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Sign in Maharaja's museum over a display of old weapons: "touch is discouraged."

There is this image of the Indian in western eyes as docile, long-suffering, complacent, never lifting a finger to avoid his fate. Yet one only has to be at the post-office window: upon shoving and pushing to get as close to the window as possible and displace who ever is there first, they then twitch in impatience if there is the slightest waiting period. Tempers rise, the pushing becomes more violent. The worst example I have seen is at the third class ticket window at the cinema. This is the cheap seat ticket. It is like watching pigs at a trough. Clothes are torn, people use every way possible to get to the front, there is no line just a mass of animal flesh pawing each other in the most brutal fashion, with the inevitable, fights screaming matches etc. Similarly at the rail road ticket window, at a crowded shop counter. There are no public manners. And it is not just the lower class; businessmen college students are among the most vicious in asserting their egos on the rest. Of course one must balance the picture with the equally rude clerk on the other side of the counter, who takes his own time, pretending you don't exist, if answering at all, answering gruffly as though is doing the greatest favor in the world by waiting on you. Sometimes I think all the social amenities have broken down. Let loose in a city Indians return to an animal state.

Sept 26

A half-coriander crust of a roll lies on the ground. Two birds come to peck at it. Then a third bird comes, aggressive and chases the other two away. He pecks for a while and then, satisfied, flies out of sight. The crust rests there for two

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minutes and a crippled bent man comes hobbling up sights the crust, comes closer for inspection, leans down in slow motion, takes the crust and wanders off.

Sept 29

The boy who works with his father on the murti figures of Durga during the day, lies spread at their feet asleep at night. Their many armed figures hovering over him like miserable dreams.

Sept 29

Bhola Nath, painter, father of five, a youthful old face, graying hair, thin, works on his painting surrounded by relatives, children - the life of a family going on around him in a small room hung with reproductions, his own watercolors. A picture of a saint with his arms embracing two dogs in his lap. The framed pictures hung high up on the ceiling. Sun throwing blind light on the concrete floor in striped patches. Crumpled bed clothes, a small electric fan. One boy chalks on a slate, a cousin lounges on the bed reading a newspaper.

Sept 30

At four o'clock this morning a loudspeaker starts to blast from some roof-top. Shrill, off-station, static distorted sound, amplified from a radio. Wrenched from sleep by this impossible sound, like some monsters shrieking in my head, the volume unbelievable. This goes on all early morning until 7:00 AM. It was a Durga sloka being broadcast to share it with all of us as loud as he could. People here tolerate the intrusion of ear-shattering sound as a matter of course. It upsets most people, students studying etc., but no one would think of protesting. Privacy here is insulted from all sides. And any fool can set up