‘Finalists’ in the links below refers to the entries with the top 10 scores after the second round of judging, in random order.
‘Scores’ are for both round 1 and round 2.
Clicking on the Entry ID number in the Scores page shows you the full entry and its scores in the both rounds (if it got through to round 2, that is), plus remarks (if any).
‘Winners’ shows you all the prize-winners, their names, the scores they got on both rounds, and remarks, if any.

There are quite a few ties. We follow a simple system when that happens: we drop the next prize, and the tied contestants share the prize money for both places.
For example: a two-way tie in first place - no second place, and the tied entrants share equally the prize money for first and second place;
Another example: a three-way tie for first place - no second or third prize, and the tied entrants get an equal share of the prize money for 1st + 2nd + 3rd; and so on.
For a tie in third place, since we only have prizes for the top three, the tied winners simply share prize money for third place.

Now then.

Literature Quiz
1st place, Mahesh and Bala
2nd place, Anand & Ajith
3rd place, Girish & Aniruddha.
(ISix teams made it through the written elims into the final round. We’ll ask our quizmaster if he’d be willing to share the scores in the elims and the finals with us)

SMS Poetry
Scores - Finalists - Winners
1st place (tied): Sandeep Shete, Kanika Parab, Anitha Murthy

55-word Stories
Scores - Finalists - Winners
1st place, Nina
2nd place, Krishnakumar Sankaran
3rd place (tied), B S Keshav, Dilip D’Souza, Sandeep Shete

Flash Drama
Scores - Finalists - Winners
1st place (tied), Sandeep Shete, Chandrima Pal
3rd place, Menaka Raman

Lyric writing
Scores - Finalists - Winners
1st place (tied), Amrita Chatwal, patrick,
3rd place (tied), sheela jaywant, Raamesh Gowri Raghavan, Joshua C. Love

Poetry Slam
Finalists - Arjun Kariyal, priya shah, upasana vikram mukherjee, Ahmed Karim, Virendra Gupta, Dr. Taher Kagalwala, Swayamprava Panda, Raamesh Gowri Raghavan, Mukul Chadda, Nithya Subramanian, devesh sharma, Abhishek Kumar, patrick (Arjun Kariyal’s entry, though an edited version of his own work, was not submitted by him, which we very nicely told us. Ahmed Karim and patrick did not respond to our invitation to participate in the Slam.)
Winners -
1st place, Mukul Chadda,
2nd place, Raamesh Raghavan,
3rd place, Devesh Sharma

As I entered the David Sassoon Library Gardens, my attention was grabbed by the provocative book covers which were being flashed on the screen, beauties with guns, some with fangs and blood stained lips. I stared at them, unable to tear my eyes away. They were covers of popular Tamil pulp fiction. I wished I could read the titles.

I had missed the Pulp Fiction workshop. Gods of KG festival had slotted it for Sat and Sunday morning.  I mean, have mercy! This year I found a lot of good workshops happening earlier in the day and I had to miss them. Grrrrrrr!   It had made me doubly keen to attend the event  Pulped and Popped. I could see some girls setting up a table by the side piled with books. A girl with a rasping voice was here there and everywhere. My attention was divided between the screen and that girl.

Jerry Pinto entered the scene almost like a master-ji, asking every one to take their places. The energy levels were high and the sassy girls insisted upon sitting down on the stage. After some persuasion everyone took there seat, order was restored and Jerry started the introductions…

Meanwhile the gruesome slides were still being flashed on the screen.

The panelists were Rajshree aka Raju whose book was launched during this festival, Pritham K. Chakravarthy, Sudarshan Purohit, Kaveri Lalchand, Rakesh Khanna and Rashmi Devadasan who worked on Blaft Anthology on Tamil Pulp Fiction.

Rakesh confessed that his interest was roused by the covers of the books he used to see everyone in Chennai read, but was unable to read them himself.

Sudarshan was well versed in Hindi PF which is known as Pocket Books.

Pritham ( the the most vocal one in the group) was the only one who could both read and write Tamil,

The discussions were energetic. Pritham talked for everyone else and others listened appreciatively. Jerry did a great job of making everyone participate, even the girl who was content to hide behind Pritham

I remembered the Pulp I was hooked to James Hadley Chase, Star Comic romances, Mills And Boon ( are they  still pulp or have been declared  classics by now ? It seems ages…) I am sure everyone had their own favorites.

Meanwhile Jerry was quizzing Raju on her book. She was denying vehemently that her book falls in that category. It was Chic-lit, if you please! Don’t put it on the same shelf along with pulp. Then everyone launched in the debate defining chic-lit and pulp.

Looks like Pulp has a LOT of rules. They have to end happily. Only so much promiscuity was allowed for the main characters, bad girls had more freedom, the language also had it’s own style.

Guys, I enjoyed every minute of the hour long discussion, perhaps best in the whole series. The images were back, a stabbed woman lying in a way to display her  feminine beauty , a macho Inspector with his moll with goggles, with a skull in the back ground etc. etc. A sudden craving for pulp hit me, almost like craving for chaat!

The title “Impact of globalization on Marathi Poetry” sounded promising. As it was slotted right after the Translation workshops I was in a right frame of mind to listen to the poems.

The event was moderated by  Hemant Divate, a young poet who is also a publisher. Others were unknown to me but perhaps familiar to the regulars of Marathi poetry. I am still stuck into the pre- globalization era as I realized .

I was looking forward to listening to the panel’s discussions about their poems, but that didn’t happen. The poets preferred to communicate only through their poems. No discussions took place.

I found the poems mostly mediocre with an exception of Divate himself, and a young poet from Buldhana, Manoj Surendra Pathak. His poem about Death of a man and how it affected his son reached even those who didn’t completely understand Marathi. The words were raw, and emotions true. I thought this was the best poem of the evening.

Another one which I liked was- Sachin Ketkar’s poem in which a lonely man sits in front of his computer, waiting to chat with someone. But even here he is disappointed as no one would chat with him.

Beyond a few references to technology, like computers, chat rooms, and some profanity I didn’t find any marked difference between pre and post globalization poems. Free verse is not newto Marathi poetry. As for the content, God traveling the world in a helicopter, saying ‘Fuck You’ to his devotees, was neither amusing, nor shocking, nor interesting. As a result everyone just waited for that rather long poem to be over.

Dilip Zaveri read the English translations of a few of these poems. Some were done decently, but most were just word to word translation, missing out the essence completely. One was a rather tongue in cheek poem where the poet had strung together street signs, and the messages which we see everyday around us. The poem had a rather humorous feel to it. But when translated, the entire line up of messages became meaningless. Lost in Translation- once again?

Satisfying or not, inclusion of regional language literature in Kala Ghoda Arts Festival added an interesting dimension to the events. How about getting us some popular Marathi  theater guys next year ?

While the adults discussed the pros and cons of literary awards, marketing, cash prizes, the vulgarity and the necessity of categorizing literature and selling it, the little boy read Raold Dahl’s ‘The BFG’.

Seemed to validate Sankar’s point that some books, like those by Sarat Chandra need no awards or marketing to sell even now.

Well, books may not need the awards or the cash, but am sure, authors do. The male authors seemed to disdain the need for money, the women were more practical.

At the Kalaghoda Literary Festival,

a panel discussion with Namita Devidayal, Usha K R, Sankar, P Sachidanandan and R Sriram. Moderated by Vikram Doctor.

15 February, 2009 in the David Sasson Library garden.

KGAF 2009 was a far more diverse event than earlier years. There just seemed to be a lot more variety even in the themes that got exhibited.

One strong theme was living in Mumbai - that got carried across the photography exhibit and a giant art walk through. The focus here was basic hygiene factors being denied to over 65% of citizens. Starting with overcrowding, to available toilets, to water supply …. and all of these conveyed through innovative exhibits

A pyramid of plastic buckets.

The other theme, that brought a smile to the face was Chai. ‘made in Chaina’. Mithali Mehta’s exhibit seemed to gently mock at our obsession with all things foreign, while bemoaning the risk to the chai in the face of gloabalisation - don’t worry Mithali, the recession will make sure that the cutting chai will survive - and was a homage to the drink that is everyone’s favourite beverage.

And, of course, less than 10 weeks after 26/11 - there was a giant exhibit of letters and views on terrorism and terrorists. Some were simple, some were hate filled, others wondered why they hate us … in any case it seemed to be the voice of many - as opposed to a few - and it was on display in a raw form that made the words more poignant.

visitors to the exhibit reading the letters

I don’t think that i have ever seen so many people at Kala Ghoda. In a way, the crowds were overwhelming. Personal space dissolved, and you went with the flow. It is the first time that i have seen so many different types of people at KGAF.

This year, a lot more seemed to be happening. More shops, more food, more people, more exhibits, and more variety …I went on a chilly Saturday afternoon. The first thing that strikes you are the crowds…. in fact the first thing that struck me was a whole bunch of kids and a whole bunch of mothers having a blast at the KG children’s festival. Whover said that Indian’s are repressed and undemonstrative doesn’t know what s/he is talking about

The masks marked the event display ! colourful, funny masks of all sorts …

For me, the key displays were the photographsy exhibitions - and by the looks of the crowd milling around - so was it for them. There were beautiful open air exhibits of a Mumbai ’slice of life’

In fact, the crowds were so overwhelming, that after a point i thought that there is no way i can photograph the experience. the chatter, the gasps …. and of course they were jostling my elbow and it seemed kind of churlish to glare at them !

(a senior citizen at the out door photography exhibition )

And, finally,

How can someone not hug him ? :)

So here’s the thing about writing for a better world: it’s complicated.

The thing about championing a cause is that, it’s a little like love. Activists, much like lovers, seem to believe that because their love burns with such intensity inside of them, surely the incandescence of it must light up the world? But here’s the thing, it’s all inside you, and my friend, unless you get up on that water tank and declare it to the world, you’re unlikely to have an audience of more than a few surly, non-committal Jai’s (who, even as they believe in your cause, might not exactly be the best people to have on your side).

If you love so deeply, show us.

With a panel that consisted of writers, activists, writer-activists and journalists, the discussion was bound to be interesting. Ably moderated by Dilip D’Souza (in a spousally approved shirt which he very wisely changed into before taking the stage), panellists Bittu Sahgal, Rajni Bakshi, Darryl D’Monte and Joseph Campana spoke with passion and eloquence about the challenges and the difficulties of writing for a better world.

The discussion opened with Bittu Sahgal who read out two touching excerpts of writing by his favourite author Rachel Carson (thank you, Dilip). He spoke enthusiastically of his work of saving the tiger and how, sadly enough, his most receptive audiences consisted of children below the age of 13. The overall feeling one got after Mr. Sahgal’s allotted 3 minutes were up, was that he despaired of ever finding an attentive audience (and therefore a future keeper of the flame) among adults who, blinded by greed and avarice (a bit harsh, don’t you think, Mr. Sahgal?), just could not see that in saving the tigers, they were simply saving themselves.

Which brings me to the point that Darry D’Monte made about the world being full of ‘knowledge resistant’ people. Mr. D’Monte, with this I humbly beg to differ. We’re not knowledge resistant, if anything, we’re hungry to know more. The only problem is that perhaps we lack the wisdom to decide what it is we want to know more about. You could blame that on the information overload that as the internet-generation, we are bound to be subjected to, but this is where I gently place the blame – or a large part of it at least – on your able shoulders. The thing is, I’m an ardent supporter of the school of pedagogy which believes that the student is never (well, not quite never, but close enough) at fault. I’ve been blessed and cursed with teachers who have inspired and completely put me off the subjects they taught respectively. While I couldn’t really find a connector between the bad teachers (except maybe boredom), between the good ones, there was the common factor of passion. A deep and abiding love for the subjects they taught. Their enthusiasm was like a particularly infectious virus which you couldn’t help but catch.

We don’t not want to know, it’s just that with the reams of information we have access to, it’s difficult to know who the real McCoy is.

And I think this is where the similarity between lovers and activists ends. Lovers can make grand gestures; their passion (and their hormones to a certain extent), grant them the licence. Unfortunately, most activists I know are intensely private individuals and shouting from the rooftops seems absurd to them, almost beneath their dignity. I understand this behaviour, but as someone who is part of the big bad media machine, I can tell them that it won’t work. Too many causes have died for want of good marketing. Is that sad? Of course it is, tragic even, but for the thing you love, this much needs to be done. Our attention spans may be shorter, our intelligence eroded, but tell us about your love in a way that we can understand and we will love too.

A very valid point that came up in the course of the discussion was, why is it that so much activist literature (if it can be called that) makes for such poor reading? As panellist Darry D’monte rightly pointed out, it is because most activists are just that, activists. There is no clause in the activist’s 10 commandments that says, ‘Thou shalt also be a good communicator.’

So how does one solve this predicament? It seems a simple enough matter of bringing together causes and people who would like to champion them, but like most simple solutions, it is not easy. Panellist Joseph Campana had a partial solution; encourage students of writing to also study subjects that tell them about the world, its history and its stories. A writer with a cause he /she believes in is a better, a more coherent, a more believable writer. Panellist Rajni Bakshi also made a valid point when she said that as activists, as believers in a cause, it is also their lot to make their causes more appealing to the public. It might be a tad annoying to have to explain the iridescent beauty of the one you love, but that has long been the source of the world’s best stories, poems and plays. Would a “Thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars” have been as much a part of popular consciousness as it is now if Christopher Marlowe had thought, “Look, it’s very obvious that she’s beautiful, why do I need to make a song and dance about it?”

Activists’ selfless love for causes is noble and wonderful, but finding champions for them should be a part of that love. Mr. Bittu Sahgal, I’m looking at you.

Unfortunately I caught only the tail end of the conversation with Ganesh Devy in the David Sassoon Library garden. Somebody asked him about Naxalism. Here’s a gist of what he said.

It’s like P Sainath’s book Everybody Loves a Good Drought. It suits governments to declare areas drought-affected. In the same way, the Government says 128 districts are “Naxalite-infested.” We have about 600 districts in this country, and I’ve been to about 350. I’ve not seen so many that are affected. It helps the government to say there is this danger. It conceals the failures of development. Nobody listens to these people, so in an absurd way they are hitting back using their bodies. The media does not want to look at the fine print in these stories.

This fed well into the next session at the Garden, which was about writing on conflict. Sudeep Chakravarti, author of Red Sun, was the moderator, and said something similar to Devy. The Government says 15 of our 28 states are “Maoist-infested” — a term he detests — and if you add J&K and Nagaland and Arunachal and Manipur and a few others that are wracked by violence, you have 21. 21 of our 28 states that are going through social conflict. What is conflict if it is not endemic to India?

Sonia Jabbar read out three extracts from her forthcoming nonfiction book. One small part stuck in my mind, and I shall try to paraphrase. It was about a young man abducted in Kashmir. His sister met the abductors, and pleaded for her brothers life, while stroking one of their AK47s. It was an unmistakable sexual gesture, and it made the others present queasy: this young girl, offering the unthinkable for her brother’s life. It didn’t matter, because they killed him anyway.

Sudeep played two short audio clips, intercepts of police transmissions in Chhatisgarh. The first is some quick intructions from a senior officer to his men. If they find journalists who are going to cover the Naxalites, said this officer and all of us in the Garden heard him, “unko seedha marwa dena.”

The second is about reaching out to villagers in these areas. Reach out once, reach out twice … if after the third time the cops think the villagers are still supporting Naxals, tell them “tumhara gaon jala denge.”

The next session, I am to moderate. Right about now, I feel distinctly queasy.

Third installment of missives to Pakistan, from the Postcards to Pakistan booth:

* I Hate Pakistan — Hrithika, age 7 years.
* Pakistan ko udha dalo. (in Devnagari). Mi Mumbaikar (in English).
* Dear Pakistan, Son can’t Take the Place of Father!!
* Dear Pakistan (May Allah Give U Brains). Love Peace Life. PLZ stop training terrorists. You loosers GROW UP!! Tripta and Amrita.
* We want a peace But After a WAR against the Terrorists/Pakistan. Bloody Fuckers/Mother Fuckers. ShivSagar.
* Don’t Bye Peace from Pakistan. Attack Terrorist camps for Peace. Virendra Padte.
* Fighting is better if fought directly on war zone not kilin insocent!!!
* I Hate Pakistan. Vansh, 6 yrs.
* What students study in Pakistan?

1) BE — Bomb Engineering.
2) MBBS — Member of Bomb Blasting Society.
3) IIT — Islamic Institute of Terrorism.
5) M Tech — Masters in Terror Technology.
6) LLB — Learning License of Bomb Blasting.

Vinod Tambe. [No #4].
* Pakistanvar halla kara! (Devnagari)
* I request all Pakistani - Please take a holi-dip in Varanasi. Osama Bin Laden.
* First control Indian Talibanism by Ram Sena or any other Sena, then tell Pakistan to behave.
* I hate Pakasthan. Pakasthan the Terror. Tushita K Nagula, Age 11.
* Dear brother Pakistan, Please stop fighting with me now or I’ll tell mom. She’s gonna punish you… Yours loving bro, India.
* Let’s hope and pray they drop the BOMB. They drop it on FU**@#$in’ PAKISTAN!
* Phudcha Mukhyamantri Raj Thackeray Hava!!! Prathmesh Pandit (in Devanagari)
* I love India But I hate Pakistan.
* (Immediately next to the previous): Stop hating us we our one you yours that is unity. Raahil.
* Fuck to the Pakistan By Order.
* Next time there won’t be a Pakistan left.
* Pakistan I Hate You. Me Too. Jugal and Amey.

People will ask, why do Pakistanis hate India so much? We don’t hate them like they hate us!

This booth., it says some different things. Makes you wonder.

Early-ish Saturday morning, I stand at one end of Rampart Row and I can see clear down to the other end; my estimate is that there are 25 people between me and there. At no other moment during my visits here could I have said this.

I am struck by an inexplicable urge to find out what my future holds for me, apart from what I do know about it: that in an hour I will pick up my son from a workshop. So I saunter down to the other end, where I know the fortune tellers sit. On the way I run into — I mean physically run into — someone whom I heard described, two nights ago, as “an institution on the Bombay cultural scene” or words to that effect. Considering that I fell backwards as if struck by a battering ram, I’d agree with “institution”. Like running into the Gateway of India.

Where the fortune tellers sit, there’s nobody sitting. But like Charu, I’m struck by their offer to help me with FOREIN TUOU and EDUEOTION, and their injunction to “Look-for hands live”. I look quizzically at my hands as I saunter on.

At the Postcards to Pakistan booth — a further installment of the missives there will appear here soon — I’m standing next to several pre-teen boys chaperoned by a gent in a smart grey-blue shirt printed with fleur-de-lises, wearing sharp brown leather shoes with a gold emblem of sorts. We’re all reading the missives, and suddenly he leads them, with plenty of giggles, in finding words for each letter in “Pakistan”. This was their effort:

“P” — Pagal.
“A” — Atrocious.
“K” — Kutta.
“I” — Idiot.
“S” — Stupid.
“T” — Terrorist.
“A” — Arrogant.
“N” — Nikamma.

By the end they are so convulsed with laughter that I am worried that in their mirth, a couple of the kids will fall on the floor and roll around.

What would a forein tuou, to Pakistan, do for the edueotion of these kids?

The  Translating poetry  workshop  was starting at 2.30 PM.

It was 2.26 pm and I still hadn’t found the entrance to the Elphinston college! I walked up and down the side walk and in desperation called Ayesha who guided to to the side entrance. Rushed up looking for room no 108 and reached the class room 5 mins late. I was reliving an old nightmare. The teacher here didn’t look as formidable or as pissed off as the teachers in my nightmare. He just nodded when I panted “May I come in “.

Feeling about 2 inches tall I settled in my chair. Sachin Ketkar, was our Teach for the evening. He has an impressive portfolio. A writer and translator, he has done is PhD in languages from Gujrat. He has translated not only in Marathi but also in Gujarati.

There were nine or ten people. Every participant had some experience as a writer, some in English and a few in Marathi.

Sachin had brought notes for us which also had a few poems for us to translate. We got into discussing poetry and how translating it is different that the prose. Is it possible to translate every poem? Or some are more difficult?

Once when I had read a Haiku, four friends came up with  four different interpretations, all different than mine. Does their point of view have same validity as mine?

When they say- lost in translation, what exactly is lost and how?

What about idioms, and cultural references or poetic forms?

Is it possible to carry these from one language into another?

What is more important, translating the words as they are, or assuming more license while capturing the meaning behind the words?

A poem is open to many interpretations. How do we decide what the poet wanted to say? Then in what way is a translation any less than an original creation? etc etc etc.

Not every answer Sachin gave us was acceptable, and very soon it became a ‘students v/s teacher’ debate, but as in any debate, everyone was left to find his own answers.

We were given a poem where all our questions were put to test.We had about 15 minutes to do it. We had been asked to keep Marathi / English dictionaries with us. But frankly speaking, we didn’t need them. As we had discussed earlier, translating the idiom was the real challenge. We submitted our work to our teacher who while not commenting Rightness or wrongness of anything seemed more curious to see what our interpretation had been.

All in all, while not satisfying completely, it was a good experience.

Beginning with the Valentine’s Day Special:

Take that, Muthalik, et al.

Kids will be kids… and thank god for that. (Most endearing image from Kala Ghoda - tiny tots in over-sized white Surf Excel T-shirts, looking like a bunch of druids going off to their annual conference - Asterix and the Goths? Indeed, daag acche hain, good stuff, Surf Excel!)

I will not look on things as worldly…

And here is another window to fight-back…

This answer is blowing in the wind…

And at the end of the day.

An old man sits two seats in front, and asks a helping hand from Shamiana what time the film, Gumraah, is to be screened. He is two hours too late, unfortunately. “But this is good as well,” he is promised. “They’re short films. You’ll enjoy them.”

He seems to. He sits through the delayed start, the mic checks, and the technical jugglery with the projector, right down to the hurried end. Every time the house lights come on between the film segments, he looks around at the testy audience (it is a hot evening at Cama) with a twinkle in his eyes and smiles generously.

That’s the power of a short film. A big promise fulfilled, in very little time.

Of course, the short film is a much abused art form today, especially now that digital technology makes it so much easier to shoot, cut and send your little masterpiece out into the world. The clutter is unimaginable; Youtube servers are surely testament to the fact.

From within this clutter, Cyrus Dastur has curated a smart collection of short films by Indian students (abroad, and from around the country) for your viewing pleasure. Beginning with the tender, acclaimed (and Oscar shortlisted) film Birju, the evening goes on to end with Little Sivaji II, the sequel to a popular short spoof filmed with a zany twist by Kannan and gang, students from SIES College (Nerul). There is no theme that the screened films subscribe to, or a particular style that holds them together. Conversely, it is their effective diversity that asks the audience to examine the true portent and potential of a short film.

While Birju slowly unfolds as a sensitive and contemplative character drama, Printing Mistake (from Chennai) is a straight out narrative with a nostalgic touch for story telling. A Perfect Day from FTII (Pune) peppers a slice of life story with idiosyncrasies not just of the characters, but of the film itself.

It is a proud moment for Shamiana when the audience fills the seats, and stays put for the remainder of the show, I bet. If so, it is a proud moment for Indian cinema as well. These are but the humble beginnings of tomorrow’s entertainers. They deserve the applause.

Shamiana has been showcasing various selections of short films through the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival. There is another screening due this evening. Take them up on their promise; watch the show. Remember, the corollary promise to short films is that even if they fail, at least you wouldn’t have wasted too much time!

2/3rds of this city lives in slums and on the streets…

How long can you stand it?

Me? Makes me wonder about my chances for Forein Tuou and Edueotion. What about you? How long can you stand it?

If you don’t have a friend in the audience already, there’s no way you’re going to get a good seat. Scratch that. You probably need to have a friend in the organisers to get the good seats. They are the ones in front, cordoned off from us come-lately types. They are the ones where people in crisp suits and smooth sarees sit with legs crossed and inevitably murmur when a performance is on. This is where photographers magically pull out feet long lenses from snazzy little camera pouches and proceed to exhibit them to those who unfortunately stand behind, craning and creeping to somehow catch a glimpse of the stage.

There’s no stepping on to the ampitheatre steps after 5:00pm either. There’s just no space. For 10 minutes, I scout the amoebic periphery of people standing around the stage. For the remaining 10 minutes (It’s a 20 minute performance, I realise too late), I decide to give up the quest for standing space or a better view - and am utterly and helplessly transfixed.

Chase Entertainment presents ‘Dazzlers’, an amalgamation of seven dance styles.

Wearing the colours of the rainbow, seven dancers interpret an expansive range of music using seven different styles of dancing. They perform individually, in apparently mismatched pairs, and then together as one mismatched unit in perfect step. The effect is astounding. The crowd goes wild. Every pause in the music sequence draws hoots, cheers and applause from the audience.

The performance ends too soon, and the crowd begins to disperse. Overheard among them is a wide-eyed young man explaining to his friend:
“Dude, see? Those are legs worth watching. Ballet, man. No more Surya TV.”

Appreciation of art can take many forms, it seems.

Kala Ghoda Arts Festival ‘09.

Kala Ghoda Arts Festival ‘09.

Kala Ghoda Arts Festival ‘09.

I caught several elbows on camera last night. Elbows, parts of heads, legs, torsos - I have never seen the Kala Ghoda festival so crowded on a weekday evening. There is no place to move, no place to sit, stand, point a camera at without the elbows and sometimes entire backs coming between the camera and the object. I exchange silent notes with other people with cameras when this happens. You know, eyes rolling, superior smiles, those kind of notes. In front of this inverted cone of plastic stuff, this man has been sitting crouched, his camera placed on the ground pointing up. He sits and sits and I wonder if he is waiting for a moment when the place is going to be empty. I finally ask him; turns out he is hoping to get a brilliant silhouette against the back-lit plastic hill and he shows me some of the earlier images from the crouched position. I don’t know his name but I know I will recognize those photographs if I come across them again - (note to self : go check out flickr right away).

So the crowds. There is nothing new in the food, the same overpriced Chetna snack stalls and the rest of it. The performances, I think I will reserve comment on them till I have picked up my snazzy t-shirt. So, the main draw? The installations. There are lots more than I have ever seen at Kala Ghoda. The mosquito men (is that what they are called? Why?) are my favorite - they are everywhere, balancing on a tight-rope walk, climbing what looks like a bee-hive, running away from a savage killer who has already struck several blunt clubs into his back.

Oh, that last one. Turns out, he is a smoker and those blunt clubs are air-filters of some sort and so on. I told you, hidden meanings. (Tip of the day : do not read those signboards that go with the installations, make up your own stories. It is much more fun that way).

People have discovered so many new causes this year…?, I wonder aloud. Letters to Pakistan, harassment of women, urban sanitation, democracy and all the rest of it. Nice, I support all of them. People just have more time now, they are all vela, tells my cynical friend. When in doubt, blame it on recession. I don’t know if he is talking about those behind the installation or those in front of them, watching them and wondering about the hidden deeper meanings. Whatever. There is a huge variety of street installations, some up in the air, some on the ground, all of them fascinating. People are looking obediently through whichever windows they have been asked to look through and signing their names and leaving their thoughts wherever they have been asked to.

There is a cynic in our midst, he (she?) has written on the democracy thingie on the pavement - it does not matter which donkey you vote for, the fact remains that everyone in power eventually becomes a donkey. Clearly, one voter we are not going to see at the poll booths this time. Someone else is thinking about Valentine’s Day (and pink Chaddis too, I like to imagine) and says, Vote for the right Candy-Date.

I like the tiny booth set up by the Fight-Back group too. It is perhaps because it is dark by the time I walk through the narrow lanes inside the booth but it does feel claustrophobic. I keep expecting someone to pop out and say Boo or some thing. For a minute inside the alley, I am truly alone.

In all this, I see I missed the magic balls and I fully intend to hunt for them when I go back tomorrow.

“Madam, would you like to see my magic balls?”

Before I can even process the statement, decide whether or not I’m being most lewdly propositioned and arrange my face into the appropriate stay-way-from-me scowl, the speaker of these words proffers a goblet, filled to the brim with what look like wet marbles.

“Touch them! See? They are so soft!”
I tentatively dip my hand into the goblet and as my fingers take in the novel sensation of playing with what appear to be solid bubbles, I have to agree. Apparently (because I didn’t actually buy any), these wondrous ‘magic balls’, available in small, transparent polythene packets, expand to about 100 times their size when put in water. They last for up to six months (what happens to them after that, I wonder?) and are available in a variety of colours.

They are also just one of the thoroughly quirky and completely adorable things I spot on my first day at the KGAF.

Last year’s Mosquito Man, an installation by sculptor Jayaram Gopale, appears to have gone forth and multiplied. This year, I can see five of them – shiny anthropomorphic figures that cleverly symbolise the state of the world. One particularly arresting installation has one of the Mosquito Man’s offspring walking a tightrope. It is arresting not because of the physics that would have gone into balancing the structure (although there’s that too), but because with every passing breeze, he wobbles a little on his tightrope, unnerving passers-by who happen to look up and notice him.

At the David Sassoon Library garden where I sit through a book launch, the proceedings are livened up (in my little corner at least) by a creature that is much less welcome than previous years’ mosquitoes, crows or cats – a bee! As I duck, dodge and shoo away in my corner, I realise, to my chagrin, that of course, no one else can see the bee determinedly hovering around me; I’m just the strange girl in the corner who won’t sit still and squeals at regular intervals. Thankfully, the bee eventually moves on (to greener pastures?) and I’m left in peace to take in the launch (which I did not enjoy) and the surroundings (which I always do). As the seats fill up with up with lit-geeks, you can’t help but notice how varied the people who make up the crowd are. An old couple, the gentleman walking in slowly with the help of his cane; his wife, with her hand in the crook of his arm, her silver hair tied back in a bun. There are the youngsters who traipse in, all block prints, jeans and jholas and one intriguing gentleman in very short shorts, a t-shirt, a shawl wrapped around his neck and shiny white sneakers. You know what they say about how everyone has a book inside of them? I wonder how his reads.

Because I’ve lost interest in the launch, I’m free to look around, people-watch and actually take note of the surroundings. As Suniti noticed, the green benches are no longer there. There are a few colourful paper kites hanging from branches and I can’t quite tell if they’re a leftover from Sankranti, part of an installation or just an attempt to liven up the garden a little. Around the bark of a tree, a series of white…somethings catch my eye. They’re vaguely owl-shaped and when I manage to read the sign beneath it, I’m pleased to have my impression confirmed. They are owls, says the sign, back in the trees where they belong. Or something on those lines. And the hope and the simplicity behind the sculpture make me smile.

I head to the NGMA where a session of choreo-poetry (a term I’m hearing for the first time in my three decades of being alive. What will they come up with next, calli-dancing? Choreo-cooking?) titled Let Her Be Born. Four young women alternately take the stage, reciting poems, singing, acting and dancing. The concept behind the performance is interesting – apparently, they are celebrating the works of women artists all over the world – the execution however, fluctuates between very good and just-about-okay. The kathak pieces are very well done, it is easy to tell that these women have been dancing for quite a while, the jazz (modern dance?) pieces are, well, okay. In my head, the dancer very obviously belongs to the Terence Lewis* school of I-think-I-can-dance which appear to firmly believe that pirouettes and angst represent the absolute acme of modern dance. But the performance (the whole thing, not just the jazz piece) does get a standing ovation, so perhaps the prejudices are only mine.

As I walk out of the hall, another roadside curiosity catches my eye. This time it’s neon-coloured, tiny plastic men with hinges for waists. To demonstrate what they do, the vendor tosses one onto a whiteboard where he (the plastic man, not the vendor) sticks for about half a second, and then proceeds to back-flip all the way down. There’s a small crowd gathered around and the vendor, with a half-amused smile, tosses more and more of them on to the whiteboard till there are five of them, all vividly coloured, languidly back-flipping their way down the whiteboard.

As I head to the taxi stand, a tall young man runs up, slightly out of breath.
“Hey, didn’t I see you at the Library Garden?”
“Er, yes, I was there a while back.”
“The bees were quite a bother, no?”

I go home smiling.

*If there are any Terence Lewis fans among the readers, then I’m the queen of England. No, jokes apart, I wouldn’t want to offend anyone but all of us have a right to our opinions; this here is mine. I’ve had very few nice things to say about him ever since I sat through a performance (and I use the word loosely here) by him, many long years ago at the KGAF. The show on its own might have been tolerable, but his post-performance speech boggled the mind. In the most horribly accented Hindi, the man went on and on about how ‘khush’ he was because all the ‘gareeb log jo yahan neeche baithe hai’ (his words, not mine), got a chance to watch all these great performances which they otherwise wouldn’t because they were so expensive! *Such* a charmer, no?

Wednesday evening at KGAF: With about half an hour free before we had to meet someone, we braved the nonstop MG Road traffic and crossed to the David Sassoon Library garden. (Why do people in cars refuse to let pedestrians cross?)

Trees with exposed roots, the famous little cats, the smattering of eager listeners: there’s something about that little pocket garden. As we sat down, a frail older lady stepped hesitantly in the dark over the roots right in front of me. Inevitably, she stumbled. I reached out and grabbed her arm, whereupon she shot me a murderous look. I quake at the memory.

A Gujarati poetry session was near its end. Reading his poem at the mike was Dileep Jhaveri. I’m not much of a poetry fan, and I don’t know Gujarati, but I caught enough of his words to get some sense of what it was about. The poem spoke about finding a sword used by the poet’s great-grandfather, drawing some kind of a parallel to a pen … I was intrigued enough that I decided to ask him afterward if he had a translation. But when he finished, to my delight Jhaveri said he would now read out the same poem in English. And it was indeed about a sword and a pen, musing about what his great-grandson would think if he found the poet’s pen some day…

I realize I’m successfully murdering the poem with my attempted paraphrase, so I will cease and desist right here. I hope to have the actual translation soon, and if I do, I will post it here.

In the few minutes before the next event kicked off, Syed Ansari climbed on stage and rattled off three quick Urdu couplets. Once bitten … I’m reluctant to paraphrase some very elegant lines, so I will say only that the third couplet touched a chord. He introduced it saying it was about progress and development, and it spoke of how we build so many bridges that seem only to take us to where we came from.

I can think of many bridges like that. Real ones, metaphorical ones.

(Click here to read the whole post)

4:00pm, Wednesday. It is the middle of the day in the middle of the week, and the crowd still surges. The ampitheatre is bare but for a troupe of dancers who step lightly on to the stage - for rehearsals? positions? last minute instructions? improvisations? The city drops character and stops to find out. The audience has already begun dotting the steps in front. The performance will not be on for an hour, at least. Cameras are already prepped, mammoth mounted lenses being cleaned. Free arms tug at friendly elbows and point - everywhere, one by one.

“Did you see - ?”
“Yes, yes. And did you see - ?”

The list is interminable, almost. Don’t listen. There are large poster boards detailing events and venues. Don’t read. Not just yet. Half the joy of your first day at the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival (this rabbit was a little late to the tea party) is in the discovery of its myriad hues and contours. Rampart Row is an explosion of colours. They stream down from above, and rise up from the ground, the posters and paintings, the wares on display, and the people. Most of all, the people.

While all eyes are trained on the stage, the stalls and the installations, an ebbing and flowing sea of unnoticed colours washes over the little art district. True to its purpose, the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival draws an audience from all walks of life and livelihood. As if to corroborate, a familiar voice booms out. Mahesh Bhatt. “Where are we going?” If there is an answer, it remains unheard. A voiceless crowd turns to look at him, and at Pooja Bhatt. They cut through the throng surrounding the ampitheatre and leave a comet trail of eager folk jumping shoulders for a better look.

A flurry of feet are stepped on for a moment. A gruff voice reacts from somewhere. “Ae bhai, zara dekh ke chalo.”

Agreed. Aage hi nahi, peechhe bhi. Dayein hi nahi, bayein bhi. Upar hi nahi, neeche bhi.

As the crowd passes, for a moment, the clear strains of a flute navigate the breeze and find me.

Kala Ghoda Arts Festival ‘09.

I waited at the Sassoon Gardens at 4.30  as requested .  I had been dragooned into helping out at the Places for Poetry event, a relay poetry reading. Mind Boggled. How the heck does one read relay? I pictured our veteran poets zooming from venue to venue on roller skates (Maybe next year. That will make fitness a prime criteria for participation).

Ranjit breezed in. He always seems to breeze in. After playing with the resident cat a little he got down to business. He explained to everyone, where they gathered, where each one started. Gave us lists explaining who will be where at what point of the evening and we all trooped off to our appointed venues.

I was to take charge of the readings at Kala Ghoda Cafe opp. Trishna, in a little lane near Rhythm House. The place was small and cozy place with hell of an ambiance. Every one went Oooo! The owner welcomed us and shooed away a guy at a corner table who was peacefully working on his laptop. “Let him be” I tried to say, “we need an audience.” But the owner was quite clear how he wanted things done.” That place is reserved for the poets.”  In the meanwhile we had lost one potential listener who had packed his laptop and left.

I had with me Arundhati Subramaniam, Malavika Sangghavi, and Vivek Tandon, the three who were starting the session. We looked around and wondered if we were supposed to wait for anyone to come in. The owner offered that he and the waiters would love to sit and listen. Arundhati started reading and thus began what turned out to be a memorable evening. One after the other the poets were reading. It stopped to matter how many were there. They were reading to each other. I had to make an effort to remember to look at time. The evening was enlivened by Vivek’s dramatic reading, Jeet strumming his guitar, Peter playing Rapunzel from the loft….

A few who peeked in the cafe vanished when they saw the lively bunch. It must have appeared a private gathering to them.

Half way through we broke for a round of coffee. The owner had kept tea - coffee machines shut as they caused disturbance. After finishing with their own reading each poet would leave for the next venue, the new ones would walk in. A few along with me were constant. Soon Manisha walked in and I realized that the evening was almost over. In one evening I had listened to Arundhati Subramaniam, Malvika Sangghavi, Vivek Tandon, Peter Griffin, Arjun Bali, Mustansir Dalvi, Adil Jussawala, Rochelle Potkar, Ranjit Hoskote, Jeet Thayil, Sampurna Chatterji, Manisha Lakhe, Jerry Pinto and Annie Zaidi. PHEW!

My feelings about this event? I loved it and I wish more people had taken advantage of such unique an event. I hope to see this again next year and hope there will be a board outside announcing this as a public event. And my earlier suggestion about the roller skates still stands :)

My photographs of the event are here.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/soney/

Forgive me for indulging myself here … but last month’s FlyLite magazine (JetLite’s inflight publication) carried an article I wrote about the KGAF. I thought it might interest some of you. Here you are. (Some of this material has appeared before, in slightly different forms, in this space).

***

Why go to the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, you ask? I’m sure everyone has their own special reasons. Mine include crows. My favourite birds, and in 2006 they were a prominent part of the Festival. Not just because they were in the trees above, but because there was an entire art exhibit about these chummy black creatures.

I mean, there were photographs, paintings, poems. And one painting of a splendid specimen had these enigmatic words on a sheet of paper appended below:

“Crow always sit on wire, even in Himalayas. This time he sat on Banyan which one is sturdy and strong. Crow wants stableness, not ZULA.

Crow found place for meditation in cool atmosphere arch of Temple, which gives him stableness and strong foundation. He is not interested in Zula.

Crow is the only bird who cleans city by eating all types of waste food. After his strong efforts he wants STABLENESS, STRONGNESS and MEDITATION. Not flicker mind & ZULA.”

(Click here to read the whole post)

The audience on the steps of the amphitheatre, they’re contemplative, expectant, jolly, seemingly stuck in a state of suspended animation. In the front row is a demure young woman in a sari worn Gujarati style, pallu over the right shoulder and also on her head.

What is she, and the others on these steps, waiting for?

On stage is another woman, maybe not so young. She’s in a short black dress, crown on her head and black transparent stockings on her legs. The dress is flouncy, cut high to show plenty of thigh. She’s about to put on a show, and they’re waiting for her? Possible.

The woman in the sari, she stares, open-mouthed. I walk about, trying hard to find a spot from where I can get them both in the same photo frame. It would make a nice shot. But it’s impossible. No way to capture the sari, the dress, the two women and that open mouth all in one shot, no matter where I roam.

Then I remember that I haven’t brought my camera anyway.

***

A large banner on the side of Rampart Row advertises “Natural Bath and Body Products (Indulge Yourself).” Not that the display particularly matches that legend, because it’s a photograph of a slice of chocolate cake, or is it my childhood favourite, Royal Halwa? Either way, I do want to indulge myself. Now.

But actually it’s neither cake nor halwa. It’s Nyassa chocolate soap.

I’ve spent much of the rest of the day trying to understand the very idea of chocolate soap. I’d be grateful for any help.

But it’s probably while looking at this display that I realize once again what I like most about KGAF. Not events, not workshops, not panel discussions, not the food. No: it’s just strolling about, people-watching, soaking in the sights and sounds, that sort of thing.

Though no, I still don’t understand choc soap.

***

Second instalment of entries from the “Postcards to Pakistan” display (no honk yet), offered without comment:

The “official car” of the Kala Ghoda Festival is a yellow and black — yes, the Bombay taxi colours — Renault Logan convertible. It has surprisingly scruffy seats, dark grey with yellow piping, and a plastic Bisleri water bottle tucked into the passenger side door pocket. I’ve seen it motorvating up and down Rampart Row several times in my time at the Fest so far; today it is parked under a tree and it attracts plenty of attention. That’s how I can state with confidence that a not-insignificant fraction of the city’s cellphone cameras have the Logan captured on their little CCDs.

(No, I don’t know if the Bisleri bottle is standard equipment or an overpriced option).

Though I will admit, today those cameras may have also, or actually, been aimed elsewhere. Specifically, at the structure to the left of where the Logan was parked. That’s a sculpture called “Bhagwan aaya cycle se“. What it is, is a large Ganesh made entirely of bicycle parts. Wheels, gears, bells, and many hanging chains, waving gently in the breeze.

The idol sports several yellow flowers left by devotees, and more yellow and red petals strewn on a sheet laid out in front. The way the whole tableau is, you might almost think the Logan is part of the Ganesh installation. That it is actually his vehicle, that he has left the bottle in there as a joke on the Renault people. Sort of fits with the playfulness I’ve always liked about Ganesh.

***

At the other end of the festival from the official car is a huge upside down umbrella. I do mean huge: held right side up, it would provide shelter to a pin code or two, no problem.

Then again, it won’t. For it has little square windows cut in the canopy, through which I can see the traffic on MG Road dawdling past, and those windows make it unusable in rainy weather. Not good for an umbrella. But good for an art installation.

It’s called “The Sky and the sky and …”.

Not enigmatic enough for you? Then please go read the paragraph printed below the title, or read it here:

“There is a boundary between Inner Sky and Outer Sky. Habitually the movements, transactions and transactions, are hindered by it. But there are some unknown windows enabling these movements.”

Now that you know, please tell me what it means.

Another exhibit here is called “I am on a diet”. It consists of three (3) seriously distorted cycles, copper plated, and a table somewhere in the middle of them. The sign says:

“The dining cycle form depicts seats of cycle and its parts converted into a dining table … This automatically deszztresses people who feel guilty of EATING.”

I look on guiltily, unable to finish my Gelato Italiano scoop, flavour “Kiet Kat”.