The Chronicles of Vash

You'll have to excuse the kitsch title. I just spent the evening singing into mics (both on and inadvertently off), spoons, cameras and at one stage even a fork at a karaoke bar in Mumbai. (Hail to Guy Chennels, surely the most spectacular host that ever there was). The locals obviously have no real jobs to speak off and instead spend their time perfecting their singing skills so as to horribly show up the clueless firangis - a category I fall into as soon as I open my mouth. But they were good sports. They tolerated our version of 'I wanna hold your hand' and gave us a rousing round of applause on our second attempt at a song whose name I now forget.

I prepared myself for the culture shock - really I did. I've read everything I could on India since age 12, researched the history, tried to understand what it would be like. But getting off that plane and stepping into the humid buzz of Mumbai night life I felt... at home? Not quite. But something very close. It's all startlingly familiar. Perhaps I've done a good job of preparation (12 years on the job will do that for you). Or maybe I'm just a lot more Indian than I thought. I'd given up on myself but I traded Tamil words with a South Indian boy at Sunday lunch, spotted a few spices in our tandoori today and jammed with some punk boys who taught me the chorus to a Hindi song on guitar. It's coming easily and yes I want to come back soon...

Lots more to tell (insane traffic, dirt cheap clothing, beautiful art, copious amounts of curry, loads of new friends...) but I think the million and one photos and videos my sister is taking at every opportunity will do a better job of that (coming attraction). It's almost 2am now so I’d best be off to bed. Tomorrow we're sightseeing and then we fly out early the next morning for the second leg of my personal passage to India... sister bliss - or hopefully something like that. We're already plotting our outfits for the wedding we're meeting up in Bangalore for.