We have done Cochin, the Indian-Chinese-Portuguese hotchpotch with winding streets, all dosa and banana. Fishing nets, Jew Town spice market, Dutch Palace, Ernakulum ferry and mad techno hubbub – done. Rahool from the fort (‘don’t feel sorry for the Mumbai slummers they all have cable’) and Mr Benson who ran the home stay, who sang Hindi movie songs with his friends and the other English traveller (Foo Fighters: the Bollywood years), and old Ignatius Benson who took to kissing Wilf’s stomach – farewell.
Two weeks have passed since the 18 hour chug to Vijayawada, sweaty on the sleeper. She took us to buy pots and pans and sped us maniacally through the Krishna District.
First stop was our flat in Gannavaram: three rooms, ants and lizards galore, no shower, but a ceiling fan which can soothe all calamities. Home sweet home.
Next stop, the PSVS compound in Atkur, two hours away (Theresa’s home). This place is all chipmunks and fruit trees, frilling the house, the offices, the outside meeting space which sits like a band stand ready for performance. Durga cooks and we chat with Theresa, and other activists who stop by, about dowry, female degradation, child marriage, child labour, domestic violence, police corruption and on it blows; the struggle is her life blood. She laughs, however, at any opportunity, particularly where translation is concerned: 'Have you ever seen a man-go up a coconut tree?', and so on.
Then two days in Visanapeta, compound number two, the HQ three hours away. Smiling Lakshmi feeding us as we hide from the monsoon and Theresa leaves to hunt down a child who is being forced into marriage that night. Mission accomplished, she is found and sent to school.
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