When my grandfather sold his many businesses in East Africa, it made him a very wealthy man. And he came to Pondicherry with his eleven children, gave nearly all his money to the Ashram, and in return they promised they would look after his family for ever. This is the house he lived in.

This is our house. My elderly aunts now live here. My eldest aunt, indeed the eldest of all the siblings, lived here until she was forced into permanent exile by a broken hip, lying on a bed in the Ashram hospital on the oceanfront until she finally passed away, almost 89 years old.

The house is almost a prison for my aunts who still live there, and who knows how long the ashram will allow us to keep it…

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Everyone has something to say, but nobody wants to listen. Or, is it self-censorship? Is that the worst form of censorship, we do not, say not, write not, because we know it will not be accepted?

As personal projects go, this has been light-hearted, a means to engage people in conversation that I might not have done, meeting people I might never have done, persuading people to Shush me, even if I was standing on their table at the time. Sorry about that, you know who you are.

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The lake was practical: to stop the area being flooded. This is what comes from living on a river plain. The area is deserted, only hinting at people, at life, activity, and interactivity. Wildlife, or birdlife seems to thrive here - discarded shopping carts are rapidly turned into a foundation for a coot’s nest.

Broken crockery at the bottom is occasionally mistaken for a snack by the swans, and evidence of feeding comes from the empty bread bags tied to the railings. Parts are in turn neglected, well-maintained, ignored, abandoned and brand new. No fear but strange and surreal sensations akin to episodes of the Twilight Zone, or The Prisoner, The Avengers. Nothing seems to quite fit.

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Immigrants generally live where there’s work and community, and the East End has seen many communities come through and leave their mark. The latest of these has been the Bangladeshi community, with furlongs of curry houses and shops, a mosque and an entire support network geared up for them.

Remnants of the former Jewish population still exist, with the competing 24 hour Bagel shops at the north end of the road, fading signs and a museum. The vast, sprawling Truman Brewery with its fantastic series of buildings still houses the creative heart of the area, with its designers, artists, musicians and freeloaders trying to scam enough change for a beer.

Talvin Singh’s Mercury Prize-winning OK was recorded on the fifth floor, many of London’s finest digital agencies began life here, but unlike those days, when the locals were the hosts and the creatives their guests, the locals are almost outsiders.

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