Tamil film music has been blaring out from across the road since about 5.30 in my semi-conscious state I am aware that Kovilpatti is waking up. Loud Tamil conversations, the roar of motorbikes, the sound of the milkman visiting and other assorted noises waft up to my comfortable rooftop "bedroom", and at 7.30 I wake up properly. A cold bucket shower followed by a cup of sweet coffee from Sanker's stall over the road complete the job.

I struggle manfully with my rice breakfast and exchange cheery greetings with members of the family. Tata, my "Indian grandfather", thrusts me a newspaper article he thinks I should read (about the changing role of the Brahmin in south Indian society) and, thus edified, I walk to school. It is already gloriously hot, and I am filled with a sense of well-being as I arrive and go through the "what did you have for breakfast?" routine with teachers, whose concern for the welfare of my stomach borders on the unnerving.

After taking a peek in my metal lunch-box, already waiting for me, and establishing gleefully that it is filled with chappati and dal but no rice (!!) I begin the day's round of lessons. 9th standard, my favourites, are aged 13-14 and are friendly, charming, polite and everything else that their English counterparts are not. We have an enjoyable discussion lesson comparing English and Indian schools. With 7th standard I decide to do a mutual history lesson, so after they have told me all they can about Ashoka's edicts I treat them to a dramatic rendition of the life of Henry VIII (the king and all six wives played by me). 4th standard, uniformly obnoxious, are a bit demoralising, and we don't achieve much. At lunch I chat to Mangai, Sheela and Veeni, three of the more forward of the all-female staff and some of the funniest, most charismatic people I have ever met. The only lesson I have in the afternoon is with 8th standard, all boys, who persuade me to do a sports lesson. What I can be expected to teach a bunch of Indian 12-year olds about cricket is beyond me, so I soon give up the pretence of being the teacher and allow myself to become the taught.

At 4.00 I'm exhausted and badly in need of something hot and sugary, so I head to Sanker's milk-stand on the way home for coffee and biscuits and general chit-chat. It is a great place to watch all the different kinds of traffic - pedestrians, bicycles, two-wheelers, bullock-carts, auto-rickshaws and, occasionally, cars - plough up and down the sandy street. Later on I discover that rice is back on the menu for supper, laced with spicy chutney. While I eat, I bombard Tata with my latest batch of questions about Indian life, religion, politics, all of which he patiently and humorously explains, drawing on the things around him for analogies.

Tonight is a music-school night, so I walk along the Old Ettaiyapuram road (which has become my favourite road in the world) in the gorgeous evening cool, greeting friends and acquaintances as I go, and navigate a labyrinthine series of backstreets to get to the house where I've signed up to learn the rudiments of Carnatic (south Indian classical) vocal music. I am ten minutes late, and only have to wait an hour before the teacher turns up and another half an hour till the pupils arrive and then, save a quick prayer to Ganesh, we're ready to begin. We spend most of the time on the raagam (scales and arpeggios, Indian-style) and then look at part of a song which seems to be something about the size of Ganesh's stomach.

I stop off to visit some friends on the way home, where I am force-fed a large plate of sickly sweets as the conversation turns to the situation in Iraq. Fascinating to hear another perspective on the matter. I am back home at 9.29, a minute before my curfew and sit outside briefly with various members of the family before we all go to bed. For the first time all day there is barely a noise to be heard.

Jonathan Galton

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8th standard

A music lesson

Kovilpatti

Tata ponders a difficult question