Cold feet in Munnar

I woke up angry today. No wait, scratch that. I woke up cold today. And the cold makes me angry, like a miniature hulk you wouldn’t like me in winter. Don’t believe me? Ask around.

I’m in Munnar, one of the well visited hill stations in South India, and all around me are the landscapes of legends. Its superlative, superlative, swearword-stunning. That jaw-to-the-floor cartoon wolf whistle type of stunning, like Jessica Rabbit, or Daphne from Scooby Doo (although I’ve been told that’s just me).

The writer in me is inspired. I feel like Shelly out at sea, or Lord Byron walking through the mountains of Northern Italy. But in the mornings, which I struggle with at the best of times, I curse the craggy peaks for stealing my sun.

It gets cold here in the evenings too, very cold. My room gets no light and has a ruthless tile floor. Plus, there’s only ice water coming out of the taps whether its morning, noon or night. And I have an obsessive compulsion to shower at least twice a day, no matter what.

So I’m awake and I’m miserable, depressed with a kick, lying in bed wrapped up like a ball of twine in a sock draw. I eventually drag myself out from under the covers, F-and-Blind my way through the torments of washing and shiver up to the first floor, where the sun basks happily on people with a higher monthly budget. I perch on the railings, smoke a beadie and begin to thaw out.

A couple of minutes later I’m greeted by four sour faces, young home counties Brits (not you Amanda and Harriet) who have moved in and are obviously pissed off about sharing ‘their’ porch. They ignore me, but talk loudly about themselves and I feel myself wind up again, like an uncurled paper clip being squeezed around your little finger. I ignore them back but I’m forced to move when I hear that, ‘Chester has gone out to find something normal to eat.’ I kid you not, and his name really was Chester.

I flee to the food stall at the bottom of the street and console myself with an omelet. Eggs for breakfast, my one culinary vice. I’m munching my way through a disproportionate helping of ‘Bread Toast’ and I realise that once again I’ve sat down in bad company. The three Indian lads whose table I’ve gatecrashed are watching me closely and sniggering. I know it’s about me, this is not lonely paranoia, they make absolutely no bones to hide it. Even the guy cooking, a big dark man with huge smiles and hands, comes over and says something to them. They laugh it off, he’s a local. From their wristwatches and number plates I guess a rich Tamil family background.

The sniggering continues and I am reminded of being at school. Ostracised in the playground, outcast over some petty squabble. I eat in silence, finish too quickly, pay up politely and leave. Walking into town I scream muted obscenities at the world.

On the way I walk past the local school and immediately spot the flaw in my plan to remain unnoticed. Its lunchtime and three hundred children are flooding out of the front gates. Right into the road, right into me. Soft targets for the oncoming dangers of belligerent human steering.

Now being white in India you are obviously in the minority, therefore you get noticed. It’s not a race thing, it’s a difference thing (well sometimes it’s a race thing but there are idiots all over the world), like a new shop on a high street or a new ride at a fun fair. People can be interested, curious. And children are the worst for it.

I hear about 15 voices behind me daring each other to say something.
‘Hello sir, hello sir. What is your country?’
I hate being called sir so I always answer back with the same formality, ‘England sir.’
A sea of confused tiny faces stare up at me.
‘And what country are you from?’ I ask.
‘INDIA!!!’ a chorus of proud confirmation explodes on the roadside. Sometimes adults seem offended by this question, but it can bring out the very best in children.

By now I have an entourage of about 25 school uniforms around me, the more daring at the front, with the shier ones, and the girls, watching from a safe distance. We go through the textbook questions and answers, they boast and practice their English, and I forget about the slim chance of being left alone.

Normal conversations dry up quickly so I challenge the boys to a competition to see who’s got the longest stride, knowing I can out stretch them all. They line up, feet and toes touching, and push themselves forward with such conviction that two of them instantly fall over. The tallest is the winner, as I had predicted, and he pesters me about cricket until we reach the bus stop.

As I am waving goodbye to the boys, and exchanging polite smiles with the girls, I notice that my morning’s anger has gone. I feel nothing, no frustration, no resentment. Nothing. Everything today has irritated me, and I’ve loathed everyone, but standing on the roadside exaggerating with my hands I feel strangely calm again.

I find India forces me to deal with people, and sometimes there is physically no escape from a conversation. Strangers here can involve themselves with you in a way that takes years of small talk in England. Its one of the reasons why I love this country so much, and at times its one of the most infuriating parts of being here. But learning to deal with it, to rattle the bars of my selfish cage, has over the years made me a much happier man.

The bus pulls away and I carry on walking into town, knowing I can’t be angry anymore today, not after meeting these children. When someone is so innocently eager to just stand there and look at you, you become acutely aware of your responsibilities to the world.

Hate breeds and anger spills over like a thick syrup, but so does love. And now these children can go home and tell their parents about the funny Englishman they met on their way home from school. And if the next one smiles at them the way I did, I believe the world will become a much warmer place in the mornings.