It takes a Village.

So i made it through another sojourn with the good people of Gomathimuthupuram. And what of my first Indian Christmas? Parts of it felt more Real - the rural setting, the poverty, the complete absence of consumerism; and parts less Real - the heat, the missing things (family, turkey...) Christmas day got off to a rousing start with the worst redition, ever, of Silent Night blasted from the church loudspeaker. At 3am. Honestly, for the love of Jesus, these Christians cannot do music. So i was up and swaddled in my best nylon sari ready for the 2 hour long church service at 3.30. Naturally, this put me in a sour mood, from which - amazingly - even vegetable biriani could not shake me. Or a phonecall to my family with their turkey and their brussel sprouts and their mince pies... The rest of the day was quiet. I got some washing done. I played with the kids. In the evening there was a fancy dress competition (one kid went as me...ha!)

Back to the bosom of my Indian family, complete with the compulsory tour of the endless extended family, where, on one such expedition i received a marriage proposal. From the mother of a man i am assured is too good looking and speaks pukka english. It was all pretty amusing, until i realised she was deadly serious, and tricky to get out of, in light of my complaint during lunch that Uncle Jacob had failed to arrange me a marriage with a nice Indian man, as promised. (I was joking, obviously, but i see now that you don't joke about these things)

Back to the undisguised curiosity of village folk, for whom i'm a bit of a celebrity. Every five steps i take there is a gaggle of women who tweak and tug at my sari, cackling a commentary to each other - 'she is too lean', 'her hair is too curly but good colour' (my Tamil is such that i can understand what they are saying but can't respond). When they have finished i will be bustled into another house with another band of women and their silent husbands and shy children, where i'll be handed a photo-album, baby or cup of chai, or all three at once. If i'm really lucky i'll be given a glass of milk, still warm from the cow's udder while the ghost of Mr. Pasteur hovers "you might want to boil that first...". But no i am to drink, as they eye me with a mixture of admiration and disapproval.

As 2006 breathed its last, i was to be found smoking a crafty cigarette while all were in church, remembering New Years Eves past. There was That Party last year, of glittering bohemian proportions, at Graham Greene's ramshackled, mouldy old mansion, and New Years Eve 1999 in that tiny ancient chapel on the cliff's edge in Dorset, with 14 people, many many candles, a song ('one more step around the world i go: from the old things to the new, keep me travelling along with you...), some fireworks, a fire that wouldn't quite light and thirteen year-old Katie who knew that she didn't have much longer to live.

I sit writing this in Trivandrum, Kerala. It was sad to say goodbye to people who seem to love and accept me so effortlessly and boundlessly, but it feels good to be free-range again. I have a full itinerary ahead of me, involving no less that three Ashrams (yes, i am succumbing to the spiritual tourism thing, but who wouldn't in this land with its smorgasboard of religion), a spell with Mother Theresa's clan and a visit from my very own mother. More to come.