Courtesy Aniruddha Kadam.

Click here for some Day 1 pictures.

And here for some from Day 2.

Got pictures? Leave a link in the comments space, and we’ll add you here.

So much of the colour at Kala Ghoda comes from not just the artists but the visitors as well. That little street is awash with colour. Art students display their fledgling works. Aspiring writers congregate with journalists. Photographers stroll around, cameras casually hung around their necks. Families wander around wonder and curiosity writ large on their faces. Busy corporate types step out to ‘catch the fest’, ties loosened around their necks and their reactions escaping from their normally controlled faces. Tourists bustle about, wide-eyed at the colour. Teenagers mill about, their natural energy, for once, shared by everyone in the crowd alike, age irrespective.

The different faces of the city walk around marveling at the sights. And at each other.
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The art district of Mumbai is hosting a festival. Movies are being screened, workshops conducted, books discussed, plays (and other acts) staged. There is also a mela happening!

Don’t believe me?

Here is a potter. He beckons…come closer. A grinning imp, paint streaked across his face settles down to touch the clay.

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At the core of the KGAF, every year, is the street art. From the bizzare to the thought provoking, from the quirky to the cute…. each year the street exhibits manage to get the crowds gawking. And, this year was no exception.
At the centre piece of the KGAF exhibtion was a giant ferris wheels of cycles with dabbhas….

Mumbai Masti - from the exhibition:
If the world is your playground, then Mumbai is certainly a giant ferris wheel. And one that carries everything with it, as it goes around its axis going about its daily business.
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here:

www.flickr.com

More photos in Kala Ghoda Gazette

The PenTathalon sounded like fun. And unnerving given its ‘Five Exercises for Fiction Writers’ description. What does a fiction writer look like, one wondered. I found out on the morning of Saturday, 3rd February.

Kavita Bhanot, the workshop leader, turned out to be a charming, soft-spoken young lady with a clipped British accent and an eye (and ear) for detail. There were fifteen participants from various backgrounds - a journalist, a business consultant, an animation script-writer, an accountant, a former magazine editor and an advertising professional to name a few.

The five exercises were actually discussions on five aspects of fiction writing: Openings, Description , Characterization, Dialogue and Point of View. Kavita started with,

You all probably read a lot of books and enjoy them. There are actually several techniques employed by fiction writers that you would not have noticed so far because you aren’t familiar with them. In this workshop we will look at some of them and how you can use them in writing.

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A lot of people come to the Kala Ghoda Art Festival in the evening. A lot of people don’t know what they are missing. And it might be a good idea to not be one of that lot of people!

I was lucky. Having signed up for a morning workshop, I ended up in town bright and early and just in time to watch the festivities being set up. I spent the entire weekend in that single lane bordered by Elphinston college, Jehangir Art Gallery, Bombay Natural History society and Rhythm House.

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The Tibet India Foundation has a long association with the Kala Ghoda Festival. After keeping visitors hooked last year, they came in this year with what seemed like’Tibetian Opera’.

On a nice winter’s day in Mumbai, with crowds bustling in and around the KG venue, the amphitheater was packed,

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Sunday afternoon at Kala Ghoda meant that you are jostling for space with families, who had brought kids in to see the festival. This time there seemed to be more events for children than ever before. Or, maybe it is that the corporate sponsorship - The Surf Excel Chidren’s Festival - has got the events a higher visibility, simply by being plastered everywhere.

This year, kids were everywhere. From long queues to participate in something or the other, to getting their faces painted, to watching Rajasthani puppets, to sending out messages for peace and goodwill…And it really felt good to see so many children out and about at the KGAF….

(Pictures below)

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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!

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.

Bright golden sequinned suits, colorful little saris wrapped fisherwoman style, spotless white kurta pyjamas soon to remain not-so-spotless, tiny birdies wearing pink, yellow and blue birdie dresses. The dance organized by NGOs with kids performing to Bollywood numbers on Sunday morning was easily the event I loved best among those I caught over the weekend. Crowds clapping and cheering, the kids on stage having a blast, their bright smiles outshining the miidday sun high above, spectators, among them some kids who were waiting for their turn to perform on stage watching open-mouthed, the NGO volunteers notepad in hand, steering the kids to the right place at the right time…

The show which went on for over an hour had these little kids dancing to popular Bollywood numbers starting with suno gaur se duniya walon. The kids came on stage, danced the way to an encore, followed by dus bahane and rang de basanti and more.

It is obvious that nothing captivates the attention of the audience as Bollywood - people stood in front of the stage trhough the performance and clapped themselves hoarse. The earlier evening at Horniman Gaden, just before Sonal Mansingh’s performance was to begin, a cop on duty came up to me (I was of course, standing row 1-plus, camera in hand) and asked me, ab kya honey wala hai? koi sonal woh naachne ali hai kya? (what’s up? is some sonal to dance now?) And that morning, before this dance, I walked into the museum gallery looking for the Jayateerth Mevundi concert - I had been waiting near the ampitheatre by mistake. Seeing the small room almost full, I asked a mother-son duo sitting at the back, is this the JM concert? Son ignored me and continued to paly with his mobile while Mother gave me a blank look and said - I don’t know - we are just sitting here because something is going to happen, so many people here. But Bollywood, never a vague “something is going to happen” - familiar, popular - you can never go wrong with Bollywood.

Dus bahane karke le gaya dil

The last perormance was the everpopular birdie dance - the stage a riot of colors, little birdies wriggling and jumping, sometimes performing with complete confidence, sometimes taking sneak peaks at each other in confusion - what is the next step now?

the birdie dance

a quick pose in the middle of dance

Bright and bleary-eyed at the same time, I reached Fountain at 8 this morning. Yes, I know, Sunday morning and all that. The Fountain parking lot which normally houses cars of all shapes and sizes through the work week and stays empty and forlorn during week-ends was abuzz with activity. A hundred odd cars, none of them less than fifty years old. Proud owners posing next to their cars, the brilliance of their proud smiles going flash! along with the hundreds of camera out there. Personal mechanics, as proud of the car they maintain as the owners themselves, now tinkering here, now giving it a final polish.

Each one of these cars a classic beauty, some of them round and curvy, their generous fenders in front begging to be caressed, some of them slightly angular, regal and pretending to be aloof…

The vintage car rally was about to begin and the pre-rally fashion show for cars was on. Never have I seen so many cameras out at one time in Bombay, never so many grown up men act like little children (I mean, so many at the same time). I imagine the entire family staying up all night giving it just that final rub of polish before they set off for the day. I imagine pesky children in the family being shooed away by irate fathers and uncles. I imagine the owners starting out early in the morning, dressed in their Sunday best, slightly sheepish wives on the passenger seat in front, and unbelievably energetic children at the back.

Polished to perfection…

Sometimes, there are wheels within wheels…

… and sometimes, entire cars within cars!

Here, the photographer (writer) does a mirror mirror on the wall act with the gleaming surface of this car…

Vintage cars was all okay but what were not-so-vintage Premier Padminis doing there? And a new Hyundai Getz parked bang smack in the middle of the line (what kind of personw ould imagine that line-up to be an ordinary parking lot)? And vintage motorbikes? Not that my husband minded…

Preening done for the morning, the cars set off one by one by about 9. Set off is not to say they vroomed their way to hell on the roads; they moved at snail’s pace, partly because of the lengthy lines and partly because that proably was best speed for some of them (a quick peep over my shoulder here to hope none of the owners is actually reading this). We hitched a joy ride in a 1939 World War II relic - a Volkswagen-Tempo collab car. The owner, Mr. Badamikar had driven down all the way from Pune; one hears that truck drivers on the Expressway have gone into into severe shock on seeing this on their road.

Mr. Badamikar owns not one or two but fourteen such vintage cars. He says he takes each of them out for a spin (er, slow drive) once in fifteen days; he does not say but I imagine he spends a bomb in mintaining each of these beauties. Husband and self felt like royalty (slightly foolish, but royal nevertheless), perched on the back seat of this “solid German guy” (someone else, not me), passengers from BEST buses craning their necks out for a look-see.

We hopped off at the entry to Kala Ghoda and watched the rest of the rally from near the booth where each car was registered before setting off on the actual rally. The police band was out in full force, welcoming each of these cars, now with the trumpet, now the cymbals.

The most endearing moment of the morning for me, was this Tibetan monk, standing in the shade some distance away from the hoots and toots. His mobile phone in hand, he kept clicking pictures of these cars as they passed by him, each time looking around a tad sheepishly after going click click.

Truly a blast from the past!

Tibetans believe you dance to eliminate negativity, to cut through the ego and to bring in auspicious circumstances. Hence, I could think of no better way to start my escapades at the Kala Ghoda Art festival than to watch the cries of Snow Lions. The Snow lion is a blundering beast in cheerful white demeanour that symbolizes the fearless and elegant quality of the enlightened mind. When a healthy and harmonious environment is established by the creative activities of human beings, such as through the performance of sacred purification and healing music, all living beings, here represented by the snow lion, rejoice. Rejoice we did as the snow lions with big golden eyes and large masses of yak like fur paraded through Rampart Row to the beat of a Tibetan drum much to delight of the children watching.

The festivities moved to the Amphitheatre. Seven dancers paraded before us : four in red and three in black and white. The dance itself was a blend of lumbering grace- the dancers hopped on one leg with the other raised in a flexed foot, with turns added to the hops. Drums rang on, marked with more acrobatics arm swoops and torso rotating as well as frou frou of skirts as the women swirled to the enchanting sounds of Tibet. The next three dancers with porcelain faces and ornately brocaded costumes were identified with the visualizations of common men, each dancer danced with a light spring, shifting weight, hopping in half turns. To say the dancers looked like magical beings would not have been inaccurate. The dance ended with a grand finale and the dancers exited to the sound of applause from the crowds. A brief pause before we were yet again graced by a pair of Snow Lions on the stage to end what was a memorable piece of Tibet at Kala Ghoda.

This is why I have come to love this festival so much, it seems to transport to you other places and times, a window to many forms of art and culture and all in your very own city.

Just got home after an evening at Kala Ghoda and need to wake up early, really early (especially for a Sunday) to get back there for the vintage car rally tomorrow morning. So here are a few pics from the events of the evening - detailed posts soon…

Performance by the Tibet India Foundation…

The snow lion yawns…. or is it snow dog?

Dancing to the drum…

Watching from the sidelines and waiting for my turn…

The Naval band - started off vey well and then suddenly this young officer took to the mike with ‘tere bin mein yun kaise jiya…‘ Why, oh why this from the Naval band?

At that I turned around signalling to my husband that it was time to leave.. and saw this…

Sonal Mansingh at Horniman Circle Garden, Odissi, the life of Krishna, the butter thief, the lover, the lord of the universe, the savior of those who believe…

And finally, to ward off the evil eye…

Good night…