Pleasure seekers

The four hour train ride from Ratnagiri (see below) to Goa was fun for two reasons: fresh, piping hot samosas, the likes of which I've never eaten, bought to your seat from the adjacent Pantry Car (I've been to enough parties with canapes to know to loiter near the kitchens), costing 12 rupees each. And second, because of Vikram.

He is a navy officer, currently based in Goa, 27, twinkly eyes, a gorgeous smile and - something I hadn't realised I'd been missing here in India - a cracking sense of humour.

He was very curious about us. He asked: 'What is the purpose of your visit to India?' And Angela, who I was still travelling with, muttered something about wanting to see more of the country, learn about its people. He smiled beautifully, and looked utterly dissatisfied with the answer. 'But what is the specific purpose of your visit?' It was then I realised that visiting a country just because you want to is an alien concept to Indian people. Vikram said we were very lucky, being able to leave our jobs/take time out of our jobs for reasons of pleasure. 'Indian people cannot do that,' he said. 'We have too much responsibility.' To their jobs, to their family, where a child, often a son, will be the bread winner for the entire lot.

It reminded me of a news story I'd read in the Times of India the day before. There is currently a bill lodged in Parliament here on whether or not to legalise homosexuality. An outspoken opponent of this, an MP, put his case forward: as well as saying how immoral it was, he said it was another threat to Indian culture from Western society, 'which is just about fun and pleasure'.

Ratnagiri

"Your Highness," says Mr Cox, an English policemen accompanying the Burmese royal family to India where they are living in exile - in Amitav Ghosh's novel, The Glass Palace. "I am glad to be able to inform you that the matter of a permanent residence for you and your family has finally been resolved."

"Oh," said the King. "And where is it to be?"

"A place by the name of Ratnagiri."

"What?" The King stared at him, nonplussed. "Where is this place?"

"Some 120 miles south of Bombay. An excellent place, with fine views of the sea."

The Glass Palace is why I headed up the coast, to a place where no tourists venture. In the novel, King Thebaw, forced to leave Burma for India, lives out his days in Ratnagiri (the accent is on the 'na'). He spends his days gazing out to sea, watching for boats bringing supplies of his beloved pork. Above is his view. There isn't much to see or do in Ratnagiri, but if you want to be the only white person in town - and try to deciper menus written only in Hindi - it's the place to come.

Hampi ghats

Hampi is an extraordinary landscape: piles of enormous boulders for hundreds of miles around, many teetering so precariously it seems like the slightest wind would dislodge them. It was formed by volcanos caused by shifting plates. It feels unlike anywhere else in India, and almost prehistoric. A sleepy river winds through the town. These are the ghats (steps leading down to the river): people bathe in it, sit by it, wash clothes in it and ferry people across it.

Chennai-Mysore sleeper

This is Sleeper Class: three tiers of fold down beds and no AC. Our heads were up in the fans and the strip lights as we had the sought-after top bunks, but actually it felt like I was in the bowels of a ship, cargo class.

Mysore night market

Learn Tamil in 30 Days

My inner graphic designer was instantly attracted to the typography and colour of this little book. But it wasn't until I opened it and started reading that I realised the real beauty of this guide to learning Tamil, the language of Tamil Nadu, lay within. It was written in 1967 when, according to the introduction, Indira Gandhi was Prime Minister and Chennai was still known as Madras. This edition, published this year, is its 35th.

The front contains letters from political grandees and newspaper reviews commenting, in wonderfully dated language, on how useful it is. According to The Mail in Madras: 'The publication of this book, written with the object of helping foreign tourists to Tamilnad who cannot engage a teacher during their short stay, is timely.'

After pages of grammar, spelling and pronounciation is a section of real-life conversations the visiting tourist in the late 60s may have. Here is one:

At Mahabalipuram [Mamallapuram, on the coast near Pondicherry, famous for its giant sculptures]

Foreigner: Yonder. I see an elephant standing! How did it come here?

Guide: It is not a true elephant. It is a monolithic sculpture.

Foreigner: My eyes deceived me. The deftness of the hands of the sculptors is something marvellous.

There is also a sample invitation to attend Christmas. 'My dear Celestine. I have great pleasure in requesting you to go over here for Christmas with your sister Miss Juliet and your brother Tildon. It would be better if you can take leave for at least a week. I am sure you won't disappoint us.'

Hampi priests

These three men were chatting, laughing, debating and apparently enjoying life, outside a tiny temple dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey God. The temple was perched on the highest hill for miles around, a few miles from Hampi. They are Hindu priests, and have foresworn family for religion. We sat with them for a couple of hours, joined by a friendly young software engineer from Bangalore, Sandeep Moonka, who had come up to Hampi for the weekend: he is a temple architecture fanatic. The youngest priest, Swamy Sharnanand, is from Rishikesh, up in the north of India. The priests shared their coconuts, oranges, apples and bananas with us, and we discussed religion, tourism, India, our jobs, their lives. Coconuts were ten a penny, laughed the priest in the foreground, as devotees who climb to the temple bring them as offerings. Well, someone has to eat them....

Goa bliss

In this sleepy little village in south Goa, Agonda, I've found an Internet connection. I shouldn't really be surprised: I'm in a country of, in parts, world-beating IT wizardry. And in a world where you can get a connection and a mobile signal pretty much anywhere. But I'm still surprised. And ever so slightly disappointed....
We - an English friend I've made out here and am travelling with for a while - arrived here yesterday late afternoon. We are very, very happy. It is the sort of beach I didn't believe still existed in Goa: quiet, peaceful, beautiful, and with a handful of charming little beach huts, fairy-lit at night. The beach is at least one kilometre long, with wooded headlands at either end, and I counted a dozen people at its busiest today.
You can hear the sea in bed (it's a small bed - Angela fell out of it in her sleep last night). We walked along the beach last night, clutching torches we didn't need as the moon was so bright, and stumbled on a restaurant with great food, decent music and yet more fairly lights. After quite a busy couple of weeks travelling from Pondicherry to Chennai to Mysore and to Hampi, with a few long-distance bus and train journeys, we are so glad to throw off our bags, long clothes and Lonely Planets and throw on our bikinis..
One more note. World news hasn't escaped these parts, of course (Mum texted me at 5am UK time to tell me the fabulous news about Barack Obama). The following day, Angela spotted Obama's photograph on the front of a Hindi newspaper. The following exchange took place:
A, pointing to paper: 'Great news?! Barack Obama win, are Indians excited?'
Man: He is not Indian.
A: No, but good news, are Indian people happy about it?
Man: He is American, not Indian.
A: Yes, he won the election in America. People must be very happy?
Man: He win election in America, not India.
Continue, ad nauseum......

Holy Cows

The beach at Mamallapurum, Tamil Nadu: strictly for fishing, not sunbathing.

With apologies to Raghubir Singh...

... the great Indian photographer, who filled an entire book with photographs of Ambassador cars: curvy Colonial throwbacks you see all over India. I may start a series of my own...

French Connection

I'm in southern France: my small auberge, on Rue Labourdonnais, has a blue enamel plaque outside saying 'Chambres disponibles pour touristes'; my A-Level French is being dusted off to chat with the owner, Gerard; and fresh baguettes, good red wine and salades de tomates with fabulously garlic vinaigrette dressing aren't hard to find.

A few boulevards back from Rue Labourdonnais, Rue Dumas and the like and Pondicherry is a normal, busy Indian seaside town. But it is still clinging onto its Gallic past more than the rest of India does its Britishness.

The sea is confusing me: I keep forgetting I'm on the other side of the country, facing east across the Bay of Bengal, rather than west onto the Arabian Sea from Kerala. Tonight, strolling along the neat promenade, I was looking forward to sunset until I realised, doh!, it was out of sight on the other side of town. And it's hard to explain, but there's also something a touch more unsettling about facing out to sea away from home...

Today I posted some parcels back home. It took all afternoon and was such fun: carrying my cargo to a small packing office on the street, run by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram which seems to have its fingers all over town. The young packer found two boxes, sealed them up with tape and then wrapped the boxes in cream muslin cloth just as you'd wrap a present. Instead of Sellotape, however, he stitched it beautifully tight with a needle. He watched me write the addresses on, commenting on how neat my handwriting was and how great it was that I was left-handed. Then it was back to the Post Office to fill out customs forms and glue them in a very specific way to the top of the heavier box. Where's the glue, I asked. Outside, she barked, under the tree.