Dan is with wolves

Ok, this might be a long one, but I think it might be worth it.

As I wandered to the music school with my most recent buddy, an Italian girl of Japanese descent called Maya, an Indian man approached us. To begin with, we spoke to him with the same reluctant distance that most strange Indian men get from tourists. Once we told him where we were going, he insisted on taking us.

We sat in a room at the music school with some terrible guitar and some rather excellent tabla fighting it out through the corridor to our ears.

The owner told me I would have to commit to a month, or it would cost 200 rupees per hour per instrument. I asked if I could have a quick free trial lesson.

I was led to a soft room where a bored dude tried to instruct me in the basics of tabla. As I have barely seen them before, I was obviously quite shite. But the dude was so impatient and looked pissed off that I didn’t already have an intermediary grasp of how to play weird Indian drums.

The stranger who brought me there (Rama Shankar, his name) was actually being of more use and I was warming to him. He is about 45 years old, short and with a trim beard. I asked him if he would teach me instead of this useless gimp and he said sure why not. But not now. Later.

First we had to meet his guru. On arrival at the guru’s house, we saw about six or seven men sitting in a circle on the floor with the guru sitting on the bed. The guru was crazy-ass looking. He wore simple white dress and had long, unwieldy dreadlocks and a long white beard. He also had a cheeky grin.

Apparently one learns from this particular guru by sitting in a circle, preparing hash in a chillum pipe, smoking some and passing it to him. If only all education was that devilishly simple.

One of the dudes in the room was permanently preparing things. Chai, water, rice, dal. He was barely ever off his feet.

So I smoked a bit of hash (it genuinely would have been rude not to) and had a bit of a smile.

Now, once a few of the dudes left, Rama Shankar taught us a quick mediation exercise. We were instructed in the correct sitting position and breathing. In for sixteen, out for sixteen (or something, I dunno).

After this we were taken to Rama’s house which was where I started to fear that the trust I had lent this guy was perhaps in error. Well, he had told me at the music school that he was a musician and could teach me tabla, sitar and singing. When I got to his house, he had no tabla and his sitar had been smashed and was festering in the corner under a large dose of dust. Maya looked a bit uneasy. It was a bit weird.

At this point, we tried to make our excuses and leave but Rama said that he had already arranged for his niece to meet me as she was a musician. Oh alright dude.

So we went to their house. Finally there were some instruments. Tabla and a fully functional sitar were nestling ominously in the corner of the very small room.

I was introduced to Tina, a young musician and her family (of which still, I can only really remember two names Babala and Babala – senior and junior). This tiny house has a kitchen/bathroom (eugh), a living/eating/sleeping/baby pissing on rug room (eek) and another bedroom. Five people live there. Ok, one of them is two months old, but still.

There is Tina, her mother, her brother, sister in law and nephew. Phew.

So, I spoke to Tina about music, and she agreed that for rs200 a day (about 3 quid) she would teach me singing, harmonium, tabla, sitar and a some Hindi. And she wanted me to agree to stay for a month. Ooo-k.

I said I’d think about it.

So as the evening progressed, and I had been shown nothing but attentive hospitality, warmth and smiles from the many people who dropped by, I was starting to get a good feeling about the place. I’m still not quite sure what the deal is with Rama, but he seems to have found status as the man who discovered the white dude who wants to learn!

They then offered to let me stay in their house! Well, as I wanted to get my sexy new guitar from the hotel anyway, I said ok, (fuck it) I’ll get my bags while I’m there.

So I returned to their house, having just moved in, and entertained the entire family and a bunch of neighbours to a couple of Bonnie Prince Billy songs (hey, I know the words). They were also very impressed with my digital camera and my digital dictaphone (so am I, frankly).

I feel like Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves.

You have to love their ability to make someone (a "very handsome" white boy) welcome. You also have to love their total bluntness.

Mother to me: "So (looking at Tina) when you marry?"
Me: "Umm"
Tina: "She wants to know when you will get married."
Me: "Yes I got that bit but I don’t quite know how to explain…"
Mother: "Are you married?"
Me: "No."
Mother: "Is it arranged?"
Me: sigh

Yes, conversation is a little on the strained (and slightly embarrassing) side, but at least it is affectionate rather than merely blindly inquisitive.

So, after a sleep interrupted twice by needing ‘to potty’, I spent an entire morning jamming. We started with an hour’s singing. Tina playing harmonium and showing me the basic Hindi vocal warm up, as well as making me agree not to smoke any more hash. Fine by me. Then an hour’s sitar – an hour of me finding the leg position quite uncomfortable, and finding the instrument remarkably easy to pick up – just like a big out of tune guitar.

Then an hour of me teaching her the guitar. Then a guy who is a music professor at the Jaipur university showed up for an hour of showing off on the tabla, followed by an East/West jam. Which was a lot of fun.

By this point, I was dying to get out of their rather smelly house and have a walk around, but I had to sit and eat lunch, which involves having more and more food put on your plate despite protestations.

After lunch, I got up and said I was going for a walk and found this place for some well-earned blog/Danny time.

Now, obviously this is all a bit overwhelming. I’ve just been taken under the wing of a beautiful family who are more than pleased to have some white dude to teach Hindi to, who will play guitar for them. But already I was feeling quite claustrophobic in the house and was desperate for a proper conversation.

Plus, I hate to say it, but their food stinks. I was told that mother is an excellent cook. But the food is so bland and salty and made me shit my guts out more than my entire first week in India.

I think I will move out tomorrow, pay for accommodation (and maybe food) and just go to their for lessons and chat.

Hour’s up!