Small House, Big Heart

Well, my second day of my month-long residency at the house of tunes.

Last night I was taken to some Hindi festival in Jaipur where thousands of Indian people sang songs to some rather banging techno tabla. It was quite surreal. The entire crowd kept trying to burst into hip-swinging dance to this bevy of joyous celebratory sound.

Unfortunately, some security guard had been paid to tip-toe his way through the repressed masses to reach excitable kids and delighted adults so he could whack them over the head with a big wooden stick and make them sit down. What a spoil sport.

It was a real shame because clearly (as with Glastonbury et al) the people there just wanted to dance to the very danceable music and actually, you know, have a good time. But, as with so many things in this weird country, they are told NO! YOU MUSTN’T!

More painful for me was the fact that I was the only white person there. Literally. In an entire festival – the only white person there. And unfortunately, given the cavernous pile of rotting dung beetles that chill on my skull, I kinda stuck out a bit.

I went and sat down with Rama and within seconds, a group of about six boys came and sat in front of me, turned my way, arched their stupid grinning heads into my fucking face, and stared.

Now, obviously, by now I am used to being stared at in this country. But usually, I have been in a position to get away from these prying twats. Not here.

"Hello." Jab in my side. "Hello." Jab on my head. "Hello." Jab on my leg. "Hello." Jab on my arm.
FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My god, I was exercising some serious patience dealing with these little bastards. And don’t call me unkind. Yes, maybe some of them are just curious to meet a foreigner – but I challenge anyone not to spit blood given the circumstances. Well, fortunately for all concerned, I didn’t actually spit blood. That would be awful.

Firstly I stared at them. Just stared at them. Really hard. Right in the eyes. And then I would make a gesture suggesting that they watch the music like I wanted to do. They would turn their heads to the stage, wait until I done the same and then look straight back at me.

Now I am finding it difficult to make people not stare at me. And by that I just mean the ones who are less than a foot away from me, basically freaking me out. Conversation can be avoided by saying "no English". But getting kids not to sit next to my clearly unsettled face and bead their fucking eyes at me, is quite a task.

I can shoo them sometimes. But obviously the more I make it clear that it irritates me, the worse it gets.

Hmm. Any ideas anyone?

Anyway. I had a good singing lesson this morning. I seem to be making more progress with this than the sitar (which frankly I can’t quite be bothered to pick up that often) and the tabla which is an instrument that requires super-human patience to learn. I actually stormed out of my tabla lesson just now after about five minutes because I was getting so frustrated with the damn thing. And so far I have only been taught one sodding beat on it – which I can’t even do!

I stayed at their house again last night. Fucking hell, Rimla (the mother) is very kind and affectionate, but by Christ she snores like a suffering horse within twelve seconds of head hitting pillow. I actually used my earplugs for the first time. And in the morning I awoke to the glorious sound of a very loud domestic happening next door. The gist of which was that she was pissed, and, umm, so was he.

My Hindi improves it seems.

So I booked into a hostel today, which is half hour from their house. It is pretty sweet and means that in the evenings (with some effort) I will be able to escape and actually have conversations with people who may be able to speak better English and who I am not constantly worried that I might offend.

The arrangement I have with Tina is that I have paid up front for a month’s tuition which is three hours a day or so – presuming I don’t keep running away just to get some fresh air. The weird thing is that Rama Shankar has taken half of that money. I asked her if she minded. Not at all, she says. That is their understanding.

Basically, he is a bit of a dodgy dealer, and makes money by being an unofficial guide to the city.

This is also what is getting annoying. He keeps telling me that I have to find her more students, and that if I do, I can get a cut of the money (i.e. my money back). I keep trying to explain that no, I wanted lessons so I paid for them. The end. But, you know, if I happen to meet some dude along the way who happens to want to learn music too – then fine, I will introduce them. Rama wants me to go scouring the streets for people and lure them in, which is basically his job. Fuck that. He then wants to set up a music school for Tina. Great, I say, but I'm not interested!

Now I understand all the stuff in the Lonely Planet where it says that with the Indian people you must be patient and persistent.

And in the sense that I had little idea of Indian customs and way of life, they genuinely have no idea about England.

I had a nice awkward conversation with them first thing in the morning.

Me: (rubbing my eyes, and lifting my head off the pillow)
Rimla: So, which religion are you? Christian?
Me: No. Umm. No, I umm. Well. Umm. In my country…

To them I might as well be Donald Trump. It is no fun having to explain that my digital camera is actually quite inexpensive, and yet costs more money than they are likely to see, as a family, in a month. How can this make sense to them?

Tina: You have mice in your country?
Me: Yes.
Tina: In your house also?
Me: Err, no.

So I guess to them I am a privileged boy who has no need to give thanks to God because I have always had it good. Perhaps there is some truth in that. But I guess I believe one can be grateful without having to perform rituals which thank a shadowy concept I happen to think is total gibberish. Fair enough?

Anyway. I discovered that Ravi Shankar, the world famous Indian musician was good friends with Tina’s late father who was also a musician. She showed me photos of him playing the sitar in the very house where I slept in child’s piss last night.

Weird.