Sir, can I take your picture?

Right, had a quick flick over the last post to see where I was up to and realised how extremely boring it was, and after several comments from 'friends' I've decided to jazz up my blog for the New Year. So here it is, the new all-singing, all-dancing, er, blog (such a crap word). Let's see if you can spot where the forays into fantastic fiction blend into the mundane everyday realities.

On the 27th December, having traipsed with oh-so-silly optimism to the Root Institute, we ended up at Barma's guesthouse - it had a name, Mamta, but we didn't use it because our host's personality was so dominant it didn't seem proper to speak of it without mentioning him. The guesthouse was made of SOLID GOLD and hovered TWENTY FEET from the ground. It was a bit of a hassle getting in and out.

By the way, did I mention the mouse? The tiny, cute little mouse that decided over the Christmas period he would seek some company during those long, lonely nights? I was quite prepared to make friends, but when I returned to the room in Varanasi Yogi Lodge, after the phone call with the parentos, I found Dixie crouched on the bed surrounded by most of our stuff. 'I think it's behind your bag'. Ashen-faced, she motioned towards the corner. The French people staying in the room next door, linked by a grill up high in the wall, must have thought they were dreaming when they heard battle commence (scuffle-scuffle 'You can climb, you bastard!' scuffle-scuffle) though I was out of the room at the time and only heard Dixie's wide-eyed accounts. I must say, I thought the whole thing was pretty hilarious, even when we were on our knees stuffing plastic bags into the cracks in the floor with a spoon. I'm only saying this now because Dixie has left the internet cafe, no doubt I'll get a cuff for my troubles when she reads it. The dangers I brave to tell people the truth.

In Bodhgaya, we spent a shameful amount of time lost in the carnival dimension of cards. We even went online, in order to find more card games to play and pass the time. This...well, boredom...was ensured by the fact that we couldn't get a train to Kolkata until New Year's Day. Instead, then, we had to celebrate in the decidedly staid surroundings of the Japanese Buddhist Temple. They had a big bell, everyone rung it, it was great. The evening was enlivened somewhat by a very touchy-feely, but nice, Indian chap called Sabi. Drunk beyond all sense of empathy, he led us back to his one-room flat and crashed in on his sleeping wife, in order to introduce us. Happy New Year!

But good old Barma, attentive to the point of neurosis, who pretended not to hear when you said you didn't want to order breakfast, who wheezed across town to bring back beer, who smarmed all over the place until the corridors were covered with a thick, gooey substance I think is called hospitality. Between the constant work of fending off his solicitations, we staggered away from our guesthouse to the Mahabodhi Mahavihara temple to relax, surrounding by thousands of prostrating, humming, groaning monks.

One the morning of the 29th, we rose at the unlikely time of 8am and, sailing past a crestfallen Barma, proceeded down Bodhgaya Road to the International Inter-faith Prayer for World Peace, stopping for only three or four games of cards over breakfast along the way. The ceremony, which featured addresses from a Christian Bishop, a Hindu priest, a Muslim elder, a Buddhist super-monk (I think that's the proper term), and, easily the most passionate of the lot, a fiery Jain lady. Like Hitler she screamed and gesticulated, through the mask which Jains wear to prevent them harming flies by swallowing them. No rabbi. The service was only partly spoilt by a noisy Indian attempting to talk to me about his business all the way through it. On our way back, after dinner at an excellent Tibetan restaurant, we stopped for another drink. Bought a few local streetkids some Pepsi, which they sat at a table and drank, obviously a completely new experience for them. Played cards with some others.

A sidenote on the very important issue of momos. These dumpling-like Tibetan/Nepalese creations were our mainstay during the long, tepid afternoons and cool evenings of Bodhgaya. Consisting of a filling surrounded by a kind of pasta-pastry, steamed or fried, they were good, solid food, unspiced. You can have them in soup, with veg or beef (beef!) or chicken, with dip. You can eat them on the roof. You can do anything with momos.

On the first, in the evening: Kolkata. Or that's what we thought. Caught a rickshaw from Bodhgaya to the nearest station, chugging through India's premier bandit-country at around 8pm when it was already pitch-black. Oh, how I wish we'd waited, and not put our faith in Indian Railways. The train to Howrah Station, Kolkata, which was supposed to leave at 9:50 pm, ended up pulling out of Gaya at 5:30am. Yes, for those of you who expect me to do the work, that's a delay of seven hours and forty minutes. We spent the intervening period with a group of equally-disgruntled Europeans, begging them to play rummy, whist, poker, anything, please, we just need another hand to come in! And then, just as we were about to reach Kolkata, the train EXPLODED. Exciting, eh?

Kolkata, then, is pretty damn cool, fortunate because I'm probably going to spend a month here. A city of wide, European roads and colonnades manned by cut-throat merchants and apathetic restaurateurs. Yesterday, on my birthday and our first full day here, we sauntered onto the Maidan (lit: 'field'), a large central grassy area housing numerous cricket and golf clubs, miraculously preserved from the predatory property developers. Cattle graze and horses roam in the shadow of skyscrapers, amid the numberless thocks of bat-on-ball. After chatting to some local schoolchildren, we wandered up to the Victoria Memorial - still staunchly referred to as the 'VM' despite efforts to Indianise the street and monuments names of Kolkata - and signed autographs for local Scouts. In fact, most of the streets are still referred to by their original British titles. Evidence of the Raj is everywhere, from the old administrative buildings, hopelessly begrimed and in an advanced state of disintegration, to the proud legacy of achievement in soccer. A deeply artistic city, central Kolkata teems with bookstalls and music-shops. Tonight, in fact, we intend to catch some live music in English in one of the many venues down Mirza Ghalib Road/Free School Street.

For my birthday celebration, we almost watched an Indian blue movie before realising our mistake and scarpering to another cinema. And twice, that's twice, we went for coffee at one of these swanky, European-style places for rich, hip young Indians. It's a whole different way of life out here, man, and I'm throwing myself into the thick of it. Seriously, when Dixie goes I'm going to live in a bucket for a week as penance.

Before I go there's just time for a special shoutout to a certain David Eggboro. Having been informed by Charlotte of the gloating that took place when I mentioned only her in the Christmas blog, I'm taking this opportunity to say that I like you both equally. Actually, Charlotte has just lost points through her cruelty, so if you play your cards right Eggie you might even become my third best friend outright after Shackleton and Joel. Sorry, Stevie.