Consultations

The work goes on. Shriji is taking a serious interest in the script. He is an astute businessman but he is also a very quick-thinking knowledgable man. I really enjoy our sessions. We meet for two hours every morning and go over each paragraph. It's hard work, but I'm served freshly squeezed orange juice and there's always a joke or two. When he sends up Australianisms, I call him 'mate'. We laugh. The other two men who sit in on the meetings, are mostly silent, with an air of something that can be described as awe, touched with a feint lashing of fear. He is very fair. He accepts my wishes if he sees reason behind them. He tells me "This is not correct" and then tells me why, and together we make changes.

But let me describe the set up. He sits at this enormous desk with his laptop in front of him on a slightly raised plinth. And it's plugged into a docking station with a lot of cords. I sit beside him with my laptop. In front of us - against the wall - is a roll-down white screen. Whatever he happens to be looking at on his on his computer is projected on the screen.

On a more down-home note, it's just so good to have Shannon and Paul here. It's particularly delicious because Shannon loved India from when her plane touched down in Mumbai, and in a naive moment commented to Paul that there are so many Indians here. She seems naturally attuned to taking in the visual feast without being too concerned about the chaos or the dirt. She wishes we were staying in a less salubrious hotel because then she'd get a real feel for the place. Yesterday afternoon she walked around by herself and when she felt tired she took herself back to the Garden Hotel by tuk-tuk (or auto-rickshaw). But when Paul and I got back from work, she wasn't feeling too good. I thought she was maybe a bit jetlagged. But this was not the case. Her glands were swollen and she had a sore throat.

I thought we might just go to a chemist. They're all over the show. People pay their rupees for one aspirin or whatever. No prescription needed. The closest chemist turned out to be in the Udaipur Hospital, so we marched in saw a doctor. The sheet on the examination bed could have been cleaner, but there were no waiting room queues around heand we were ushered straight in. He diagnosed tonsilitis and wrote out a script for some tablets. Told her not to eat solids for 3 days and for the grand sum of $10 we left with our script. But then $10 is an awful lot for a local. And today she's having her first art lesson with Lala. She's prepared her silk, chosen her image, and when she returns we'll have some big fat mangoes I bought from the fruit seller beside the temple. When Shannon gets back from her art lesson, we'll go eat mangoes and ice-cream.

In real time

I shifted hotels, but returned to the Palace Complex to meet with Shriji and continue my work. No internet where I'm staying, but same good access here.

Everything is abuzz with wedding preparations. I'm working in the reception where the guests have begun arriving. They walk up a red carpet surrounded by separate blocks of red rose petals and white orchids, outlined in vivid orange marigolds. Kind of like floral cloisonism.
Each guest is presented with a white orchid garland, with a red flower pendant. Scented oil is burning and the musicians are playing welcoming music. The begarlanded Europeans in the party - they seem to be mostly English - are taking photos. The older Indian women in the group don't seem overly fond of their flower necklaces and most are carrying them instead. And as quickly as the group arrives, they're dispersed. Within a matter of minutes, hostesses in orange saris lead them to their rooms. Porters in maroon berets and grey Nehru-styled suits sling bags over their shoulders and wheel cases behind them. Then the music slows down, a few notes on the sahnai linger, and apart from a few hotel big wigs, holding papers, wearing ties, and giving last-minute orders, all is still.

The brass lamps and flower pots are gleaming. A new tray of freshly squeezed watermelon, orange, grapefruit and an unidentifiable green juice, all laced with fresh mint arrives. Two sweepers come in to brush away the fallen petals. Then all is renewed, ready for the next round of colourful arrivals.

I marvel at the beauty and the ceremony, but the cynic in me counts the cost and thinks of western divorce statistics.

Real estate with a view

I accompanied Ambika and her son and husband to see a flat they're considering buying. It's still in the building stages, and the words Occupational Health and Safety are irrelevant to the construction industry here. It has a view of two lakes, hills in the background and a really good cross breeze. I brought all my Sydney knowledge to bear. Told them if they're buying at this stage they can put a full window in the living room - even, dare I say, sliding doors. Also to demand that they have say in their finishes. It's very expensive for here - $70,000 - two bedrooms and in the very best part of town. Ambika and her husband assured me I would always have a place to stay in Udaipur.

Their 12 year old son, drove the car from where it was parked. Drivers licenses being just a formality.

When we returned I had a toasted sandwich, and then the staff and I took photographs of each other which I've sent to all their yahoo.co.in emails. India's wired, or should I say wirelessed, even though they work on screens that are blurred and keyboards that skip letters.

And now I have to pack for my move to the Garden Hotel. Not sure what my internet access will be, but stay tuned. At worst I'll do a multiple posting when I return to the Shiv Nivas on 2 July. That is if I'm not busy rewriting the script. Meeting with 'The Boss' tomorrow at 10.15. And then off to the airport to pick up Shannon and Paul. I'm so excited. I've been mentally following their flight since I woke up this morning.

Changes coming

Stay long enough in any one place, and you begin to get a sense of the everyday. Even, apparently, in India. And then, as is life’s habit, things change. Tomorrow Ambika is going away. Her son will be back from boarding school at Mt Abu, and she will join her husband at Chittor where he works for a big cement manufacturer. I’m hoping we can steal away one afternoon to visit them there. It’s about 2 hours from Udaipur and has an ancient Kali temple.

Kali. The goddess of death that made a deep impression on my young life thirty years ago. It was a time when the only religious belief and iconography I was familiar with, was a Jewish god who was on my side because I had the good fortune to belong to his chosen people, and a Christian god who died on the cross and who saved sinful souls. Kali was a whole new concept to me then. Destruction – death – rebirth – renewal. I still like the idea of her. But I digress...

Almost as soon as Ambika’s left, Paul and Shannon will arrive. I’ve kept the more touristy things to do for when they get here, and when we have time. There’s also a big huge gigantic Indian wedding coming to Udaipur. All the feasts and ceremonies that will take place over three days are being held here, at the City Palace Complex. So they are moving me to another hotel to make room for the guests. I will be packing up tomorrow and shipping out to the Garden Hotel, a couple of kilometers away. That’s where Paul and Shannon will join me. A new stage begins.

And as if to herald this change in pace, a group of about 12 monkeys unexpectedly escaped the guards’ knobkerries, and sneaked into the grounds. Perhaps they took advantage of the rain, which incidentally, has cooled things down a good 10 degrees. I spent ages watching them interact. Mothers looking after babies. They are so human, it’s not surprising that Hindus have Hanuman, the monkey god, who bravely helped Lord Rama in his battle against the demons.

Mulling over

Every day, as I step out of my little enclave, I pass this gate called Vijai Pol. Victory Gate. It must lead somewhere, but I’ve never seen it open. Having glimpsed what often exists behind closed gates in India, I probably don’t want to know. Tomorrow I will be finished my first draft in its entirety. I can always breathe a little easier. A definite victory of sorts. Now, assuming all is fine with Shriji, the fun begins. I suppose it’s a bit like polishing a rough stone sculpture after the hard hacking’s been done. At least it feels that way to me.

I walked around the grounds of the hotel today. Gardening is something that does not seem to come naturally to Indians. Historically, they never gardened for beauty’s sake, all the beauty they needed existed in romantic tales told about the gods. Beauty was also seen in things that sparkled – gems, silver, gold, and mirrors. Hence the natural attraction to crystal.

This changed when the Mughal emperors came with all their Persian grandeur. Now they loved their geometric gardens, with fountains and flowers and bridges over streams. With peacocks and parrots and dragon flies hovering over cascading foliage. But when they conquered this part of the world around the fifteenth century, they had to reimagine gardens without the luxury of fast-running streams. Indeed without too much water at all. They ultimately managed okay with fountains and geometric squares, and lots of cusped arches framing colourful trees.

Then came the British and a whole new layer was added to the notion of symmetry. Now they had lawns to worry about. I don’t see too many of them, but formal institutions like hotels still keep vast expanses of grass. Mowing is a major business. About ten people sweat away around one lawnmower. Endless wires plug into extension cord after extension cord. Probably connected to some dodgy powerpoint wobbling on a wall somewhere.

Be that as it may, Indians have no problem with the decorative arts. All around the mowed dried lawns with their scraggly edges are massive beaten brass flower pots growing a species that looks a little like a poverty-stricken lilly-pilly struggling to survive.

Perils, pearls, and a whole lot of glitz

I promise a better picture of the Crystal Gallery as soon as I work out how to switch the flash off Craig's camera.

Now, for those who know me, know I have a tendency to lose things. I had just been patting myself on the back for not having lost a single pair of glasses, for keeping my passport in the safe, and for being really quite good with spending money. I am familiar enough with Rajasthan to now say, “I will come back”. And then if I find myself longing for the item in the middle of the night, I do.

But today I lost my soft blue leather pencil case. I don’t know how. I have no idea where. One minute I thought it was just where I assumed it was, and the next it was gone. Everything is replaceable except for my fountain pen, an on-gift from Judd, who was once given it as a barmitzvah present. And not to forget the rubber that I’ve worn down to a 5 cent piece over god knows how many years.

The perils of attachment are haunting me.

Almost as compensation, I started reading a book which I’m savouring. Not for its absorbing, suck me in, and transport-me-compulsively story, but rather for its ability to coax me back to its pages with humour, skilful language, love of travel, and self-denigrating all too human frailty. A travel memoir. My two favourite genres rolled into one. Eat, Pray, Love. One Woman’s Search for Everything across Italy, India and Indonesia. As the author Elizabeth Gilbert explains, the three I’s.

Not to neglect the work. The Crystal Gallery is crystalising. Or something like that. There’s no through draft in the place, which is on the second level and has no windows. I go in there and sweat like I’m in a full-on sauna. The pencil won’t stay in my fingers, the lead won’t write on the page which is damp from my arm. My notebook looks like it’s been through a tsunami. And as I look at this elaborate, extravagant stuff – imagine a crystal bed! – all I can think is that my long-dead bobba, who kept all her furniture covered in plastic, would have loved it. Absolutely loved it.

I can never leave quick enough.

This could be heaven, or...

Despite my persistence, I seem unable to wean the 'boys' off 'Hotel California'. The good Jayne Anne Phillips once used 'surrender' to describe motherhood-in-a-word. I'm working on surrendering in the same way to the faux reggae rhythms of that song.

Am waiting for the word from above to begin work on the Crystal Gallery. I sent my plan for writing to Shriji, and he emailed back to me "Let's meet". Easier said than done when everyone in the kingdom seems to be clamouring for his time.

So I spent yesterday waiting for the call that never came. Not that I suffered too much. It rained. I read, napped, and taking advantage of the rain-cooled weather, went for a long walk into India. Along the way I came across a wedding. An oompah band with men in blue and white suits played as the groom got on his horse. There were firecrackers and hennaed hands and general good cheer. And right across the stairs from where the bridal party emerged was this stinking rubbish dump. No early morning clattering of garbos for this town!

The world in miniature

Today I finished my first draft of the City Palace Museum. I was wandering around the last courtyard, the Lakshmi Chowk, and I came across an artist restoring the paintwork on a palanquin to its former glory, with a big bit of license no doubt. He kindly showed me what he was doing. Using powder paint mixed with a bit of sap from the Neem tree as the binding agent.

Painting has a long and noble tradition here. Particularly miniature paintings. There are schools offering art lessons, and shops selling traditional paintings all over town. Today I came across one with a difference. It looks like a good place to send Shannon to learn.

The Mewar School of miniature painting is known for their more expressive style – still quite wooden but definitely less formal. They have an interesting way of leaving their sketched outline on their paper or silk, and then letting colour guide the eye to the action. And there’s usually a fair bit going on in the densely peopled scenes.

Another feature of the Mewar artists is their colour tends to be more vibrant than their contemporaries. Paint is mixed from ground up minerals and vegetables. Ochre, saffron, lapus lazuli, and carbon for black. The very fine work is applied with a brush made of a single hair from a squirrel’s tail. My fading eyesight notwithstanding, the incredible detail this work involves is just awesome, in the most literal sense of the word.

Looking through a magnifying glass, you can see every leaf showing every vein in a spray of foliage. Each one individually coloured, as nature would. No two exactly the same. Some with the tiniest of dragon flies, perfectly rendered, with wings and antennae and not much bigger than 2mm, or so.

The painting on the palanquin obviously doesn't fall into this category, but it has its rightful place in the order of these things.

Sunset slow mo

Tomorrow I celebrate the completion of the first draft of the first tour. Then begin the Crystal Gallery which is bound to tax every ounce of imagination. A crystal bed is something to behold, certainly, but I need to find something to say about it, for at least a minute. A minute can be an eternity, or a nanosecond. This is my very own humble theory of relativity.

This is where I work every day. It is as messy as my desk at home, just less surface space. I've spread amoeba-like, as I do, onto the luggage table, and then onto the coffee table.

A slow-inspiration day, obviously.

Divine joy

This was a lazy-ish Sunday. Slept in. Had breakfast at the pool. Swam. Made my way to the museum, and the reason for all the fairy lights became clear. It was a celebration for the great warrior and king from the sixteenth century, Rana Pratap Singh. The Royal Courtyard, Rai Angan, was adorned in strings of marigold garlands. Every picture and sculpture was draped in flowers. Incense burned, and freshly cut leaves were strung across the verandahs like sweet smelling Christmas decorations, or happy birthday signs. There was even a whole new setup for him, which included his shield and his 25kg coat of armour.

Took 'my' girls their new clothes. What pure joy. I’m not sure who got more pleasure out of these fairly ordinary outfits – them or me. It was a whole ceremony in and of itself. The little one just wanted to put her new shorts over what she was wearing. The older one was shyer. So many smiles and thank you’s and namastes and hand shakes. I was thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. I’ve rarely had so much joy from giving something so simple. I’m not sure who got more out of the gift, them or me. But it certainly gave credence to the notion that the giver receives more than the receiver.

Wandered into India in the afternoon. Visited the Jagdish temple just outside the palace gates. Saw a man who used his hands to climb the steep stairs with an effortless ease. Was shown around by a boy not much older than ten. Wise to the ways of westerners. Signs saying no guiding allowed. Proclaimed to be student not a guide. The place was filthy. But there was Ganesh, again, and in his own special gated shrine I saw a rat disappear into the hole below him. Ganesh rides around on a rat. Was hoping it would be an auspicious sign. Popped a note into a box for the elephant god to answer a prayer. Indian thinking is obviously making inroads into my psyche.

Moved on down the road where I came across a miniature painting shop with a Hebrew sign. The sign was upside down. They said they were waiting for a Jewish person to tell them the right way round. A young man sat in the corner painting wedding invitations for someone in Australia. A hundred miniature peacocks on square silk for the invitation. Then a hundred elephants for the thank you cards. Each one individually painted. All for the grand sum of 3,000 rupees ($90). I would have stayed longer but I was disconcerted, to say the least, by the very friendly proprietor, a young man who had a pony tail growing out of each ear, literally.

Took my music, took my vodka, and ended my day at the Sunset View Café watching the sun go down behind the Aravalli Hills. It was a small moment of perfection.

In the lap of the gods

The wheels slowly ground to a halt today. I had bad dreams last night. I slept in. Never had my swim. Rushed off for a 10.30 meeting with the princess. Fortunately she was late, which gave me a breather. She arrived dressed in the most striking fluorescent white outfit, still talking on her Blackberry. Then she graciously apologized for keeping me waiting.

There I stood in my neatly ironed black cottons still feeling somewhat disheveled and decidedly sweaty. I wanted to show you a photograph, but that would have been just soooo uncool. So I kept it all professional and did my business. But by the time we’d finished, and I’d completed a run through the miniature painting galleries, then spent time in the library , it was well past midday.

I came back to my computer and worked on what is probably my most important stop. Eklingji, the personal deity of the royal family. The sole rationale behind why the ruler’s the ruler and not his elder brother. Pardon the didactic note here, but I’ll explain the name. Ek means ‘one’. Ling is the lingum, or divine penis (truth to some, oxymoron to others), and ji, being a term of respect. Whatever the case, Eklingji is a manifestation of Shiva, the god of gods and ultimate controller of the universe. So whether you call them rulers, kings, or Maharanas, they are essentially transient custodians of the kingdom, because Eklingji is the ultimate power.

And then it seemed there was nothing left in me. I felt drained. I realized I’ve been working every day since I arrived. So I calculated how much time I had until Paul gets here, and concluded I could slacken off a little. Just a little. I took the rest of the afternoon off and headed out the big arched gateway into India, where I found a shop that sold 'regular' clothes as opposed to 'tourist' clothes. I bought an outfit each for ‘my’ two little girls who live in a single dark room with their mother (with a bit of luck there’s a father) in a well-swept decaying courtyard just off the palace office where I pay my daily courtesy call on the dour Mr Bhupendra.

All day visions of my two big girls swirled around my thinking. How to let go. When to let go. What we have control over. What we don’t. Very little, it seems. Very little.

So I gave up. Went for a swim. Sat under the big frangipani tree. Had a rose bubble bath and headed to the Palki Khana with my water bottle of vodka, ordered a mango juice, and watched the sun go down over the palace lit in fairy lights for some special celebration.

Sweat and mirrors

I spent time today working in this spot where kings would eat. It's called Manak Mahal, the ruby room. The powerful colour is a work of art in itself. Through cusped arches mirrors reflect sparkling deep green and red glass tiles, giving the impression of rooms within rooms. This room leads off a courtyard decorated with five peacocks elaborately created out of fine inlaid glass. Each one strutting a different pose. The collective noun for peacocks is pride. A pride of peacocks. Thank you Wikipedia.

This one's for you, Steve + Barbara. I specially got the guard to take it.

I opened my door this morning - my only source of natural light - and the sky was full of dark clouds. I welcomed the coming of the monsoon, for no reason other than to perhaps cool down. Forced myself to go for my early morning swim. After all, how many times in a lifetime does a person have the opportunity to swim in a marble pool? The marble from this district is called Makrana and was most famously used in the construction of the Taj Mahal. Incidentally, way before Shah Jahan built the Taj for his favourite wife Mumtaz, he had a major falling out with his father Jahangir. He sought refuge right here in Udaipur, where he lived on Jagmandir, an island famous for its sandstone palace and garden, and situated in Lake Pichola.

History lessons aside, as I went down for my swim there were two people sitting around the pool. Now the only people I'm used to seeing are the many men in their white uniforms, red sashes and red turbans, who wait on your every move in an entirely empty restaurant. We began a bit of polite chat, as you do. They turned out to be South Africans who live in Los Angeles.

The world is small. And, as Thomas Friedman says, the world is now flat. I took the opportunity to test my 'script' and gave them a tour of the Palace Museum. Afterwards, naturally, we went to cool down in the Palki Khana where Peter and Hilary were relieved to have a drink with ice. Ice is not commonly found in India. Peter was so thrilled with his iced tea, served with great panache by Ambika's staff, that he wanted his picture taken. I was happy to oblige.

The wind blew the clouds away. The monsoons never came. And as Hilary so aptly put it, it was another day of 'shvitzing'.

Scooting along

Today I passed the halfway mark on my first draft of my first tour. This proved to be auspicious, in the most Indian sense of the word. My phone finally began to work again after being cut off for failure to produce the correct documentation. I blamed the Imperial and badgered their concierge in Delhi every few hours to correct their error. It was my last attempt, and was becoming resigned to the fact that I'd have to run around looking to get another passport photo. No photo, no sim card. Not to mention payment for set-up costs and a new number.

I also got connected to broadband, allowing me the luxury of sharing more than one image at a time. Lea Demarbaix, a wonderfully wise French woman I had the good fortune to meet in Jaisalmer, told me there are three things to know about India. The best smells, the worst smells, and the most extraordinary colour. She was right about all three.

My work today flowed. And I don’t underestimate the fact that it was helped along by the fact that I was working in an extraordinarily beautiful part of the palace – the ceramics gallery. Incidentally, as in English, the word china in Hindi refers to the country as well as ceramics. The room is covered in tiles from China brought over by the Portuguese, interspersed with a bit of Christian iconography and a few pastoral scenes from Delft. The coloured-glass comes from Belgium and the view beyond is pure Udaipur. Distant hills shrouded in haze. This is the ceramic ceiling with a mirror in the shape of a cross. I think that's just a design thing. Nothing to do with crucifixes.

Maybe it's because I’ve always been here in the heat, but it seems everything in India – or at least in North India – is in soft focus. The birds, the sky, the trees and the horizon.

As usual, I spent my spare time with Ambika at the Palki Khana. She arranged for her niece to take me into town so I could find the fine block-printed cotton coloured in vegetable dyes. It's so thin and soft, it feels like air. Sorry to go on about the heat, but I desperately need thinner clothes. Along came Padmina – named after the legendary queen of great beauty, and thankfully a familiar name – who drove me to the Cotton Plaza on the back of her scooter. Ambika approved of the price I’d paid, as did the tailor. I gave him a sample of one of my most comfortable tops, and two sleeveless long shirts - or short dresses - will be ready for me tomorrow. They can also go through the wash a few times over here, before bringing them back to run riot in my washing machine at home.

Original women

Today began by offering a visual feast. Sitting in the palace, just outside the entrance to the museum, was this crowd of visitors from Gujarat. Tribal women in swirling maroons and blues wearing a lot of extraordinary jewellery. Arms and ankles full of silver, gold, and white plastic bangles. Multiple piercings. Seriously big nose rings with chains linking to ear lobes. (Georgia, eat your heart out.) Huge silver earrings the size of the fattest rings attached to the tops of their ears. Some barefooted. Some in blue or green thongs. Apart from being women, footwear was the only thing we had in common. But we smiled at one another, and they let me take their photograph. Then the camera was passed around as they viewed their image, fairly nonplussed.

I wonder what kind of painting Howard Hodgkin would make of this glorious spectacle.

Indigenous people are called Adivasis which means original inhabitants. Original inhabitants obviously being a relative term. The Bhil people are the Adivasis from the Udaipur area and they feature quite prominently - dare I say nobley - in local lore. They even show up on the Mewar coat of arms!

My sweet Georgia

Today was a big day. Mr Bhupendra, the man overseeing my work, was happy with what I showed him. He only found fault with the odd date or two. It gets confusing because there is often more than one date attached to any given event. I have no problem with whichever year he chooses to go with. In the end I can only vaguely remember the century, and that's doing well.

So I spent a few hours printing off the first ten pages of my script. And then waited another 20 minutes to have it photocopied. Memories of singing that uncharacteristic Guns ‘N Roses song to my kids. ‘All you need is just a little patience’ came back to me. And all the while fresh water was delivered in a glass placed on a plastic coaster with blue flowers. The glass kept sticking to the paper-light coaster and with each polite sip it came unstuck falling to the cement floor echoing as it spun to a halt.

Then it was time to report on my week’s work to Shriji. I was collected from the reception and walked to his palace. He’s a tough talking no nonsense man with a booming voice, who’s quite clear about what’s important to him. I like that.

There were many people in line seeking an audience with him. His son, carrying orange-lensed Oakleys (shades of Zac) was in attendance mingling amongst men holding folders all waiting to meet with The Man. I sat around the reception room with Mr Bhupendra, the princess Padmaja, and her assistant. It was Hindi all around.

Everyone’s deference was making me nervous, since deference is not my strong suite. But I was well prepared with my list of problems and questions, and almost immediately it was like Ganesh himself had stepped in, and all obstacles were removed. Shriji told me he was a straight shooter. I told him I welcomed that, given that I’m fairly bolshy myself. And then we did business. In no time at all he’d ordered an image moved, made it clear how I was to represent kingship, or in this case not, and then said he and I would get together to 'nut out the problems' that westerners have difficulty grasping. I fully owned up to being just such a westerner, and said I’d welcome his intervention. My job is the English, his job is the facts.

I came back to my room. Opened my sealed bottle of Absolut Vanila, poured a shot into an empty water bottle and headed into India, outside the rarified air of the palace complex. A woman sitting on the street carving small statues caught my eye. I fingered a small Ganesh. She pointed out another, named her price, and then dropped it by 50 per cent. By this stage I had a massive audience, and knew I couldn’t walk away. So I held up both smooth stylized carvings and asked for the crowd’s opinion. They unanimously selected the one you see above.

Then I promptly headed back up the hill to Ambika at the Palki Khana. Incidentally, the Palkhi Khana is now playing a selection of my music. I got sick to death of ‘Hotel California’ going round and round. The coffee shop’s brief is to play western music. I said I could help. Ambika gave me a few blank CDs and earlier in the day I had mixed her a selection from my iTunes. Anyway, I ordered an orange juice, added my Absolut, and then toasted my 100 rupee purchase (a little over $3) while Ray Charles sang ‘Georgia on my Mind’ in the background.

Knock, knock, knock

Every time I go to the Palace Museum (and that’s at least twice a day) I see the same two little girls. I think they’re one of the sweepers daughters, but I can't be sure. I also saw them with a stable hand. Horses incidentally, are stabled in the square below the sculpture gallery. The girls greet me and run off giggling. But as they’ve become more familiar, so they get bolder. Today they asked me for ‘pen’. I hauled out one of the hotel freebies, the Imperial no less, and gave it the older one. She then came rushing back and asked me for another for her sister. The little girl is so tiny and so thin I just want to pick her up and squeeze her. So I rushed back to my room to find another. In exchange they posed for a photo. This afternoon they asked for chocolate. I might take them asome of the chocolates that are laid on my bed each evening, although they may melt on the way there. Perhaps I'll take an apple.

Now I don’t want to curse the muse - spit three times, knock on wood, and then again – but I feel comfortable with the direction the work is taking. I somehow feel that I’m getting more of a synthesis between spoken English-English and spoken Indian-English, without compromising either. But as I say knock on wood and spit three times. The client is yet to see it. I may have to start all over again. Knock, knock, knock, knock, KNOCK!

BBC served me well last night. I watched a documentary on the artist Howard Hodgkin visiting Humayun’s Tomb in Delhi. A place that’s thought to be a precursor to the Taj Mahal. He just sat there, and sat, and sat. The sitting, he said, was working. He was feeling a painting coming on. He talked about India as being a pluralistic world where all good things can happen. It then cut to Hodgkins on a boat in the Mumbai harbour watching a the sun disappear on the misty horizon. They showed a painting of his called ‘Bombay Sunset’. He described a sunset as “a remarkable happening” and commented that, “All good things come to an end, and start afresh, afresh, afresh…”

I remember writing about one of his paintings for the National Gallery of Victoria. It was called ‘Night and Day’, named after the Cole Porter song. I remember working the burning, yearning, churning lyrics of the song into the description, which the curator utterly rejected. It’s strange how you have a way of remembering the arguments you lose even though you know you were right. But, as Frank Sinatra so nonchalantly sings, That’s Life.

And then the BBC took me into the dark world of the secret prisons operated by the CIA in Romania, Poland, Uzbekistan and Morocco. From life affirming to rights denying. I can hear Zac calling me a lefty pinko hippie, but the country that leads the charge in brave and free who talks such an excellent democracy game is showing a horrifyingly ugly side where rule of law is simply rhetoric.

All we can do in our own little way is show small acts of kindness. Come to think of it, I suspect I’m killing my plants outside with too much kindness. Maybe a whole lot of water is not that healthy for plants that have adapted to daily temperatures of 45 degrees. The ‘soil’ is looking more like clogged clay every day. I think I’ll forget my good intentions and focus all my energy on nurturing my script.

An ordinary day

Life is settling into a rhythm. I swim each morning – am up to ten laps. Then come back to my room, shower, water my plants, and order breakfast. I eat my boiled eggs and toast whilst reading the Indian Times. The paper has been running an extraordinary campaign. It’s called SAVE THE GIRL CHILD and it's all about the social consequences of prenatal testing for gender. Each day the paper prints advantages of girl children. Today’s headline is “Daughters make better crutches in old age”. Readers are then invited to SMS their ideas on the most fitting punishment for sex determination and female foeticide. The best response wins a “Save the Girl Child” t-shirt.

I then head off to the museum to photograph my work for the day. By now the heat is a searing 45 degrees. If necessary I go to the library which seems to be off limits to everyone. As I sign numerous ledgers and hand in my handbag, the many attendants begin switching on the fairly ineffectual fans and delivering a glass of water. I tell the librarians what I’m looking for, and wait for them to bring me the information. India is a great lesson in patience.

I studiously take notes as I sweat profusely in the heat. When I’ve finished, I hand in the books and head back to no. 33, my room in Shiv Niwas Palace. I stop at Palkhi Kahna, a kind of restaurant-coffee shop-bar on my way, where I drink lime and soda, and chat to Ambika the manager from Jodhpur. She has about four or five “boys” who work for her and every morning she gets one to climb the tree to shake the leaves and flowers so they don’t mess with her tables. Ambika yells at the “boys” if they don’t open the door quick enough for me. She’s probably the only social contact I have at the moment.

Then my writing begins…

So far I’ve managed to keep to schedule.

As evening comes, I go to the Sunset View restaurant and watch the lake change colour as the sun goes down behind the hills. The pink sky fills with screeching bats. Then as darkness comes, all is quiet. If I think of the bats as birds, it’s a nice way to end the day. I come back and watch as much BBC as I can bear, then read for a while and go to sleep. So that’s pretty much it at the moment, unless you want to hear about the bloody Battle of Haldighati where Pratap Singh took on the forces of the mighty Mughal Emperor, Akbar the Great…

The sculpture hall

It’s hard to imagine an open-aired structure that houses sculptures from the sixth century. So here’s a photograph to maybe make it clearer. Many of the sculptures that live here have been hacked about by Muslim invaders who didn’t tolerate representations of the human form. Not much has changed in that department!

By the way, sorry about the ad. I just can’t figure out how to get rid of it, and since my computer connection is so very slow, I’m trying to learn to live with it.

Before Udaipur there was Chittor...

I've spent today wandering around the sculpture gallery. There are some wonderful things from as far back as the sixth century, although most seem to be from around the tenth and eleventh centuries when voluptuous figures were the style. I concentrated on Surya and eleventh century marble carving. Surya is a sun god with a halo of flames.

I'm amazed that these ancient sculptures sit in a shed with only a roof, no walls. They're plastered to the wall and sometimes the wall paint laps over the carving. A western curator's nightmare.

It's a quiet day. Peaceful. Nothing moves in the heat except my fan. I am enjoying getting lost in another time. Although they were equally troubled. And they never had fans!

Strange light

One of the main tourist attractions of this city palace complex is a nighly light show. Given the down season, it's only happening in Hindi. As night falls, chairs are lined up in the vast garden facing the palace. It looks extraordinary. Magical. From another era. The colourful glass mosaic and ceramic details that line some of the rooms, appear as fascinating dots of colour in the huge structure with its cupolas and arches and balconies. The square Rajput pillars in the hallways on one level are contrasted with the curved flowing shapes of the Mughal pillars on the next. A truly exotic site. By night you can't see the peeling paint or the pigeon shit dotting the walls.



Then the 'show' begins. I'm there to get the mood, even if I don't understand a word. But I get the gist of it. I recognise words that tell me its discussing the history of the Sisodia people of Udaipur. Chittor, their old fort. Brave kings and beautiful queens. Sati and johor. The fires where the women threw themselves as their men rode to their deaths in battle. Death rather than surrender.



The sound system is excellent. It's like the voice of god that booms out from this enormous complex. There are a few voices in the show. And as each one recounts their bit of the story, various parts of the palace are lit. The grand front doorway with its symbol of the sun is lit when the narrator speaks. The entrance arch glows with fire-like lighting when the flames of sati devour the queens.



I am fascinated by the way the bits of the palace light up, am impressed by the grand voices and think maybe we should investigate these for our tour, but in the end it seems an awfully extravagant exercise. And after 15 minutes I am ready to leave. Of course I don't. I sit through the full hour.

Work begins

We are waiting to see Shriji, the Maharana, and have been delayed. I sit in the hotel reception, as I have in the airports of Sydney, Singapore and Delhi, and pass time with the Sudoku in the Times of India. The ruler of Udaiper is known as a Maharana. The others are all Maharajas and Maharawals. But Maharana is a direct messenger to God – in this case the deity is known as Eklinji, an incarnation of Shiva.

As we waited the princess, Padmaja, came out to greet us. She was smaller than I expected and a lot more beautiful. Perhaps she’s named after the beautiful queen Padmini who was desired by the ambitious Allaudin Killji.

But I digress. The call came and we headed to a section of the palace where the royal family live. The waiting room was plush. Full of miniature paintings and European trinkets. Then we were ushered in to Shriji's office. For people of the sun, it was very dark. His desk was a large table and he motioned for me to sit beside him. We spoke for not more than a few minutes about nothing of consequence and then we were on our way to The City Palace Museum where we met the man in charge. He sat at his clean desk covered in glass. Under the glass was a single piece of paper torn from a book or magazine headed "Where The Mind Is Without Fear" - a place my mind needs to be as I begin my work.

The Museum has some extraordinarily lavish nooks and crannies. And some of its more amazing gems (literally) are fairly inaccessible and gated off, or appear in a narrow corridor. The challenge is more to find out what their purpose was. There is no curator here. No sense of story. I’m grappling with these issues right now.

But in the meantime, my little ‘apartment’ is very comfortable. I live at number 33. The floors are white marble. I have air-conditioning that works, and two fans. It's too hot for tourists. The hotel is very quiet. Only three rooms are occupied.

There are two plants on my terrace. They are in soil that looks like hard dry clay. I'm making them my project. I'm well trained from Sydney's drought, and use the little bucket in the bathroom to gather my shower water, and am going to water them every day. I want them to be thriving by the time I leave.

They hotel is installing wireless internet, and have promised that I will be the first to trial it! I look forward to working at a faster pace and adding pics.

A painfully slow connection

I stepped from the fine shined marble floors of the Imperial into a cab, that although brushed clean, smelt like a urinal. I was then in no doubt that I had finally arrived in India.

I had a spare half hour on the way to get my plane to Udaipur, so took a detour to the Khan Markets to buy creamy Biotique potions and lotions. All botanical extracts – although everyone claims that these days. But these are supposedly Ayurvedic too!

Delhi domestic airport seemed more chaotic than usual, and would you believe, my flight was delayed. I’m getting very good at protecting my personal space. I hold my ground and give the 'evil eye' to anyone who jostles, bumps or pushes me. I’m turning into cantankerous, curmudgeonly memsahib.

There was not a seat to be had in the waiting lounge. So I settled down on a spare patch of floor and blocked out the chaos with my new iPod. I listened to Joni Mitchell’s singing of “anima rising” with her “head full of quandary and a mighty, mighty, thirst.”

I joined the queue and bought some water.

The propeller plane stopped in Jaipur, where a big mama of an Indian woman wearing a fat diamond parked herself beside me and immediately claimed the armrest. She ordered a guava juice and then complained to the air hostess that it was warm and she wanted ice and was outraged when told there was no ice. "You need to inform your superiors!" she huffed. So much for cantankerous, curmudgeonly memsahibs!

Landed in Udaipur and it was a cool 32 degrees. The heavens are threatening rain – an auspicious sign for my arrival, a blessing. I’m staying at the Shiv Niwas Palace, a heritage hotel, and I have a room with a terrace.

My internet here is 28k dial-up, but I’ll find a way to add pictures as soon as I become more familiar with my way around town. I mean images are part of the fun of blogging, wouldn't you agree.

Imtyaz, Narrowcasters' project manager, and I will be meeting the Maharana and the princess later this morning.

Finally in Delhi

I'm here. It took 12 hours longer than it should have. But who's counting? Qantas was two hours late, which meant I missed my Delhi connection, which meant I had to spend the night (what was left of it) in Singapore. And then, to add insult to injury, the flight from Singapore ran an hour and a half late.



So much for a relaxing Sunday in Delhi. But no mind.




I stepped out of the plane into 45 degree heat. But this is the remarkable thing: on an excruciatingly hot Sunday I barely recognised the place. There was NO traffic. I mean not a truck nor a scooter nor an elephant in sight. Even the beggars were taking the day off. The odd flower seller was still hanging around the traffic lights, with his tired small bunch of little red flowers, but it was a clear run all the way to the Imperial. This is a grand hotel. I don't feel I'm in India. Its so clean and luxurious and I feel quite decadent. Anyway, I had a swim amongst sunbaking hairless Europeans, while Vikram organised my sim card.



This is Vikram.





Udaipur tomorrow.

A gift

Went to have a cup of tea with Georgina before pulling together the final strands of everything needing doing before leaving for India tomorrow. She gave me one of her posters from an exhibition held in Germany called Glucklose Kopfe - which translates as Loose Heads. Art produced in a Nigerian hospital for those declared to be mentally ill. I left Georgina still feeling kind of apprehensive. I always become slightly ill at ease just before I go. An irrational nervousness that I won't be able to do the job joins little stabs of fear at the big looming unknown which add to the heavyheartedness of leaving my children.

The flip side of this is the edgy kind of excitement that comes with falling into the abyss that is India with all its great smells and gut-wrenching stenching smells and kaleidoscope of life with all its colour, grandeur and harshness.

So as I was driving home, still feeling anxious about leaving my family for so long, I stopped at the lights and my eye caught the figure of a homeless man swathed rags. He was sitting against a wall in the winter sun, his face covered by a black shroud.

A young woman with short hair, a colourful scarf, and a confident swagger walked down the road carrying two cups of coffee. She turned into the alley, respectfully leaned down to the man. He removed the cloth and I could see his weathered face shining dirty-smooth in the sun. She handed him one of the cups. There was a fluid kindness and gentility in her movements. No charity. No condescension. Then she casually sauntered along on her way.

In that moment of compassionate humanity I found peace. I now feel okay about heading off on my own journey to one of Rajputana's grand kingdoms.