Here you can find an automatic translation of the article Tibetan refreshments!
Here you can find an automatic translation of the article Head and legs!
Hey guys,
I’m sorry to take so much time to update the blog. I’ve been quite busy these last weeks, and i’ll stay that way until my French as a Foreign Language exams that I will take in Laos in May.
Deciding to do myself the translation of all the articles was a very good idea. It gave quite a good result, but it took also a lot of time (for instance, three days to translate the article for the trip to Bodhgaya). Hence the lack of translations for the last three articles.
I don’t know if I will have time after May to go back to these articles and translate them. After that date, I think i’ll do my best to get back to my first intention and translate all the new articles.
Before that, you can read the automatic, Google translation of each of these previous articles. Here you can find it for the last one, Three weeks later…
Thanks a lot for following me and for your patience!
Take care,
Sam
Here you can find an automatic translation of the article The Indian nice surprise!
Here you can find an automatic translation of the article One banknote away from heaven!
Here you can find an automatic translation of the article A Mumbai family!
Indian weeks stream faster than drinks in a Anjou party. Since I got back from Bodhgaya, a few little funny things to tell.
A rock for the maried
After the 26 hours of train, I needed some rest but Stéphanie, she was really on form to accept the invitation of Rahul: having a look to the mariage of the little nephew. Or cousin, don’t remember.
A few hours later, I find my camera full of maximum 4-seconds long videos: as many as they were, no one could find the way to make the machine work correctly. But there are a few interesting photos, illustrating that ceremony which cost 700 lakhs, namely 70 millions of rupees, or 1 million of euros. In the gold mine, among others, a Mercedes.
On Friday night, my willingness transcends intestinal ache and I mount an autorickshaw for an hour of route, towards Saket, restless spot of the South, for the birthday party of my class fellow Akshay. Thirty-ish guests, the parents who come down for five minutes, the cream cake that ends up on the cheeks and the hair. And, by way of surprise, the presence of the group Junkyard Groove, really prized band of the Indian rock underground. A few hours earlier, they finished off a live at the Hardrock café of the capitale for 1,5 lakh (2200 euros), a nice fortune. And to keep going, they improvised an unplugged session, shared with Akshay over the moon and at the guitare.
Unplugged version…
… studio version.
At the master of the place’s request, I uploaded online the whole collection of videos of the party. (I recommend the excerpt Birthday Cake to you if you want to see the atmosphere of a young lad party, Indian style.)
Madhav (not the first minister’s grand son, another one) is the one putting me up this night, therefore I follow him. We catch up another party where the Junkyard Groove got invited. Watch out: highly selected area, supernatural density of Frenchies de la haute, and wealthy Indian heirs. Difficult to feel confortable, we won’t be long time coming packing bag and baggage, direction Saket for a final port of call at the 24/7, one of the only shops permanently open of the capitale. The hot dog is mutton-made, and the little street kids have a delicious meal, behind us, with the gracious donations of the business-suits who just left the place.
Saturday’s wake up is calm and late. My morning dream is granted: Madhav suggests to go have breakfast/lunch/afternoon snack at KFC. We pounce on like little pigs, and I spend the afternoon having a good laugh with Madhav sister’s boyfriend, an 29 years old air copilot, not maried and who laughs about it when he’s not too worried about. Between him and the dudes of Junkyard Groove, I have now too much choice, question pied-à-terre at Chennai, or Madras (according to the era).
While I take three days translating my last prose, an Amritsarian friend of Stéphanie calls in at Delhi and shows his talents of turban maker/unmaker. Well, the hairy friend is a little bit shy and fears I don’t know what if Indians were to see his face on the Internet. Hence the password asked to watch the video whose the link. Little clue: it’s the city where ran aground my tragic and young existence for 16 years.
On Monday night, while Reverso is my best friend, the little courtyard takes alive with the brass bands’ tribal rythms for the two mariages celebrated one after the other, in the opposite ashram. We become paparazzis.
On Tuesday, I seriously start my search for a Hindi class for my French as a Foreign Language degree by correspondance. Later, I find on the internet a seemingly interesting option: Hindi Guru, classes of all levels for foreigners, with opportunity for short term, intensive classes (30 hours in two weeks). Pretty expensive (8000 rs, 120 euros), but that’s not suprising since expatriates are the target. I’m waiting a little bit more to see if I find something better, but if not I’ll opt for that solution. So we can start the machine. And besides the requirements for the degree, it’s also the occasion to progress in Hindi, at last, and this, in a short period of time.
I walk through Hindu College, where there is no class in these three first days of the week: it’s Mecca, the school’s festival. More people than what I expected, the atmosphere of a good ol’ kermesse at la Dézière (my primary school), and as guest stars, a Pakistani rock group.
Clerical pastime
The day is not over ; Devasia invited me to a lecture of the buddy Benedict Anderson, an Irish professor of Litterature, emeritus in Asian Studies. All the top academic people of the Indian capital, petit fours, distinguished humor, on the theme: “Rooted Cosmopolitanism And Its Political Preconditions“. The event of the year is taking place at the Indian Habitat Center, sprawling building ; it seems to me the heart of Delhite cultural life.
We continue the outing with the priest coming from the state of Kerala, on Thursday night. Full of courage, we take the plunge in the 2:42 hours of the documentary “Into great silence” (Philip Gröning, 2005), and to my great surprise, I stand fast. That “talks”, in French, subtitled in German and English, of the life of the Carthusian monks of the monastery of the Grande Chartreuse. Hardcore ascetism ; I met noisier (especially in Delhi) ; in any case it doesn’t lack interest. To be enjoyed between two confessions.
On Friday, it’s so hot in Delhi that the triennial shearing is essential.
Finally, on Monday 21st, it’s the festival of the Philosophy department of Hindu College. Modest event for that still young stream. Introduction with a mini-lecture of Vijay Tankha, head of the Philo department of the opposite St Stephen’s College, and incidentally husband of Upinder Singh, daughter of the Indian first minister ; in other words, the dad of my swing mate, Madhav. The day is spent between long breaks and little games : quiz, creative writing, ad mad (creation of an advertissement for some strange object), illogical reasoning (offering the most illogical reflection to complete a sentence beginning). Anyway, we still have fun, around here.
I’m leaving for Mumbai in a few tens of hours, then Goa for New Year’s Eve. I’ll have access to the Internet, but probably not much time to publish massively, in particular for photos and videos. Next article on my return then, a lot of kisses, happy holidays and good health!
If tourist popularity could be measured by the density of beggars with jagged members, Bodhgaya and its surroundings would most probably be in the most in sight regions of the Indian subcontinent. That’s one of the memory we’ll keep, me and my friends of a trip: the Dutch Ward and Marie, and the Germanic newcomer Dominic.
It is at the university metro station, inevitable meeting-place, that I get to know the latter, in saturday late afternoon. He just arrived in India and is not close to leave: he intends to visit it from top to bottom in 4 months. He didn’t come unarmed: a little bag that he always wears contains a LSR camera (Nikon D2X), an analog camera and not less than five different lenses. One might as well say that he is a passionate of photography ; I’ll learn soon that it’s his job.
First discovery for me as well as for him of the train journey. Indian train stations are like their country: overpopulated ; I’ll have the occasion to confirm that later. After having filled up the pockets of chips and cakes of all kinds, we end up on our seats, graciously booked by Ward in sleeper class. Not the supreme luxury, but always better than the seating class where finding a breath of fresh air is a rare thing. Before the night, the middle bed is lowered. The two Indians occupying the upper beds are the smartest: the can start their night without further delay. That’s the interest of travelling in train at the end of the day: the night comes quickly and the trip seems shorter. It is, by the way, at these unique moments that we can enjoy a public place in the silence. A luxury that I appreciate.
Who says early bedtime says early wake up, and Indians are here to remind us of that. First of all, by these young women who ask some coins for their ultra-morning singings. One of them notices my fair skin and keeps on. Later, that’s the people of the train who starts his day and gets back into his old noisy habits.
We arrive soon, indeed after 16 hours of trip, two of which of delay, but without really having the impression of it. Ben, a delhite english friend and Ajan, his buddhist master are here to welcome us. Actually, that’s their presence that made the trip possible: after a few months of discussions and meditation from his room of the International Hostel of Delhi, Ajan, a Lao buddhist monk studying a Ph. D. in Buddhist Studies at Delhi University, decided to bring further the spiritual training of his young disciple by urging him to the Mecca of Buddhists: Bodhgaya, where Buddha attained enligtenment, 25 centuries from now.
Autorickshaw drivers and their announcements make us understand plainly that here, Bodhgaya is the center of attention, making of Gaya a simple arrival stop for visitors, whether coming by the railways or the air. It’s on the back of the vehicle, all along of the 11km that separates us from the little holy city, that with Dominic and his big smile, I’m saying to myself that I finally see India, the real, the bush. So, the smile is quickly shared.
After a eating break, the rest-time is fully deserved. The invitation is sent for 5:30pm in order to meet Ajan at the little renovated building serving as a monastery for monks from Laos. We introduce ourselves one after the other, waiting for the coming of Ajan’s master, an obviously very calm man in his forties, who shares a few words with us, through the translation of Ajan, before leaving soon, because of a fragile health. We are offered to stay for the dinner ; we meet Shitoung, little brother of Ajan, and another young Lao, both studying here or there in India. Meanwhile, I use toilet paper sheet after toilet paper sheet to wipe the tears running on my cheeks: spicy, Lao food.
Finally, we end up this first day with a little glance at the center of the little town: the Mahabodhi temple and the tree to which it got built up against, two centuries after Buddha’s death. Shitoung calls on us of this gigantic place full of monks or simple amateurs. A kind of lecture is given a few meters ahead the tree but the noise level remains of course at one with the very solemn atmosphere. Masters rub shoulders with disciples but we can’t discern them, throughout the open passage surrounding the temple. We go around it, in the manneer of practitionners of walking meditation, after having spent a few minutes meditating inside the temple, facing a huge icon of Siddhartha.
This first contact broadens my mind to a world that I didn’t think of: the institutionalized Buddhism, organized in a social link, where women, children and diverse social classes have all their place. The site obviously welcomes monastic communities from all over Asia, but also a lot of simple practicionners, among which a not insignificant number of Westerners. Some of them seem to have made the big move and took Holy Orders. The impression that emanates from this moment of continuing celebration reminds me that we are far away from the solitary practice of the Western sage, hardly alone in a society whose values are opposed to his. Here, it’s, on the contrary, the society that is Buddhist. First real encounter with the world towards which i’ve been heading for, for the past few months.
Album Bodhgaya, day 1
Monday, 7th of December: Buddha strolling around
The heart of our stay at Bodhgaya is a little journey, concocted by Ajan, as far as Nalanda University, 80 km away from there. Only just started, the mini-bus bounces on the not always flat roads, following the beat of the incantations that we proclaim. These are kinds of prayers in Pali (an oral dead language used at the time of Buddha) ; Ajan and Shitoung lead the dance, we try our best to repeat the series of syllables that we read on the little book displaying roman transcripts.
I open a discussion with Shitoung, after the friendly invitation of his brother. Shitoung already spent a few years at the monastery and would have gladly followed the path of Ajan but here it is: the two first sons of the family already took Holy Orders, so the last one has the duty to honour the family name by continuing the lineage. I bombard him with questions. In particular on the moral imperatives of monks (more than 220!) and of the simple believers. Also, on the motivation explaining the project of becoming a monk. He replies that it’s simply his brother who was a role model ; I question the latter. He answers, as a good master, that we will talk about that later, and I should better have some rest.
After about an hour, first stop ; we’ll learn soon that our little tour will consist of the visit of several historic places rather than of the only goal to reach Nalanda. To start, we observe the traces dug in the rocks by carts’ wheels, unique means of transport for centuries, in order to reach this remote zone in the forests. What strikes me, it’s that for a place with so few interest, there are half a dozen of beggars, most of them children. However, no town or even little village a few kilometers around. Even if trying to live with it, I won’t really get used to that density of mendicants, that we will see again all day long.
Hardly enough time to rest, we arrive to the basis of Griddhraj Parvat or Vulture peak. The place is famous for having welcomed the meditations of the Buddha, as well as his teaching of the Heart Sutra (Prajnaparamita Hrdaya). Three centuries after his death, here took place the first buddhist council. We start off the steps of this 700-meters high hill, glancing at the many old men, women or children begging for mercy. Many are blinds, I guess the slashed eyes of a newborn.
A little bit higher, we meet a group of Singapourian tourists; their Western clothing style gives a strange impression mixed with their Asian faces. Ajan shares his tremendous knowledge, commenting on two places, a few meters below the top, where two disciples of the Buddha, Mokalana and Sariputta, spent a few years of their life, the latter reaching the enlightenment under a rock.
The temple on the other mountain, Wishwashanti Stupa, is in effigy of the Japanese master Suzuki.
At the crest is, guarded by two soldiers, the remains of fortifications of the little residence where the Buddha stayed to meditate during a few years. The place is holy for the Buddhists and Ajan reminds the fact to us by animating a series of prostrations and recitations of chants in Pali. Moreover, we’ll have the occasions repeatedly during the day to train to these rituals. A few minutes later, after that an Indian asked for remuneration for having allegedly waxed Ben’s plastic flip-flops, it’s to a dozen of minutes of meditation that we try our hand at, under the rock of Sariputta. I stopped my practice when leaving Angers, and the presence of a tourist group around us (taking pictures of us furthermore), doesn’t help. Difficulties to focus, and legs and back pains. Classic, you know.
On the way down, Ajan buys fruits to small itinerant salesman. We taste them, around a little meal, at the “restaurant” of the place. In honor of us, Western musics are played. We are really grateful.
We resume our journey. The next stop is close, and, not really helped by Ajan’s accent, I don’t understand much of the explanations. FYI, it’s about ruins of Jivaka Komarabhadda, an hospital at the time of the Buddha. The fact remains that a few needy are still around. Ward and Marie are successful with the distribution of candies, whereas an old man is compelled to stay crouching for a kind of skin tendon linking his knees to the top his the feet. Even though we have a class one guide in the person of Ajan, another man, after having showed us pebbles, cries out when we leave: “I’m an old man and I don’t ask for nothing, your help would be greatly appreciated“…
A few hundred meters further, we are proposed packets of peanuts to give to monkeys “who are really vicious!“. We are at Bimbisara Bhandagara, refuge place for monks in the season of rains. Apparently, a treasure is hidden in the walls of the dug cave, to whom could decrypt the painted writings…
Back: Shitoung, Dominic, Marie - Front : Ajan, Ward, Ben
Umpteenth break, this time at Maniya Mah, little temple where stayed relics of the Budda during a few centuries. Prostrations and chants reign. A little discussion with a group of Indian jains teach us that the place is also holy for the believers of that religion.
We come back to a urban environment with the next visit: the public baths of Tapodharama. The water coming from the mountains is naturally warm and the compartments, distincts according to the castes. It’s another holy place for hindus ; that explains the impressive number of beggars. On the way back, I hesitate to take the picture of a young man who carries his two legs on the shoulders. Dominic wonders as well ; we would talk about it at night. In front of such cases, we really wonder how, physically, such malformations are possible, and we can never put aside the hypothesis of volontary caused injuries. All that doesn’t help to raise the pervading misery.
Upper castes
A few meters below, the water is not lost…
... never lost.
You need to pay a little endowing to enter in the park of the Veluvana Monastery ; it’s annoying but this is a security for a place clean and without street people. Prostrations are really painful with the tiredness, but we all make an effort, hoping to maybe find some spiritual awakening. Coming back to the gate, some guards surround us and pretend to secure this desert and fully clear park… hoping that Ajan would make a gift to them of some little phial of natural essential oil facilitating breathing.
The road is longer, allowing me to treat myself to a little nap, before arriving to Nalanda University. The Buddhist institution was erected on 14 hectares, in 427 C.E. For 750 years, the university was one of the most important of the world, welcoming in some periods 10.000 students, some coming from China or even from Greece. It is a muslim conqueror from Turkey who put an end to Nalanda, burning it (in 30 days, still!), in 1197. Ajan doesn’t get out of his good habits and invites us, one more time, to a few minutes of meditation, but this time, clarifying a few advices about breathing and posture. That helps quite a lot.
During the two hours of our trip back to Bodhgaya, I maintain a background noise with Ben, while everybody sleeps. The day is not over: new lesson with Ajan, a few meters away from the Bodhi Tree, on the duties of parents and children, before one last session of meditation. The excellent Thai restaurant is even more appreciable.
Album Bodhgaya, day 2
Tuesday, 8th of December: ultimate enligthenments
Last morning in Bodhgaya, I open it by buying a shirt at the shop just round the corner from our hotel. The day before, I met Kundan, the young manager of the shop, which suggests on one side many books on meditation, Buddhism, etc, and on the other side, a whole lot of togs. There are always some hippy hymns from the 70’s that go out of the speaker hidden behind a little painting in sale, in front of the store. Kundan stays here, sit around a table, sipping a chai or a beer. His English is perfect and his wife, Belgian. After having spent 15 years in the streets of Bodhgaya, he worked in this library, of which he became the manager in 2001. He is now 26, and his Kundan Bazar is a compulsory stop for every European visiting the area, attracted by the melodies of the American youth in search of spiritual answers. The day before, it’s a German resting his elbows against the garden table that I met ; he lives here and works alone for a humanitarian project for the attention of diseased of polio, on a 20 km area around Bodhgaya. And I wonder if, me, I would be able to live in such a remote region of a world that I even merely understand.
We meet Ajan under the big tent reserved for Lao monks, a few dozens of meters away from the tree. He’s chating, with the aid of a mic, with two bald but smiling nuns (okay, not on the picture), who are on our side.
He starts the last visit of the stay: the monasteries of the city. Sri Lanka, India, Thailande, Buthan, and finally the gigantic statue of Buddha.
We go back to the tree to meet another monk, who accompagnies us further in the town, where meals are offered by thousands, under a giant tent.
Everybody is entitled to monks donations. Even the youngests.
Last minutes in the hotel and in the Lao monastery, to thank and to say goodbye to Ajan and Ben. We will see them again soon in Delhi.
Autorickshaw for Gaya, roads are really seldom in good condition but that makes us laugh. We wait on the platform of the train for Delhi. The departure is confirmed; a doubt hung over after that an accident took place the day before on some tracks in the region. Dominic stays with me, Ward and Marie taking the same train but continuing the spiritual journey, stopping somewhere halfway. After a little nap in our quite popular and noisy sleeper class, we are not cradled anymore by the train in motion and with good reason: it stopped, and will stay this way for several hours, because of disruptions on the lines. We make a great detour, lengthening our route from 14 hours to… 26 hours. Oh yeah. Then, we take grin and bear it, we listen to the great album of The National (recommended by the North-American adventurer François), we sleep well in spite of the fear scream of an Indian woman at 4 in the morning (there is a talk of a swindler…), and we spend the last hours away from the upper couchette, thinking that this sky, grey of pollution, reminds us that we arrived to Delhi, to home.
Album Bodhgaya, day 3
After the coming back of Stéphanie and Thierry from the beautiful Nepal where they spent a few days, and before the departure of the latter, the day after, for his beautiful city of Lyon and his brewery Les trois rivières, we decided on tuesday night to savor, at last, the big canned box of duck confit, that my dear flatmate cleverly brought from her quick move to France during the last month of September.
A few minutes later…
Let's fight!
At last…
Stalled.
I’m going to Gaya in a few hours! See you soon!
It’s hard to claim the contrary: times are really calm in Delhi.
In not more than a week, there will be much more news, with my journey to Gaya and its buddhist celebrations. And, in less than a month, Christmas in Mumbai with my friend from the US Jared, then Goa, stormed by Westerners, for New Years eve. Finally, since I won’t have class in january, I’m thinking about continuing the trip, but I don’t know where as yet. We’ll see when I’m there!
A few things to tell, all the same.
First of all, a little video to show you the atmosphere at our house warming party two weeks ago.
All the best
Saturday 28th of november, it was my neighbor’s turn to slip the engagement ring on. Well, that’s one way of putting it. Little ceremonies and little brass band in the noon, big ceremonies and big brass band in the evening. And too bad if it’s out of tune. I’m wondering if the essential is not rather that everyone in the area is well aware that the event is taking place. Actually, we are in the middle of wedding period. Some days, more than twenty-five thousand of them are celebrated in the Indian capital.
The happy loner
Always equiped with my flip-flops, I had a meeting in mid-afternoon at the Vishwavidyalaya metro station, with my teacher Devasia, who invited me to visit an orphanage in north Delhi, where he goes sometimes. He arrived 30 minutes late, and it was not a bad idea, since that allowed me to meet Maheswari, an Indian sexagenarian who was hanging around and who approached me by asking if I talked German. Or Greek. Because he does speak both languages, after having worked for thirty-ish years in our beautiful continent. Employed by Coca Cola in the 70’s, he gave it a shot, free as he was as a young bachelor. What he was determined to stay through the decades, moving from affair to affair.
This kind of profile is really rare in India, and it funnily responds to the marriages celebrated en masse these days. This sacramant seems above all to mark the integration of the individual in a lineage of tradition, the story of a family. This explains the ever numerous arranged marriages today. I was able to verify this with a college friend who confessed that if her lover was not from the same cast as her family, she would risk being excluded from the household if she wanted to continue a relationship with him. But most cases are less dramatic. On the whole, simply, the institution of marriage and of the family are understood differently. In Europe, it is the aspirations to personal choices that matter: we find the person who seems the closest to us, the most intimate, and from this couple we set up home. To some extent, it is the same here too, but arrive at twenty-five years, thirty years maximum, it is time to think about participating in the Big Construction, and the protégés of two close clans will perfectly form beautiful descendants and prolong the prestigious names. Concessions are different; it is also that life, at the individual level, is seen differently. Here, when it comes to personal identity, there are no existential doubts which could lead to building a world of lost values, where decisions are numerous and destabilizing. We are born in an already established system, in which we are placed and which will outlive us. But at the end, even though my culture is European, it is not obvious at all for me to say which system is the most favourable for each human being: a lot of encounters here showed me that the image of the wife subjected to her husband and to the housework is more and more a cliché, whereas at home, psychoanalysts and diverse modern shamans share out the gold mine trying to help members of a society to regain their marks.
(By the way, that makes me think of the september, 2009 issue of Philosophie Magazine, about the fundamental incompatibility of Eastern societies with psychoanalysis. The theme of the issue is: “Leaving the West – Review of elsewhere thoughts“.)
In short, it is by the way, in this context that I met an old Indian, who spoke an almost perfect English, as well as other European languages, who spent his life traveling, without any attachments. And all this happened 30 years ago, when even today many Indian students struggle to migrate to Europe. A very unique journey. He concludes the discussion by asking if I have German-speaking girlfriends. Before assuring me that age ain’t nothing but a number.
4 sisters and one orphanage
A little bit later, I finally meet my teacher Devasia. He was bargaining like a pro for a helmet, on the side of the road. He struggled for a few minutes, and I was surprised when I learned of the low amount in question: 150rs asked, lowered to 140, then 125, while Devasia gave 110. One euro and fifty cents. But both sides didn’t drop. A penny is a penny.
We did a small round. The motorized two-wheeler is really a good option in Delhi. And I have the impression that the models are restricted, so there is no excessive speed for sure. Anyway, there was no feeling of insecurity.
We arrived in an vaste ground area — I was to learn later that a little neighborhood would be created here in a few months — ; the orphanage seems to keep a kindly eye on the cleared place. The institution, Holy Cross Children’s Home, is a Christian one and is subsidized by the state and other private sources of founding. Four sisters are present, including an octogenarian Austrian who has been missioning in India for 49 years… By the way, it’s an austrian community, which owns several orphanages in India, among which is this one. This orphanage can house up to 80 children. At the moment, there are 43 children present. Several cases exist: a lot of children get taken in by the police from the streets; their ages include day old babies to toddlers. With a little bit of luck, parents come to pick up their offspring from the orphanage, guided by TV newsflashes that are systematically broadcasted. But often, it is a real case of the children being abandoned. The handicapped in particular are victims – those who are dumb, have mental backwardness or malformations. Other parents come and drop their kids off directly at the orphanage. They then have two months to reflect and go back on their decision. On the other side, there are of course a lot of requests for adoption, from India as well as from the West. The process follows several specific stages and takes some time: from six months to one and a half years. A letter from the sisters of the orphanage is entrusted to the parents, with the few details that they are aware of concerning the origins of the child. The parents are free to talk about this with the child when they see fit. Some Indian parents, on the other hand, won’t say anything, and judge that it is simpler for everyone to act as if the child was part of the family themselves.
After the inevitable tea, the sisters took me on a little tour. In the garden, the children take a break from their game to interpret two songs in Hindi. Later, I went to the newborn room. A few volunteers, only women, were helping the sisters. From the ten or so children present, one is blind and another didn’t talk yet. Since I’ve been in India, I noticed that it is quite common to meet blind or amputated ones in the streets. And a lot of adults of whom the pace reveals a malformation or a serious leg injury.
At 6:30pm, after a little chat with Devasia, it was time for the daily mass. I didn’t know what the status of my teacher was. I only learned that he had left his religious order to go back to education and research. Whatever it might have been, he was the one to conduct the celebration today, and it was carried out in Hindi at my request. It’s always funny to recognize the passages of the ceremony when the language is different. The protocols stay globally the same. In front of the altar, there were five chairs, for the four sisters and me.
The mass is short (45 minutes), and the farewell is warm. A sister gave me a cake wrapped up in a newspaper… where I read an article about the “hand of God” of Thierry Henri against the Irish… You already know what happened: surrounded by a priest and four sisters, the hypothesis of a divine sign hasn’t been forgotten.
My tailor is rich
Finally, another little innovation on the blog, that you maybe noticed and that really pleased me. Following the request of an Indian friend, I looked for a little plugin to be able to offer the article in different languages, but with a “manual” translation (thanks to Gulshan for the help!). It was automatic before, thanks to Google Translation, but the result was not always very good. From now on, you just have to click on the “English“ link, and hop, you can even talk about me to your british friends. And I’m sure they will love it (in English in the text… 
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Listenning to : Bojan Z – Wheels
French
