourth group.

Each group resolutely stuck to the call and response mode, although I had hoped to get them singing along with me, so we had to adapt this song, and the others, to fit this pattern, repeating each line after I had sung it once.

Next up was the ABC song

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and I distributed A4 sized letters of the alphabet for every other child to hold up (feeling like a heel each time I passed over one child and gave a letter to the next – groups of 26 would be much easier!).

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I was very impressed by the confidence with which they could recite the alphabet in English.  Not many English children could say the Hindi alphabet, that’s for sure!  Indeed I can’t!

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The most popular song by far was ‘Five Little Monkeys’.  Whether it was the humour of the song itself, the fun of pretending to be ‘Mama’ on the phone to the doctor, or the doctor intoning pompously ‘No more jumping on the bed’ – or perhaps the ridiculous spectacle of me pretending to be a young monkey jumping on a bed and then falling off – who knows!  But they loved it, and were quick to supply the number of monkeys remaining on the bed each time one had fallen off and bumped his head!

The last song I had chosen, ‘If you’re happy and you know it’ was the least successful, despite actions like clapping hands, stamping feet and turning around.  Note to self: must find a few more songs that work better in the call and response mode.  The clapping/stamping/turning bar in this song threw the rhythm as the children repeated each line as soon as I had finished the three bars of words.  Still, it bothered me but not them!

I was exhausted after the first group – only another 150 children to go!  Will I have any voice at all for the last 50?

As I glanced round the children in a circle round me there were some who were painfully shy, some a little puzzled, some on a little cloud of their own, most eager to engage.  Without exception they were well behaved, friendly, welcoming, smiling.  And they sang their hearts out, even though they clearly didn’t understand every word they were singing.  They could certainly teach a few English choirs a thing or two about singing lustily and projecting!!

They unanimously clapped at the end of each session and chanted ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’.  I reflected, not for the first time, how different these children are from some one meets in the classrooms of middle-class Europe.  Absolutely no ‘attitude’, just a sense that they are here to soak up every drop of learning they can find as it may well be their only chance to have any kind of education.

I’m sure I learned far more than they did – and now I must work on a better selection of simple action songs and voice projection!

As Felicia moved on to the second group, John, with the help of some very keen members of staff, divided the first group into two cricket teams!  The stumps were set up and the captains tossed.  It soon became apparent, however, that some lusty bows risked disrupting Felicia’s second singing group, so the cricketers moved down to a larger area where there was a volleyball net which was soon taken down to accommodate the match.  Peace and safety for the singers!

On the newly established cricket pitch, the game was soon underway.  With 25 or so a side, it was a little challenging keeping track of the batting order and ensuring that all the children got into the game, but whilst some were keen to bat and bowl, others were happy to field or just observe.

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Whilst a number had clearly played before and displayed good technique,

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some of the bowling actions were slightly suspect albeit that accuracy was good, particularly one girl who had clearly honed the art by throwing stones – which she threatened to do with some vigour when, as the afternoon wore on, attention spans waned and one of the boys ‘stole’ the ball from her as she was preparing to bowl another over.  Much placating ensued and the match resumed.

With such good bowling, the most frequent call was ‘well bowled’ which the children echoed with great voice (the singing session had obviously been of lasting value); but there were a number of ‘good shots’ not least when some of the older boys and particularly the staff connected with a ‘length ball’ and dispatched it over the wall into the trees and long grass.  We had bought two bats and three practice balls which was just as well since, although there was a set of stumps and a couple of bats at the Camp, there were no balls.  It was easy to see why!  Nevertheless, on this occasion, with 25 fielders aside, a host of boys would leap over the wall to search for the ball, whereupon, John cried out ‘lost ball’, also voluminously repeated by batters and fielders alike, followed by ‘new ball’ when, pending the return of the search party, one of the spares was produced.

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The batsmen were not offered the opportunity to inspect the new ball in accordance with ICC regulations, but this did not appear to be an impediment to the next lusty blow and ‘lost ball’.

On a few occasions, when a batter was bowled when not ready or some other injustice had occurred, the diplomatic call was ‘no-ball’, the left arm held out horizontally and reprieve granted.  Little did I realise how important the call of ‘no-ball’ would be for the outcome of another match, of which more later.

When the second group left Felicia and presented themselves on the cricket ground, the staff judiciously proposed a girls v girls match.  The skills were excellent and the contest keen.

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Staff and pupils participated.

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In the later sessions, breakaway leagues were established in true Kerry Packer fashion

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and the ground soon resembled the Maidan in Mumbai, the home of India’s greatest, where multiple matches are played.  May be there was a young Sachin here too.

I was asked to bat and took guard as if at Brook, before doing a little gardening to the pitch, much to the amusement of these more rustic cricketers.  The first ball was glided to fine leg in the style of the great Ranjitsinhji and a comfortable single taken, whereupon my batting partner showed great disdain for singles and either swished and missed or swished and connected to send the search party back into frenzied activity.

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In any event, at the declaration, I was one not out having faced one ball.  That makes two undefeated innings in India, the other being at Samode a few years ago where I had to ask the camel behind the bowler’s arm to lie down and the locals, having seen my forward defensive, compared me to Dravid – is there any greater compliment?

My bowling (15th change) was a tad less successful – more work for the search party and little boys, unprompted for once, shouting ‘lost ball’, ‘new ball’.

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With the final match drawing to a close, it was time to head back up for some tea, here spicy chai which hit the spot.  After chatting with the staff, we took our leave, waving furiously to the children.

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That evening, we resumed our watching of the Bollywood film (with much singing and dancing along the way), Lagaan, the splendid story of a cricket match played in the time of the British Raj between the garrison side, led by its cold-hearted and mean captain, and a team of local farmers and villagers coached, initially covertly, by the lovely sister of the mean captain. The match is a challenge thrown down by the head of the garrison who has capriciously doubled the annual tax, Lagaan, to be paid by the locals notwithstanding that there has been no monsoon rain for two years and the fields are parched.  The challenge is to defeat the army side in a cricket match in which case the tax will be cancelled for the whole area for three years; defeat, on the other hand will lead to a ruinous trebling of the tax.  Much to the horror and consternation of the locals, the hero and skipper of the local team, Bhuvan, a courageous and honest young man adored by the prettiest girl in the village (and later by the lovely sister, who sees the potential injustice of a one-sided match and offers her advice to the home team), accepts the challenge and three months of training and preparation ensue.

Unlikely volunteers step forward to join the team.  An untouchable with a withered arm, for example, proves to be a Chandrasekhar, and spins the ball viciously, taking valuable wickets.  However, nothwithstanding his crafty bowling, the British amass 325 runs and the innings of the local team, after an encouraging start, collapses.  Enter the last batsman to join Bhuvan with many runs still needed.  It comes down to the last ball with 4 runs to win and Bhuvan, who now has a century, at the non-striker’s end.  His determined and loyal batting partner realises that the fate of the entire area is on his shoulders as he swings at the ball only for it to be fielded inside the boundary as the batsmen cross for a mere single.  Despair! But, as Bhuvan, head drooping, squats down at the striker’s end and the army side celebrate, the camera pans to the umpire standing, arm outstretched: “no-ball”.  Reprieve!  One last ball and Bhuvan on strike.  The mean captain exhorts his opening bowler to do the business.  He steams in, delivers and Bhavan swings, connects and the ball sails high towards the boundary.  The mean captain tracks back, eyes fixed on the ball and, spurred on by his team, catches it – but, yes, you guessed, he has stepped over boundary!  The locals have won. Bhuvan is embraced by his adoring girl, lifted high by the community and declared a true hero.  The garrison is shut down, the mean captain posted to deepest, darkest Africa and the lovely sister, having embraced Bhuvan’s adoring now wife-to-be, climbs back into her carriage, heartbroken, to start the journey back to England where she never marries.  Oh, and the heavens open as the monsoon blows in to irrigate the arid fields.

How important was that “no-ball”!

For those of you who have lasted the distance: Sir Neville Cardus was the renowned cricket correspondent of the Manchester Guardian and also its chief music critic whose writings on cricket have been published in book form, for example Cardus on Cricket and A Fourth Innings with Cardus – no cricket library should be without them; Ranjitsinhji, the Maharaja Jam Sahib of Nawanagar, was one of the great pre-first world war batsmen who played for England; and Chandrasekhar, a cricketer who overcame polio and turned his disability to great advantage to become one of India’s most successful bowlers.  Kerry Packer was an Australian.  Ah yes, the second Ashes Test starts today!

Visiting Girwa

Sharing the beauty of southern Rajasthan intensifies the pleasure.  We were particularly privileged to be able to undertake a field trip to Girwa with Somerset and Emily on their recent visit.  Girwa is a beautiful rural area south of Udaipur in which Seva Mandir works closely with local communities on a number of vital projects including watershed, seed banks, pre-school day centres for small children and bridge schools for older children for whom there is no local government school.  Setting off bright and early, we were accompanied by two colleagues from Seva Mandir, Aarti and Chandra, and joined along the way by locally based members of the team.

Having turned off the main road, we were soon climbing up to about 400 meters and surveying the hills and valleys.

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Evidence of the watershed projects was all around and the benefits in terms of improved agriculture clear to see.

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We met local people who were proud of their countryside and welcoming.

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After a few stops to examine watershed projects which stop the rain water running off the hillsides causing soil erosion, and channel it for use by the farmers, our hosts explained apologetically that, in order to visit a pre-school day centre, Balwadi, and school, Shiksha Kendra, we would have to walk for a few kilometres.  But we were delighted.  The air was fresh and the sun warm but not scorching.

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Whilst Em had been to India before, this was Somerset’s first trip.  Seeing a camel asleep outside the Balwadi emphasised the distance from the City.  Inside the small hut, the children were seated on the ground singing.  They were bemused to see a group of strange looking guests

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and one burst into uncontrollable tears.  It was explained that the little girl was concerned that we might take her away.  There was a doubtless a story here but we did not probe.  The young teacher consoled the little one and calm returned.

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The Balwadis provide pre-school support for children up to the age of five.  They learn basic skills to prepare them for school and receive nutritional meals and immunization. With the small children cared for in the Balwadi, mothers are free to work, typically in the fields, and elder siblings are themselves able to attend school.

Outside, two women sat in their front yard where chillis dried in the sunshine.

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We thanked our gracious hosts and moved on around the hillside

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to find the Shiksha Kendra where the children, all together in one room, were reciting verse.  We were invited inside.  One of the senior girls was asked to recite a poem and did so with confidence.

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The pupils then played a game.  One of them was chosen to be the detective and went outside while the class picked one of the remaining youngsters to be ‘it’.  The detective then returned and was allowed two guesses to find the right classmate.  This was done by the detective walking around the class which was seated in a circle on the ground

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with the person who was ‘it’ leading some rhythmical finger clicking.  The detective had to observe carefully to try to work out who was leading the game.  No questions permitted.  After an initial unsuccessful attempt, the detective correctly identified the senior girl who had recited the poem.  How he knew we will never know, save that we suspected that the class might have selected her more often than not.  We said our goodbyes and took our leave to head back to the vehicle past homes

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and fields

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Time was running short and we did not visit the seed bank on this occasion but pressed on to Seva Mandir’s residential learning camp on the route back to Udaipur.  The residential leaning camp is one of our favourite places.  Built in the countryside, it is home to a hundred or so children from different rural communities who would otherwise receive no education, either because there is no functioning government school in their locality or because their impoverished parents send them to work in the fields, typically over the state border in Gujarat for the cotton harvests.  The residential camps are therefore held outside the harvest periods and last eight weeks.  The children may attend three camps in a year and are taught basic literacy and numeracy skills to equip them for formal education if the opportunity arises.

We arrived on the first day of this particular camp.  Most of the children had arrived but some were still expected.  The day was devoted to noting their details and measuring them for the two sets of clothing which are provided by Seva Mandir.  While they waited, the new pupils were encouraged to demonstrate their existing skill levels by drawing, which they did with great care and attention.

For many of the children, this was their first trip away from home.  Nevertheless, the smiles abounded at the prospect of learning.

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We hope to return on a Sunday to help out with extra-curricular activities including some basic language work in English and sports.

We took our leave as the children went for a well-earned lunch cooked on the premises and headed back to Udaipur.

A wonderful morning!

Back in Udaipur

As we left Robin and Mary’s on that first evening to head to dinner, Robin had explained that the throng outside were mourners.  A neighbour in the small alley leading to their door had died and the nine days of mourning were almost over.  As we picked our way past the separate groups of women and men, the women seated mainly on thin green matting on the ground while some of the men were on chairs, we pressed the palms of our hands together, fingers pointing skyward in front of our chests, and exchanged ‘Namaste’, good day, with individuals.  There was a small temple a little way down the alley on the left which appeared to be a focal point for the mourners. Its doors were open to reveal a shrine reverberating in yellows and gold contrasting with the faded colours of the doors and walls of the alley outside.  Many of the mourners were still there when we returned from dinner.  By the next day, the numbers had dwindled and nine days of mourning were over.

To find the main street between Jagdish Temple, one of the city’s landmarks and an important place of Hindu worship, and the City Palace, which presides over both lake Pichola to the south

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and the old city to the north, and the small band of tuktuk drivers based there, we climbed up steep steps and then made our way along a narrow alley parallel to the one on which Robin and Mary’s house is located, past the local dogs which have their own communities and take little notice of passers-by.

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Here, there were a few small businesses, one exporting Rajasthani craftwork, its industrious owner dressed in western style, with white shirt and dark trousers, filling the doorway on ubiquitous cellphone.  Two doors along was the local dairy complete with milking cows which spend their days wandering along these tiny streets and are brought into a small courtyard at night.

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When, if ever, they last saw anything resembling a green field, one can only speculate.  You see many cows living in the urban areas often ‘grazing’ on the plastic bags which are collected and dumped at specific points along the roads.  Local women buy some greenery in the morning from the roadside vegetable vendors and throw it down for the cows, but this offering is quickly devoured and the search amongst the plastic soon resumed.

On reaching the tuktuk drivers, there is a brief negotiation which results in a 60-Rupee (roughly 60 pence or 1 USD) put-your-hands-in-front-of-your-eyes-and-hope-for-the-best dash across town.  Udaipur was the location for the James Bond film Octopussy, still screened non-stop in local hotels and guesthouses.  Early on in the action, there is a famous tuktuk chase through the market streets of the old city with stalls overturned, bunting ripped down and trailed in the tuktuk’s wake and pedestrians scattered.  It is, however, a pale reflection of the real thing!  The tuktuk has one wheel at the front steered by handlebars on which the driver also operates the throttle and, very occasionally, the brakes; it is extraordinarily manoeuverable but, if you have not experienced this particular pleasure, you do not have this reassurance. Our previous close encounter with a tuktuk was in Pune earlier in the year and had resulted in what is known in aviation terminology as a ‘near miss’!  This time, we arrive in one piece, if slightly older than by the five minutes which the dash lasted.

The next few days were spent setting up the house.  (We are posting a separate account with more detail of these activities – see the first in our ‘Between the Lines’ posts.)

It is a very long time since we have equipped a dwelling from scratch.  Initially somewhat anxious about the availability of various key items, from fridges to loo brushes, we were soon visiting small retailers in Bapu Bazar as well as newer shopping malls with Indian supermarkets, like ‘Easyday’, which sell almost everything.  However, we had been advised by Mary not to buy fruit and veg in the supermarkets because the produce is not as fresh as that of the vendors. India has recently opened its doors also to international multiple retailers, like Walmart and Tesco, leaving it to the individual states, of which Rajasthan is one, to decide whether to accept them and, if so, how to regulate them.  The long debate leading to this decision highlighted the vulnerability of the smaller businesses, not to mention the street vendors and particularly those selling fruit and vegetables.  However, over 40%, if not more, of all agricultural produce in India is discarded as waste for the lack of refrigerated distribution and storage.  In a country in which malnutrition is still a huge problem, there are obvious potential benefits in the logistics systems of the experienced multiples.  How this revolution will play out and with what consequences for many aspects of traditional life in India, only time will tell – for now, we are grateful the service of the small retailers: ‘When can you deliver?’ ‘This afternoon!’

A number of you have asked about hurricane Phailin which hit the eastern coast of India, mainly the state of Orissa.  We were invited to dinner by our next door neighbour and were able to ask about developments and also catch some reports on one of the news channels.  Following a devastating hurricane in 1999 which killed 14,000 people in the same region, the state and national governments adopted a number of emergency measures in the hope of preventing a similar tragedy.  These included establishing a disaster recovery service and emergency shelters to accommodate those evacuated from their homes as a precautionary measure.  It appears that, in the case of Phailin, the forecasters were able to give five days’ warning, which enabled the authorities to evacuate 700,000 people, a truly staggering figure.

As of the last report we heard, there were only four reported deaths attributed to the hurricane.  The prevention efforts were aided by a decrease in the intensity of the hurricane and its relatively short duration.

Further inland, in the state of Bihar, heavy rain and strong winds caused some flooding and led to the cancellation of all flights.  One dinner guest reported that her mother’s plant pots had been blown over, but otherwise limited damage!

There is a political angle to all this.  Next year is election year in India.  Whilst the national parties, Congress and BJP, are well represented in many states, there are local parties which have regional strongholds.  Some of these can and do hold the balance of power in a country in which no single party is likely to secure sufficient votes to form a government on its own.  Coalition government is the norm here.  Accordingly, state governments and the parties which form them are anxious to do well not only to retain or secure power at the state level but also to have the possibility to influence the formation of the national government.  As the plaudits pour in for the preventative actions taken in Orissa and also Andhra Pradesh, these state governments are basking in the glory of a job well done – at least according to the reports we have seen.

Here, in Rajasthan, on the north west side of India (please see the map below), we experienced some torrential downpours last week, but understand that this was the end of the monsoon rains.  The monsoon started earlier and finished (if it is finished) later this year than usual.  It will be interesting to see the effects in the rural areas of semi-arid southern Rajasthan which we will start to visit again shortly with Seva Mandir, the Indian NGO which we will be supporting while we are here.

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We thought it might be helpful to have two categories for our posts.  Those in this series are called ‘India At Large’ and those which provide more detail of specific activities and experiences for those thirsty for more ‘Between The Lines’.

Return to the Aravalli Hills

After three days in Delhi catching up with friends and contacts and attending to various administrative matters (most importantly securing Indian SIM cards for mobiles and a dongle for the laptops to connect to the internet), we started the journey south to Udaipur on Sunday.  It would be a long drive over a day-and-a-half, weaving between the once brightly painted Tata and Ashok Leyland lorries with “Blow Horn” and “Use Dipper at Night” on their tailgates.  You need a good driver in India.  The unexpected is the norm as we see a large bus heading north towards us on the semi-hard shoulder of the south-bound carriageway, followed by a tractor and trailer – not to mention the cows sleeping in the outside lane.  Maybe dodging and weaving describes the drive more accurately.

Leaving South Delhi and the well laid-out Paths of the diplomatic area, you soon see the high-rise buildings of Gurgaon, the new city suburb which is home to many international businesses and ex-pats.  We had spent the previous evening there with our friends Adrian and Helen, eating outside at a restaurant in their new apartment complex, complete with pool and gym.  The first part of the journey takes you over flat terrain with buildings of various descriptions lining the dual carriageway: shops, industrial areas, part-finished apartment blocks and vehicle repair workshops with worried looking drivers sitting on their haunches, elbows on knees and appearing to clutch their heads as mechanics lie on their backs under the vehicles searching for the problem.   The route is also peppered with lorries whose axles have broken, often tipping them into the roadside ditch from which a crane, which may have to come several hundred kilometers according to the signs at the toll booths, will be required to lift them. Eventually, there are fields which are green and fertile after the rains.

After six or so hours and a short stop for delicious, freshly cooked veg pakoras, there is a surge of excitement as the Aravalli hills become visible first to the right and then to the left.  The Aravalli hills, the oldest fold mountains in India, run northeast for about 800 km across the states of Gujarat and Rajasthan and then, as isolated hills and ridges, the states of Haryana and Delhi. The Aravalli hills surround us in all their glory at the house and are reassuringly welcoming, reminiscent of a camel train crossing the semi-arid landscape which is southern Rajasthan and our base for the next while.

At around 5 o’clock, we draw into a small heritage hotel for the night. Once the hunting lodge of the local royal family, it was converted to a hotel four years ago.  We are the only guests and are given the choice of his highness’ and her highness’ bedrooms on the first floor, reached by typically steep and turning stairs designed as a last line of defence, with sitting rooms, bathrooms and a veranda overlooking a small but tidy garden.  The correct and very polite senior man tells us that they have to water it as the rains have been poor and the water table is very far below the surface.  But the former lodge is surrounded by fields with lime, mango and guava trees and a variety of crops.  Having established that we had no plans for the rest of the afternoon, the senior man offers us a bullock cart ride to the local village to see the milking and visit local families.  We readily accept and arrange to start at half-past five.  We had chosen his highness’ rooms because they were, predictably, a little more spacious.  The plumbing seemed innovative as hot water responded to a pull on the handle and steam rose from the depths: a whole new slant on a hot flush.  We should have realized that this was not in fact standard procedure but hurried off to meet the bullock cart.

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The lodge is about a kilometer from the road and passes between fields planted with guar gum and dotted with neem and acacia trees.

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The village is a short distance on the other side of the road and we are soon greeted by lively women who invite us into their front yard where the cows, calves and buffaloes have been brought for the night.  We are too late for the milking but, camera in hand, John soon has the women and children, some very keen to have their photos taken but one little one appalled by the prospect, forming groups while exhorting them to smile.  Portrait photography is a challenge here: the subjects laugh and smile, flashing their beautiful white teeth, until the photographer raises the camera to his eye, at which point a studied seriousness descends on the faces.  We have seen this many times before.  Playing peek-a-boo from behind the camera and making funny faces usually does the trick but you have to be quick!  As soon as they see the camera approaching the eye, portrait mode is resumed.  The session is interrupted when one of the calves head-buts John firmly in the right buttock.  Now, that brings more smiles and hilarity to the proceedings: quick, aim and shoot while everyone is distracted!

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We move on to two other houses to witness evening activities: drawing water from the well and cooking supper.

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We meet, and exchange greetings with, a woman and then two young girls making chapattis.

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We are offered a taste by the girls.   Very good indeed!  Felicia says that we enjoy eating chapattis with chutney and vegetables.  They think we are asking them to offer us chutney and vegetables too.  Our bullock cart driver resolves the misunderstanding to their obvious relief.

It is getting dark and we head back for dinner set up outside by the new pool which is lit.  As we reach the reception room, the senior man anxiously explains that they have moved us to her highness’ rooms as there has been a flood in our bathroom.  Well, this was not an understatement: the steam was clearly the precursor of an exploding pipe and the formation of a small lake in the bathroom and adjoining room where we had left the luggage.  Fortunately, all the bags were dry except the one with John’s new laptop and various papers.  Why Felicia found the sight of John drying the equipment and spreading the papers while muttering in what sounded like rudimentary Hindi under his breath so amusing, one will never know.  Dinner was excellent and a well-earned G&T and glass of Sula sauvignon blanc prepared the way for a sound night’s sleep.

We were up at dawn and headed out with the bullock cart driver, this time on foot to walk through the fields.  There was early morning activity with women working watched by their children.  The out-buildings of the lodge were now storerooms for crops. We saw sesame plants drying so that the seeds would fall out with a gentle shake.  The bullock cart driver explained that they stored the crops until market prices were good.  Good old supply and demand.

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On checking out after breakfast the senior man announced that they had discussed the matter and decided that there should be no charge for dinner or drinks to compensate us for the “unnatural attack by water”.  They were very keen that we should be content with our stay which, we assured them, we were.  It was nevertheless clear that a decision had been taken, so we graciously accepted and said we would tell others and return ourselves.  (For those visiting the area, this is a true find: Bijay Niwas at Bijaynagar).

After another four hours on the road, guided all the way by the Aravalli hills, we arrived in Udaipur and went straight to the house where we met Manju, the caretaker’s wife, and two lovely children, Anita and Yuraj, three and one: Anita’s big brown eyes and blown kisses will break hearts; Yuraj is still not too sure about us, particularly John pretending to tickle him – plus ça change.  Manju was dressed in typically colourful, traditional Rajasthani attire with long head scarf with which she would gracefully cover her head to frame a beaming smile.  As yet, neither Manju nor Jagdish, her husband, whom we met the following day, speak any English and we speak no Hindi, but communication is about more than words (albeit that they do help).  Having dropped off some luggage, we headed to a small bed & breakfast in old Udaipur, reached on foot for the last few hundred yards up and down winding alleys, where we were greeted by Robin and Mary Thomas, whom we had met on our last trip.  Despite their names, Robin and Mary are Indians who were brought up in an area of northeast India formerly settled by Christian missionaries.  We would stay three nights there while we kitted out the house with essentials.  Dinner at the roof restaurant of the Jagat Niwas Palace hotel overlooking Lake Pichola, which is as full as we have ever seen it, blissfully rounded off the day.  We had arrived!  For several years a developing dream, and a year (almost to the day) in the planning.  Amazing!