The air is warm and humid and I am standing on a street in Pondicherry in Tamil Nadu, southern India. I inhale the scene of noise, movement and colour that surrounds me. Cars hoot, bright yellow auto rickshaws weave their way through the traffic, a dog sniffs at scraps and an emaciated cow blinks immobile in the centre of the road and women in bright saris wend their way.
I feel joy.
I am privileged to be here.
I am with seven other people which include my son, his wife and her sister who is with her husband and their two girls aged 8 and 11 and last but not least, my grandson Krishna who is 13. All, apart from me and my son are of Indian heritage. My daughter-in-law lives in the UK and the others live in Australia.
The older girl is horrified at the idea of getting into an auto rickshaw,
‘It hasn’t got proper windows!’
Nevertheless, we cram into an auto rickshaw, and as we weave through chaotic traffic with the breeze billowing round us,
‘This is a life experience,’ cries an excited 11- year- old girl.’
We travel deep into the countryside to search for the village where my daughter-in-law’s grandfather had lived. We drive through lush greenness, paddy fields and groves of coconut, papaya and pineapple, as the road becomes narrow and changes to a track where we walk in the still country air, coming to a neat village in which the cows are shining and well fed, we are directed onwards and come to a lake at the end of which is a colourful temple that reflects in the lucid water.
I feel at peace.
Krishna has become fascinated by his Indian roots and as a result has a great interest in Hinduism, in fact he has become my teacher.
We travel from Pondicherry to Tanjore where we visit a famous and ancient temple that is full of devout and earnest pilgrims, Krishna being one of them, he buys a garland of flowers to offer to the god, and we slowly move forward, stopping on the way at a raised dais where a priest is standing before an image which is lit by a flickering fire, he looks at me fiercely,
‘Pray!’ he commands.
I pray.
I think I may tire of visiting temples but each one is unique and has its own atmosphere and there is something moving in the belief of the pilgrims that expect the gods to help them with life’s difficulties.
We travel by train to Tiruvannamalai, it is such a lovely experience, we are sleeper fan class, windows open and fans whirring, as vendors pass through.
‘Chai, coffee!’
The two young girls with us are a little dubious about this experience at first, but Krishna who has embraced India climbs onto the top bunk and the girls join him and discover the joy of travelling by train in India.
We travel far into the country side to a small village nestled in a verdant landscape of hazy paddy and forest which is host to a small but ancient temple, you could feel the past in its weathered stones, no pilgrims here, just us. The interior is cool and there in front of us is the image of the god, which I think might have been Hanuman, the monkey god, and dancing flames, before which is a priest, he looks like a god in his beauty, he turns to the flickering image and begins to chant, his voice echoes so that it fills the chamber. He has dark eyes, and what impresses me is the absolute belief that shows in their intensity. He beckons to us, and brings a candle and his voice rings out as he signals to cup our hands and pours an aromatic oil that we inhale.
‘Gosh, maybe there is something more to this life,’ I think.
The thing is, he does not care that we are tourists, we are just other human beings and this justifies being included. Hinduism is totally inclusive.
We travel once again by train to Mahabalipuram and I discover the pleasure of sleeper class, a large gentleman swathed in bright robes and barefooted wants to lie on the bunk above mine, this means I am forced to lie down because if I sit, there is no room for my head, Pillows are provided, what a feeling of luxury to be lying down in the middle of the day and watch the lush countryside glide by.
My son and I stand by the open carriage to feel the full effect of Indian train travel, the train rolls and the wind gusts into our faces and we hold on to avoid being tipped onto the rails.
A young man joins us, he is a realist film maker in Chennai, and his films have become very popular.
‘South India is different’ he explains,
‘For one thing. Schools here teach English as the connecting language rather than Hindi. Modi wants to take India back to a time of purity which never existed. Tamil people can work anywhere because of their knowledge of English. South India would like to be separate from the north.’
Mahabalipuram is the town of the stone carvers, the art- form being handed from generation to generation although now families work in cooperatives.
Krishna and I slip into a magician’s cave of sculptures. Krishna points out the different gods.

‘Look granny, there is Shiva, there is Vishnu, Rama and Krishna.

The proprietor is listening.

‘That boy knows so much, I am impressed.’

He turns to Krishna,

‘I could teach you to work in stone,’ he says,

‘If you come for two hours a day, you will carve something in two weeks.’

Sadly we had to refuse the invitation.

‘’You were nearly the stonemason’s apprentice’ I say to Krishna.

We are on the coast, and I enjoy watching the turbulent sea, and I meet a man selling stone beads,. His grandfather came from Kashmir,the government gave them land on which they built mud houses. They are a discriminated against group but still have access to schooling and health care.

Later, I meet a woman selling batik table cloths.

‘I cannot read or write,’ she says,

‘There was no schooling for girls in my day, but my son is now an electronics engineer, he lives in Bangalore and I do not understand what he does.‘

She speaks good English.

We are staying in a resort, wooden cabins, surrounded by well tended gardens and an aviary full of exotic birds that have enchanted the children.

We are nearing the end of our stay.

Each morning I chat to the security man at the gate who helps us with transport..

I am sitting outside my chalet one morning, listening to the birdsong, when he comes up to me, and takes my hand and places it on his head.

‘Please bless me,’

‘I bless you,’ I say.

I feel surprised.

India in a snapshot of a holiday gives impressions rather than understanding.