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.