#kalkeri

Everything is wet here. Dampness seeps into our sheets and our blankets. A layer of mould clings to my guitar case, crumpled in a corner. Raindrops fall from the hole in our roof where a monkey has removed the tile. The rain ceases only for short spells before the sound of it meeting the jungle canopy sends us running for shelter once again. There is a darkness too. The sun rarely breaks through the cloud and the solar-powered batteries, the source of the school’s electricity, are quickly drained. Still the dancers dance, the singers sing and the soft beat of a tabla continues unabated.

On Sundays we leave the dripping jungle behind and wander into Kalkeri. Through the gate and down the bank, past the building site and the water tower. We know who will greet us. The young girl, always smiling, rocking on haunches; the old lady, her 'namaste' more of a bitter chastisement than a cheery hello. We’ll head for one of the eateries, perch on benches sipping chai and nibbling rice Krispies or if we’re lucky an omelette in a bun. Sometimes we go further, catching the bus into Dharwad, picking up coffee and fruit and another pair of sandals before heading back to the school completely exhausted. One time we venture all the way to Hubli, celebrating Soph’s birthday with a night at a hotel. We let the morning drift and settle, until I’m hurried back for another photo shoot.

There are always more photos to take. Everyone needs a picture, especially in India. I start with the college students, forty of them, freshly riled by their monthly meeting. “Stand there. 1, 2, 3. Next.” Then it’s the First Standard, still settling in but full of smiles, happy to pose. It’s the staff that take the most time. Admin staff, wardens, academic teachers, music teachers, the maintenance team, kitchen workers, volunteers, Santosh and his locks. The women dress in saris for the occasion which only adds to the pressure to get it right. Later I sit with Adam in front of his computer and wait for the verdict. Hands out of place. Sideways face. Too much space. Adam is a perfectionist. He’s also the School Director, and a fellow Englishman with an indified accent. He’s been at KSV for more than 10 years, starting as a volunteer but destined for permanent jungle residence. Now he's married to a local, father of a three-year old son and regular giver of talks about the school.

He uses our fortnightly meetings to brief me on upcoming visits, events, festivals. I scribble furiously: a performance for the Chief Minister; a visit from State Bank of India; another cohort of Deshpande students. They’ll all need photos; they’ll all need a Facebook post. The highlight is the school fair and for once I’m able to ditch camera duties. The students compete as their six houses, moving between challenges, earning tokens for each success. It verges on chaos at times. Tokens are stolen. Scores are questioned. Wardens become abusive. My activity involves groups of 30 transporting themselves on mats from one end of the yogshala to the other without touching the floor. There’s an imaginary river to cross, an overhang to crawl beneath. Two members are blindfolded. Before I know it they’re off, self-elected leaders yelling instructions, cheaters protesting innocence, older students launching younger ones across the raging water. We don’t tell them we’ve messed up the timekeeping.

We finish the day with a performance from the volunteers – a mime that centres on some chewing gum and then the body percussion that Lois taught us. Boom click clap, boom boom click clap. If it was intended to calm the students at the end of a hectic day, it failed dismally. By the end they’re baying for the final result, surging towards Amethyst as she nears the announcement. Disorder rules. It’s such a delicate balance, between engaging students and realising they’ve taken control.

In the darkness of night, from up on the bank, it’s hard to believe there are hundreds students and staff settling down just a stone's throw away. It’s hard to imagine the busy classrooms, the rush for lunch, the latest dramas. Cricket and Kabaddi, sitar and bansuri. At night it is silent and still. I walk the pathway from the kitchen to our hut, scanning the ground for snakes and scorpions, dodging the muddy puddles. Tomorrow it will start again.

We first heard about Kalkeri Sangeet Vidyalaya from Dirk Goldschmidt, a young German brimming with confidence who we met in Jaipur on the rooftop of Tony's Guesthouse. He flicked through photos, alive with colour, smiling eyes, dimples and mischief. “It's a music school in the south of India, for disadvantaged children, open to volunteers.” This was surely what we were looking for. Yet, by the time volunteering was an option some months later, we had become a little hesitant, softened by the coolness of Nepal. Warnings abound. “Karnataka in June?! It will be soooo hot! 40 degrees some days!” We chose to take it on, reconvening after a month apart and then winding our way down from the misty hills of Mirik in the north, back through the sweltering heat of Kolkata, and into a 36 hour train journey to Hubli in the south.

Tucked in the back of a tuk-tuk, we watched traffic-crammed roads transform into muddy tracks, windowed shop fronts into lush green fields, before finally rolling into Kalkeri. Our first perceptions of the village and school seem strange now, each moment offering fresh experience, unencumbered by the layers of meaning and memory that would gather in the following months. A crossroads of types, men playing cards, a rocky approach. A friendly face to welcome us. It belonged to Anand, a giant of a man who I would come to wrestle in the sweaty heat of a hidden chamber by the village square. Our faces would be caked with the sacred soil of India, our breathing heavy, thighs aching. But for now he was the cheery chap who ensured we didn't pay too much to our driver.

It was Pierre who showed us our room, a crumbling mud hut atop the hill and near the perimeter fence, the envy of every other volunteer for the views from its terrace. Pierre would soon return to France, he told us, leaving his tabla behind, and jam sessions that missed his beat. He took us to the office and into the worlds of Santosh and Yashwant, Kaveeta and Sarah. A flick of long hair, a strong handshake, an infectious giggle. Another French accent. Amethyste arrived back from Bengaluru the following day and added further clarity, more stories, some ground rules. Our roles would remain uncertain for a while longer but it wasn't a problem. For the first few days we wandered around the site, laid in hammocks, and scooped up our rice and samba as things slowly clicked into place.

Finally, I was assigned 5th Standard English for my teaching duties. 23 faces peered up at me, more than a hint of a challenge filling the air. 12 boys, each with a shaven head. 11 girls, from the sweet to the cutting. Hadn’t I concluded on more than one occasion that teaching wasn’t for me? I was here for the music, for the jungle, for the cost-saving, not to force English upon those who have no interest. Gradually they acquired names and personalities. Abhishek and Darshan in the far corner, the best of friends until a bad word sparked fists and tears. Sunanda, quick to bite, only partially subdued by that visit to the office in the pouring rain. Vinay, rarely seated; Shabhana, highly revered; Jyoti, smiling. Govindraj, Saraswati, Mohammed. Mohammad, whose story you could never imagine.