Visiting a different world

A trip to India is always full of surprises, and this trip kept delivering new experiences. 

 Bougainvillea cascades over a garden wall in the French Quarter

First, there was the life-changing decision to strengthen my connection to Shantivanam by becoming a Benedictine oblate, then there was the time spent at the Mattindia clinic where my hayfever, oedema and sleep apnoea were all miraculously cured. 

Finally, there was Pondicherry, with its very French atmosphere and culture.

But while I had anticipated this in what I had read about "Pondy," I knew nothing of Sri Aurobindo, The Mother, nor of the golden sphere of the Matrimandir.

Aurobindo was an anti-imperial nationalist, a guru, poet and philosopher. Born in 1872, he was a couple of generations ahead of his time, with idealistic spiritual ideas that found a sympathetic audience in the open-mindedness of Indian philosophy.

His collaborator was Mirra Alfassa, a Jewish woman born in Paris of Turkish and Egyptian parents. She is known simply as "The Mother" and was deeply spiritual from a very young age. Together with Aurobindo, she is revered in photographs in shops, hotels and other businesses throughout Pondicherry.

At Auroville, with the Matrimandir in the background

The great project of this esoteric partnership was the founding of a Utopian community at Auroville, centred around a golden dome incorporating an enormous crystal, made by the German optical firms of Schott and Zeiss. It really was a symbol of the era - the Nineteen-Sixties, but however one might dismiss the tree-hugging hippies, the atmosphere of Auroville is amazing.

This was a fitting end to my 3-month sojourn, and I left Pondicherry to fly home just a couple of days after sitting and soaking up the overwhelming peace of Auroville.

I came home with serious projects to tackle. The Building Blocks project in Bangalore needs a lot of thought, and I have had conversations with the Ambats in Bangalore, discussing various ideas.

But first. . . . Europe is facing the greatest humanitarian crisis of our lifetime, and I cannot stay in Lincoln. I fly out to Greece very soon.

You can follow my plans and project at my new blog "In Search of a Better Life" - just click on the title. I have kept your name and address on the mailing list, so you'll get regular updates from Samos; - just drop me an email if you want to opt out.

Thanks for all your encouraging feedback; - do please keep in touch.

Bangalore Slum Children

World Trade Centre in Bengaluru

Although I have always wanted to visit Bengaluru (Bangalore,) it wasn't on my itinerary for this trip. Then there was a succession of coincidences (if you believe in coincidences!) There was an email, a text-chat, an invitation to look at an educational project and, above all, a strong sense that this was all happening for a reason. And so I booked a flight and asked if they would find me an inexpensive room.  I had no idea who I was dealing with! They might have been professional thieves, or con-artists, but I followed my instincts, and they were good people, so that I now have another new task - looking for ways to help them with an exciting project. 


India is a country of many languages. Although there are two main languages, Hindi and English, there are 22 recognised official languages across the country. Basic education is taught in one of these local languages, but the secret to breaking into middle and higher education is to be in a school where English is the teaching medium, providing the basic building blocks towards various types of School Certificate. 

It was in the recognition of this that James and Hilda Ambat set up "Building Blocks": a network of schools enrolling children from city slums, and teaching them English - reading and writing -, as the basis of a comprehensive curriculum including arithmetic, social science, general knowledge and other core subjects, all taught in the medium of English. 

Bangalore slums

The Building Block schools are secular and all have children from Hindu, Christian (Catholic and Protestant) and Muslim communities. The schools are highly selective, only taking the poorest children from the worst slums of Bangalore, and then giving them a kindergarten/infant education that is second to none.

Well-equipped classrooms with modern teaching aids

The staff are all professionals and are totally committed to the founders' vision of the power of education to lift people out of poverty. They are supported by an efficient administration in addition to full-time social workers. 

The admissions process is stringently controlled. First, there is a scheduled appointment. Then, to verify that the family are genuinely in need of financial assistance, there is an unannounced surprise visit to check that the first interview was not artificially staged. Thereafter the social workers keep a close eye on the family so that they are aware of any difficulties or problems.

All school children in India wear uniforms - which is always a shock to UK visitors, seeing the crowds of children all immaculately turned out. The uniform is a source of pride, to both the parent and the pupil, and is always freshly laundered and pressed.

Order and discipline are almost taken for granted: when I visited one of the schools I was met with a boisterous chorus of "Good Morning, Sir!" - and a sea of broad smiles. 


The magic of Building Blocks is primarily in the hands of the founders, supported by their dedicated teams. They have several major corporate sponsors in addition to various schemes in which individuals can pledge their support. 

I was enchanted by the whole operation, to the extent that after visiting the first school I had to hide myself away briefly and let the tears flow. To see a scheme that is so focused and so successful is truly inspirational.

But they need funding: and that is a project that I am working on. I will let you know when my ideas are more developed, but if you want to help straight away, drop me a line and I shall put you in touch with the organisation in India. 

Teaching them to learn in English gives them a head-start

Deafening Worship

The Hindu religion is confusing. On the one hand, there is deep philosophising in some of its sacred works, while on the other hand there are the fanciful cavortings of its mischievous characters that are described in the anthology of Hindu myths and legend. Hindu temples are filled with multi-limbed humans with technicolour complexions, alongside semi-human beasts which have alternately animal heads, or animal bodies. I do not find this aspect easy to take seriously. 
By contrast, I can meditate for a long walk on the deep wisdom of some of India's sages, like this quote from Paramahansa Yogananda:

Be as simple as you can be; 

you will be astonished to see how uncomplicated and happy your life can become.

This is so true for me over the past three years: my life is much richer now that I am poorer . . . But now is the time to return to our sheep, as the French would say, and write about the colourful display of religious observance we've been watching here for the past few days.

A couple of days ago my breakfast bowl of porridge was disturbed by drumming in the street outside, as the first procession wended its way along the road.

There was the hammering thud of the drummer, competing with the Shehnai, a wind instrument that looks a bit like an oversized clarinet.

The music of the shehnai is definitely (like much in India )an acquired taste. It reminds me of a cross between a kazoo and a child's plastic trumpet. 





The shehnai is, however, a serious instrument in Indian music scene, and no wedding would be complete without a virtuoso shehnai musician, both in the parade through the town and at the celebration with a few hundred guests.

The procession for this week's religious festival was not a wedding, so there was no groom on a white horse, such as can still be seen in many modern Indian weddings, whether they are being celebrated in the city or the country. 









The parade on this occasion was entirely of women, who each carried a brass pot on the head. I couldn't see what the pots contained, but each one had some sort of greenery making a fringe that hung down to the bearer's brow.





All the women were dressed in smart, freshly pressed saris in every imaginable colour of the rainbow.

The column walked on at a measured pace, sedate and gracious, while the drum thundered and the shehnai wailed.

I took an auto-rickshaw into town to collect some trousers that had been altered (alteration fee 99p) and we were constantly held up by similar processions coming in all directions.

India has its priorities right. If a sacred cow wanders down the street, traffic stops, and if a procession of women strides slowly down the street, traffic stops.

And in the evening, the pedestrians take over completely, as all the temples and shrines are illuminated, and neon tubes are strung up along the roadside, wherever there is limited street-lighting.

Ganesha - the houshold god of hearth and home

This morning, I awoke to the sound of mortars exploding with monotonous regularity. 

I had a sense of déja vu, with memories of ongoing terrorist activities on a nightly basis in my first overseas posting after University, in the then-still-British-colony of Aden.

A pause, and then a shattering boom, but it couldn't be anything to worry about, as the strings of loudspeakers were still wailing their mournful melodies. In time I realised that for just the same purpose as similar explosions in Mediterranean countries, these were all part of the process of driving away the evil spirits.     

And then I wasn't worried, because my childhood nickname had been Jumbo, and I knew I could rely on the patronage of my dearly revered Ganesha.

Living in Pondicherry

Small-scale fishing is the traditional local industry

Puducherry (as it has been known since 2006) is a Union Territory within the republic of India. 

There are seven Union Territories, each of which is ruled directly from central government, whereas the 29 states each have their own administrative capital. 
Back in the 17th century, France established various possessions in India - mainly trading posts, the largest of which was Pondicherry, which remained under French jurisdiction after the independence of India in 1947. In the plebiscite of 1954, there was an overwhelming vote in favour of being incorporated into the Union of India. 

There is a strong French influence everywhere, with cafés, courtyards, restaurants bookshops and trendy boutiques.

I have had to discipline myself not to be too much of a tourist because the temptations are everywhere. I have still resisted the renowned "Hot Bread Bakery" which is famous for its genuine, flaky croissants.

I have, however, promised myself a Sunday lunch on my birthday on 21st, and keep scouring Trip Advisor and other listings to decide where I might celebrate in reasonable style.

The pool building from the lower verandah

For the moment, I am spending most of my time with my laptop, sitting at my table and developing the ideas that have been maturing ever since I started this project almost 3 years ago. 

But what better environment could I have? My studio is on the first floor of a restored building away from the centre of town in a fishing village. The garden is lush and flourishing and the pool is everything one could want. I have an hour per day for my exclusive use, included in my rent.


It's a dusty street that is a rat-run for motor-bikes and bicycles. The buldings are a mix of workshops, and old and new apartment buildings. 


Here and there you'll find a hole-in-the-wall shop selling a mixture of oddments like packets of crisps, toothpaste, exercise books, pencils and boxes of matches. 


Sometimes I treat myself to a little packet of Marie biscuits - they taste just like Huntley & Palmers, - and a 100g packet costs just 10p and lasts me 2 days.

The local Hindu temple

There's a traditional Hindu temple just along the road, lavishly decorated with figures of gods and animals. 

On Saturday there was a celebration of some sort, and the residents just cordoned off a section of the street and set out tables and chairs for the event. 

Traffic and pedestrians had to find another way through. By the evening everything had been cleared away and the only evidence was a neat pile of rubbish awaiting the morning refuse collection.

There is a thriving central market zoned for fish, meat, fruit, flowers, vegetables, etc.

There is a great variety of produce, but you have to know how to haggle to achieve a price that is fair to both parties. 

I have been feasting on prawns - which are really delicious.

India's fast-growing economy is evidenced by the surge in the number of locally manufactured cars and motorbikes.

I could have hired a bike for my stay, but on balance, I think I am safer relying on the auto-rickshaws.
The experience can be equally terrifying, but at least someone else is bearing the risk.

The bicycle-rickshaw is an increasingly rare sight around town. They do have the benefit of the breeze, but I have never seen one anywhere in Kerala, where all the 3-wheeled auto-rickshaws are rapidly being replaced by the TATA mini.

Lightning striking twice!

"Lightning never strikes twice..." as the internet search engines will tell you, is regrettably not true. Moreover, my own sad experience will vouch for it. On my second day in India, an electrical power surge blew the wiring in my laptop adaptor, and on my last day in Mattindia, a week ago, the same thing happened again. At least I knew now to resolve the problem; I would have to buy a new DELL accessory from eBay India, and have it delivered to Pondicherry. More of that later. 

The journey across India from West to East was pleasant enough, apart from the weight of my luggage. I was beginning to regret the decision to make primitive knives the subject of my next collection of authentic artifacts. Then there were clothes. I couldn't bear to start shedding old clothes yet, and hadn't thought through my decision to have half-a-dozen shirts made (£2.50 each) which weighed little but took up a lot of space.

All in all, it was a painful struggle to haul my backpack and my hold-all most of the 24-coach length of the platform to find the approximate position where I would board.

4 berths are set across the width of the carriage
and two in line with the direction of travel

 I then struggled along the narrow corridor and collapsed into my "2/AC" compartment, relieved to find that berth 55 was on the lower lever and would not require me to negotiate the iron ladder to get upstairs. 

"2/AC" stands for 2-tier air-conditioned. 3-tier is rather claustrophobic; you feel you are lying on a shelf, but 2-tier is comfortable and provided with fresh linen and warm blankets.

Working in the paddy fields

The train rattled along for 12 hours, stopping at occasional rural stations that appeared to be totally deserted, then we travelled for the last couple of hours through mile upon mile of paddy-fields.

Suddenly it was Pondicherry and to my relief, a young man burst into the carriage looking for a customer needing a porter. I felt sorry for him, and although I refused to pay him more than a fifth of what he demanded, it was probably five times what he would normally make from one passenger. 

Auto-rickshaws awaiting customers

The auto rickshaw rattled along into town, and I began to see this former French colonial outpost revealing its unique character. While India became independent in 1947, Pondicherry remained separate until 1954. But Pondicherry wasn't so "unique" to me because it reminded me of the visits I used to make from Aden to Djibouti almost 50 years ago as a young management trainee with the global BATA shoe company. Tree-lined streets with the familiar blue and white street signs, boutiques and cafés and the indisputable flavour of a certain je ne sais quoi.

MANTRA - the villa in a garden

My studio-apartment is on the upper floor of a villa set in a garden. The owners have bought the adjacent plot and are building more accommodation, but they will keep the traditional style of architecture. For the moment there are just a couple of other guests. There is a fine swimming pool - I can have an hour a day in it, and there is a flat roof and a terrace where I can catch the sun. 
But . . . I came here to write, and the lack of a functioning laptop was the first problem I had to address.

All I wanted to do was repeat the order of 2 months ago, with a different shipping address. But last time I had persuaded the proprietor at Mattindia to use his Indian-registered credit card, and I didn't have that option now in Pondicherry.

Nor did I have a functioning computer.

I consider it a significant achievement that I not only ordered the adaptor on my iPhone, I also negotiated two levels of credit-checking and anti-fraud measures, before getting to grips with the customer service division who didn't seem to want to work weekends.

My eagerly-awaited replacement

I tracked down a phone number last Tuesday, (no small achievement as you will know if you deal with online companies who like to avoid human contact whenever possible,) and was assured that everything was happening. However, I continued to send EMAILS IN BLOCK CAPITALS until I finally received the assurance that the delivery would be completed on February 11th. I persevered with increasingly forceful communications, and yesterday received confirmation that the item had been despatched, and would arrive on Monday, Feb 1st.

It didn't!

It arrived today - January 30th . . . and I am happily writing again, after the agony of a week when I tried to communicate by using an iPhone that got overheated and phoned whoever, whenever it liked, in addition to inventing its own language for text messages.

All part of the fun of travel. And, when it comes to being a dinner-party guest, my future diatribes can be guaranteed to bore my fellow guests until they quickly top up my glass to subdue me!

Meanwhile, there's always the swimming-pool.

The swimming-pool : exclusively mine for an hour per day

What is Ayurveda?

Tradition has it that the secrets of Ayurveda were passed on orally by wise men, 
in meetings in the foothhills of the Himalayas

One of the first questions people ask me when I come back from a trip like this is to explain what Ayurveda is all about. The short answer is that Ayur means Life and Veda means Knowledge, but that is a rather trite statement which essentially reveals little more than the idea that Ayurveda is one of the holistic healing practices – believing in the unity of physical and mental health.

One of the more interesting features of Ayurveda is the belief that different people may have the same outward symptoms, but may react differently to particular treatments, and may actually be suffering from different problems. Consequently your treatments here are personal to you, and another guest with identical symptoms may be prescribed significantly different treatments. After this second spell at Mattindia, it’s clear that the resident doctor knows her discipline, judging from the results that I am seeing in my personal health. It's all about "rebalancing" the body - not that I fully understand what that means, but that description feels right.

Ayurvedic medicines use entirely natural ingredients - mainly based on herbs and spices

You may recall that I panicked when my CPAP sleep pump developed an electrical fault on my third night in India, and burned out. I have been using the CPAP for more than 20 years, to stop my windpipe collapsing and restricting my breathing while I sleep . I tried to get a replacement machine flown out to me, and in the meantime I struggled with extra pillows to try and breathe comfortably. In the end it was impossible to cope with import restrictions in India, so I would just have to get by somehow. However, I was finding it gradually easier to get to sleep and to sleep soundly. At the time, Dr Shoba had prescribed various medicines, and I couldn’t remember which was for what, I just tossed back the pretty little pills and waited to see what would happen next. Little did I realise that the syrup to be taken three times daily before meals was targetting my windpipe and helping it to open up, rather than collapse as it did when I was suffering from Obstructive Sleep Apnoea.

Ayurvedic medicines are administered in a number of ways. The most familiar method is, of course, pills most of which are prescribed to be taken three times daily. For people used to tiny capsules, some of the tablets can be challengingly large. The other oral medicine is euphemistically termed “syrup,” but it is herbal and can taste pretty disgusting. Again, it’s three times daily, so you soon realise that you are consuming quite large quantities of medication in the course of the day.

Other substances are administered via other routes. In addition to the 5-day course of medicated enemas and 7 days of leeches that I described in an earlier post, I have had a 7-day course of nasal drops preceded with a facial massage. The drops stung fiercely, but the irritation was relieved by the subsequent steam bath. For this, I sat on a chair while a steam pipe was directed under a sheet thrown over my head- a bit like sitting in a small tent set up to work like a Turkish Bath. The stinging in the nasal passages was much soothed by the steam, and by Day Seven was non-existent. 

Two masseurs working in unison

Another route for Ayurvedic treatment is transdermal – i.e. through the skin. I have described my hot spice and herbal massages and at present I am having Powder Massage, which is a rub-down with medicated sawdust. Finally, there are the medicated baths, which are truly luxurious. There’s the Steam Bath described above, then there’s the Water Bath, which involves lying on the bench at the end of a massage session, covered from shoulders to toes with a cotton sheet. The therapists then keep pouring a steady flow of hot medicated water all over you. The sheet distributes the water and heat, and since the bench is on a slope, the water then drains off and back into the pan that is sitting on a gas ring. The Oil Bath is – for me – the ultimate, and I am delighted to note from my treatment sheet that I shall be having it every day now till I leave for Pondicherry at the end of the week. I lie on the bench – no sheet this time – and the two guys pour thick, hot, medicated oil all over my body for about 20 minutes. The sensation is indescribably luxurious, and surprisingly exhausting. When they finish, and scrape the oil off me with squeegees I feel quite light-headed and make my way dizzily back to my room to recover before I take a shower.

My blood pressure is a healthy 130/ 80

It was only in today’s consultation that I realised the progress of the past weeks. My blood pressure is down from 160/90 to 130/80.  My hay-fever, which has plagued me for 5 years with frequent sneezing fits, has completely disappeared. 

I no longer produce embarrassing amounts of phlegm and mucus, nor do I have a tickle in my throat that used to generate long bouts of coughing. The oedema (swelling) in my lower legs is greatly reduced and the skin colouration is back to normal. I have no problem breathing at night and fall asleep easily, so I doubt if I shall go back to using my CPAP machine again. 

Best of all, I have shed over two and a half stone (37lbs/16.8kg) and it’s still dropping off. I have purchased a 3-month supply of the anti-appetite pills, so I shall see if I can stick to the harsh regime that has led to such amazing results.

So why has this stay been so effective? I think it's because in the past I, like other guests, have treated  fortnight or so at Mattindia as a spa holiday. Previously, I have more or less followed the regime, but I have acted as if this were just a different kind of holiday. This time I have treated the place more like a hospital; I've not socialised at all; I have treated my stay as a break from all the usual pressures and routines, and usually taken an afternoon nap. I have forced my brain to switch off and encouraged my body to relax completely.

I now feel ready for a fresh start, and who knows what that might lead to?  Don't you envy  me my next destination. . . . ?

Studio Apartment with pool and gardens in Pondicherry (click to go to website)

Fashion, Food and Gleaming Smiles

It’s a sign of progress that Indian villagers are enticed away from the row of dusty shacks that are their local High Street and head off to visit the towns and the air-conditioned shopping malls that are festooned with labels and brands and racist posters portraying all kinds of beauty products.

Yes, “racist.”  Marketing racism is rife throughout India, and it’s a subtle form of commercial pressure. 

Mediterranean skin-tones and glamorous Indian hair

I am not talking about ethnic divisions in everyday society, nor discrimination against people of different religions, though this may well exist in different areas. What I am talking about is racism within normal society, in the way Indians themselves choose to value their appearance. 
It is comparable to the way that unrealistically svelte, photo-shopped images of female models dominate European fashion advertising, even though they are unrepresentative of at least 99% of women in society. 

In Indian advertisements, a dark complexion is considered socially inferior, and fashion models appear to have impossibly pale skin. What makes them Indian is the thick rope of jet-black hair, the full, dark eye-brows and clearly defined eye make-up, but the fashionable skin-tone is always, let’s say, something north of Sheffield in February.

As one travels, it seems so much of the world is chasing Europe and America, and the economic growth reveals itself through the growth of fast-food outlets.

Burgers and pizzas in cities throughout India

Pizza is universal, alongside bottled fizzy drinks, bottled water, (filtered mains supply – not from a natural spring,) and coffee. Slices of sweet, white aerated bread make sandwiches that are filled with cheese and tomato and smothered with mayonnaise. Thankfully, traditional Indian street food is still to be found, though not by someone who is aiming to see the benefits of a total detox in a loosening of the waist-band. 

The full Bollywood smile

But I wasn’t after a snack this morning; today, I wanted to visit the dentist; - and here is another market that is following western consumer trends. 

Everyone wants the full Bollywood smile treatment. While this costs hundreds in UK and thousands in USA, in India the full course, covering a year, costs just £120.

Chippy Thrideep is the village dentist, and an increasing proportion of her work is now cosmetic work for the teenage children of the rising Indian middle class. I met her on my last visit and thought I might as well give her my custom again, and have a full check-up, scale and polish while I was staying in the village, - her practice is just a couple of hundred yards up the road from Mattindia. Ms Chippy Thrideep, impressed me when I was last here, both with her gentle skills and with the ultra-modern facilities of her spotless surgery. She is petite, barely five feet tall with glamorous looks and a sparkling smile. She and her assistant made light work of giving my teeth a thorough clean and polish, after which she explained that one of my fillings, at the front near the gum-line, needed repairing. I told her to go ahead, and she executed the job carefully, with material that matched perfectly. 

My personal tooth-fairy

I would dearly like to have Chippy as my dentist and personal tooth-fairy if she were based in Lincolnshire, but she would never survive if she were earning her Kerala rates. 

Her total bill for half-an-hour of cleaning, scraping, polishing and filling amounted to just under £10.

A Course of Treatment

I have 29 doses of medication every day. I start with 30 ml of “syrup.” This is a dark brown thin liquid that doesn’t taste too bad. Then I take 2 pink capsules, 2 green capsules

2 large green pills, 1 tiny brown pill plus my Lincoln doctor’s pills, one for blood pressure and one for “urgency.” 

All that before breakfast, then after breakfast I have 30ml of the most disgusting bitter black liquid that I dilute and throw back as quickly as I can. 
I would love to stop taking that one - but it is for fat reduction, so I persevere. 
All the Ayurvedic medicines are then repeated before lunch and before the evening meal.

Every morning I have two massage sessions, but the Ayurvedic massage is very different from the sort of gentle beautician treatment we know in the west. Proper Ayurvedic massage is a four-handed affair. You have two masseurs (the masseuses are reserved for lady guests, sadly.) The masseurs are clothed; you are not. 

You shuffle into the treatment room, hang your dhoti or dressing-gown on a hook and sit on the side of the massive, solid wooden massage bench. It’s more than a yard wide and 8 feet long. While one masseur supports your chest, the other starts an exquisite, gentle oiling massage of your back and shoulders. After a while they change round, and the second masseur starts oiling your front and getting the circulation going.

For the next stage, they both take up positions facing you and work simultaneously on your left and right arms. They are perfectly synchronised to time with your grunts, squeezing down your arms as if they were trying to make your fingernails pop off. But it’s not painful, it’s exhilarating.

I then lie face down, and they start the massage-proper, again working up and down and side to side in unison. I always feel very vulnerable, lying stark naked while two fearsome foreigners molest me, but there’s not much to do except resign myself to the experience and lie there helpless.

There are various types of massage, mostly pretty messy and smelly in a herbal/spicy sort of way. At present I have two sessions. In the first, they heat up dried beans with medicinal spices in a big pan over a gas ring, and then wrap the beans in a piece of muslin and pummel away all over my body with these hot pads. For the second treatment, they have a mixture of leaves tied in muslin, and they dip this bundle in hot oil before pounding my body all over. But it’s not really suffering, because the sensation is pleasantly stimulating. Once the massaging is over they wipe off the worst of the oil, then send me to my room with strict instructions to sit quietly for at least 30 minutes before showering.

Most guests then plan their afternoon on the beach or seeing the sights in Kochi, but that’s not for me, as I am now on Phase Two of my treatment. (Those of a sensitive disposition should skip the rest of this post.) Ah me; this is where they put the TREAT into treatment. (NOT!)

I lie on the bench while they give my stomach a thorough hard rub-down: first my front, then around my midriff on my back. I then lie on my side while they give me a warm oil enema. The anticipation is worse than the experience, and it comes with the instruction to go and lie down and “hold it in for at least an hour.” Of course, the instinct is to do the exact opposite, and I lie on my bed trying not to think about it, then trying to concentrate on what I am supposed to do, and I am never quite sure which is the most effective strategy.

But, once again, the apprehension is unnecessary, because it isn’t really that difficult, it’s just that the whole experience is very unfamiliar, and in NHS terms, quite unthinkable.

And now comes the real treat. The leeches to drain the infected blood from the calves of my legs.

But I think you’ve had enough for one session; so we’ll leave that for . . . well maybe we’ll just leave it. No? You want to know about leeches? Ah well, if you insist, skip the rest if you are squeamish, or click on this link if you want to read more about leeches and see what they look like.

Oedema is a fairly common condition of swelling of the legs and ankles caused by fluid retention and poor circulation, which, in my case are partly the result of my size, and of spending 15 years on my feet, in the restaurant kitchen. Cellulitis is a blood infection which can be the result of a tiny scratch or insect bite, and is aggravated by poor circulation, so the combination of cellulitis and oedema is an unhealthy condition for someone my size and age. As I well know, it’s a condition that is also difficult to eradicate.

They gave me intravenous antibiotics in Lincoln Hospital

In 2014, Lincoln hospital prescribed me 90 days of penicillin following intravenous anti-biotics while I was hospitalised. The condition responded, but not completely and the infection remained.

One of the treatments at Mattindia is to use leeches to draw out the infected blood and excess fluid from the area. This is a treatment I had last year and found that it gave some relief to both the cellulitis and the oedema, though I have to say that the experience is initially daunting for someone coming from a more conventional and drug-based medical culture.

It’s very simple: I sit at my desk and read or write with my feet in a bowl containing an inch or two of water. A medical orderly puts a leech on my lower leg, and after a while it attaches itself to my foot or leg – but there is virtually no sensation to me. The leech then continues to draw out the liquid until it is replete – at which stage it simply drops into the water.

All straightforward so far, but the problem is that the blood keeps flowing, which is probably caused by the anticoagulant that exists in the saliva of the leech. The medical orderly cleans and bandages the tiny wound, but nothing seems to stop the flow, and I finish up going to bed that night with yards of bandaging and my lower leg wrapped in towels to absorb the flow.

The worst part is that I have been virtually immobile for the current week as I have to spend my day sitting and waiting – either because of the enema, or because of the leeches. No excuse not to write – even though I have probably made my hundred or so followers more than a little squeamish.

Sorry, about that. Maybe I should stick to lampooning the French.

A Cacophony of Frogs

Actually, the collective noun for a number of frogs is a knot or a colony, but neither has the relevant connotations, since I was seeking a noun to describe an extremely loud group of middle-aged French women whose every conversational sentence began with the supremely egotistical phrase ”Moi, je…..”  

For the last ten days they have insisted on talking to each other, all the time, which is, of course, something Anglo-Saxons would not dream of engaging in without at least some kind of introduction. 

I had thought that by the time mid-morning came around they wouldn’t have much left to say for the day, but their conversation rises in speed and volume towards the evening, as they forge on, mostly all speaking at same time, in what must be a specialised French way of minimising the pauses between one person’s statement and the other’s response.

Most of them left this morning, though I see from the wall-chart in the office that replacements are en-route. 

It's always entertaining to watch the newbies get used to the place.

So far, I haven’t had to mix much with other guests since I have been on a special diet, which immediately attracts stares and puzzlement from my inquisitive fellow-guests.

If I had sat at the long table as I would normally, I would have been explaining my special diet in French, German and Italian on a daily basis, and quite honestly, it was easier to pick up my plate from the kitchen and scurry back up to my veranda rather than be forcibly multi-lingual.

It’s quieter here now, and we are more multicultural with no dominant tribe for a while. Here at Mattindia, this is what tends to happen: when one nationality has more than half a dozen representatives, the whole establishment undergoes a cultural shift. 

At the beginning of December, it was the Spanish who picked at their chick-peas and chapattis and then escaped to Mehrin Bakery and Tea-Rooms on the corner for something exquisitely sticky, washed down with the Raj’s equivalent of a Caffe Latte – which is not a million taste-buds away from a bottle of Camp chicory drink, made up with evaporated milk and several sugars.

The Italians always develop serious caffeine-withdrawal with the absence of an espresso machine and try, desperately, firstly to understand an electric kettle, and then try to coax a vague Arabica flavour out of the freeze-dried powder in the jar labelled “Coffee,” but to no avail.

Northern European guests tend to be sophisticated and take it all in their stride. 

They didn’t expect immaculate décor or fawning service, which is just as well, because you either take Mattindia as it is – grubby and glorious - or you are very unhappy and don’t really understand India, wanderlust or the importance of always carrying a pack of tissues.

I have tissues bound to my legs at the moment, to staunch the rivers of blood that really messed up the bathroom floor, transforming it into a scene-set for Hitchcock. 

It’s the leeches, you see. But I’ll save the horror of my treatments till next time.