Melvin Burgess Stuff

The real trouble with troll hunting is learning to recognise them inthe first place.

You’d have thought that the basic differences between atroll and a human being would be well known. Not so.

Despite the wide, spade-like feet and hands, the flat, widebrow and bone crushing teeth, many people have difficulty in recognising theirbasic lack of humanity.

Even with the short stubby tail, a troll can get away withthe illusion that they are human more often that not.

And all this is despite the fact that they are the world's worst lairs. It’s just so obvious!

“Is that a tail you have there?” you might say.

“Oh, no!” says the troll. “I’m just in fancy dress.” Andnine times out of ten, the stupid people swallow it.

Just the other day I saw a suspicious woman accuse one outright. “You’re a troll!” she exclaimed, staring atit’s horny toe nails.

“A troll?” answered the creature cunningly, grinning andrummaging in her pockets. “You don’t believe in that sort of nonsense, do you?”

“No – of course not,” replied the woman. And off she went, minus her self respect,feeling grubby and convinced it was all her own fault.

A typical trollish encounter.

***

Only the other day I saw a couple hanging around myneighbour’s fish pond.

When challenged, they claimed to be looking for lost golfballs.

My neighbour believed it and went back indoors, mollified.

Minutes later, peering out of the bedroom window, I spottedthem spawning in the shallow end.

There was nothing I could do. I called round to point it out, but then, my neighbour already believed every lie they uttered.

He told me I would be happier if I were a less suspicious person, told me to mind my own bussiness and has not spoken to me since.

The trolls left shortly afterwards, sneering openly at me, after pretending to havechanged his electricity provider, leaving him floundering in troll spawn andthinking that it was all my fault!

Troll spawn. Themost horrid kind of spawn there is.

***

The first trolls I ever came across were dressed verynormally like three ugly girls in the playground.

It was only when I caught them altering my homework andputting skid marks in my underpants with malteesers that I realised exactly what they were.

“Those girls, they’re trolls,” I thought.

But the realisation didn’t last long.

“You did that,” they told me.

And straight away, I remembered doing rubbish homework andnot being bothered to go to the toilet.It felt like I’d never forget.

There were three of them that day, two small ones and agreat big one.

“My name is Naughty,” said one of the small ones. “And this is my friend Sorry.”

“You will be,” said the other little one. Then they started to tell me all the things Ishould never have done.

“How did you know?” I kept asking. “Your mum told us,” they said.

My own mum. How could she?

All the time they talked the big one just stared at me. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.

Eventually she said, “Do you want to know my name?”

“Yes,” I said, although I really didn’t.

“My name is YOU’REUSELESS!” she bawled suddenly in my face. And you know what? I believedthat, too.

***

A great deal still remainsobscure about this semi-subterranean inhuman race.

No one for instance knows exactly how, or even if, theyprocreate.

Some say it’s an ordinary birth, others that they are theresult of spontaneous ejaculation.

Another theory is that trolls are caused by the heating ofclay under the feet when fretting unnecessarily.

My own opinion is that they form from specks of phlegm,coughed out onto the ground. Whenanother person coughs on the same spot, a troll is born.

Starting as a small bud, the troll grows rapidly over night like amushroom. When it reaches about twofeet tall it removes itself from the earth, finds it’s fellows, and begins it’strollish existence.

That’s how a troll is born.But the question everyone wants the answer to is, how do they die?

More to point – how can you kill one?

How to murder a troll?

***

My first attempt to murder a troll was some thirty years after that firstencounter in the playground.

It was after an unsuccessful day at work. I was walking bythe river when they appeared on the bank just ahead of me.

I didn’t recognise them at first. I thought they were justthree large, ugly girls until they jeeringly asked if I still mucked my kecks.

“How did you now that?” I asked.

“Your mum told us,” they said.

I had a shudder of memory. I’d forgotten they even existed.

“Remember my name?” asked the big one.

I quailed. I triedto walk round them, they got in the way.I turned back; they were behind me.

The big one hoisted up her skirts and shat on the footpath,a great sticky brown monster that sat there steaming and smirking at me.

“Eat my shit,” said You’re Useless.

“No,” I said, “I won’t. Don't be ridiculous. That’s stupid!”

“You won’t, won't you?” she asked, hulking up close to me.

I looked down at it and retched. Troll shit. The worst kind of shit there is.

***

After, I went home in a deep, deep shame. I had to spend several days in bed before Idecided I wasn’t putting up with it.

That’s when I came up with my first plan to murder a troll.

I say plan.

All it was, I went round with a big stick to beat them intooblivion.

It didn’t take long to find them down by the river wherethey’d last been lurking.

I was cunning; I went with a bowed head and mournful demeanour.Trolls become brave in the presence of low spirits.

Out they came, grinning and dusting the dirt off theirfrocks. One of them was pulling a worm in two with her grubby fat hands.

As soon as they got close I whipped out my bit stick andgave chase.

WHACK WHACK WHACK I went.

Ow ow ow went the three trolls.

Off they ran, with me in pursuit, cracking their skullsuntil the red blood blossomed on their greasy heads.

They gave up all pretence of being human and burrowed backinto the ground. I whacked them as they tunnelled deep among the tree roots.

Bones snapped, skulls cracked, blood welled. Brains splat.

When they’d stopped moving and I’d beaten them into the earth, I filled in the place with stones and went on my way.

It was good. It wasso, so good.

Yeah. I never feltso good as the first time I killed a troll.

***

Years passed. It wasround about the time my marriage was in trouble that I went down by that river again,walking the same walk.

When I came to the bend where I had murdered them yearsbefore, I paused, to re-live my victory..

Three bumps by the path by the river. Three humps in the ground.

I wanted to turn and run but my feet wouldn’t let me.

As I got near the ground began to crack, and up they grew.

And grew and grew and grew.It was beyond the belief how huge they had grown.

Vast giants of trolls, their frocks like cotton print tents,their hair tangles of greasy undergrowth, sprouting out of the earth likemonstrous mushrooms.

They pulled their feet out of the earth, and sneered.

“We like it under the ground,” said Sorry.

“We ate everything,” said Naughty.

You’re Useless didn’t say anything. Instead she cupped herterrible breasts in her hands and pouted her terrible lips at me.

“You’re my boyfriend, now,” she said.

God help me, I nodded.

“Now you have to take me into the bushes and do me,” shesaid.

“I’m married,” I managed to croak.

“We better hope she doesn’t find out about us, then,” saidYou’re Useless. And all three of themlaughed like bastards.

“Please don’t makeme,” I said.

It was the worst thing I could have done. Trolls love you to beg.
I can’t even talk about what happened next. I had to stay in bed in a darkened room for weeks.

***

When I did finally get up, they were roaming about up anddown the road in the valley below my house.

I could see the tops of their heads above the trees as theywandered up and down.

From time to time they shouted truths, half truths and lies up the hill for my neighbours to hear..

“He CRAPS HIS PANT!” shouted Sorry.

“He steals plants from your gardens and only has a littlewilly,” shouted Naughty.

“He can’t do the things he wants to do,” Bellowed You’reUseless. “Because he just don’t dare!”

“He’s never actually sorry for anything he does,” theyroared all together. “He justpretends.” I shut the window and wept.

Some of these things are true. I’m not saying which ones.

***

After that, I more or less gave up for a while.

Then I decided to try another tack.

Maybe they were feeling lonely – isolated. In some sort oftrouble.

Maybe they just wanted to be friends.

I made a plate of sandwiches out of sardines and cat foodand left them to ripen on a radiator for a week or so.

Then I went down to the river to try and make friends.

I held the sandwiches out by the crack in the ground wherethey spent the nights. A pair of yelloweyes looked out at me and blinked.

“Want to come home with me?” I asked.

BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG mistake.
***

I should have known it would turn out wrong by the way theykept laughing and smirking to each other on the way back.

What can I say? Lifewith trolls is no life at all.

They either eat everything in the house or sit aroundgetting thinner and thinner until you’re convinced they’re going to die.

You find their droppings everywhere – even, more than once,in the fridge, cunningly carved into the shapes of your favourite chocolates.

I can never eat Ferreo Rocher again.

They self harm at the table just before your guests arrive.

They tell tales on you to your friends and perform lewd actswith your grandmother when you’re not looking.

When your grandmother complains, they try to make out it wasyou.

Yes. Even that.

I tried poisoning them; they gobbled it up and asked formore.

I tried drowning them in the pond; they mated with the frogsand produced dozens of expensive to maintain frolls and trogs.

I locked them in the freezer. The broke out, got into bed with me and rubbed their cold feetall over my stomach.

Nothing works.

You can’t kill them. You can’t make friends with them.

Instead I keep them as pets. They live in a large tank in the sitting room.

I feed them on fish heads and cat food. Each night they come out and crap all overthe house.

I come down each morning and clean it up with a plastic bagfolded over my hand.

I find it works quite well in a gratin with fresh mushrooms, or impaled on a skewer with onions and grilled like a kebab.

Best nor served rare. Or to guests.
End

Anyone who’s been following the recent part of my blog about my travels in India will know that I felt the whole thing went rather well, so you can imagine how taken aback I was to find a comment to one of my posts suggestion that I had come straigh tback hom and started to write stuff that could be construed as racist. It was this line … “In public in a room full of brown faces, sari-clad girls and their professors,” that got me into trouble.

At first I thought I’d come out with this in front of a class, but it turned out it was written in my blog, which made me feel a little better, I have to say. I felt then, and I feel now, that such a statement can’t really be taken as evidence of racism, but it did start off an interesting debate with one of the students I spoke to in Delhi about racism, sterotypes and racial preconceptions in general. Samarth and I have agreed to reproduce our emails here in full. I think for both Indians and Eurpoeans, they provides an insight into how our respectives minds work, reveal a few pitfalls, not to mention pratfalls and perhaps shows how what seems obvious enough to one side, isn’t at all clear to the other. And who knows, hopefully they provides a bridge of some kind in a very small way, between our two cultures.

Any comments welcomed.
Melvin

Melvin here asked me to write an introduction( I am not accusing him of this … you’ll later in this intro know why i am justifying this ) . Anyways Melvin came to our college on 17′th of February to have a discussion on his views about teenage fiction and his stance on what exactly it stands for.
He came across as a man who questions everything that binds or holds the society together . to cut a long story short , he questions what is good and what is bad … and why is it so.
Anyways it was rather enlightening to learn from him about all this and as a person , one would feel that Melvin will be the last person on this planet who will fall into racial prejudices. Anyhow i happened to read his blog where he mentioned us and referred
to us as sari clad girls and brown faced boys. Now I found it a bit offensive, maybe because even I had a prejudice in mind that white people are still racially prejudiced and I was looking for an excuse to call him a racist. But one thing that made me quite sure that he is also racially prejudiced was when he called all of the women in that discussion hall ’sari clad women’. Now why I emphasize on this because every women or girl was wearing western outfit but only one was wearing a sari.

So I decided to write a letter to Melvin and thought to have a talk about him on this matter. We are living in the world which is rapidly moving towards globalization and where there is intermixing of races ad people still being racially prejudiced is in the way of this globalisation. So I write to Melvin about his prejudice and we have a very spirited debate about it and it turned out we both were wrong. Me for being carried away by my emotions and accusing him of falling into the vicious circle of racism and he … well let him speak for it. hope after you guys read our emails will be a bit alert on how things in daily life are actually run by nothing by prejudices and even the people who say that we are not prejudiced fall into it. I hope after reading our emails you guys will try and incorporate certain values which will help you not to let things like these happen in your lives.
Cheers!!
Samarth Goyal

Dear Melvin,
I hope you dont take it the wrong way , but it just as though we feeli kind of insulted when you called us ‘ brown faced people’ , I mean we didnt expect thhis atleast from a person like you who himslef says that we should try and go beyond the social prejudices and moral codes . Dont you think you yourself are falling in the vicious circle of racism ?
Now that is a question I as an Indian would like to know its answer …

Hi Sam - thanks for your comment, which has given me some pause for thought, I have to say. My first reaction is - Oh my god, did I really say that?!? Ouch. I think I remember the context - I was talking about my expectations that people in India would be less, not more willing, to have the rude and controversial bits from a book like Doing It read out in class. over here in England where there is a large Asian contingent in the school, I am aware that I may have to be more sensitive about moral codes. After all, it’s one thing to write things in a book, than to say them in public. I was trying to say that, confronted with a class of Asian faces, my instinct was to be more cautious, not less.
I suppose I could be accused of racism here for expecting you all to be less, not more willing, to have me read out the naughty bits - it’s certainly true I felt uncomfortable about it. But I don’t think it’s that which has offended you - I think it is the reference to brown faces in the classroom.
Well, what can I say? I do understand that there are phrase which in a white Englishman’s mouth are offensive in a way that would not occur if they were said by someone else. So I apologize to you all, and I hope you will forgive me for my lapse, and that you accept that it was matter of sensitivity and manners, rather than actual racism. I can think of no way in which Indian people are inferior, or less, than Europeans. I like to think - to hope - that any racism in me is not a matter of belief, but simply a matter of issues absorbed in childhood that I have not as yet brought to conscious reflection.
Having said that sincerely, may I ask you a question - in the spirit of curiosity, learning and enquiry that I found so prevalent in Indian Universities … so what’s wrong with having a brown face? Or was it merely a matter of language that offended?
I’ve published your comment on my blog, and I’ll post this comment too. It would be great if this debate were to go on further!
Very best wishes - Melvin

Hi Sam - thanks for your comment, which has given me some pause for thought, I have to say, my first reaction is - Oh my god, did I really say that?!? Ouch. I think I remember the context - I was talking about my expectations that people in India would be less, not more willing, to have the rude and controversial bits from a book like Doing It read out in class. over here in England where there is a large Asian contingent in the school, I am aware that I may have to be more sensitive about moral codes. After all, it’s one
thing to write things in a book, than to say them in public. I was trying to say that, confronted with a class of Asian faces, my instinct was to be more cautious, not less.

I suppose I could be accused of racism here for expecting you’ll to be less, not more illing, to have me read out the naughty bits - it’s certainly true I felt uncomfortable about it. But I don’t think it’s that which has offended you - I think it is the reference to brown faces in the classroom.

Well, what can I say? I do understand that there are phrase which in a white Englishman’s mouth are offensive in a way that would not occur if they were said by someone else. So I apologize to you all, and I hope you will forgive me for my lapse, and that you accept that it was matter of sensitivity and manners, rather than actual racism. I can think of no way in which Indian people are inferior, or less, than Europeans. I like to think - to hope - that any racism in me is not a matter of belief, but simply a matter of issues absorbed in childhood that I have not as yet brought to conscious reflection.

Having said that sincerely, may I ask you a question - in the spirit of curiosity, learning and enquiry that I found so prevalent in Indian Universities … so what’s wrong with having a brown face? Or was it merely a matter of language that offended? Very best wishes - Melvin

Dear Melvin ,
Well to be quite frank it’s not that because you are a white and you said that we have brown faces we feel offended . It’s not like that , I have this issue with stereotypes ( I am quite like one of your characters from JUNK) , you know Indians are brown & Britishers are whites , just try and imagine what impact it would have on others while reading it . Don’t you think many of them will be like ” Oh my god we were right !! , they are brown !! and they wear saris ‘ and because we asked you to read the controversial portions of ‘ Doing It , they might as well think that Indians are spiritually or morally or whatever low . Personally I don’t care about it, but yes when it comes to my country I am little sensitive about it .

As i said in my earlier comment , I never quite expected this from you and I knew you would be having some sort of an explanation.
.
The issue of racism is quite serious and has now an impact on all be it the blacks , the browns or the whites. Thats why I think , you as a writer should try and refrain from these terms because what you write does have an impact on others and I know you personally don’t want to prove any stereotypes .
I hope I haven’t offended you in any sense , and if I have my sincere apologies

Dear Samarth,
Well, Sam, I have say, we disagree on this one. I accept that I was insensitive there, but what I said was neither racist nor stereotyping. Racism is a form of discrimination - and of course saying that you have a brown face is in no way discriminatory as it doesn’t prevent you from doing anything, nor give anyone an advantage over you. Neither is it stereotyping. Stereotyping is when you assume characteristics in a group of people that are often untrue. To say that Indian people have brown skins is simply a matter of fact. People might think, “Oh, yes, they are brown.” But there is no Oh my God is this matter, anymore than if I were to say that Indian people live in democracy.
True racism is a very nasty thing as it assumes superiority on one side, and inferiority on the other. Stereotyping is less serious, in my opinion, as it doesn’t necessarily constrain anyone, but it still bad as it fails to recognise individuality and variety. Now, in my blogs I said a great deal about Indian people, gathered from what was after all a very short trip. I think you should look at what I said over all and judge from that, rather than picking out the bits that you don’t like. Stereotypes are almost always built up from a grain of truth - a very partial truth, it’s true, and sometimes an insulting one. But there is nothing insulting in saying that Indian people usually have brown skins, and there is nothing insulting in my relating that a your class - very proudly, I thought - asked me to read out the controversial passages from Doing It. Unless you feel ashamed of these things yourself, of course, which would be a great shame.
I would think the secret here is to be proud of what you are. Brown skin is beautiful, open mindedness is beautiful. I was very impressed by the Indian people who I met on my trip, and very pleased and proud to have had the chance to speak in such an interesting, vibrant and fast chanign country. I do think I was insensitive in saying what I did, but to confuse it with racism - well, it just gives the real racists a chance to sneak in the backdoor.
Finally - you haven’t offended me at all - I’m more than happy to engage in conversation abtu these issues, and about anything I’ve written or said. Of course we all get it wrong from time to time, and if we don’t tell one another, how would we ever know?
Very best wishes, Melvin

PS - May I had this correspondence to my blog? It’s an interesting debate and I’m sure people would love to be able to read about your feelings on the matter?

Dear Melvin,
Again , if you think if i am arguing about it just for the sake of it , I am not .
the terms like brown skin are racial terms and people do feel bad about it .
And what I said , was what you took in rather a different sense . What i said u stereotyped typically was not on ‘ brown skin’ , but when u said ‘ sari clad girls’ . Just to show you how this stereotyped worked , was when you gave the lecture every girl except one and only one were in western clothing . That’s not to demoralise the saris or anything from our country . but the fact that you saw every girl in saris in your lecture …
Now how this became a racist issue was when you mixed it with brown color ..
I hope you get it now . You know , I know its tough being in your shoes, facing these issues every time but then as advice ( i know i am too young to do this) I think you should not try and say all of this .
I got hurt because you know , yes maybe after reading your comment i got alarmed by your use of the word brown , but I will have to say that when it was used with the word sari clad girl , it definitely sounded like a racist tone simple because none of the girl except one was wearing one !!!
I hope you do get the point
Regards
Samarth
PS : I know this debate is going too well . You may please add this comment on your blog and why don’t we invite some others to comment on this ..

Dear Samarth,
Thank you for this. Of course, I understand that you’re writing for a good reason - I never thought otherwise. I hope that you don’t think I am doing that either. It might seem to you that I’m nit picking, but you have suggested that I might be a racist. That’s not something I take lightly.

The part of UK culture I come from regards racism as an odious thing, poisonous, elitist, deeply unfair and very dangerous, so naturally I have to think very hard about what I said, why I said it and what it means; and as well as accepting the fact that you found it offensive, I thin I have a right to ask you to look at your own terms as well. There is after all a bit of continuum here. We could start with the concept of preconceptions - we all have those about other races we’re not familiar with. Every time I go abroad I come across such preconceptions in my myself about the people I am seeing and meeting, that prove untrue. Then there are stereotypes, which are social pre-conceptions, perhaps. Again, we all have these. Right now I have a picture of a “typical” Indian girl in my mind, and yes, she does wear a sari. Of course, I know that is wrong, and that there is no such thing as a “typical Indian girl.” but this is convenient way of looking at things that nearly, if not all, people carry around with them for good or bad. The point there is - how much do we hang on to that stereotype? If we hang on to it in the face of evidence, then we are prejudiced and finally, if we act out those prejudices on another race, we are racist. Now, you could have suggested any one of those was going on, but you have leaped straight to the big one - racism. Since I despise racist, I have to look at myself and your terms very clearly.

You are quite right - I did say “sari wearing” when only one person in the room was wearing a sari and yes, that leaves me open the accusation of stereotyping. For that I do apologise - I hope you can accept that there was no intention to offend. In my own defense, I’d like to point out that I was actually making the point that one of my other stereotypes, or preconceptions, of Indian people had just been shattered, in that I was expecting a class of Indian students to more conservative that their UK counterparts - and your class had just shown me that that was wrong. In doing so I allowed a stereotypical view of how Indian people look to slip out, and as I say, I am really sorry that I offended you and any of your class mates or professors. I have to say, I feel foolish - it was a stupid
and clumsy thing to do. But is it really a racist remark? And if it was, does that make me a racist? I think that is a very much more serious accusation - one has to be actively oppressing or defaming or discriminating against someone because of their race for that, and I think my thoughtlessness doesn’t get into that category.

So there we go. I hope you accept my apology and my debating with you about this in the spirit in which it was intended. Thank you for bringing me to task in such a spirited but polite and respectful way - I can only say you were quite right to bring it up, and that I think better of Indian students after discussing this with you. As it is a matter of interest and debate here in the UK as well as in Indian, I’d love to post this - I’ll do it as a separate blog, if I may. If anyone else - your classmates or your professors, for example - want to add their say to the discussion, I shall of course publish it. Can I suggest that we both write a very short introduction to these debates, just a paragraph or so, just to put it into context …?

Thanks Samarth - it’s been a pleasure discussing with you. Once again, my apologies for any offence caused.

Melvin

Dear Mevin ,
I do apologise for my extreme comments for calling you a racist , in my defence I would say I am ruled by emotions too much i guess …
Why I called you a racist was that you were like the last person I
expected this to happen . And why I called you a racist was because I
you whole sentence sounded like one. I think we both were wrong in some way or the other , so I guess we don’t need to be apologetic to each other ( plus we both are Manchester united fans so I don’t think it counts )

And yes I would definitely want a Blog on this and just , if you can brief me about what introduction you want I can definitely type that for you
Cheers!!!
Samarth

Hi Samarth - no problem, life goes on and certainly college first! One thing I think we ought to look at a bit before we get this up - an area we never really talked about which a couple of people have raised with me, which is about the status of colour within India. Over here, you know, the shops are full of face whitening creams Asian people, and there is a general perception among many of them that a pale face is more attractive. This may have it’s roots in colonialism,, but you know, it’s a common thing around the world where ever there is a class or caste system, because people who work outdoors get a darker skin, and traditionally, therefore, a paler face is associated with status, wealth etc. As the Germans say, “success makes sexy!” The point about he sari clad girls I take, but could you let me have your thoughts on this area? - if I perhaps stumbled into an internal prejudice within India, when talking about “brown faces.” Would that statement, for example, be an insult between Indian people because of a caste or class prejudice?

Dear Melvin ,
well to say that color problem in India is because of class or caste will be like wishful thinking . I will give you a reason for this, in ancient India one our gods Lord Krishna is black . So I don’t really think color works on class or caste levels .. , I don’t know about people living abroad . Logically speaking yes , people who work outside a lot tend to be darker but I really don’t think that leads to that mindset. Caste debate is another issue and it depends upon the type of work you do . That is the social problem India is suffering with. Nowadays yes there is a big debate going on that these whitening creams are prompting racism and giving whites preference With you recognizing us as brown faces it’s totally racial, nothing based on caste (that’s because I am from an upper caste myself!!!).If people in your country tell you that in India caste or class system is determined by the color , well they are misinformed about India .. and that is another stereotype !!!!!!
I hope you get the point …
Cheers!!!
Samarth

Dear Samarth,
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to suggest in any way at all that European racism towards Asian people is all explained away by this. But we all have our prejudices, I find the whole face whitening thing very strange, it is a cultural phenomenon and I’m interested to know where it’s roots are, and if there are certain people in India who would be offended by the idea of having a brown face, regardless of white racism? Once again, this is not a question about Europeans, it’s a question about internal sensibilities within your own country …
Thanks! Melvin

Dear Melvin,
Err.. I don’t mean to be rude but the issue of color or whitening creams or white racism was not an inherent problem. You see as a part of Imperial crusade it was developed by the imperialists that white is the best color , or in some cases its the gods color . In case of India it was Britishers who did it . And the colonized people gradually actually started believing in it that white color is perhaps ‘god’s’ colour. Franz fanon talks about this that a colonized man thought that in order to gain power and wealth has to be white or at least behave like one .Parallel to this example when Lord McCauley came to India he said near about the same thing when he said that he wanted to create a different class of Indians who in color and blood are Indians but in sensibilities and manners are British. This problem got really big and now it plays unconsciously on people that being white is the best way and hence the use of whitening creams . I am quite sure that Europeans there do not use much of these whitening creams as Asians do. Reason is what I gave above, because of hundreds of years of imperialism people have sort of internalized this stereotype as a fact and various cosmetic companies are making
millions out of it. Internal sensibilities to an extent yes , we need to question them, about why exactly we do this , but believe me Melvin there is a large number of people (yes mostly youth) that knows that this is nothing but a blasphemy .

Dear Samarth,
Ah ah, well, although I take your point, you don’t say how you know that there are no skin colour roots in > India. We all know about the colonial roots to this problem, your argument is very strong, there is no arguing against it and I don’t intend to. But in every culture there is always a pressure on ideals of beauty. The use of beauty, particularly women’s beauty to show wealth, privilege and position is pretty well universal. In China it used to take the form of foot binding and long finger nails to show how one didn’t need to work or even walk anywhere … in Europe in the past it took the form of, among other things, a pale skin. Now it takes the form of a brown, tanned skin, showing that you can afford lots of foreign holidays. We also have the less understandable and strange pressure on women to be thin - personally I think this comes from the “cost” of youth .. young people tend to be slimmer than older people, and if you’re rich enough you can mimic youth, (if not actually buy it!) for much of your life. This also explains things like face lifts, breast surgery etc.

Can you say for certain that in India the display of a pale skin to show that one didn’t have to spend any time in the sun wasn’t there before the British ever arrived, just as it used to be in Europe? Of course, colonialism by a pale skinned race this would certainly have strengthened this ten fold. But it would certainly explain why the idea of pale skinn d beauty is so very strong today, so long after the Brits have left.
Interesting. Hmm - thinking about it, it’s easily sorted - you’d have to check out images of women from before the days of British rule, looking at images of privileged woman and less privileged woman in the same picture … But perhaps you’re ahead of me on this one …?

If it is the case that this skin whitening thing is entirely from colonial times - in what way do you think pre-colonial ideas of beauty where influenced by internal pressures? And what were those internal pressures …?
All food for thought!
Very best, Melvin

Lovely point Melvin ,
I actually had the same question round 6 years ago when we were studying history of ancient India. In pre colonial times , i think you will be a bit astonished to know, that beautiful women were those who were a bit on the chubby side and had a darker complexion. You must have seen the karma sutra heroin, in which though she is portrayed as a slim woman, but also as a dark lady. You know the dark complexion was always referred to as the exotic color . For example Cleopatra was not really pale but a little tanned , in India as well all the famous beauty queens were a bit chubby had beautiful eyes and were of a dark shade …

Now that question of yours of how i know about no color problem in India ? well that’s a thanks to the variety of history books i have read about Indian history , where it was written about the conventional terms defining beautiful woman in India. At that time woman was considered as a means of reproduction so definitely a fit and a chubbier woman was given more preference as she would have carried the child in her womb the best , secondly about color we never really are a race of white skin or really a black one, hence forth the tanned skin loving . The conventions of beauty were ever on a change and now a days its a different definition of a beautiful woman … she should be slim and pale and have a decent height.

Talking about internal pressures, they were almost the same as in any country . Woman was supposedly restricted to her kitchen work, raising children and hence did not really do a lot work. So naturally they grew a bit fatter and were always dark sitting hours behind the
stove and cooking food .. I repeat my point once again that there was absolutely no binding on the color roots in India, it was never in question. Many Europeans think it as a very good thing but what they fail to realise is that if there wasn’t color we always had class and caste system with us which was much worse than this …
Regards
Samarth

The snow is melting in my garden. Each day a few more things, plants or steps or stones emerge.

Humps and bumps reveal themselves as benign secrets – flowerbeds, a log, a bag of compost not yet emptied.

Today, though something special.

A little girl.

She's aged about four years old, with long browny yellow hair, a blob of a nose, slightly upturned and a pretty smile.

As soon as I see her I run out to say hello. She’s pleased to see me. I'm pleased to see her.

I bend down in the mud to kiss her.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her.

“You look old,” she says, and laughs.

We sit and talk a while until she gets bored and wants to run around and play. But of course shecan’t.

Only her head and shoulders are clear of thedrift.

"Perhaps tomorrow," I say, and she looks at me reprochfully.

Instead, I build a snowman for her right next to her, so she can help smooth down his sides. As a finishing touch, she fluffs up his woolly hat before I place it on his head

"He's got a big head," she says.

"Yes, but he's still stupid," I repl;y, and we both laugh like anything.

Now her hands are too cold. I take them in mine and rub them and blow on them untill they sting.

She cries a little bit.

I run inside and make her cocoa, anxious in case she too melts away But she's til there when I get back.

She wipes her eyes and sips.

Soon the cocoa is gone and she is tired. She rubs her eyes. But it can’t be bedtime already.

“Try and stay awake,” I tell her.

“Silly Melvin,” she says.

She wants me to tell her a story. What sort?

“Mr and Mrs Bottom smacker,” she says.

So I do. As I talk, her head begins to droop.

"Do you suppose,” I say, “That if snow carries on melting, you’ll be able to come into the house?”

“That would be nice,” she says. “What would we do?”

“Oh, we’ll bake a cake,. Or find some more stories, or playgames.”

“Will Oliver be there?”

“He’s grown up now. But we could get the little boy from next door to play.”

She grows quiet and thoughtful. Then she says this:

“When I die, can we hold hands?”

That’s the last thing I want.

“When you die,” I say. “I won’t be there. I’ll have died myself a long time before that.”

She wails and holds out her arms. “Want to hold hands!” she wails.

I bend and hug her and promise. Yes,. We’ll hold hands. I promise.

After that I have to sing her a song. Then she leans her head against me and goes to sleep.

It’s dark now. I’m cold, I’m stiff and I’m wet, from sitting in that icy garden for so long. I go inside, where my wife clearly thinks I’m mad.

I hope that all the snow will melt and that I’ll be able to go out in the morning and bring her in. Or perhaps she’ll come into the bedroom to wake me up …

And yes, the snow melts. But in the morning she’s not there any more.

It’s always the same.

Whenever the earth seems about to give up it’s dead, it takes them back before they can walk free.

As if death wants to trick me into thinking he has a sense of humour.

I have a sad day. I spend most of it in bed.

Tomorrow, though, something happy. My daughter's comes to stay for a few days.

Her air is darker now. Her nose is still a bit of a blob,but she still has her pretty smile and that slight upturn.

She can stay a week. Loads of time.

But – I can’t ever have the years I missed with a little girl aged four, and five and six and seven and eight

That little girl is gone forever. Children don’t grow up. They don’t die. They simply disappear.

Ends

The journey from Delhi to Vilnius is absurd. I leave at 3am on an 8 hour flight to Frankfurt, then a five hour stopover, and then two more hours to Vilnius.
The first leg is aboard one of those vast flying monsters, ten seats and two aisles wide and wings like football pitches. I've got a window seat, which is nice – it means I'll be able to look out over India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and eastern Europe as we hurtle through the air. Very nice – except that it's night all the way. We catch up with the dawn and then fly alongside her in the air the whole way; an eight hour dawn, a red band gathering in the eastern sky. It's very beautiful, and I keep sneaking peeps at it as we go … but for eight hours? Hi ho. Still – on these long haul flights I'm always reminded of a friend of mine, who once flew from South Africa to India and claimed that he kept looking down on the lands beneath him for hour after hour after hour, and thinking of the millions and millions of people trapped in unbearable poverty down there. How long would that flight take – eight hours? Eight flying hours of over crowded poverty at 600 mph. How much misery does that add up to, do you think?
Talking of misery, I'm reminded of some misery of my own. This model of plane lacks air blowers above each seat. Instead, they refresh the air by blowing a continuous, icy blast on the floor close to the skin of the fuselage. Right where I'm sitting. As a result, I spend eight hours with cold feet. I've been here before,somewhere – possibly a flight to the USA a few years ago. I wrap my feet up in a blanket, put a pillow on them, under them, round them. All to no available. Nothing goes numb, but I'm uncomfortable the whole way. Attempts at sleep are interrupted by my complaining feet
I find myself wondering about this journey in times gone by, on a little wooden boat sailing across the oceans, hugging the coast much of the time, I'd imagine. I wonder how much space they had? Quite a bit more, I'd think. The food wouldn't be any worse, either – food on planes has become increasingly inedible. Of course,t he journey would be more like eight weeks rather than eight hours. And you stood a much higher chance of being drowned. Progress is a wonderful thing.
At Frankfurt, I'm so tired I'm beginning to hallucinate mildly. Whenever I see a sign with a word beginning with m and ending in n, I hear someone calling my name. By the time I reach Vilnius airport, I am a zombie The airport is small, clean and efficient – so efficient there is no passport control. Odd, after India and Britain where they're practicably going up your nose in search of incendiary devices. I get my luggage off the carousel, take out my passport just in case they spring it on me as I go through customs .. but no … and there is Rasa, my contact here, with a car to carry me off to a nice, comfortable hotel.
This is the second time I;ve been asked to Lithuania. It's such a small country, but they love my books. Last time at the book fair, there was a real crowd waiting for me. Not only that, I get so many emails of Lithuanians – more than from any other European country, although more books are sold in larger countries. The thing they seem to like here, is the radical element. The books are written to stir thing s up and make people think – they seem to like that here. Maybe it'sd a legacy of Soviet occupation – freedom of though is valued.
This is als the country – the only one in the world – that has a monument to the late, great Frank Zappa. Now, that says something, surely? Frank was popular in eastern Europe, too – he was Cultural Advisor to Vaclav Havel, for a while. So – Vilnius; it's me and Frankie. The company I keep!

Vilnius is a complete contrast to Delhi. Delhi was vast, sprawling, over crowded, smelly and mainly ugly. Vilnius is small, pretty and cold, under at least a foot of snow. We drive back over crunchy roads, each house with a layer of white on it. The houses here are in the German style – rendered and painted so that even buildings hundreds of years old look smooth and new with a coat of fresh bright pastel paint. The town is heavily sprinkled with churches in the Russian Orthodox style, very tall and square, painted in pastel colours as well, decorated with domes and towers and arches and double arches and treble arches and seraphim, topped off with baubles and ornate crosses hung with chains - looking to me very much like enormous, over ambitious wedding cakes. All very lovely.
The hotel is gorgeous, quiet, comfortable. Rasa checks me in and leaves me to recover. I have a bath, go out for a walk, crunching up the snowy streets, find an ATM, peer in the souvenir shop windows selling Russian dolls, amber jewelery and linen clothes. Pass a vast cathedral, and up a busy street full of the usual chain stores. On the way back I stop off at a cafe and have a cup of lovely coffee and a slice of truly gorgeous chocolate cake.
Lovely place. Feel like a cross between Austria and Russia. Very nice. I got back to the hotel, have a beer and pass out.

Friday 19th February

A day of interviews – four today, for various magazines, internet portals and newspapers. Before I go down I have a quick run through my stuff, thinking of locking my valuables in the safe, and can't find my passport. Worrying – but no doubt it'll turn up in a bit, I expect. I go down to meet Rasa who talks me through the day, and then, onto the first interview, for Lithuanian news.
The interview finishes early, so I take the chance to sneak upstairs and have a proper look for the elusive passport, and guess what? It's not there. But it must be! I can't have lost it in between the baggage hall and the hotel, can I? I haven't done anything! But I am a man who can loose things like a … well, like a looser. I have made it a life principle not to own anything valuable that I carry round with me. I was a zombie when I arrived here. Even so, I remember taking it out as I left the luggage hall – I haven't been anywhere but in a car and here at the hotel. How is such a thing possible?
I go through everything. No doubt about it – it's gone.
I go to the hotel reception to see if they asked me to leave it with them; no. So now, the humiliation of telling Rasa what a twat I am.
She rings around to the airport and to the car that brought us here while I carry on with the interviews. Nothing. But she also works out that we can,if necessary, go to the police and then to the British embassy on Monday and get some papers for me. Sounds a rush – but she swears it can be done.
I try to forget about the worrying passport. At lunch I go to look at some shops – while I've been away I've missed both Valentine's day and the birthday of someone very special, so I have amends to make, big time.
The shops are full of amber. I'm not sure about amber, which is beautiful but feels like plastic and is sort of ... lumpy, for jewelery. But there are some rare kinds here - white amber,which is actually yellowish; blue amber, which is purple, as well as black and brown amber and usual golden sort. It seems the white is the oldest. I Wonder …
More interviews, then in the evening, out to dinner with Rasa and one of her colleges from work. I eat a vast saddle of rabbit with a pruney sauce and tiny pickled onions, no bigger than large peas. Very nice. French, though. I'm looping forward to trying something Lithuanian.

Saturday 20th February.

Today's the big day – an event at the Vilnius book fair and then a book signing. First though, more interviews. Rasa asks if I've found my passport yet. She clearly doesn't believe that it's possible for me to have lost it in between the luggage hall and the hotel. She has no idea how extremely gifted I am in this respect.
The interviews – another four this morning – are with people who's English is not so good so we have an interpreter today; Dalius Norkunas, who translated Nicholas Dane over here. I meet him in the lobby – nice man, rather lugubrious, very friendly, helpful – I like him. The interviews are the usual things, by and large. One paper did me six years ago, the last time I was here and want to do something different – the ups and downs of me as a writer. I don't have the heart to tell her that someone else is doing just that, but I mention it to Rasa, who will maybe give her a ring and warn her. A couple of interesting things though; one, Nick Dane is going down like hot cakes here – really interesting. It's a book that's had a bit of rough ride in England. I have to admit, I did make a few mistakes with it, with hindsight, in particular with the use of apostrophes to indicate colloquial speech, instead of my usual technique, which is speech rhythms. I tried this as a nod to Dickens, whose book Oliver Twist I used as a model. But it didn't work and now I wish I'd changed it. I think it makes the book hard to read, especially early on. But of course, in translation, that won't be an issue. In other words – could the book be better written in translation?. Ouch.
One lady asks me about teenagers and stress – do they play too many computer games? I answer truthfully that we should be looking at school rather than play for stress. School gets more and more stressful as we try to create an increasingly competitive workforce. It's hardly fit for humans now. Also, having everyone the same age in a class removes the natural hierarchy of age among young people, resulting in a furious competition among peers. Longer hours, more homework – it's a mess. If you want teenagers to be happy, make schools much smaller – no more than 600 to a school, each one all the way from nursery to A level; allow students to study no more than four hours a day and provide loads of other activities. In addition, exams should be taken at any period between 16 and 22. Have you ever noticed how much easier study is after, say 18? You're brain is better equipped for it, than at 15 or 16, when you're in the grip of a massive hormonal and structural change in the brain. I mean – make it as bad as you can, won't you?

Pop out with Dalius for lunch, to try something Lithuanian. We end up in a restaurant I went in yesterday evening, where he often takes guests to eat. I opt for something I nearly tried yesterday, if I hadn't been feeling too full – Zeppelins! These are – obviously - Zeppelin shaped beasts, made of potato stuffed with meat. The crust is, according to Dalius, a mixture of grated raw potato and cooked potato, which is filled and boiled. The resulting potato exterior is very dense and sticky. It's served with sour cream – let's face it, sour cream makes anything taste nice – and crackling sauce. I'm expecting something like space dust which will crackle in the mouth, but no – it's made from grated pork rinds and ...something. The result? Actually, really rather nice. But you gotta be open minded, mind. It's that dense, slimy crust. People in Britain have trouble with slimy. But I like it.
On the way out Dalius points to a sign with a vast number on it.
“That's how many Zeppelins they cooked here in the past ten years or so, he says. It's nearly two million. Wow. And two million Lithuanians can't be wrong.

The book fair. Vilnius book fair isn't anything like the size of Frankfurt or Bologna, but still the biggest in the Baltics, I'm told. It's not about selling rights here – it's open for the public to come in an buy their books cheap. Dalius tells me of a friend who bought the books for her child for an entire year here, for half the price. I wonder what the book shops think about it?
My event takes place in a hall on site. I'm being interviewed by a rapper/ice hockey player, Svaras. He's dressed in the gear – wide jeans, hoddie – cool guy. Holds his hand over his heart when he means it. Evidently books are way, way more cool here than they are in the UK.
All of which means, I'm way cooler as well. The hall turns out to be enormous – and it's packed. There must be five or six hundred, maybe more. The kids cheer and clap when something they agree with is said – it's great. Afterwards, the book signing goes on for hours – well, one and a half of them anyway. I've never had so many – it's great! Earlier one of the journos asked me what it was like being famous, and I said that book fame is really quite comfortable – you're a star for a day and then you can get back on with your quiet life. Well, I'm a star today. The queue is so long, Rasa gets agitated and wants me to leave out the names, just sign. I try – but I can't. I'm only here once in a blue moon, this is the only time they can come and I turn them away without naming them? Nah. I send a few away, but in the end I can't bear it. I think of Jackie Wilson, who sits for hours on end patiently signing away, chatting to everyone. What can you do? I'm so flattered they came in the first place.

The next day we travel out to the second city of Lithuania, Kaunas. It's a chance to look out the window at the countryside, which is covered in snow, snow and more snow. Very few birds to be seen, I've noticed,in start contrast to warm India. A few crows sitting in a trees, pigeons in the towns. On a strip of clear grass by the roadside I see some thrushes – Fieldfares or redwings, flown down from further north, perhaps? But they are tree feeders and these are on the ground, so maybe they're song thrushes or similar, getting to the worms where the snow has been taken off for them.
That evening, I go tout to eat alone and find myself sitting next to two Fulbright students from the US. They were talking so loudly I couldn't help but eavesdrop.
The conversation went something like this.

Fulbright 1 (After describing Sarah Palin dangling a child in it's underwear in mid winter among a warmly dressed crowd.) She didn't care about that child at all. She's scum.

Fullbright2 More than scum. No! Less than scum.

Fullbright1 That's right.

FB2 You're really bringing scum down comparing her with scum.

FB! I've just decided I'm that when I open my restaurant, all the chairs are going to have arms on them.

FB2 I love chairs with arms on them.

FB! I tried to rest my arms just now and there are no armrests. That's why I decided this very minute to have chairs with arms in my restaurant.

FB2 What's the point in sitting down if you have tired arms. Hey. You know that guy we were talking with earlier? His nose is so big, he could pick it with his thumb.

FB! I hope you're not talking Jewish here.

FB2 I never mentioned Bagels.

FB1 I'm a journalist, I'm taking all this down.

FB2 You want meatballs with that?

FB1 Some vletsy? A little Schmaltz?

FB2 A horse walks into a bar and the barman says, “Hey! Why the long face?”

I was annoyed at first. One of the pleasures of eating out on your own in foreign places is, you don't know the language,nothing intrudes on your own little world. But, the edge of racism apart – they were just chatting between themselves, but they were talking really loudly – they were kinda sweet.
I've made it look as if there was a funny one and a not so funny one, but the not so funny one was also interesting – very political. Once instance – his theory of how political opponents end up the same. “They work together. They might be apart on some issues, but they have to see one another every day so some issues, they decide to look the other way to give the other guy a bit of space. That's how when people are in politics a long time, they all end up the same. They ought to be limited to so many years.”

Very true. A genuine discovery of youth. I wonder if he'll remember it in years to come?

Monday morning – the day of passport truth. I have to visit the police and report thing missing, and then the British Embassy. bureaucracy – It could take days. But in fact it all happens quickly, with Rasa to help. We're in and out of the Police in under an hour, and the Brits too, are very good. While the papers are going prepared, Rasa takes me to visit the monument to Frank Zappa. Hey, Frankie – me and you, eh? Pictures are taken. I take a walk around Vilnius and buy some of that white amber and a print of a pretty blue horse, that reminds me of the someone very special. The passport is paid for by the publishers, which is very nice of them, since it's not their fault I'm a twat and turns out to be for a single trip only – the first time they've issued this new type of passport in Vilnius apparently. So there may be some problems. As it happens, there aren't.

There have been two bomb blasts in India since I've been here – 3 days, kinda explains why the cricket team are reluctant to come here - and much hair tearing about relations with “Pak,”, which is popularly held to blame for the whole thing. I'm told I have to arrive two hours before my internal flight to Delhi, which is turned into over three by my hosts wanting to make sure everything is all right. As in the UK, this leaves me hanging around for hours and hours with nothing to do I finally get into Delhi at ten, and off to the Shangri la Hotel and a bed as big as a swimming pool. But no one to go diving in it with..

Next morning, Arnab's little yellow pills have worked and I've finally had a good night's sleep, but I'm still tired. I lounge around all morning before setting out on a day of tourism. I have three free days here, according to my schedule - free all day Tuesday (today), one event in the evening on Wednesday and then I leave on Thursday at 3am for Vilnius. From sun to snow. As you can imagine, my packing my was murder.

I walk out of the hotel into the sunshine on busy road. At once, I'm approached by a man who wants me to go for a helicopter. Helicopter? Are we sure about this? Really? I suppose there must be some seriously rich people staying at this hotel, but do I really look like one of them? Of course, the fact is, they don;t know how to read the cues for what sort of European I am, any more than I can read there's.
I refuse politely and walk on …
“Give me a chance, sir, give me a chance,” the man asks. But I really truly don't want a helicopter flight and I pass on. Someone else tries to get me into a three wheel automatic rickshaw, but I'm a walker today. Actually, I'm already beginning to suspect that this part of Delhi is laid out like a new world town – huge long, wide roads, enormous roundabouts, city blocks that take five minutes to walk past … but hell, it's the only exercise I ever get.
Another fifty yards and another chap, walking along the same way, greets me cordially.
“Walking, eh?” he says. “Good for the health, eh? You from in there? I work in the hotel,” he boasts. A chief apparently. Very nice
He asks what I'm doing today.
“The Khan market,” I tell him. I have no idea what the Khan market is like, except that there is a bookshop there – I want to visit.
“Oh, that's closed today,” he points out. Rats. I get out the map and we have a look. I point out the temple I also wants to see.
“Oh, it's too far to walk,” he says. My suspicions are confirme3d – maybe I'll save the walking for the old town. The man points out another market nearby– he doesn't know if it has a bookshop but it's not bad.
Ah well, it sounds about right, so I take his advise and jump on the automatic rickshaw – basically a motor bike with a tin can round it. We set off for the Shiva temple.
My friend at the hotel has told me that it will be too crowded inside the temple, so to just look at it from outside, but when I get there I find this to be untrue. Suspiciously untrue, in fact, the place is a haven of clam. I go in and wander around while the driver waits outside. And now I start remembering this place. No, not in a previous life – only on a previous trip. I have friends who run small holidays to India and Nepal, and I've been in Delhi before – inside this very temple. But it's nice to wander round, see the idols and read some of the exhortations towards wisdom, most of which, as last time, sound deeply unappealing and anti-life, in that odd way that religions tend towards. Hinduism is almost the last pantheistic religion to survive, and it's done so by incorporating monotheism. All the deities are manifestations of the one godhead and as usual, the road to Heaven is paved with aestheticism,detachment and, prayer – all things that I fully intend to do, Lord, but only when I'm dead and. Like, you know – I've got a life, thanks.

Outside, back in the rickshaw, of to the shopping. I walk in and – Oh dear. It's a carpet shop. I'd already worked out that the rickshaw driver and my friend at the hotel were .. well, friends. I thought one was just touting business for the other. But a carpet shop. There's something about a carpet shop that tells it's own story. Not been advised – I've been delivered.
I turn round and come straight back out.
“Not going to find a bookshop there, am I?” I point out.
The driver,who was a chatty, friendly soul on the way out is curiously quiet on the way back. VI ask about eh Khan market; is it open? “Not sure sir, some may open, some no.” He's not sure, some of it maybe open, some not. We get back to the hotel, where he hands the rickshaw over to another, lesser driver, who takes me to the Khan market, which is, if course, totally, completely and utterly … open.
So I've been had – not in a terribly nasty way, but still had. The dishonesty was the lie about working in the hotel, to gain my trust, and the lie Khan market being shut – just enough to get me off my track and into the craft emporium, from which there are many, many slices to be shared out of a sale is made - and maybe something for a rickshaw driver merely for delivering a punter. My friend had a clever mix of lies and truths to get his way. Work's at the hotel? – forget it. Works at delivering Westerners to carpet shops, more like. And very good at it he was too.
It was in Morocco that I first had these kind of hits. Wave after wave of friendly faces turn out to be on the make, and it's easy to get confused and upset, and to feel that you can't tell the good from the bad – or even that it's all bad. You just have to bear in mind that your not being robbed, and to take it with a sense of humour. And anyway, I got a look at the temple and here I am, at the Khan market, where I wanted to go anyway. No harm done.
The market is great – loads of little shops, some tacky, some fantastic. I find the bookstore, buy a book – The Japanese Wife, by Kunal Basu. I get a battery for my watch, and find a nice little eatery, very green and salady, much frequented by Germans and Brits on holiday. Makes a change. Then, a couple of arts galleries, once again riding the automatic rickshaw. It's alarming, but fun – they can cut corners so sharply, and squeeze into gaps that you'd have thought a bicycle would have problems with. There's a saying here - “No one gets hit unless they want it.” hm. That's one that has the ring of untruth about it. Even I can spot that.
The drawing in the exhibition – an all-India exhibition, were just fabulous. I'd have brought one if I could, but nothing was for sale. Typical.

A final note on the process of negotiating your way around the efforts of Indians to encourage you to let them have a fair share of your spending money … That evening, I caught a taxi from the hotel to go to Connaught Place, three huge concentric circles of roads that contain a multitude of shops, restaurants and so on in the center of town. My driver is a Sheik, who, inevitably, asks me if I want to go to a craft shop.
“No, I was here last year, I've done all that,” I tell him.
“That's a pity,” he says. The thing is, he points out, he gets given coupons if he takes someone to a shop like that. “Times are hard business is bad,” he says
I have a think about this. I don't mind helping someone out.
“If I go in, I don't have to actually buy anything?” I ask.
“No, sir, not at all.”
“Maybe ....
“We could visit two or three, if you like sir.”
Well, yes, we could, but maybe not tonight. I rather like this driver, whose name is Karmial – he's pretty up front. I guess what I'm planning on perpetrating on the owners of the craft store is not much different from what various people have been perpetrating on me. Yeah – and know what? It feels gooooood.
I arrange with Karmial to meet tomorrow – he can drive me around and I can go into some carpet shops for him as a good turn. I give him 50 rupees - about 70p.On the way back I give him 100 – more than an Indian would pay but less than he might have expected from a tourist. He can do well off me tomorrow, I think. But tomorrow never comes. I wake up at nine to the telephone ringing. Apparently I have another event, something my schedule has remained silent about. I'm off all that day and it turns out, my 3am flight is this very night. So I never see Karmial again and I feel rather bad. Hoards of taxi drivers are waiting around the back of the hotel, missing good Indian business for the pleasure of picking someone rich and foolish, or just rich and generous. He never made out of me what he should, and under charged on the grounds he'd see me tomorrow. There you go – never believe anything a rich person tells you, it never comes true.

My talk at Delhi university that morning follows the pattern already established. It takes us hours to get there – partly because of the horrendous traffic and partly because no one knows where the university is, exactly. Indian streets are usually very far from being named, and you have to make your way around by getting in the vicinity, asking a local and then j=jumping nearer and nearer (hopefully) in this way, until eventually someone points to a building over the road and says, “There.”
I'm not sure I'm on top form – this is the fifth time I've =delivered a similar talk in eight days, I', beginning to be haunted by a sense of ...”Did I just tell you that?” But the students love it. They ask once again to be read the “controversial” bits from Doing It. I comply, although I still feel awkward abo9ut talking about knob cancer and fannies, albeit it humorously, in public in a room full of brown faces, sari-clad girls and their professors. But once again I'm shown to be a bigot – it goes tremendously well. I get asked more questions here than anywhere, and in the end, we have to be stopped when they run out of time.

Back at the hotel I discover Rob Lewis, writer of Welsh noir crime fiction. We go off together in the afternoon to see some sights, and very good company he is, too. Our first port of call is the Mogul Red Fort. This reveals itself to be a series of buildings, with fortification sin front, and then layers behind leading up to where the Khan himself lived and held audience. These inner buildings, built of white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones, are typically charismatic of Mogul architecture.
Rob seems very taken with the idea of Moguling, as he puts it, and at which he seems to think he would be rather good. What is it that attracts him? The architecture? The practice of medieval politics and military strategy, perhaps?
“Maybe, but I like to think it's more the lovely woman I assume to be involved.
Ah, yes – the harem. Remember the old song?

It was Christmas in the harem,
The eunuch stood around,
And hoards of lovely women,
Were stretched out on the ground.
In strode the big bad sultan,
As he gazed on his marble halls,
He said, “What do you want for Christmas lads?”
And the eunuchs answered …
“Tiding of comfort and joy, comfort and joy ...”

I think Rob has a point. I'd like to take Moguling up myself as a hobby. I wonder if there are any book s you can buy on the subject? Rob and I consider writing down a few notes of our own and presenting them to our partners … “Just distribute this among your friends, and we'll all meet round here on Saturday night for a trial run.” It might work. It's worth a try, anyway.

We finish off with a stroll down one of the packed market streets of old Delhi – can't remember the name, but it goes on for miles. Dense, claustrophobic, teeming .. but it feels very safe, and in the end, its oddly exhilarating. People trying to sell you everything, but it's all just the oldest of human activities - trade, what all people in all places do in some way or other.
Getting hungry, I look out for something safe – and there it is! Bananas! All wrapped up in their own germ prof skin. Indian street food looks amazing, but there's stuff there, once you eat, you never stop shitting ever again. The bananas cost nothing – 25 rupees, about 30p for a big bunch of little ones. I eat a few, and on the way back, the rest are begged off me – one boy takes them and runs off to ear them like a monkey – he must be starving. Another girl begs some for her baby brother, held in her arms, and then follows us and stands smiling while he eats and smiles. Very pretty engaging, the pair of them. Both Rob and I give her some money before our car turns up. Well. But what of the unengaging and the ugly? What of the middle aged and bad tempered, who gives to them? I'm glad I'm not on the streets here, that's all I'll say about that.
On the way back, out of the window I see two black kites fly at each other and seize one another by the talons. The spiral down towards the ground together, but break apart and fly off before they hit the ground. Not a fight – a mating ritual. They're holding hands, or dancing in the air, perhaps. All raptors do it, but I've never seen it before now. Fantastic. It is spring here, after all. All the birds are collecting nesting material, I've noticed the crows at it all week. Spring in Delhi. We stop in the traffic and another girl holds up her child, with an opened sore on his spine. I ignore her. We pull away. The sun's going down. Back to the hotel and a couple of beers, and then I have a plane to catch. Next stop, Vilnius.