First, a very big thank you to all our judges:
Samit Basu
Sarnath Banerjee
Jane Bhandari
Urvashi Butalia
Sampurna Chattarji
Devangshu Datta
Sonia Faleiro
Naresh Fernandes
Ranjit Hoskote
Marilyn Noronha
Manjula Padmanabhan
Jerry Pinto
Nilanjana S Roy
Arundhathi Subramaniam
Altaf Tyrewala

A huge thank you also to my colleagues at Caferati, Manisha Lakhe and Annie Zaidi, who with me, evaluated every single entry at the first stage, where the long lists were created, and then again, when the final round was being judged, across all the contests.

A big debt of gratitude to Megha Murthy, who designed and built the elegant judging system that made handling all those entries a very simple task (one groans at the memory of the time spent in past years collating, totalling and averaging entries), letting us give both contestants and jury extra time to do their thing. The system kept all personal information from entrants concealed from the jury, and did not let the jury members see what their colleagues were scoring. And then, at the end of it all, it totalled, averaged, shortlisted and presented us with winners.

Naturally, thanks ever so much, R Sriram and Shivmeet Deol, of the Literature section of the Festival, for your continued faith in us. It was, as usual, a pleasure working with you, and we look forward to future collaborations.

And last, and by no means least, thank you, every one of you, for your participation, for helping spread the word (we got around 400 valid entries across our contests, without a word of formal advertising), and for letting us know that we’re on to a good thing.

And now to the results.

====

Poetry Slam

At the finals, at the David Sassoon Library Garden, after four rounds, each of which eliminated 3 participants, from a starting field of 12, the winners were:

1st:
Jane Bhandari

2nd:
Rohinton Daruwala

3rd:
Mustansir Dalvi

You can see the scoresheets, and read the entries for the initial elimination round here. Update: And the scoresheets from the live contest are here.

Graphic Flash

In our other new contest, we got a fairly limited number of entries, but some very nice work all the same.

The winners were:

1st
pratheek thomas, sachin somasundaran (collaboration)

2nd (shared)
Mahesh Murthy
Shiladitya Chakraborty

4th * (another tie):
Dinesh P, Aravindakshan P (collaboration)
Shiladitya Chakraborty

You can see all the winners here.

*Please note, there is no 3rd place. Since 2nd place was shared, Mahesh and Shiladitya share equally the prize money for 2nd and 3rd place. Winners of 4th place are being mentioned here because we think they deserve to be, but they do not win a prize.

You can see the scoresheets (and see all the entries) from the initial round and from the full jury here.

Flash Fiction

The winners were:

1st
Shiladitya Chakraborty

2nd
Asif Anis Khan

3rd
Shiladitya Chakraborty

You can see all the winners here.

You can see the scoresheets (and read all the entries) from the initial elimination round and the full jury session here.

SMS Poetry

The winners were

1st
Nandini

2nd
Sridala Swami

3rd (shared a 4-way tie!)
Minal Sarosh
Minal Sarosh
Swetha Prakash
Falstaff

You can see all the winning entries here.

You can see the scoresheets (and read all the entries) from the initial elimination round and the full jury session here.

In a day or three, I will be mailing all the prize-winners individually, to get your mailing addresses so we can send you your prizes. Pretty please, with sugar on it, do not mail us in the meanwhile; we need a bit of recovery time too! [Done!]

We had a grand time thinking up and bringing you these contests. We hope you’ll come back when we next have something to offer. In the meanwhile, we hope you’ll come look us up at our forum or our blog, and on our various newsletters and city groups (list on the right).

Until then, all the very best to you and your muse,

(with Annie and Manisha) Peter

The Kala Ghoda area has always an art enthusiast’s delight. The area is dotted with galleries - and of course some of the best art is found in the open air pavement exhibitions.

The main display of the KGF was a giant white sukhoi like aircraft right outside Rythm House. I am sure that there was deep underlying meaning to it, but it somehow escaped me!

At the pavement art gallery - there was the very interesting “This revolution is for Display” - a kind of fond look back memory lane - with posters, slogans and images of revolution. The “in Dog we Trust” was an artisitic comment on the of the killing of street dogs in Mumbai - little stuffed dogs on the pavement representing their real life counterparts.

The foot by foot exhibition put up by the Tao Art Gallery was striking. 50 artists given a canvas, a foot by a foot, to paint. And the gallery itself, prices art by the foot. An interesting marketing concept. And, this is mainly stuff that will look good on walls -I am not so sure about the ‘art’ part of it, but it is ‘pretty’ stuff.

The exhibit that struck me most was the sculputer “She Smoker” - for obvious reasons. A set of hands holding a variety of smokes - from beedis to cigarette butts - it seemed to be a comment on the attitudes towards women smoking.

The Bodhi Art Gallery carried a lovely set of prints by Zarine Hashmi in an exhibition entitled “Weaving Memory” . A US based artist, her medium is paper. And she uses a of lines and calligraphy in her work. In this particular exhibtion she explores living spaces - there are a set of wonderful floor plans and maps that she has has created.

visitors seeing a set of exhibits at the “weaving memory” exhibition

The “Alternate Shapes of Earth” exhibits - was a set of 5 large, blue differently shaped globes. A call for a more tolerance in dealing with differences.

My favourite caption on an exhibition, however, was that at the “Only Tangibles” display. It said that the display is “aimed at showcasing two and three dimensional works, which are not only restricted in size and can fit an average apartment of an urban home or office”. Straight and to the point - and they didn’t even use the word art.

a pencil for your office or home

The street exhibition around Jahangir was interesting. My favourite exhibit was a giant painted umbrella. Very Gauginesque.

Art Quest had a striking display of very retro and filmy furniture. Lots of reds and earths in their work. Very bright and attractive display. They had a lovely little bar that i coveted from afar !

All in all - good stuff all around. Pictures will be up soon.up now.

Once every so often, I decide to see Mumbai from the eyes of a tourist rather than a citizen. Saturday was one such day. I kind of combined the day at the festival with a visit to art galleries and the museums in the vicinity. I shot a lot of pictures - but a vanished USB cord means that i have to wait a couple of days before uploading.

I got to KGF bright and early - by 11.30. The festival was just about coming awake. The scheduled chidren’s Bollywood dance at the amphitheatre (11.30) was possibly rescheduled. Parents with children, making full use of the weekend were begining their day at the KGF. An instant attraction -an instant click point was the giant lemon & chillis warding off evil. And of course a lot of people were fascinated by the giant black and gold lemon exhibits. The helirickshaw - replete with a cracking music system - was the other ‘tourist’ attraction!

The stalls were slowly begining to buzz with both exhibits and customers. But, unlike previous years - this one had more stalls, but they were very run of the mill. The stall that had most customers was the one that had the most ‘made in China’ stuff. I don’t have anything against “made in China” products, but it may have been better if these were handicrafts from NGO’s in China rather than the mass produced stuff that they had. There was a stall from Ranthambore that was selling traditional crafts that were very interesting. As usual the large book sale - which took up around 3 stalls was the one with the most crowds, and possibly the most sales.

Food was a huge disappointment. Unlike the previous years where there was a variety of street cuisine available - this time around there was over priced, over oily and run of the mill stuff from the biggies that inhabit the area. The food outside the KG festival circuit - where you could get mouth watering ragda pattice and spicy bhel was more interesting than the stuff available.

As far as the street performances were concerned, we caught a nice bit of ‘tamasha’ by a couple and their two children. The man was the circus master. The woman the main acrobat, adn the kids were the filler material. As the kids jumped through a hoop of fire, or the woman walked on a tightrope (actually a metal braided wire) - the gasp from the audience was palpable. I was actually expecting one of the NGO’s that had stalls around, to come and stop the performance on grounds of child endangerment, but nothing of that sort happened. The lady afterwards told me to send her the photograph. First i have to find the USB cord!

Finally, I tottered across to NGMA to catch the Oddissi workshop by Ileana Citarista. She was tutoring a bunch of teenagers (seemed like teenagers) on upper body movement. She was fluid, graceful, and each of gestures carried power. I tottered out feeling like a clumsy sack.

I also caught the Bombay Bonanza exhibition at the Museum - not really part of the KGF but could just as well be part of it. A lovely visual history of Mumbai and how she evolved.

Hopefully next year there will be more street in the street festival!

We started walking towrds the Asiatic Library at half past six, feeling smug at the thought of arriving early at the Sivamani concert, and finding great seats for ourselves. Early, did I say? And great seats too? We reached at twenty to seven (when the concert was scheduled to begin) and found the steps to Asiatic Library packed. Tightly packed, with people still squeezing themselves through the seated bodies, now stamping an unwary hand, now getting pushed away by the early birds. Grrr. Husband and I looked high and hard, and were about to go join the standees when we looked low for a change and found seats on the lowest step. Found seats is being a bit generous with fact - with our sharp scientific minds, we found that space for two large bodies could just be created by asking those already occupying the space around the desired spot to move and squeeze their elastic bodies just a bit more. Which they did quite cheerfully, bless them.

Seated comfortably, camera all set on tripod which I for once remembered to carry, we waited for the show to begin. The sound of drums being set in place, instruments tuned and strange strong voices humming into the mike. All but the actual show. What was the Mani man? And while we are waiting, will the security guys please ask that solitary man standing by the barriers to move away please so we the seated ones (who went there early, remember?) could watch the show in the peace that we deserve.

And so we waited and waited. And watched in total horror as all empty space in front us - the space separating us from the stage, essentially - kept filling up with those who had timed themselves better for that vantage position from which to watch the show. And what security guys? Those who were busy escorting the VIPs (who were they anyway?) to the white plastic chairs in front? We sat and stared at the heads in front of us and gnashed our teeth loudly. The noise of course, got drowned in the sudden roar that erupted in the crowd. The Mani man was here! Finally.

White silk kurta gleaming in the yellow streaming lights, Sivamani walked on stage to a grand welcome. Hands folded in salutation. Rooooooar. Announcement welcoming the Mani man. Rooooooar. Mention of his association with the other Mani man (Maniratnam). Loudest roooooooar of all. Then Zakir Hussain. Mild roooooar. (Who is he, man? in filmsa?)

Like all good Indian performers, he started with a ganesh vandan. By this time, I had lost all patience with the oily heads in front. Impressive camera in hand, I pushed my way shamelessly to the front, just a couple of photographs please. The nice people there let me go through. And so I duly went click click. Position vantage but not vantage enough. Push my back through the crowd into fresh air. Find another position to the side of the stage, repush way through crowd, one hand firmly clutching camera. And the other hand, clutching extremely embarrassed husband’s hands, dragging him towards the front. Excuse me, the show is about to begin seriously.

Sivamani picked up steam quickly and enthralled the audience, playing on a hundred different instruments, sometimes seemingly all at the same time. Drums of all shapes and sizes all around him, a square steel thingy that looked like a large vegetable grater (ok I never claimed to be knowledgable about these things) hanging in front of him, something else that looked like huge grapes dipped in silver solution around his neck like a rudraksha string gone grunge.

So many instruments that Sivamani looked lost in the middle of them all. Lost physically. Not with respect to his music, let me stress. Drums, veg grater, grapes - his hands flew from one to the other like some magician performing conjuring tricks in front of a dumbfounded audience.

Music that was electrifying and stimulting, sometimes soothing and caressing. Sometimes slightly strange and attention-grabbing. Like the time he rubbed a large piece of stone against the mike for that goosebumpy sound that strangely fitted well into the rest of the music. Or the time he took the mike and huffed and puffed, sounding like the long-distance steam train pulling into VT nearby - a hundred years ago.

That astounding skill is one thing. That magical engagement with the audience is one thing. But what sets Mani apart is that sense of genuine pleasure and enjoyment he gets from his music - from sharing that music with others. He smiled through the hour-long performance, sweating in the mugginess of the February evening and that silk robe and the heat of the strobe lights all around…

He stopped with a flourish exactly an hour after he began, and stood in front of his adoring audience for the appplause that refused to die. Encore. Back to the drums, this time with a clear eye on the gallery. On came bits of hits from everpopular movies like Rangeela and Rang de basanti. Half the piece on drums, and an abrupt stop with one hand raised, an impish smile on his face, eyebrows arched in a question… and the audience completes the music and words for him. By this time, I had wheedled my way to just below the stage, looking as adoringly at the musician magician, but through my camera. I even fancy he looked at me and smiled once but you never know, I do admit that he kept smiling through the hour. I do know that I left with a huge smile on my face, heart still thumping with the music that rocked through the speakers that stood very close to me, and feet still keeping time to the drum beat of the drummer who had vanished from stage into a sea of admirers.

Howzatt!

So the black horse races around the Islands again. The one big problem with the Kala Ghoda Art Festival is the fact that it is held where it is, right at the other end of town. I suppose that’s most easily (or at least equally) accessible for everyone in Mumbai and besides if they didn’t have it at Kala Ghoda, what would they call it? The ‘All over Mumbai’ festival doesn’t quite have the same ring, does it? :-)

I was at Kala Ghoda on the 5th February. The event I was looking for was Rural Rhythms, to be performed by a group of young dancers under the tutelage of Ms.Rajee Narayanan. They were performing a series of rope-dance sequences. Each girl had a pair of wooden sticks, from one of which was attached a long coloured rope. The other ends of all the ropes were fastened to a metal ring hovering over the stage.

I entered as one dance was in progress, the girls clacking their sticks together and weaving smoothly in and out of circles around each other. As we watched, the coloured ropes wove together in a symmetric design, all done, as the commentator pointed out, without looking up or missing a beat in the dance. And when the rope weaving was complete, the music stopped for a minute for the audience to admire the girls’ handiwork. Then they began again, this time in a different set of steps, to a different pulse and un-weaving the ropes. When they finished, every coloured rope hung individually as it had when they began, no knots, tangles or twists visible. Just perfectly synchronized to come apart in time to the end of the song.

The group performed 3 sequences, each one peaking with a different design of weave on the ropes and ending, as always with the girls impeccably in place and the ropes hanging gracefully separate. My camera-phone proved to be woefully inadequate in capturing some stills of the dance but I did manage a few shots of the girls after the dance was over.

I have been rather disappointed with the festival in the past couple of years…last year was more like an ‘Expo’ sale than a real festival of culture. It’s a precious enough time in a city that runs on clockwork precision number-like efficiency to spot colour, music, dance, photography, painting, sculpture, architecture, literature and generally anything that qualifies as art here. I was starting to miss it and wonder if KGAF had succumbed to the hard reality of mundane Mumbai too.

I’m so glad to say it hasn’t. The festival this year is remarkably back in shape. I’ve only managed one visit and 1.5 events but I know its back…you can virtually smell the spirit of the festival in the air again! At the entrance to the triangle, you are greeted by a huge lemon-and-green chillis (sculpture?effigy?stuffed something?). Right next to it is a glass case full of smaller replicas of the city’s most famous good luck charm.

Furthur up ahead is an ‘auto-copter’. Based on the fantasy of a person who got caught in Mumbai’s traffic and wished he could just lift up in the autorickshaw and fly away. Ah….wouldn’t we all wish that?

To the right, you spot a large, sparkling white model of a plane. What strikes you is…how very WHITE it is. Shining in the backdrop of the night sky, this is mounted on a base that on closer inspection, has some portraits barely visible but come to light, once you notice them. They’re all faces of people, virtually indistinguishable by gender or age. But they all look asleep…in a disturbed sleep. Does that signify the onslaught of war, terror and violence on all of as we ‘blissfully slumber’..or perhaps not? Maybe. That’s how I read it.

Art outside the galleries and out on the roads. Art for someone who can’t name the greats of art history. Art for those who appreciate beauty and music and ideas, simply for themselves. Art of all of us. I’m so glad the Kala Ghoda Art Festival is back in form.

Once upon a time Maya decided to blog for the Kalaghoda festival. She said she’ll try to blog as much as possible like she did the year before. But Maya’s bosses and her work put the noose around her keyboard to drag it before she could write about Kalaghoda. Oh Sorry! Wrong chronology. They just dumped tons of work on her desk…top…to ensure that she could not go to the festival and then put the noose on her keyboard. What more the TriContinental film festival made sure its last two exciting days clashed with Maya’s first free weekend after ages, preventing her from going to the first two days KG as well. So defying all the bosses and all attractive film festivals of the world (well after 7 pm), Maya walks into Kalaghoda on Sunday at 9:25pm and decides to write about it the next day. But as usual, the devil (boss) wears Prada from Bandra and prevents her from writing. So here she is on a Saturday evening trying to finish her first piece for KG but not able to do so as she has to go to KG today for Caferati. With a mixture of wow and sigh, she gets up and decides to call it a day. “See you on the next post,” she says and lives unhappily ever after. Neighh…

they say you cannot master an art form such dance without becoming a slave to it first. the gotipua tradition is something akin to devotion to their art.

devotion? yes, gotipuas dance like radha to her krishna, shakti to her shiva…and there’s as much love on the stage as there is expressed in the music that accompanies the gotipuas.

now a bit of the background. the gotipuas have dedicated their life to learn the nuances and the many moves of the odissi form of classical dance. they start as young as four and five, and stay at the guru’s home to learn, when they hit puberty, dancers leave to pursue Odissi with other masters or stay on at the guru’s house or further instruction.

the group came on to the stage, and electrified everyone present.

they jumped and they twirled, they even formed human pyramids…they brought so much energy to the stage even i was compelled to stay and watch.

dressed in identical sarees these little dancers from orissa performed wonderfully the tales of krishna and the gopis. so skilful and acrobatci their performance was, i wondered very idly, if they were more gymnasts than dancers. how could anyone bend and twist that way?

of course i dropped the kulfi i was happily enjoying whn i heard that the gotipuas are all boys! the gestures, the dance movements were all so graceful, no one could’ve guessed.

oh i do have a bone to pick about the songs that were being sung with the dances. shudder! so raucous! but i confess i do ot understand folk art as much as i should.

the boys looked so happy dancing, dressed in sarees that i forgot all about the unkind word ‘drag’ that did pop into my pani-puri addled brain.

also must beg for forgiveness for not havig posted this earlier. as my new avatar of publisher of the Caferati ‘Stories at the Coffee Table’, i got busy, dodging cops who wagged their truncheons at me for trying to sell the book from the boot of the car. also, please watch out for several nubile nymphets ‘psssting’ you and then directing you to the aforementioned car.

:)

the ladies from zubaan gathered their amazing words away from the stage under the trees friday night (the presentation they made was so awesome, it deserves someone better able to record it here, so accept my pardons) to make way for something i knew was going to have me glued to the now familiar plastic chairs in the david sassoon library gardens.

i had been listening to them standing at the back (gah, there was standing room only, as the zuban session was full), so when i saw one seat emptying up front, i did what fans do, hastily left the bunch of friends who were with me, and grabbed the chair in the front row, next to farida (no, not her real name, but she looked like one).

friends who found chairs after a few people left, called out rude things to me, but i smiled. i knew i was in for a treat.

“please don’t clap,” was the request. “warna hamari izzat utar jaayegi.”

i heard an involuntary,”hain?” from farida, and i turned to beam at her. this was going to be double treat. sitting next to a dastangoi virgin. i have had the privilege of being mesmerised by the tales of fantasy before. i sigh in anticipation.

i knew the gulzar song about ‘thandi safed chaadaron mein jaage der tak’ was going to make an appearance in my head when i set me eyes upon the stage. yes, the gadda was there, covered in pristine white. i squashed the thought. what was about to happen was far grander than a movie song. but the brain started the ancient jingle for ‘tinopal’ as soon as the new dastango, fauzia, came to the stage, also in whites, and i missed her short introduction.

damn! a girl dastango and i missed it! please dahlings, don’t ask me what datsango is, you are citizens of the cyberworld, and much able to discover details on dastangoi.blogspot.com

back to kala ghoda.

danish and mahmood, the two teller of tales, were seated. before i climb the thrill spiral of dastangoi, i must praise the crisp white kurta pajama the two sport. and rave about the topis (the first time i spotted the little topi i had wondered how the topi stays perched upon their brilliant heads).

dastangoi is no longer an art hidden away in forty six volumes in someone’s dusty cupboard in ‘nukhlow’.

“please don’t clap. the tradition is to say ‘wah, waah’,” advised danish, knowing full well that some of us would not be able to resist the easy appreciation that we have become used to.

i felt farida stiffen next to me. i could hear gabbar singh talk thru farida.”kya samajh kar aaye the, audience bahut khush hogee? shabashee degee, kyon?”…

but the rest of us nodded. i practised saying, “wah!” under my breath, and thought it alien. so much easier to clap!

they started spinning the tale of the three storey bridge over the river of blood, where fish swam, swallowing pearls fed by nubile maidens…of how amar aiyyar was caught!

people tried out, “waah!” and the two dastangos nodded in approval. they were guiding our ears and mouths to an new experience. our bodies had long been hypnotised into staying still.

and then came ‘kalwarin’! so exquisite are her wine flask-bearing hips, her hands decorated with mahawar, her eyes, those eyes lined with kohl, her flirty ways that i found my jaw dropping several inches lower than anatomically possible.

farida was in the zone now. she was giggling, and simpering and her ‘wah, waahs’ were becoming audible. she even guffawed, then straightened up, not understanding how she was losing her carefully cultivated city-bred composure.

bahaar jadu cast her magic then. and we were even more hypnotised.

and soon we were mesmerised by the description of battles between magicians. i was convinced for a minute that ms.rowling must’ve ‘internalised’ a daastan somewhere…

aah then the tale spoke of blood and the gore of the battle…i found my heart needed coaxing, it kept pausing at the good parts. a little breathy swoosh from farida said she too was dealing with an unruly heart…

‘kya baat hai!’, ‘bhai waah!’ and stunned silences were how we experienced dastaangoi. thankfully danish announced, “you may clap now!”

there was a thunderous applause.

the audience was so amazed and impressed, they asked:

‘aapki zubaan itnee saaf hai, kya aap log auron ko sikhayenge?’, ‘could i learn to be a dastango?’

i think, if performers inspire such a response in the audience, the performance has been successful.

i found farida tasting the word, ‘haramzada’ quietly to herself. my grin widened. the kalwarin had cast her spell on her as well! murtaza danish hussain and mahmood farooqui had created one more fan.

their storytelling is flawless. they finish each other’s sentences, and hand over the action to one another, even say the last triumphant sentences in unison without faltering or tripping over the khaalis urdu. they make dastangoi a seamless spinning of wonderful impossible tales.

dastangoi is a living experience. i know i may have shortchanged you somehow with this blog entry, so am going to offer you a peek into someone else’s viewpoint. this was written after Dastangoi was performed in mumbai, a while ago, at prithvi.

here is the link to arjun bali’s blog called ‘balihai’.

A good book reading is much like a good hostess: warm, inviting and adept at introducing her like-minded guests to each other.

And so it was with the Fresh off the Shelf session at the David Sassoon Library Garden today evening where the mosquito-coils burned steadily, the mikes all worked well (a *huge* improvement from the Smorgasword) and the house was packed. Six recently published (and one still in the process) authors, read out excerpts from their books to an attentive audience, which was familiar with some of them, hadn’t heard of some, but were equally receptive to all of them.

The first reading was by Jerry Pinto (who was also the moderator for this session) from his book, Reflected in Water. Jerry introduced his book with the tongue-in-cheek claim that it wasn’t really his book although he did have copyright of the arrangement of pieces. He then read out a couple of paragraphs from his book, peppering his reading with anecdotes from Goan life and even managed to cajole a member of the audience into singing the opening bars of the popular Goan song ‘Ghe ghe ghe ghe, ghe re saiba’ (which was immortalised for a majority of the Indian population, by the then young-and-fresh-faced Rishi Kapoor in the film Bobby).

The next reading was by C. Sriram, author of The Long Reverie of Partha Sarma. In a pale lavender shirt, with his hair neatly combed, Sriram could have easily passed off as the CA/software-engineer-next-door, that is, until he started his reading. He began his reading with the mock-warning “This is going to be depressing” and it turns out, there was only a little mockery involved. While it didn’t quite have the audience reaching for their prozac, the few paragraphs he read out did manage to mellow the audience down a little. He acquiesced, in reply to a question from a member of the audience, that “First time authors cannot resist the attempts to be dramatic.”

The third reading was by author Amitabha Bagchi who really is an engineer (from IIT, no less) but looks a lot less like it, than C.Sriram. Amitabha’s book Above Average, is, in the words of one panelist, ‘another one of those IIT books’ (we presume he referred to the Five Point Something genre, if that can indeed be called a genre) but we beg to differ. For one, the writing is a lot more polished (and yes, we can say that from just a couple of paragraphs). Amitabha’s reading was quite entertaining as he got completely into character with each of the…uh, characters that came up in the reading.

Sampurna Chatterjee (also apparently known as ‘shampoo’) read out some of the poems from her book titled Sight May Strike You Blind, which we found pleasant, if a little surreal. Sampurna mentioned that the title had something to do with the fact that she is ‘utterly hopelessly myopic’, but tragically enough, we have forgotten what the exact correlation was (sorry!). She ended her reading with a quote that she says she has learnt to follow in her own life: “The road runs on, it is you who must learn to stop.”

Right after Sampurna’s reading, the crows (which have made an appearance at the festival before) congregated overhead once again and decided that Peter and Manisha (the editors and publishers of The Coffee Table Book) needed to be serenaded, and launched into the effort heartily. Thankfully, they (the crows) did not have mikes while Manisha and Peter did. Peter and Manisha, in their new (and spiffily-dressed) avatars as publishers, first spoke to the audience about Caferati, its origins and its strengths as a forum for budding writers. Peter stuck to reading the introduction after which Manisha read out one story from the book.

The next author to take the stage was Ambarish Satwik who has written a book bizarrely titled, ‘Perineum’. He opened his reading with a slideshow of “schematic diagrams (of previously mentioned body part, also, book title) because showing the real thing would make it smut”. Ambarish came across as someone who knew his material in and out and was an engaging reader. I was almost upset when he stopped and came *this* close to pushing him back on stage and forcing him to finish the story. His book though, is still in the process of getting published and will be in the market possibly in the middle of the year.

The last speaker for the evening was graphic novelist Sarnath Bannerjee (author, The Barn Owl’s Wondrous Capers), who wisely let his pictures (illustrations actually) do most of the talking. The presentation was a fabulous combination of voiceover, sound effects and of course, the illustrations. Now I’m not very familiar with the graphic novel genre, but I know a good story when I see it and this was very good. It apparently took Sarnath three-and-a-half years to complete and the process was, in his own words, immensely complicated.

So thus we came to the end of another wonderful evening of literature and I will sign off with a plea to all those of you who are fat of wallet and large of heart, to support your local Indian authors and buy their books (originals only though)!

After battling laziness, and not-wanting-to-move-feelings for four days, I went by to the schedule of things seeing as it was Wednesday, and one of my all-time favourite days. (Besides Saturday nights of course, but I can’t stand Tuesdays, they make no sense as far as days go), I figured it would a good time for me to get some Culture. And, it looked like I was in luck as well, there was a talk on Sensuality, Desire And The New Age Woman, something I am *ahem* moderately interested in. Plus, I had met the speaker Alka Pande, many times, back in Delhi, and she’s pretty cool.

I dragged Unsuspecting Male Friend with me, who rolled his eyes at the subject matter, but thanks to my feminine wiles (why did I even need this talk, I asked myself) he was persuaded to come along. I got there a little late, but Alka Pande had just about begun, and was talking about women through the ages, how perceptions had changed from the Kama Sutra and Ajanta and Ellora through the present day. There were slides too, pictures from the Kama Sutra, which made the man next to me do a nervous heh-heh-heh. (Actually, the audience was mainly women, which is not surprising, I suppose, but I would have thought curiousity or something would have driven more of the male of the species to make an appearance. Unsuspecting Male Friend looked like he had been thrown in with the lions.)

A little digression, if I may, as someone who is new to the city: the David Sassoon library is lovely. It doesn’t look like it would be lovely, not from the outside at any rate, and sitting above an optician with a very shady name (Lund and Buckley, which made the street kid Delhiite in me snigger for quite some time) but once you enter it’s like a little oasis amongst all the traffic. I could imagine myself reading in the little garden, pottering around in the reading room, and being transported to the last century. Every town should have some place like that, truly.

After Alka Pande’s talk came photographer Vikram Bawa, and frankly, I can’t see why he was invited at all. He had done no research whatsoever to make his presentation, his slideshow looked like a portfolio, and after some time, all he could say were things like, “I only shoot beautiful women.” Or, “I saw her naked, I admit I had an ulterior motive.” Or “This is one of my good friends–I call her a horse, because she is so large, ha ha.” By the end of it, my eyes were rolling so far back in my head, I could see my brain. But the other people seemed to enjoy it, maybe his chatty conversational style appealed more to them than Alka Pande’s researched-type talk.

At the end of his little monologue, Vikram Bawa was persuaded to show the photo he had received a PIL for, and maybe he isn’t the best presentor, but this picture was really good. It showed two naked men, one standing, the other with his legs entwined around him, kissing. Two of his friends apparently, and by the end of it, said Bawa, “I thought it was like a man and a woman.” I think he should stick to not talking.

So, I didn’t learn very much about sensuality and the New Age woman, no. But I did get to see the library, which I’ve been meaning to. And a controversial photograph. Not bad for one evening’s work, right?

ps. Unsuspecting Male Friend was made happy by taking him to the large white jet plane in the grounds, which he happily walked around and prodded and examined and crawled under, so don’t feel too sorry for him.

Meet Nandini. She lives somewhere around this area. She is not very sure where. She can’t tell me anything more about herself and her family. But she knows one thing for sure - she likes pani puri. She has no idea what it is called; will she have dhokla? nahi. khandvi? nahi; she quickly dismissed these foolish offers I make in the assumption that the kid would like the less spicy things on offer. Yeh nahi, woh gol gol jo hota hai - her little fingers making whirring circles in the air… oh, the round things? realization dawns as I point to the kachori. She directs a withering look at me (how dumb can you get?, it says in loud tones and I duly wither), gives up attempts to explain and instead leads me confidently to the stall, her little hands in mine. She takes ages to eat the first puri - the tiny mouth can open only so big. So the panipuriwala fill the other puris, piles them up in a leaf cup and she takes them away to a corner by the tree to eat them in peace.

It is not like Nandini is taking liberties with a stranger. We know each other from last year’s KGAF, you see. In fact, she was featured on this blog quite prominently a couple of times last year, the little admirer who seated herself on the first row of whatever performance happened to be on at the rampart row stage. I did not know her name then, Nandini was small and shy and refused to speak to me, just a shy smile and reluctant pose for me every time we met. From coy side glances to withering looks in a year is a long way to travel.

I found her on the first evening of the festival among the bunch of kids lighting candles on the road as part of the street display by an NGO. She waved to me and posed with her candle, dropping it suddenly when the wax melted and flowed down her hands. Ouch. And my heart melted with it. Therefore the panipuri.

I am a sucker for kids (others’ kids, i.e. - those who can be sent back to their parents), my camera likes them a little more than I do. And kids sense that and pretend to like me so I take lots of pictures of them. Like this one (also featured earlier on this blog this year) - he was playing with other kids inside the helikoptook, he took one look at my camera and went pose pose pose, now sitting, now lying down, steady modelly smiles plastered on his face.

[click for larger size]

And then the unposed pictures… often the most interesting of them all…

When will the darned dance begin?

rang diya basanti and now I can’t get it off

And that is what I love about the Kala Ghoda Festival. Kids roaming around freely, loudly laughing at some of the sillier street installations (how I would like to do that!), peskily demanding kulfi and comic books, getting in everyone’s way and generally having a blast. I like to see them get bite-sized doses of culture watching classical dance performances, I like it when they get messy at the pottery and coloring workshops, when they listen to stories and watch people on stage wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Above all, I love the amount of work my camera gets at Kala Ghoda with the kids…

Just a quick note to say that there are many more pictures in this blog’s photo pool (on Flickr). Do see.

And if you’d like to join the pool, just knock, and one of the admins will let you in. (But note, by joining, you’re giving us permission to post your pictures to this blog.)

Lit@KGAF is having a mid-festival crisis and will therefore not put up anything today.
Besides, we want to be at the poetry workshop at the Elphinstone College Seminar Room at 10 where Simon Armitage will hopefully read Zoom!

Question, If you are culture vulture on the rampage and you are on the look out for a speedy snack between events what do you do ?

I suggest the momos at the Taste of Tibet stall.

Yes Momos, the crescent-shaped yummy dumplings one of Tibet’s more popular traditional foods, are a light, delicate appetizer, especially when steamed rather than fried. Whether you order the momos stuffed with chicken and vegetables or those stuffed with shiitake mushrooms, be sure to try the fiery dipping sauce, which ignites the flavors of the momos.

I’ve had several plates. Veg Momos 7 Rupees/Plate. Chicken 30 Ruppees/Plate

At every moment in our lives, perhaps, we are to some extent actors, or performers, as well as spectators. When performers and spectators “connect” it creates a very special quality of theater that both transports and transforms all those involved. In India we cherish this strong link between reality and fantasy first through theatre and now through film. All this age old mimicry of life somehow affects us and in return this mimicry is in itself a self-definition of the society we live in. This is what I love about the medium that through a little imagination and snap of a finger we are somewhere else. Taking it a step further many forms of classical dance in India imbibes the same values of theatre mixing them till we get operaish dance put to music.

Yakshagana is one such dance opera I got the opportunity to see at KalaGhoda yesterday. The dance is usually described as folk but this theatre form from Karnataka, the Yakshagana or the song of the celestials has strong classical undertones. Hardly surprising because the dance was born from the Bhakti movement and was designed to bring classical dance beyond its then traditional elitist audience. As the dance unfolded at the Rampant row amphitheatre it raptured the much of the onlookers with its singing and drumming blended with dancing and the quaint endearing kannada dialogues from players, clad in striking costumes in myriad hues and sizes, provided for a very pleasant afternoon.

I was still curious and wanted to learn more may be exchange a conversation with the artists so I some how evaded the Kala Ghoda event staff and went back stage. This is what I saw - A corner clothesline overflows with hair switches, tassels, garlands and `jewels.’ The dim walls are agleam with bright headgear, chest and shoulder armour and the shelves packed with ornaments and anklets. The table is a mass of crushed and ironed costumes. There sat Rakshasha, or a man dressed as one, in front of pictures of an entire pantheon of gods praying; an antithesis if I ever saw one. Very soon I found myself sharing a chai with large men with painted faces and even larger pagades, (a type of head gear) talking about cricket before their next act began.