The day started badly. The end of April, inland south India. Hot. Very hot. With the temperature shimmering around 40 degrees at nine in the morning, and likely to rise by another five degrees by early afternoon, staying home in the relative cool of my shady garden was definitely the activity of choice.
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AGRA – 1975
Ramesh the cycle-rickshaw wallah: Mughal-style baked partridge for breakfast?
We arrived late in the evening at Agra Cantonment station. As usual, a mob of rickshaw drivers advanced on us aggressively, each demanding our patronage.
“Me sahib, madam – take me. I am strong and cheap.”
“No no, ji, he is a scoundrel fellow who will cheat you. You must be taking me!”
One fellow waited beyond the melee, apparently refusing to be a part of such indignity. I approached him and named the hotel where we wanted to go.
A TURNING
A TURNING
It’s early evening after another perfect winter north-coast day. Cloudless, with not a breath of wind, the temperature sub-tropical cool. Not cold, and in the clear fresh air, the stars are emerging sharp and bright as the last reflected rays of light of the day softens and fades from rich lapis blue towards inky blue-black night.
I am standing there on the broad open verandah of the beloved crude little wood and mud house I have crafted , with laughter and passion and so much hard work with hands and muscle. Together that house and I have grown, and I have learnt so much, practical and personal.
BORN AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN
BORN AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN
After almost two years work in a very different field, we are finally back on the Permaculture track, and more enthusiastic than ever. But why the pause in the first place?
I’d been living as most of us do; as if I was immortal. Like all of us, I was not. Far from it. Two years ago I discovered that I had significant liver cancer. It was made clear to me that without rapid surgical intervention, my chances of survival for more than months was very remote.
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