A Fair Weekend (aka I Was a Minor Child Celebrity)

I spent last weekend with my three loves. My mother, a zoom lens and lots of sunshine. What a beautiful way to spend a weekend!

On Saturday, we went to the Australian High Commission's spring fair, which was a lot of sparkle and shine, and where we picked up some wonderful homemade strawberry jam.

Check out the detailing on the salt and pepper shakers!

We found this butterfly at the Surajkund Crafts Mela, where we went on Sunday. Decades ago, my grandfather, then working for the Government of India, envisioned this annual confluence of craftsmen from all over India and brought it to fruition. He had a few basic ideas: there would be a theme state each year in whose honour a gate would be permanently erected. And each crafstman could come once and once only, so that the craft would continue to be represented without monopolising or overrunning the market. Today, these ideas are at the core of Crafts Mela's unique pull, and it is the largest fair of its kind in the country. I am more than proud of him.

But that's not how I remember the Surajkund Mela. To me, it is the place I was - for two days - a minor celebrity. At the opening ceremony of the mela when I was all of two and a half years old, I fell into the hotel pool. My entire (extended) family had let me out of their sight for an instant, and I used my precious freedom to walk straight into the inviting azure of the pool. Needless to say, I didn't know how to swim then. All I remember is the feeling of flailing in slow-motion in one corner of the pool, and dancing witches in pointy black hats at the other end. Someone pulled me out, and I don't ever remember being free from the eyes and ties of family ever since.

The next day wasn't quite as bad. Apparently, I just wandered off on my own, giving everyone their second panic attack in as many days and finding my way to an announcement booth, where the nice lady made an announcement and everyone found me again. I was the most wanted child there that year, and though family outings are still very much the same (with me slipping off to take a picture or three), we have mobile phones now.

(Strangely enough, as we were leaving on Sunday, the PA system piped up: "The parents of Manya, please come to the announcement booth. She is two and a half years old and has just gotten lost. The parents of Manya..."

I swear, my parents paled a bit when they heard that.)

Moving on, though. While this is an exhibition of the entire country's handicrafts, my favourite pavilion was by far the international one. It displayed some of the prettiest craft forms of the world. See for example, the thread-perfect needlework of these Pakistani hand-embroidered cases and covers on the left. Or the careful symmetry of the thin bronze sheets used in Egyptian lamps.

(Click the pictures to enlarge!)

Did I say the handicrafts had my attention? Well, that was before I saw this lady from Turkmenistan. Now, if you were to put me up on display for fourteen days, I would be pretty grumpy by the end of it, or even by the end of the first day. But despite the countless number of photos she must have posed for, this woman's smile felt so genuine, you couldn't imagine her being anything but happy to be there. I suppose if your job is just to come to India and smile at strangers for a bit, maybe it's not too bad.

[In the bottom right corner, you'll see some Turkmenistani dolls. They're tobacco-carriers made out of gourds (yes, really), and if you rattle them, you can hear the seeds inside.]

After a brief tour with enough pauses to nibble, window-shop and click pictures of beautiful women, we were whisked towards the amphitheatre, where some of the happiest and most colourful people we'd seen all morning came on, a string of rhythmic rivulets.

These kids from Namibia did a dance to show us what they meant by 'community'.

Each girl and boy in a circle took turns to come to the centre and tap dance to their own rhythm, and everyone on the outside had to pick up on this rhythm and clap along with it. If you looked carefully enough, you could tell when the person was slowing down, pacing up, or changing the time signature completely, and change your clapping pace accordingly. This way, each one of them got their own space and time to shine. Each one got encouragement. And each one got to give it to everyone else.

To me, this seems a beautiful way to express what it really means to be in a community. You are surrounded by a circle of people who both give you the space to dance to your own tune and by clapping alongside, inspire the courage in you to be your own person. Coming from a culture where individuality is traditionally suppressed (You want to be a writer, what!), it was so refreshingly heart-warming to see such a wholesome endorsement of each person's uniqueness and its contribution is to the community.

Did I say uniqueness? Check out this girl from the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Then, this uncle came on and sang to us about being happy with whatever we had. Even if it was just a jute bag and a bunch of reeds like his own.

And then, oh my god, there were these dancers from Tajikistan. What can I possibly say?

And finally, these men monkeying around. Though they may look African -- save for the peacock feathers -- they're actually tribals from deep within the forests of Gujarat! Decades ago, their ancestors came over from Africa and settled here, though my dad was convinced we were joking when we told him that.

They entertained us for fifteen whole minutes. Kicking, pulling faces, breaking coconuts with their heads (yes, really). By the end of it, we were all ready to stick our butts out and be silly little frogs or kangaroos or whatever they were doing on stage.

After ALL this, I went to the Delhi Comic Con.

Since it was the last day, everything was either sold out or on its way, but there were still so many people there! I met a lot of old friends, and made some new ones. Like Poison Ivy here. (She still had her hair tied up and a ninjacket on at this point, obviously.)

Finally, I caught the sunset from behind some trees, and headed home.

What a weekend.

Tea and Thunderstorms (aka A Post About Friendship)

Kulhar Chai. Jaipur Lit Fest, 2013.

To me, tea is synonymous with friendship. Both exist in a myriad of forms and flavours, and each kind is perfect for a certain place and time. And both imbue you with that beautifully warming feeling that carries you through the darkest, coldest days of the year.

I've had tons of tea this winter, of course. But I've also had lots of time to connect with my friends. Some are newer than others, some wiser, and some mildly insane on their best days. But all of them are absolutely wonderful, and I am so glad to be in touch. To everyone I've met, Skyped with, written to, or had a long phone conversation with this past month: thank you for everything you bring to my life. I am so much happier, more sure of myself and on the way to better things only because of the endless and unconditional love, support, and enthusiasm you have given me. Even if you don't think you've helped or that it makes a difference that you've said hello to me... it does. I've been figuring a lot of things out for myself in terms of future goals and self-worth and other scary-sounding things recently, but to have you in my life -- especially this month -- has given me the courage to step forward and the conviction to be happy.

In that respect, it is fitting that this picture of tea was taken at the Jaipur Lit Fest last weekend. I met so many old friends there, and was overwhelmed by the amount of people I knew, and what I knew them for!

But those are stories for another day. Some time when we have a warm cuppa and some biscotti between us.

La Mer

For the sea seems as endless
as the grains of sand on its shore.

Swansong

Happy new year, everyone!

This year, learn from the swans...

... shake your tail feathers, get your feet wet, and make yourself heard!

(Unlike this little bum.)

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Edit: I just had a *facepalm* moment, but I must correct myself publicly. The gorgeous white birds in this post are geese, not swans. Swans have longer necks and feet that have haunted me since the night I realised they were all black and webby and the complete antithesis of all that white royalty swans supposedly embody.

So now you know what I'm afraid of.

Pondicherry, Morning One

The best way to get photographers out of bed? Bribe them with the promise of a sunrise.

Christmas Eve in Chennai

Early on one of the coldest winter mornings yet, we left Delhi to go to Chennai. Look, cabin crew!

If you haven't recognised them already, they're from Indigo Airlines, pretty much the best-branded airlines in India. They all wore bright smiles and "Girl Power" badges, and our pilot was a woman. Their magazine looks right out of a Swedish design firm: simple, clean, and as much a treat to flip through as an Ikea catalogue.

Even their zippy staircase was cute! I mean, who wouldn't like to be a hot stepper?

The sky was a whole different story. I don't know if they specially arranged it for us to be greeted by miles and miles of perfectly sprinkled clouds, but that's what happened. And it was SO beautiful. I could see outer space from my plane seat. Imagine that. It was like 54 shades of blue.

Someone should write a book on that.

And then we landed and saw some of Chennai from the ground (and above). We had a food-tasting lunch at a yet-to-be-opened hotel. I didn't click too many pictures of the food because I  was too busy eating it (!), but there were: three colours of chicken tikkas, fresh watermelon juice, pepperoni pizza from a wood-fired oven, appams, two kinds of Malyali stew, prawn pad thai, melty chocolate cake with dulce de leche and ice-cream, and my favourite, key lime pie.

Everything was, needless to say, a-mazing.

Like the hotel! It's going to be a stunner when it's finally unveiled. Chennai, you watch out.

We also met a menagerie! Baby squirrels, pigeons, baby crows, a quail and the incredible lady who carries them across town on her bicycle (in baskets). One of my many favourite moments of the day by far was having a baby squirrel scamper up the length of my arm. Such big feet. So ticklish. I had to exercise all my restraint to not shake her off like a mad baboon.

But now I know what it would feel like to be a tree.


And we saw the sunset. Even with a construction site and its awful cranes in the foreground, it was absolutely breathtaking.

But that wasn't all! We also saw 1400 year-old temples, got blessed by at least five priests, listened to a stellar roadside Carnatic music performance...and ate, ate and ate. From hot fluorescent orange payasam eaten with spoons fashioned from a banana leaf bowl ...to cheesecake with fresh strawberry stew. With an entire Marathi meal in between. And there were stories and wine (and midnight champagne!), and some of the people I care about most around me. A holiday couldn't start any better. Really.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Ambling, Rambling

I got my camera this weekend! And we got to know each other a little bit better yesterday. That's the first step to falling in love, isn't it?
On my first walk around the city with my new baby, we saw a forest! With at least fifty-four kinds of trees. And bougainvillea, pretty as ever.

Then, we met a doggy! He nodded off more than a couple times as I went click-click-click too close too his snout. (Why they call it a dog's life, I will never understand.)

And then we saw Millie. (You've met her before!)

If I said I were overjoyed, it wouldn't be enough. After all the waiting, watching, saving and choosing, I have the fanciest camera I can dream of. And while I still have an insanely long way to go, and a huge amount to learn, I can finally fully say again: I'm happy.

(PS: Click these to view in large!)

Durga Pujo

Last year, my friend Mega went to her village for Durga Pujo. She spent less than two weeks there, but oh, the stories! SevenM and I could only imagine the fun she'd had with all her cousins, running around without a second's rest to finish all the important tasks and pujas everyday. Each day was a different puja, each night a different topic of family discussion, and from what I heard, each moment was pure joy.

I, who have only a few strung-together memories of all my older cousins being in the same house at the same time, crave that kind of intimacy so badly. The last time we met was at my oldest cousin's wedding last year. It was the first time in many years that all of us were at the same place at the same time -- or even on the same continent. And it was an entirely different feeling, perhaps largely because we're all grown up now and the teasing made up for twelve years of being apart. It was like one weekend away from everything real on the planet. And I, who have largely renounced all usual forms of youthful entertainment, was so overjoyed that I danced. All weekend long.

From what I've heard of Durga Pujo, it sounds like exactly the above: one giant celebration of all the good things there are to share; friends, family, food, and fun. There's something wonderful about living with purpose, and for ten days (and many months prior), the lives of so many people are filled with something greater than themselves. Even for someone like me who doesn't know exactly what rite fits where, or why, the grand purpose is easy to identify. More than the rituals, it's what they bring together. Siblings who haven't met all year, cousins who wouldn't otherwise get any time to bond with their extended families, and grandparents, uncles, aunts, newborns, and entire communities of people who get together to celebrate what's most important to them: life. That much is beyond a facade of rituals, and it's easy to see.

Rangoli Sieve: dust the colour on top...

...and, voila!

I have grown up hating rituals. I think that's largely because I have never understood their functional purpose, or the direct link between them and the rewards they purportedly confer upon those who perform them. For me, rites, rituals and pre-scripted prayers have always been tied to the same sources of authority who standardise others' desires to pull them down and feel relatively more powerful themselves. Priests, heads, factory owners and so on who impose rules and obligations over those who aren't in a position to argue, just so that they can singlehandedly control the masses.

Rituals, thus, do not seem personal. Rites seem perfunctory. Prayer songs lack flavour. It is because they are made to convince the masses that their desires are not their own but filterable by bald, forehead-painted beings in saffron togas. They are made to convince the millions that there is no direct line from them to their own, individual gods, no means of personal conversation with their innermost self and whatever they may believe in. And that kind of imposition, I can't stand.

But there are moments of a different kind of clarity sometimes, where my mind accepts that there may be another purpose to elaborate rituals. There are moments when my mind accepts that although I may not agree with their supposed aims, they do serve the greater purpose of bringing people together in a way that unites their humanity at a very core level.

The Shiv Mandir

This is simple enough to explain. When you lay your doubting self to rest and yield completely to whatever god-force you believe in, something happens. Something changes. When you do it with a crowd of people, loved ones and strangers, something bigger happens. It is not that you are all brainwashed into believing that there is one and only one way to do things, but that by doing the same thing together at once, you divest it of its inert symbolism and allow yourself to fully delve into being one with the forces around you. You become part of your actions, and by that, the actions themselves lose meaning to you, and the oneness with them becomes paramount.

It is this feeling of oneness that makes rituals useful. It is this feeling of being the same, having the same hurdles, the same causes for joy, and the same sadness as others that knits humanity together, or keeps you and me sane. Burdens do lighten when you feel that someone understands your troubles. Happiness does increase manifold. And fast-flowing rivers do seem traversable. For this reason, and perhaps this reason only, I am willing to accept that there is more to doing the motions than I have suspected all along. And today, while pandal-hopping, this is exactly what I saw.

At the Kali Mandir

Adults dancing in fairgrounds, on top of trucks decorated with paper goddesses, in balconies with their parents looking out at said trucks. Babies eating, screaming, sleeping. Married women, their sarees rich cream and red, red, everywhere red; from the part in their hair to the soles their feet. Trays in their hands, hopes on their lips, prayers in their hearts. Edging slowly closer towards the gods they have been conversing with their whole lives. Gods who are as much a part of their thoughts as the sofas are at home in their parents' drawing rooms. Having to wait in line to paint these gods' foreheads is a study of its own in meditation.

Detail on a Pandal

Detail on a Wall

Looking out from behind a lens and through the rich conflux of sounds that comes together when lots of Indian people are together in a large space, I saw just that. Everyone was here, enjoying to their own degrees, connecting with their god in their own way. Behind all the ululating and veryspecificwayofdoingthings, there were thoughts and feelings and hopes and lots of gratitude being offered. And each prayer was pure and sacred and equally important. Each person was too. And that is as much as we can wish for.

Shubho Bijoya Dashmi, everyone!