Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Peter Griffin.

These are from the Mumbai Poetry Live evening.

John Agard

John Agard

Arundhathi Subramaniam

Ranjit Hoskote

Jerry Pinto in compere mode..

..and in poet mode, with jacket.

These are from Alyque Padamsee’s Unspoken Dialogues

Gary Richardson

Vivin Mathew Easo

Alyque Padamsee

Alyque Padamsee and some of the cast

The show-stealing puppies take centre stage

And some glimpses of the venue, at Azad Maidan

Rabbi, from a safe distance

Rabbi, closer up

Puppet Theatre

The “Joker” in the process of decapitating himself

The Pretty Girl.. who has an ugly man at the, ahem, other end.

A fellow-blogger switches to v-log mode.

Barefoot street kids eating leftover food from the stalls, and more affluent kids, with sports shoes and digicams, all enthralled by the puppets

The Street and the food

The chaat stall at one of those rare moments when it wasn’t beseiged by hungry mobs

After the ball is over

Most of Bombay’s gone home to get ready for Monday morning, but he has work to do now

Empty tables

McD’s. Trashed, apparently.

As chairs are stacked around them, stragglers grab a last bite

Much antacid was sold that night

The Dance stage comes down

This panel just missed braining me

Even as the last revellers eat and shop, a truck backs in to load up the equipment.

Surprisingly, no word on the Caferati evening as yet.

It was simply delightful. This experimental session saw Theatre Watch, a theatre group from Bombay, do on-the-spot improvisations using (piano, violin) and art (painting) on prose, poetry and lyrics by Caferati members.

The evening started with the announcement of the winners of the Flash Fiction and SMS poetry contests. Peter has already given an update on that.

Next, Manisha Lakhe, one of caferati’s moderators, introduced the concept of this online writing forum to the audience.

Then the first of the Theatre Watch improvisation interludes commenced. Vivin Mathew Easo of Theatre Watch directed and moderated these sessions.

Peter gave (prophetically) this supposed schedule.

Theatre Watch was given a bunch of original writing by Caferati members, and Viv and his performers have chosen a few pieces which inspire them. So you will get to experience Ivan John on the piano, interpreting three poems, Jitendra Jawda on the violin, working with two poems and a short story, and Swaroop Biswas, who has chosen a short story, which he will use as his inspiration for a painting which he will execute live, while the other readings and performances are on. Vivin may also choose a piece, which he will use as the base for a solo theatre performance.

The session strictly followed this format. Ivan John interpreted three poems: Arjun Bali’s Treadmill, Priyanka Joseph’s Scribbled On A Paper Napkin and Manisha Lakhe’s villanelle, At The Mall. The poems were first read (Arjun and Manisha read their own work while Priyanka’s was read by Vivin) and then Ivan interpreted them via his .

As Vivin went about interacting with the audience about their comments on the performance and interpretation, the trickle of comments soon became a steady flow. Some people felt that Ivan’s interpretation of the first and last poems were good, but his improvisation on the Priyanka’s poem was calm, though the poem was a disturbing one. One audience member thought the piano performances were too long. Jane Bhandari seconded that. They said that he should have had pauses. In response, Ivan said that he had very little by the way of discovering what the respective poets were trying to say, so he interpreted it by expressing his own emotions at reading the work. So, according to him, Priyanka’s poem was filled with confusion, and he, by his piece, tried to infuse a sense of calm into it.

It was followed by Pawan Sony reading out his satirical short story, Shaking Hands.

Theatre Watch took stage again, with Jitendra Jawda on the violin. He interpreted a poem by Nisha Alex, But, lyrics to a song by Peter Griffin called Blues for X, and a 55er by Peter called Succumb. As for the audience, everyone liked the interpretation of Succumb. Yati Doshi liked all of Jitendra’s improvisations a lot.

This was interspersed by a series of poems read by Caferati members including Manisha Lakhe, Pallavi Jayakar ‘I love You..but’

etc. Caferati then introduced their forthcoming book, scheduled to come out by the end of next month, Stories at the Coffee Table, which features the winners in a nation-wide short fiction contest they hosted last year. Some winners read their work including Anita Vasudeva and Albert Barton.

In the limited time frame awarded to him, Swaroop Biswas finished his interpretation of Sajjad Khan’s (a writer from Pakistan, who is on board at Caferati) short story, in the form of a painting. Swaroop, a painter, a manager and an actor had painted a woman with flowing dark hair which encapsulated a man’s face with a crown and a small white space above her shoulder which held the silhouette of a man. He said, “I have tried to show that the woman hold the power on both men. Her long dark hair ties both of them in some bond. The man’s crown states that he is the master of his thoughts. The silhouette of a man in the doorway symbolizes a space of a man in the past or the possibility of his larger role in near future. Finally, the exaggerated eyes symbolize a look of (forgot the word)”

He generously proceeded to give the painting up for auction and the funds would go towards the maintenance of Caferati. In the end, a few friendly comments were passed on certain works not being read due to lack of time. Most of the Caferati members then proceeded towards the main Kala Ghoda display area to savour the last dregs of the festival, and inhale the smells of a memory that would hopefully be refreshed next year.

Adieu!

---

Comments

Comment by Priyanka Joseph on February 16, 2006 @ 4:29 am

The phrase that is uppermost in my mind-

Wish I was there.

Congratulations to the organizers, winners and participants. May caferati leave its fragrant stain on every consciousness, for as long as we love coffee and words.

P.

Comment by Jane Bhandari on February 16, 2006 @ 7:36 am

I think we are all recovering from nine hectic days!
I thoroughly enjoyed the Caferati evening. More, please! Not just for Kala Ghoda! There was variety in the poetry, and the way it was presented. Performance poetry would be a good way of presenting poetry at schools and colleges, more interesting than a straight reading.
The picture of the puppies, by the way, reminded me of the Sassoon Library cats - a rather pregnant female was present for most of the poetry readings. A real literary cat!

Comment by John Matthew on February 16, 2006 @ 11:36 am

Hi

Thanks! Had a great time too.

John

Comment by Akshaya on February 16, 2006 @ 12:47 pm

With all due respect to the organizing team, people who did the hard work - those who read their works and those who performed the and painting business, I found it a really disappointing effort.

The quality of works selected was extremely poor and definitely not representative of even Caferati standards. The interpretations by ‘Theatre Watch’ were quite avoidable and it was not easy on my nerves to sit through the entire evening.

Oh yes, I also found the Flash Fiction outcome very mediocre. SMS poetry though, came out with a few remarkable entries.

For some strange reason, I expected a much better show from Caferati. I thought the overall effort was substandard and not much sincerity was shown either towards writing nor towards making the evening a bright literary experince. To sum it up, it was tragic for me.

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Maya

Cinema Finale.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world. It was Cinema Finale with four previously unscreened documentaries being screened by four women directors. But I did miss it (@#%&*).well, at least the first film.

The four films screened were

. Blank Verse by Indrayani Mukherjee
. Rose Mahal by Jenny Pinto

. Call It Slut by Nishtha Jain
. Naamkaran by Konkana Sensharma

I missed Blank Verse (grumble mumble crumble)

I walked into Horniman Circle Garden just as Rose Mahal and the director were being introduced. Rose Mahal is the story of an old house called.well, Rose Mahal, construced in 1933 by the Pinto family in Bangalore. The house is to be pulled down and the author is re-living the last of its memories by holding a huge feast for all her relatives. In the process, she tells Rose Mahal’s story interspersed with her own.and the lessons she learnt in the process. A personal tribute to a home which gave her childhood the spark that would last for a lifetime, Jenny Pinto takes us through past and present as she infuses her current celebration with those of her own celebrated memories. The documentary was at the best, decent. The characters gyrated on your nerves and the dialogues were stilted. A few shots were admirable.like those of Grandma Rose licking away the last of the leftovers with her fingers and the quaint little house dwarfed by monolithic cement brick buildings in the background. In the end, it left the taste of peach iced tea-hot water combination that they were selling at David Sassoon library.you like peach, but you don’t want to have another sip of that delightful flavour with erghhh.hot water!

Call It Slut was the next film. Ah! What can I say? Gorgeous. Nishtha made a film on Lakshmi Tripathi, a hijra. Before you make comic innuendos and turn you noses away, just read this quote by Lakshmi. “The joy of being a woman is that you can wrap yourself in six metres of cloth and still appear naked,” says Lakshmi. Confident, beautiful, graceful, magical, bold, wicked, shocking.that’s Lakshmi for you. “I can’t stand hypocrites,” she says in another scene. “When I met her, I just knew I had to make a film on her,” said Nishtha. I often wondered.how can one make a biographical film on someone who is still alive without offending him/ her or making his/her existence less-celebrated? Nishtha provided the answer-just be honest. The film intersperses Lakshmi’s likes, dislikes, beliefs, ideologies with some lessons in womanhood to Nishtha-a tribute to the beauty of honesty and confession. Lakshmi gives us her opinion on exploitation, the Kamasutra and the government ban on bar girls. “Government did a wonderful thing by banning the dance bars. First, there was one hurdle for the customers wanting to take bar girls to bed.and that was the stage. The government removed this hurdle. Ab yeh stage ko hatake ladki ko sidha bistar pe daal diya,” she critiques. A must watch!

Lastly, Konkana Senharma’s debut feature short film, Naamkaran was a big hit. My Bengali friend had threatened to kill me if he missed this film because of mon late arrival. But Naamkaran was the last to be screened. So all’s well that end’s well. Naamkaran is a film about sibling rivalry in a family of three (two sisters and the handicapped father). They are pick-pocketers by profession. The protagonist is a mother of a toddler and dislikes the ways of her family. Her sister buys gifts for her son with stolen money. The film initially explores the relationship between the two sisters. The elder one wants her younger sister to get a job and work honestly; while the younger want wants her elder sister to start pick-pocketing again. She also wants her sister to name her baby after their father.or at least give him a name that rhymes with their father’s name. Abhijit, Surojit etc. The film takes us though their lives as we discover nuances of the family’s strained relationships, which give a well-rounded logic to the protagonist’s last act of pick-pocketing a man’s wallet on the tram.and eventually naming her baby after him.Abhrojit.a final act which bonds her back to her family.

Ah! If you weren’t there.you missed some beautiful cinema honey.
Now go.run.go take a retail therapy or dessert dive-ins.
I had mine last night.(halo reappears).

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Dilip D’souza

The Kala Ghoda Festival was bonanza time for one of my favouritest hobbies: looking at things written on T-shirts. Here are just a few:

Han Some Women

Pepe Jeans London Champions 1973

Your boyfriend says hi!

America’s Finest. Too Hot to Handle. 2nd Division League Life Be A Sport

The Deco & Style of Fashion

Hot Vibration! Uniform Original Design House. 45 MPR. A very fashionable wear collection. 100 % fresh designs. 7-86459-09889

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Dilip D’souza

Some things get me peeved. My 6.5-year-old son and I go to the screening of My Fair Lady at the Cama Institute, Sunday evening. Even though we get there 15 minutes before the start, the hall is full. Wandering around, I finally find a seat for him at one end of a row. Nothing else except some seats along the side wall, so I sit on the chair there closest to him.

Many more people stream in after us, also searching for seats. About half an hour into the film, a young mother wanders in, strolls about searching for a while, then scurries over (yes, rather bandicoot-like) to my son and worms herself onto his seat. First, she squashes him to one side, then she actually lifts him up and puts him on her lap. I’m hard-pressed to believe I’m seeing this. I lean over and say, that’s my son, I’m not happy with what you did, can you please leave him alone? She motions pleadingly to me.

I can’t make a scene here and now, so I sit back, fuming.

He sits on her lap, but I can tell he is uncomfortable because of the angle of her legs. He keeps sliding off and has to hold on to the seat in front to prevent that. Finally he stands. I call to him to come sit on my lap, whereupon the lady’s son runs over and occupies her sliding lap.

Why is it OK to do this to a kid? Would the lady have thought it acceptable if she had been sitting on the chair and a large man came over and wormed himself into it?

But apart from that: how many more loved, more familiar Western films are there than My Fair Lady? The delicious insults Higgins throws about, Eliza’s outraged Cockney howls, the melody in every one of those songs . no wonder several in the audience mouthed along as Eliza sang. Lots of chocolate for me to eat/Lots of coal making lots of ‘eat/Warm face, warm hands, warm feet/AAAAh-Wooo-dn’t it be loverly?

Ohhhh yes.

Done with the Dockyard walk, son and I happen on a rousing dance rehearsal, for the show scheduled for later in the afternoon. These kids are coordinated, smooth, and are clearly enjoying the dance immensely, and that’s why it’s rousing.

No, wait a minute! It’s really that way because one of the dances involves several of the kids’ fathers, all these moustache-and-shorts men up on stage, bopping and swaying and wiggling fingers and butts to that terrific tune from the ’50s: Buddy Knox’s Let’s Have a Party. (”Send ‘em to the store/And rock some more/Let’s have a party tonight!”)

Knox is from the metropolis of Happy, Texas (this is true). Maybe that’s why these dads looked so kicked to be up on stage whirling their little girls about. When they were done, I was nearly as kicked to have watched them perform. Because of Knox’s song, yes. But this was a fine antidote to disappointment in the dockyard.

The Naval Dockyard walk, Sunday morning, is a disappointment. Captain Talwar, the Navy official guiding us, is genial and funny, but he seems unaware of the heat, and of the composition of the audience. At the beginning and at every stop, he talks at great length. The scraps of shade are not enough for the couple of hundred of us, so the rest must stand in the sun, which is quickly too much to bear for the several older people in our group. And there are also several young kids, who are quickly bored.

The entrance to the dockyard has two lanes, one marked “four wheelers only” (words to that effect). A truck drives in, and the young boy beside me points out excitedly: “It’s a six-wheeler! It shouldn’t be allowed!” True: at the rear, the vehicle has two wheels on each side.

Immediately around the corner from there is a touching memorial to the “unknown worker.” I like that, somehow. Across the road is a banner that lists the “core values” of the Indian Navy:

Patriotism and Loyalty
Resolve and Fighting Spirit

Integrity and Honesty
Duty and Commitment
Example

Later, Captain Talwar tells us about how “Al-Omani” island became British-ized to “Old Woman” island, and how “Pal Bunder” became “Apollo Bunder”. These Britishers are crazy. And we also learned that the ship Minden, built right here in 1810, fought outside Baltimore during the 1812 War there, and it was on this ship that Francis Scott Key woke one morning, saw Old Glory still flying, and composed the Star-Spangled Banner. Besides, one more ship built here, the Trincomalee, is the second-oldest ship in the world that’s still afloat. (The first being the USS Constitution).

I love these tidbits of history.

Two ship’s steering wheels in the “Motivation Hall” - a sort of museum at the start of the tour. They have been polished and re-painted. This last, I know because on the face I read that the maker of these instruments is “A Robinson and Co”, of “Liverpool and Clascow”. (No typo, Clascow).

We get a good idea of how a dry dock works, why it is necessary and why it is such a valuable asset. We see two whale-like submarines and some other warships, hoisted up on pontoons. Men wandering below one of the ships, and I cannot help the macabre vision of the stands collapsing and the ship falling. (Doesn’t happen).

In the Duncan Dock, Captain Talwar tells us there is an unexplained source of fresh water, though it is not used for drinking. As we get there, he tells us that if we go look, we’ll see two men taking a bath in that water. So immediately, these two men have an audience several dozen strong, gawking as they lather and rinse themselves off. Why, I would have liked to ask the good Captain, make a spectacle of them?

A board we pass soon after reads, “Toilet for Ships”.

A piece of paper up on a wall lists a “Cricket Draw”. Matches are scheduled between “C of Y” and “MAST”, between “C.65? and “Ghatkopar”, between “C.37,38? and “MEPS” and between “MWEA” and “DAS-81?. When I last played a cricket tournament, oh about 50 years ago, we named our team “Tu Chal Mein Aaya” (”You Carry On, I’m Coming”).

No offence to the Navy, I like our name better.

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Peter Griffin

My thanks to my fellow jury members, Arundhathi Subramaniam, Jane Bhandari, Jerry Pinto, Menka Shivdasani and Manisha Lakhe, who took time out of a busy week to help judge this contest.

The winners: first place, Rohinton Daruwala; second, Devashish Makhija; and third, Rinku Dutta.

Their poems:

---

stray hair on a pillow. a half-open book. cast-off clothes slippers cups glasses. 7 phone mins 17 photos 183 e-mails. the joy of a day spent collecting you.

Rohinton Daruwala, 1st place

---

‘if’

if
u wr
a slate dusta 2
my blakbord nites

morn’g memries
wud b
chalk dust.

i’d dip a finga
scrawl ‘I ms u

my vowel’.

Devashish Makhija, 2nd place

---

Folded in your arms

I am a book
Willing to be re-written

Rinku Dutta, 3rd place

---

Comments

Comment by aparna on February 13, 2006 @ 11:16 pm

Really interesting stuff.congratulations winners!

I especially enjoyed the poem entered by Devashish as it used texting lingo.in my mind it is true ’sms poetry’ (as opposed to short poetry sent by sms). However, that is not to say that I did not enjoy the other poems!

Well here is a limerick I wrote for sms poets and poetry.will put it up here.

An SMS poet was found telling
Readers why his poetry is selling
Smiling (with a dimple)
He said, “It is simple
Who the hell today knows the real spelling?”

Congratulations again!

Cheers

Aparna

Comment by Kaushik on February 17, 2006 @ 12:09 pm

Winners have good stuff out here.. I feel other entires must also be hosted.

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Peter Griffin

My thanks first to my fellow jury members, Altaf Tyrewala, Kalpana Swaminathan, Neeru Nanda, Samit Basu, Sonia Faleiro and Manisha Lakhe, who gave so much of their time to help judge this contest.

And our congratulations to the winners: first place, Misha Singh; second, Annie Zaidi; and in joint third, Pawan Sony, Shiladitya Chakraborty and Anita Vasudeva.

Here are their stories:

---

First Place
One Dark Night
Misha Singh

I ran like the wind through the dark forest, while the man on my back held on. I did my best to bump him off and return to my warm stable, but the damn fellow was an exceptional rider. This was an epic adventure, he told me, the kind all horses dreamed of being involved in. We going to save the girl, and live happily ever after.

They might live happily ever after, but I was going to have to walk home with two simpering lovers on my back.

The trees parted in front of us, and we saw a herd of red clad, virgin sacrificers of some sort, milling around the edge of a cliff. They were tying the girl, dressed in white naturally, to a stake on wheels. Someone forgot to bring the matches I was amused to see. The man jumped off my back brandishing his sword. “Unhand her you fiends” he roared passionately.

Oh please.

The man flew into the group, hacking this way, dodging that way, thrusting every which way. I spat at a tree and kicked a rock, getting into the spirit of things. The red caped idiots didn’t stand a chance obviously. They were facing the might of true love.

The battle was short and suitably heroic, and the man and girl kissed passionately against the wild backdrop of moonlight and blood. Then, from the pile of wood and rubber tires emerged another girl, also in white. The spare virgin, apparently.

“Come maidens” boomed the man, “my valiant steed will bear us all to safety.”

I stared at him incredulously as they scrambled onto my back.

“Onwards, Black Horse!” he cried

Absolutely! I neighed with excitement and reared up suddenly, dumping all three of them over the cliff.

Oops

---

Second place

[Untitled]
Annie Zaidi

Vandana often stared at their linked hands. On a shade card, they’d be diagonal extremes. Raghav hated being this dark. That’s why she said it. In bed, she’d whisper ‘black man’. At least once a night.

Raghav would want to smack her. She knew. But he’d tousle her hair instead. “I’m not black. I’m brown.”

She’d smile, “Nobody’s black, that way. Even buffaloes aren’t.”

Horses are, he’d say. He’d let go of her hand.

Vandana would laugh then, to signal that they could forget it. But there was something so mulish about his insistent denial. She’d also laugh because of her inner image: herself sleeping with a black mule.

Vandana had spent the last two years imagining the day Raghav would leave her. If she said ‘black man’ too often, maybe three times a night, he’d leave. If she called him a mule, he’d leave today. But she imagined saying it. In Hindi. Khachchar!

He’d lose it. Then he wouldn’t be able to stay. He’d think he had no option but to leave, now that he’d lost it. Not because of a hurt pride but obstinacy.

Mulish Raghav!

Cats were black too. Dogs too. But he’d always say ‘horses’.

Stupid Raghav! He didn’t even see that she could see how he upset he was. She’d always end up thinking, ‘mule’.

But mules are half-horses too. Only half a donkey. At least half-horse. Half-wild. Half-beautiful. Only half-plodding; only half-predictable.

Like their children could be. Hybrids. More central: half-north; half-south. Half-caste. There was so much untested potential in hybrids.

Not that children were on the agenda. There was no agenda. That was the delicious thing. That, and knowing she could undo it all, with one word.

---

Joint third place
The Last Black Horse

Pawan Sony

2086. Kaala Ghoda festival. Rashid waits for the parade to begin. He is here to kidnap the Black Horse.

Rasheed is a restaurateur whose fate was made by black horses. He started serving black horse meat curry at his small restaurant at Colaba thirty years ago. The dish became a big rage all over the world and turned Rashid into a culinary king.

But sadly, black horses were not like chickens. They reproduced at a much slower rate. Soon there were hardly any black horses to be found anywhere in the world.

The organizers of the Kaala Ghoda festival got into action to protect the species of their mascot. But they found only one black horse, living a threatened and lonely life in grasslands of Central Africa. They brought it to Mumbai, put it under Z grade protection and took it out only once every year, in a huge parade during the festival. They even got it some white mares. But it didn’t show any interest.

Rashid is here because he has customers who are willing to pay millions of dollars for the privilege of the last Black Horse meal in the world.

He sees The Black Horse coming, surrounded by black cat commandos. Rashid shoots at them and they shoot back as people run to save their lives. Taking advantage of the melee, he tries to mount The Black Horse. But The Horse knows that the future of its species depends on this fight. It kicks him with full force.

And then Rashid uses his biggest weapon- love.

“I know a black mare,” he whispers.

The Black Horse stops. Rashid mounts it and gallops away as the security guards shoot in vain.

That evening, the last Black Horse meal is served

---

Joint third place
Look
Shiladitya Chakraborty

“Daddy look, a white rabbit.”

“Yes, yes, wonderful. Let’s see, we have the picnic hampers, the bed sheet - there, help me stretch it out on the ground.”

“Daddy, I see a grey elephant.”

“Hmm, water bottles, flasks - something is missing.”

“Daddy, now it’s a black horse.”

He looked up this time. “Oh, no, the umbrellas!”

---

Joint third place
[Untitled]
Anita Vasudeva

“Shit, I stepped bang into a puddle of black horse piss!” Vir is urban and colloquial, with no real respect for language. But he’s a good bloke and I forgive him a lot. Besides, he was wearing his new suede party shoes and they didn’t look new or suede or party anymore.

“What’s black horse piss?”

“Piss created by a black horse, you dork”

I’m slow. “How do you know? Did you just stand there looking at a black horse pissing and then step into the puddle?”

“It’s thick and smells like horse piss and it’s so dark only a black one could have done it.”

Ok, so I don’t know my horses. I watched him over my beer affectionately. He’s the best kind of guy friend to have - good looking, non-judgemental, creative, not interested in me sexually, great for arguments, doesn’t pile on to my girlfriends, friendly with my boyfriends.umm, sport-obsessed, not great with the English language, tangential and wacky, but, all things considered, good. Tara - perfect, corporate, savvy Tara - was going to detest him. He wasn’t her type at all and she was going to be here all summer. I hate mixing friends. It’s worse than mixing drinks - definately messier. I was dreading this.

Tara walked out of the bathroom, quite oblivious of the combined gloom in the room.

“Shit, I just pissed black horse piss!”

You could have knocked me cold without the beer. “How do you know it’s black horse piss, Tara?”

“It’s thick and smells like horse piss and it’s so dark only a black one could have done it.”

They were married three months later. I got them an engraved statuette of a black horse as a wedding gift.

---

Comments

Comment by ammani on February 13, 2006 @ 4:35 pm

Loved the stories. Particularly Misha’s. Worthy winner.

Comment by Asmita on February 13, 2006 @ 4:41 pm

Congratulations Misha, Annie, Pawan, Anita & Shiladitya.

Lovely selection of FF. What a treat it is to read them.

A big cheer for the judges too !

:)

Comment by Reeta on February 15, 2006 @ 5:48 pm

Congrats Misha, Annie, Pawan, Shiladitya and Anita. Delightful FF..thoroughly enjoyed reading them.

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by charukesi

I come back from Kala Ghoda Saturday night and find that most of what I want to say has already been written here. Food, stalls, literature, dance. Here are pictures instead.

Grand old VT from inside the car, waiting for the signal to turn green.

The artists not featured in the festival but part of Kala Ghoda always.

Photographing the photographer!

Splashes of colour from the stalls selling extremely pretty, tempting and now-what-do-I-use-them-for kind of things.

And these extremely striking weird, wired faces. I wonder whether people really buy such things to keep in their homes. imagine waking up to see such a face staring at you.

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Harini Calamur

Kala Ghoda is a foodies delight. The food stalls probably equalled the art stalls - and definitely gathered more crowds. When one of the hoardings for the festival used this motif - i don’t think that they realised how much food was going to be an integral part of the show.

And people enjoyed the variety. A number of restraunts in the area - Chetnas and Bombay Blues - put out outdoor stalls to attract a fairly ravenous crowd. A friend of mine, who lives in the area, said that he hadn’t seen so many people try out so much food in such a short period of time. It was great stuff. And the cleanliness the area was so great, as was the absence of a million odd flies - that even people who otherwise wouldn’t risk street food gravitated towards it.

Mouth watering kulfi - rasberry was a particular favourite. I was unadventurous and stuck to malai. which was a generous portion. Almost a complete meal in itself.

The chaat stalls saw rapid business too. Crowds thronged to sample the paani puri, sev and bhel puri.

And of course no street festival can be complete without a beverages sponsor. And for this one it was Pepsi. There was pepsi everywhere. This particular graphic, i found particularly amusing.

The dosa and Chaat menu under a pepsi logo is a true sign of global brands becoming part of the Indian culturescape. That and MacD’s presence. Afterall culture is not static, fossilized in time. In today’s day and age - they are as much part of our culture as anything else is. And it is nice to see organisers who are sensible about these things.

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Harini Calamur

One of the first organised exhibits that you come across at the Kala Ghoda festival is the Art Quest exhibit. A series of poster, graphic, art - with the theme Bollywood bole toh Jhakaas - that takes a tounge in cheek look at, not just Bollywood but the whole mass media. Its penchant for extravaganze and over the topedness (if such a word exists) and a basic level of crassness (aapko kaise lagta hai - from a earthquake to a rape victim and everything in between) - is reflected very well in the exhibition.

As the blurb says:

using Bollywood as a launching pad, the artists from Artquest will be recreating scenes from popular entertainment in mixed media.

The one on Rajat Sharma’s over the top interrogation style - shoot first and worry about answers later - was quite apt. The term a sledgehammer to crack a walnut springs to mind.

There was great one on sting operations. Ultimately everything in the media is a commodity used gainfully to attract eyeballs. The truth be damned:). The use of ratty methods to catch the rat!

Now, no media satire can be complete without a tribute to kekta kapoor - of the kserial ksoap fame. Check out “kaun karega kachra serial ki safai“.

There was a lovely little “koffee with karan” tribute. Cute Hindi film poster art feeling that they managed on a fairly traditional coffeee set.

And of course the rickshaw from filmdom - a modified basanti ka tanga. I wonder if RGV’s sholay will have basanti as a rickshawali - if so then this is the rickshaw :)

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Harini Calamur

Today I went touritst. At the Kalaghoda Festival. Walked about without an agenda, took in the sights, smells, sounds and more.

It was a lovely, sunny saturday. And entering the Kala Ghada area seemed like walking thorugh the looking glass - a differnt world of vibrant colours, passionate artists and mouthwatering khana. There were as many people there for the food as for the culture. You left the stress, strain and, most importantly the vehicular traffic & honking horns of Mumbai behind. You stepped into Kala Ghoda and you feel the pace of life changing gears to a much mellower and introspective one.

Various types of artists (painters, sketchers, caricaturists) were busy displaying their wares - for them maybe it is just another day. a whole bunch of outsiders in ‘their’ space. But the crowds saw, lingered, appreciated and participated. Young and old alike had this burning desire to get their potrait made. And crowds just gathered watching someone draw.

Street stalls, poster art, and an incredible looking rickshaw and whole bunch of street exhibitions later, you get into - Rampart Row - the performaance & food area area. Three very differenct performances:

The first a street bansuriwalla - who was selling various types of flutes and playing along to entice crowds. The wasn’t great, but atleast it didn’t have you reaching out for the ear muffs. He did fairly decent business.

The second was Sur Aur Taal by Nrityanjali - seemed like bollywised kathak, thought it was advertised as folk and classical dance. Dancers with flowing white costumes performed in the blazing sunshine. The seating was occupied sparsely - with lots of gaps. But there was a lot of standing crowd. It ended with a famous piece from Paakezah.

And then of course were the puppets.

And tons of food - but that is a different post.

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by addytorials

“There are out there more ways than walkers, more dreams than dreamers, more love than lovers”

Shamshad Khan doesn’t just read poetry. She makes love to your head.

Her performance poetry is made psycho-sensual foreplay by every intonation, every pause, short breath and gesture. Her presence on stage will seize any warm-blooded literati. And maybe others as well. As she herself admits, she is surprised by her cool candour in front of an audience while she is instantly self-conscious facing a camera.

Oh, how she holds her audience. Her gaze unfailing, her posture soaking in every emotion behind her words, she makes your pulse race every time she reiterates, “there are out there, more ways than who can say”. And she is immediately endearing and kind and inquisitive as she essays her thoughts to a Nigerian pot.

Akshay puts it down quite simply to her crisp Manchester accent. He is obviously referring to the ‘orgasmic’ quality of her voice. But surely, that can’t be all there is to her! After the reading, somebody walked up to her and said, “you have proved that words are not important”. Imagine her state of shock. And in that tiny instant of visible recoil, she is far beyond just a crisp Manchester accent.

Shamshad Khan is a poet. And an excellent one at that. Her art in performance and in verse is practised and perfected.

It is a colossal misfortune that she graced the stage for only an hour today, the 11th of Feb at the D. S. Library Garden.

Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by addytorials

“Look, Ma - Paheli!“, squeals a child.

Is this what our great tradition of puppetry has been reduced to? Another lost relic of our multi-hued past viewed in reference to pop-culture?

The little Rajasthani puppet stall on Rampart Row has been holding daily shows every evening on the hour at the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival. For the rest of the day, the puppets hang on to their mute existence from a wooden stick and watch so many people walking by. Rs. 150 for an example of fine Rajasthani craftsmanship. Rs. 150 for a re-incarnation of our magical, mystical culture. Rs. 150 for a pretty puppet. But who would want one? In an age of action figures (with new technological advancements in lucid limb movement, of course) and Barbie wannabes (with oh-so-cute themed and styled dresses), who would want these colourful little puppets?

The show begins. Dancing to a faint percussion and a shrill harmonic whistle is a lady in pink. She drops to the floor, does the shimmy and quite literally shakes her booty at the court of a wooden faced King and his equally wooden courtiers. Then follows the headless magician, the court jester, the snake charmer and the woman with two faces.

And, oh, look at the audience. A small crowd has gathered and is watched with rapt enjoyment. Children vie for a seat at the front row. And the laughter, the piping, shrill laughter of the children as the magician throws his head up in the air, the clown trips on himself, the snakes attack the charmer and the woman changes into another at the blink of an eye! For those few moments, the magic returns. The air hangs about you with an oppressive old world charm and you find yourself laughing along with the kids.

Then the show is suddenly over and the audience sighs in one voice. Some amble away to other venues. Some linger around to collect the remnants of that magical time they had been transported to.

And there is hope yet.

For the puppets dancing to the whimsical tunes of the great puppeteer above.

And for us.