Stiff Upper Lip

If you’ve been wondering if I’d dropped off the face of the Earth over the last little while, you would not have been too far wrong. My address over the last week has been ‘The Squat Loo, Rani’s House, Rural Indian Town.’ I’ve only finally emerged because I’ve taken so much Immodium that I may as well not have a rectum. (Sharing is caring!)

            But my digestive issues aside, it’s interesting what happens when your personal limits are tested like this. Many, probably even most people would have problems with the flat white cockroach lurking in the lightless squat loo, washing from the hand pump behind a towel or the world’s least comfortable bed (imagine, if you will, an 18^th century farmhouse kitchen table, covered with a 0.25 tog duvet that has been put through the washing machine at 60° several hundred times. You now have a fairly accurate description), but actually, all this doesn’t bother me a huge amount. I’d be lying if I said I was enjoying it, but I can cope.

            What I am seriously struggling with, however, is a lot more mental. Firstly, the large expanses of nothing-to-do-ness mean my brain is like a panther shut in bird cage. An empty bird cage. (Mohini’s comment: ‘You have done something today, you chopped an onion.’ Not exactly what it says on my supremely expensive Employment visa.) I’ve been henna-ed and threaded and made a pair of trousers, but done very little of any real use. Hopefully this afternoon, though, I’ll be conducting some interviews, in Hindi. Interesting.

            Secondly, the big thing which I knew I’d have issues with, but didn’t realize how much it would affect my whole mentality – a total lack of personal space. ‘My room’ is a misnomer – it’s also the office, living room, classroom, printer repair centre, back door, generator cupboard and mosquito hatchery. The upstairs room is generally full of women drinking tea, charging their phones or just generally observing my every movement. There are only certain places where I’m allowed to sit, lest my coveted paleness come into contact with a sliver of sunbeam, though I am permitted to be escorted for a trudge along the main road once the sun’s gone down.

            I’m going to try and stick it out, I don’t want to be the pampered white girl that can’t hack it, but it turns out that the Great British Stiff Upper Lip is maintained not by tea and collar starch, but rather by privacy and a rapidly dwindling loo roll supply.