YOU MAY EAT THE CHANGE MA'AM

Thirty-eight rupees, I produce a fifty rupee note....'have you got change ma'am ?'  I had never encountered this before, but in this strange inverted world, the customer is asked for change when paying at the check-out.  I shake my head...he looks disconsolate and rings up the item.  The cash machine drawer flies open - in the compartments there are various different denomination notes and the rest of the space is taken up by sweets.  'Here you are ma'am'  he hands me a ten rupee note and two toffees ! 

DINNER

Come at 8.30 sharp !  I accepted the invitation the way you might accept an invitation to walk over hot coals, knowing there would be drama, a sense of occasion, definitely a trial by fire, but ultimately an interesting experience.

The house is more like a fortress - a tall box with massive doors and high walls - it's built to withstand earthquakes and any other natural disaster.  The interior was different to the way I'd seen it before - now it looked gentler in the soft light of lamps, rose red and emerald green cushions on the sofa set the theme and added to the atmosphere  The hostess was not yet down, but some of corps-de-ballet were gathered, dressed in pretty kortas, .  The occasion was New Year for the State of Kerala, known as Vishu.  Each language group in India has its own New Year date and celebration.

Then, there she was coming down the wide stairs, the old lady's daughter - black, kohl rimmed eyes and streaming black hair.  She was dressed entirely in black.  The stage was set, candles were lit.  The old lady entered next, just as I remembered her, thin and timeless.  The doorbell rang at intervals as guests arrived at pre-arranged times - they were greeted with gusto. A girl, with extravagantly protruding ears, was the last to arrive and on this occasion our hostess hugged her and then pulled her around the room in a dance.

Protagonists were arranged in chairs or on sofas, the corps-de-ballet flitted lightly around the room, taking their cue from the hostess as she arranged them in different patterns, they circulated among the guests.  She focused on us one by one, challenging us, testing us, seeing what reactions she could provoke.  Our hostess seemed to hear every conversation in that huge room and participate  in every dialogue, curled up in a chair or sitting cross-legged and sideways on the sofa - pulsating energy

At the end of the evening, guests departed on cue, the old lady drifted away in fluttering tendrils of silk, my rickshaw was ordered and the hostess came out to see me off -  she called to the sleepy driver and gave him my address - from the road I could barely see her, hidden by the immensely high wall and greenery - her final command to him was that he was not to speak to me for the duration of the journey home!   And so we had been woven, intertwined and framed for a few hours...

FLAWS NO FLOORS

She is the floor wallah - Lily - this job is attacked with relish and speed and the cream marble tiles gleam - the secret is 1 tsp of salt and 1tsp of surf washing powder, so she told me, in a bucket of water.  But she is not a dusting wallah and definitely not a bathroom wallah - those jobs are for lower castes.  But I live on the infamous Jetalpur Road, which is constantly being dug up and dust and sand sweep into the apartment every day, so I suggested that I would pay her more if she could do the other jobs.  She reluctantly agreed.   But the dusting is done without interest - a cursory wipe suffices, usually accompanied by a disapproving sniff and the bathroom she will not enter at all, unless I drag her there and say 'Bathroom please', in my sternest voice.   Is this how passive resistance works ?

THE ABSTRACT

It was hot and I lay under the fan, wishing it were wafting cool air around me instead of hot air - the momentary respite that it gave me wasn't enough to cool me down properly and then the phone rang:  ' Please come and read my Abstract  - I need to know what you think.  It's important, it's for a scholarship'   How could I let him down? He didn't own a mobile, so this was a borrowed call.   But it was 7 p.m., I'd have to get a rickshaw and travel through a slum and it was getting dark, but how could I let him down?

Half an hour later I was sitting in the Contemporary Art Society Library under another fan, in the bright strip lighting of the reading room.  Suresh, his large brown eyes burning with intensity and triumph, handed me the precious 'Abstract'.  Rabindranath Tagore, W.B. Yeats and others - the names rolled off his tongue.  He'd read 150 books and spoke passionately about his topic.  There was nothing of him - so thin and so in need of financial assistance. The hair on his shaved head had begun to grow again.  'He never eats', the other students told me, 'he reads instead', spending long hours in the library.

He watched me with passionate conviction, as I read the piece of paper which he shoved at me.  Below the title was the name 'Suresh Blossom'.  I couldn't believe it...where had that unlikely name come from ?   I looked again at his burning eyes, the mangled fingers of his right hand - what had caused that?  And then with great diplomacy, I asked:  'Blossom - is that your name?'  Unabashed, he explained that it was his mother's name and she had converted to Christianity, like many lower caste Hindus.

He'd been noticed by the Director of the Library, simply because he spent most of his waking hours there, - and this enlightened man had invited him to apply for a scholarship offered by the Library, to pay for his University fees. The all important abstract was his mission statement.  He had a month to write his essay.   'How big is this scholarship?' I asked.  'It'll pay for a year's fees...!  So much talent, so much effort.   'Your Abstract is excellent - you deserve that scholarship' - a smile swept over his face.  'Do you think it's good, do you understand what I'm saying?'  'Of course it's good, it's excellent, Suresh Blossom' !

WHAT WOULD YOU EXPECT TO FIND AT THE BOTTOM OF A WELL?

Well...... I didn't expect to find a baby having its hair shaved off !  The Step Wells of dry, arid, Gujarat are very elaborate - not just a run of the mill kind of well, but stepped, sculpted and deep....going there for water seems incidental to the mysterious, hallowed, atmosphere.   This one had a beautiful entrance with sculpted panels bearing elephants.  Shoes were removed before descending countless stairs down  to the murky depths, past little wall shrines and offerings of coconuts and we could see half way down the stairs, numerous pairs of shoes, discarded by others before us for what was obviously a religious ceremony.  Also the smell of acrid smoke from a fire burning down amongst the gathered crowd.  Approaching gingerly, we were greeted by welcoming smiles.  A dozen women were sitting in a close group, their best saris shimmering with decorative, embroidery.  The woman at the head of the group was holding on to a seated child of about 2 years old, while a man, gently holding its head, carefully shaved off the child's hair with a professional razor  - this was a lot easier than a circumcision, but the little boy was still crying.  The snips of hair lay collected in the lap of a little girl - the hair would be offered later in the temple with a prayer for good luck and long life.  Shaving the head signifies 'freedom from the ills of your previous life and celebration of your new life'.
A most auspicious occasion was taking place in the cool, dank, depths of that well.

SUGAR CANE SEASON

They are painted bright blue - the mobile sugar cane press is seen just about everywhere - two wooden screws and a long iron handle - the rod of cane is put through the 'mangle' and the cane juice wallah heaves the long handle of the press round in a 365 degree arc, to extract the juice from the cane - 10 rupees a glass !  But of course in Jetalpur Road there is a press which claims to be the first 'automated sugar press' in Baroda...no screws...no long handle...no sweating as you strain to push it round...

And to add to this tasty pleasure, there is a place where you can buy bananas brought up by truck from Southern India - there are two types of banana, very small ones, and very long ones - the stall is in a strange location - it's on a 'pavement' under a bridge, but stranger still...next door was someone cleaning a .22 rifle !!

The trucks that bring produce from other centres are no ordinary thing either, they are decorated with patterns and pictures and invocations for safety, tinsel to ward off the evil eye, black tassels to ward off bad luck, whole sentences written on the back in conversation with drivers who might be behind, geometric patterns decorate the hub caps, wavy patterns the sides - decorative enamel work on the bumper - it becomes not just a truck for transporting bananas, but a vehicle of splendor, glowing with colour, like a magic carpet....nothing is ordinary here....everything is a kind of miracle.