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.