settling into a sort of routine here.. visited the umbrella community health/clinic in bangalore that initially referred me to the centre & checked out many more books to compliment what i am seeing with my eyes.
large burn on leg from careless dismount of boss's motorcycle.
the Penguin (thanks Jake, Elwood) accidentally opened the bathroom door while i was immersed in a bloody and epic pre-bucket bath battle with a small legion of cockroaches (i think?) i discovered crawling out of the drain. i was wearing only what god gave me, plus..well.needless to say, the Penguin looked quite faint.
fortunately i did not burst out laughing, but put on a most Serious face instead....
i think i have now seen everything possible that can be derived from rice and eaten. not brewed, though. perhaps i should start a petition; eating is often characterized by me staring at the table, or pretending to concentrate more than is necessary on the formation of balls of rice and curry with the 3 fingers and delivery to the mouth, while everyone around me continues to speak a variety of dialects, often gesturing in my direction. Dear sirs: i feel that rice brew would legitimately facilitate a greater level of crosscultural interaction.
the urge to climb to the roof, strip naked, and scream every forbidden word in the english language at the top of my lungs seems to be
rising at a worrying rate.
disregarding the constant warnings i recieve about cobras, ive been going on exploratory missions to the edges of the compound.
this place has gardens and gardens full of mango trees and many other things, but mangos are difficult to obtain at the proper time; they rot and get infested with maggots very easily. nonetheless, the patients insist on this small show of Independence by pulling them down still green and bitter and eating them crouched in the field. however, the key is to pick them and wait.
sometimes the nurses grab me and whisper conspiratorially: you want a mango?
they grin broadly and take me to a room where many mangos have been left to ripen in old medical equipment boxes, rummage through the layers of Times India and pull out mangoes of every shape and size, often dripping and slightly overripe, yielding like butter to my swiss army knife. the juice runs down my chin and leaves telltale stains on my clothes.