Dancing peacocks

Cor blimey, guvn’rs and guvn’sses, it is awfully hot in south­ern India right now — though it is, as our gen­i­al hosts nev­er tire of telling us, actu­ally rather cold. I’m writ­ing this in a former French prin­cip­al­ity called Pondicherry (the com­puter has already had a Blue Screen of Death; no escap­ing Windows) under a very large and wonky fan. Any inter­rup­tion will be due to decap­it­a­tion and nor­mal ser­vice will not, I’m afraid, be resumed.

Too much done already to be fully recoun­ted here. Thanks to the gen­er­os­ity of our host, Nagarajan, we’ve been priv­ileged enough to vis­it the inner sanc­tum of a Hindu temple (had to take my shirt off for that one), been driv­en the wrong way up a dual car­riage­way (first clue: driv­ing over a large painted arrow that seemed to be rather too upside-down for com­fort), drunk many Indian teas and cof­fees, vis­ited a charm­ing col­lege, and spent lots of time with Nagarajan’s imme­di­ate, exten­ded and very exten­ded fam­il­ies. Everyone has been friendly, cour­teous and treated us like roy­alty.

Here are a few pho­tos — sorry, time for cap­tions. A fuller report when we get back in a couple of weeks. Happy Christmas every­one!

No cap­tions to fol­low apart from the next very import­ant photo: baby Madhangi!

Author: Ian Hocking

Writer and psychologist.

4 thoughts on “Dancing peacocks”

  1. Thanks, Tim, I always wanted to be one of those — and a celebrity chef, too. I think there’s a photo of me mak­ing rice cakes some­where…

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