IT'S TIME TO GO

I’m back on Aussie soil. It’s hard to believe it’s true. As I catch my breath, attempt to re-calibrate and make sense of the familiar, I close my eyes and drift back to that final week. Ah India. I miss you like crazy. Like separated lovers, we’ve been forced apart. I’m counting the days.

Days at the ashram passed by with a feverish peacefulness. My body wanted me to stop. It shut down with a nasty lurgie. I had kind friends knocking on my door and passing in tea and various remedies, then backing out as quickly as possible. I don’t remember the last time I was that sick. I hacked and coughed, spat and blew, slept and cried, read and wrote. For days.

I would hear the bells for various meals and prayers but was too weak to gather myself. Though I’ll never forget one particular sunrise over the Ganga (Ganges), when Mum’s beloved Unc – Uncle Aylmer, her father Charlie’s little brother – he flew by to let me know everything would be okay. It was early in my stay and I could feel the razor blades down the back of my throat and it felt like a heavy man was standing on my chest. I knew I was going down.

I had taken part in the morning Aarti (prayers) and wrapped myself up in every sort of shawl and blanket I could find. It was so, so quiet. Just the odd animal sound peppered the misty morn, as I made my way along the path to swing open the gate into the scrubby forest that separates the ashram from the Ganga. The previous day I had ventured down and been met by a wizened, smiley western woman in full, rather faded orange sadhu garb. She had welcomed me with a smile, grabbed her stick and insisted on showing me her favourite place to sit. After exclaiming that she was Matterji’s older sister, she’d laughed and stuck out her tongue at me before turning tail and waddling back towards the ashram.

That day I’d scrambled around for a rock. I always collect rocks wherever I go. Currently my main collection of knick-knacks is stuck in my Aunt and Uncle’s garage in Surrey, 12 years of travels is not light. I’d discovered some pieces of a rock that were perfectly severed. I poked around in the Ganga and uncovered the entire rock broken into four slender shapes. They slotted back together perfectly, to create a satisfying whole that sat perfectly in the palm of my hand as I walked the short, well worn path to the knobbly tree trunk. By the time the golden slivers appeared, all three of the ashram dogs were bounding along the paths, getting their morning exercise.

A stout, glorious – could it be a Kingfisher? - flew straight in front of me and settled on a long branch a short distance away. The light was still a bit dim, so I strained my eyes. I am no twitcher, but I could tell that it was indeed Uncle Aylmer’s sacred bird. He was welcoming me to his home and for a full ten minutes, we stared at each other. I thought of my family and sent them my love, tried to let them know that I was in a safe place of immense beauty. I clutched the rock pieces as one in my hand. They felt secure and connected me to the river. I was loathe to make my way down the bank again, as I had the day before, and put my hands in the icy cold water. The ashram is so close to the source of the river, it runs clear and already various figures were bathing in its sacred waters.

My stay at the ashram was a positive experience, because the people were so incredibly kind and caring. But the lurgie took hold of my lungs and my head and some feverish days passed into nights of coughing, until I thought I couldn’t possibly cough again. There were moments where I wished I were home, but I got the chance to rest, read and write like no other period of my trip. My illness forced me to stop, to stay still (something I’m never good at) and just be – with no phones, no internet, no questions, no expectations, no judgement.

Due to the heavy rains, the internet was down at the ashram so I finally had to drag myself up the street, to let family and friends know where I was. Plus the day of my return trip was fast approaching. Was it possible that I could actually get my infected self to Delhi and onto a plane back to Oz? Sitting in a dusty little internet café in the tiniest town outside Haridwar, I just couldn’t see how that could happen. I felt sweaty and weak, like a soggy twig that could be crumbled in between two fingers.

The email backlog was overwhelming and the computer kept freezing every few minutes. Every time I’d try to send something it would either kick me off, or bounce back or disappear. I began to wonder if I was still delirious or if there was a gremlin in the computer torturing me. I had to keep going outside to cough up gobs of nastiness or gulp some fresh air. Every single vehicle that went past seemed to beep its hideous horn just outside, and every single one pierced my brain like a torturous, barbed whip. A fat little kid grasped a recorder in his bulbous little hand and he was blowing it with all his might.

My hands whipped to my ears. I sucked in my breath, ripped into another lozenge and breathed deeply. As he launched into another round of tuneless honking, I wrenched the curtain back and stared at his chubby little face. His eyes widened and I snarled at him, wanting to pick him up by his ankle and turf him over the nearest wall. He stopped for a nanosecond, then launched into more and I hissed and covered my ears. Turns out he belonged to the owners of the internet café and thankfully, they felt my pain and shooed the boy away. Needless to say he came back a few more times and the honking didn’t abate much, but I managed to deal with a bunch of missions and race back to the sanctuary of the ashram.

So, I had my answer. I had to leave for Delhi as planned. My heart sank, but I rallied. It was sad to say goodbye, but I know I’ll return to that special sanctuary outside Haridwar. The Dalrymples welcomed me to Mira Singh and although William was off on his book tour, all the kids were back from school and I finally got to meet the eldest Ibby. Olivia was so kind, welcoming me despite my dodgy state and providing me with medicinal red wine. We had a raucous dinner with the kids, who are all so bright, sparky and hilarious. The boys disappeared to play video games, while Olivia, Ibby and I settled down to watch the bio-pic of Frida Kahlo’s life.

My final day was rather chaotic, but I boarded the aeroplane home with relief, as the documentary that I’ve been working on for four years about the Barlow clan, finally has a screening date and location set. Incredibly, it was when I was last in India that my old friend Andrew emailed me about whether I’d be up for making a film about his family. Four years later, we are to unveil the epic documentary to his family. It seems a fitting homecoming. As India constantly reminds one, family is the most important thing. It’s why I’m home. And why I’ll go back. Until then, thanks for all your support and encouragement.

Warmest wishes,

Laura x

GANGA HEAVEN

The following post has been ready to upload for 4 days, but heavy rains in the north have left huge amounts of people and towns with no water, no electricity and no internet. Plus, I have come down with a wretched cold and can hardly get out of bed. But I’m not dying, have staggered up the road to the internet cafe to touch base with life outside India and am in the safest of hands in a beautiful ashram. Hari Om!

Ok-doke….so where were we? Had I gone dancing at a pre-wedding party in Ajmer? Don’t think so. Had I drummed on the banks of Pushkar lake at sunset? Definitely not….

So, I had made it to the seductive hippie town of Pushkar and was waiting for my friend Christine to appear, as if by magic. Power cuts and crazy rains brought my first day to an early, most welcome close. I curled up in bed and listened to the kids from upstairs bumping and giggling their way around.

I went to sleep dreaming of yoga, my first class since the dreadful one in Jaipur took place the next morning bright and early. I forced Raju, (a cross-eyed, disabled character who knows everyone and everything about Pushkar), to bike me through the huge puddles and mounds of mud to Yogesh’s Pushkar Yoga Garden. He was surprised to see me bright and early, when it was so cold and drippy but found me a dry spot and pootled off to drop his daughter at school. His friendly wife Deepa kept me in conversation about Karnataka and their visitors.

It was such a treat to be in a class of only 2 people, (seems the rain had kept everyone except one resident away), on a rooftop way out of town with the mountains in the background and the birds chirping, surrounded by that delicious, fresh post-rain fragrance. The sun kept breaking through and I attempting a head stand, where the reward was an upside down mountain top. 

After a decent walk back into town, I ambled into Laura’s Café (irresistible) and found the best tea and porridge - coconut and cinnamon, my invention - in town. Soon Christine appeared on the Paramount rooftop and we caught up on all since we had met at Jaipur. Like so many, she’d gone on to the Delhi Art Fair and it sounded like a lush event. It was Christine who encouraged my Jaisalmer missions and introduced me to the Khans. We attempted to out talk each other.

Jealous of my yoga, we set off to do an afternoon session, which never materialised despite 3 attempts at Mama Luna (it’s advertised as free and every arvo - "but it's the off season"). Instead, we went to visit a friend of C’s, a hairdresser called Mahaveer. He welcomed us into his tiny salon and gave a gentleman customer the most incredible shave as we chatted, it was pure artistry. He invited us to a party in Ajmer that night, to celebrate a cousin’s wedding - the penultimate night is when the bride and groom party separately, in their respective family's homes. It is often the most fun night of all, as the actual wedding is usually rather staid and everyone is exhausted. We made plans to meet later in Ajmer.

I was keen to visit the only Brahmin temple in India and then took the Prasad (blessed sweets) to the lake to make a wish at the Nandi temple. It didn’t take long for a familiar drum beat to beckon us, as Christine was welcomed to take part in the regular Pushkar sunset jam. I sat back and as the sun sank below the mountains that encircle the beautiful lake. I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else in the world.

Wary of time slipping away, we had a quick munch, donned some party garb and leapt on a moving bus to Ajmer. On arrival, Mahandeer and his friend Deepak picked us up on motorbikes and deposited us in the midst of a frantic feast. Hundreds of people were lined up on mats eating a huge dinner. We were told in no uncertain terms that we must eat and it was impossible to stop the tide of food. Various guys hung around trying to actually feed us by hand. Christine handled it brilliantly and I, well, I tried. It’s quite hard being force fed sweet dessert by a stranger when you’re trying to eat your main course with your hands. In record time, we consumed a mountain of food and then the boys zoomed us off on their bikes to the groom’s house.

I really wish I had photos of what transpired. One old woman attempted to teach me Rajasthani dance and got annoyed at the inelegance of my outfit, so she took me into a back room and dressed me up in a pink flowery skirt and red saree. Christine soon appeared in hot pink and for at least the next hour, we were constantly pushed in the middle of a huge pack of people to dance under the bright lights of the video camera to all sorts of crazy music. It was hilarious. I kept dragging the women in to show me how to move and after a few minutes, they always ended up in fits of laughter at my ridiculous attempts. It was hypnotic, the way their long fingers created beautiful shapes, the way they moved their hips and their eyes.

Earlier that day, I’d bought a bus ticket to the holy city of Haridwar = The Gate of Heaven - the closest city to Rishikesh. It would have been too easy to spend my last week farting about in Pushkar, so a few nights was all I allowed myself. Due to the impending bus trip, I was adamant that I didn’t want to spend the night in Ajmer. I knew I had a hellish journey ahead of me (whoah was I right) and I wanted to do yoga again in the morning. So, the boys kindly drove us back, though Deepak’s attempts to hit on me whilst driving his motorbike through the dusty night did get rather annoying and a touch unnerving. To be honest, the consistency with which Indian men ‘have a crack’ does feel unashamedly scattergun. My guess is that they try it on with every single western female of any age, marital status or background. I keep hearing how many yoga teachers have run off with westerners and keep witnessing the sad wreckage of failed love affairs. Luckily Mahandeer is a total sweetheart who recently got married, his wife is studying in Jaipur, and he ensured we all got home safely. Pity his best friend’s a complete hound.

In the morning, yoga was fascinating as almost everyone (quite a big class this time) had Rishikesh stories. It turned out that Yogesh had taught in an ashram there for 2 years (1991-92) when there were limited places you could practice as a westerner. Though today it is yoga city. He recounted how he helped the chef from the ashram where he had worked, get the lease on a little bakery that has since become a thriving business. Last visit, he called by and the man pretended he didn’t know him, ferociously guarding his own patch. Yogesh claims he also gave the man his scooter to sell, as he’d been a loyal worker and had no money. Now he’s a successful business man, he’s suspicious of others’ intentions and can’t even welcome an old friend. This is the absolute opposite of how ‘good’ Indians are supposed to lead their lives, but that is India and life in general I guess – constant contradictions.

The drumming lesson from Nathu’s son, (the Pushkar drumming master of the same name), was the most wonderful farewell. We sat under a ghat in a little stone-walled practice room - Christine, Nathu and I - with a holy man meditating a foot from us and animals wandering nonchalantly by. The drums were soothing and life affirming. I was really sad not to witness Nathu Snr’s return to Pushkar that afternoon, (every night at 5pm someone from the family leads a drumming session to welcome the sunset), as I remember him well from Jaipur years ago. He’s got a huge moustache, big tummy, heavenly laugh and almost no English. His sons are a tribute to him - eloquent and wonderful teachers. A text from Christine the next day told me that Nathu took her to a wedding at a palace where the groom sat on an elephant.

For my final hour in Pushkar, I sat on the Paramount rooftop and got in a slight argument with Raju, who is the most cynical Indian I’ve met. That’s quite an achievement. A lovely Swiss woman, called Fabienne, who I’d smiled at a few times but not spoken to, insisted that I must visit an ashram near Haridwar. As she described the place, her face lit up. She would be appearing there with her beautiful daughter Mira in a few days, while her husband is at Kumbh Mela with a group. Though I’ve been temped by this incredible holy festival, I keep being told that you need proper guidance and it’s dangerous to go alone. Hmmm…

Due to my typical lack of forward planning, I was assigned the last sleeper at the back of a rickety, local bus. I was the only foreigner. My backpack and I were constantly thrown around as the temperature dropped at alarming speed. There were no curtains on this sleeper to keep heat in, so I used my sarong (that’s usually some extra warmth) to create some privacy. I woke up with teeth chattering many times and my feet cold as ice. The windows kept jiggling open. It was an endless, painful trip and the yoga classes had left my body sore. I arrived in Hardiwar after an 18 hour bus trip chilled to the bone and feeling a touch sorry for myself.

As usual, men raced at me as I got off the bus, but I was in no mood for negotiations yet. I needed to thaw out and asked for some peace while I drank chai in the very muddy, rudimentary bus depot. A kind, elderly man told them firmly in Hindi to give me a minute. I sat in the sunshine, contemplating whether to head straight to Rishikesh, or to go first to the ashram which had come highly recommended, but at the very last minute. The city of Haridwar and its ashrams have a reputation as rather austere as it's a very holy city, but I couldn’t face another 40 minutes of travel. Lucienne had assured me that the ashram was only 5 minutes away and worth a stop, even if it was only for a cup of tea and a breath of fresh air.

After negotiations involving the whole gang of rick drivers, I was driven past a staggering scene of temples on the Ganga (Ganges). On we bumped through pot-hole infested alleyways and the driver kept asking more and more people for directions. Finally, the rickshaw pulled up at the gates of the unassuming ashram. Immediately a beggar in orange (sadhu) appeared. The area didn’t look very promising, this place felt a million miles from civilisation. Had I got it horribly wrong? Cripes.

A man with missing front teeth emerged and welcomed me inside, sitting me down in the sunshine. It was so quiet and I closed my eyes for a few moments. When I re-opened them, I was dazzled by the orange flowers that cascaded around me. In full bloom, waterfalls of orange flowers that look rather like honeysuckle drenched every wall inside the perfectly kept compound. When the beautiful Mandakini came to introduce herself, it was clear that she was pregnant. She explained that it was a very quiet time, as most of the ashram staff and guests were at Kumbh Mela but I was most welcome. I felt a surge of relief.

Over a deliciously simple breakfast, I met a fascinating Kiwi who is in her 60s and lives in white robes, having given her life to god. She had just returned from the state of Tamil Nadu and has stopped off to wash her hair and clothes on the way back to her guru. A shy, graceful westerner (Sharmada, an Austrian) skipped about with her eyes down and soon I got talking to an Argentinean girl who was off to Rishikesh. Dana stated loudly that she’s a young Latino who likes to talk - she hoped I didn’t mind, but didn’t really draw breath to find out. By this time, I had a heavnely hot shower and was attempting to get my room in order as we yattered away. After studying, she’d decided to start a 'creche' for kids in the slums of in Buenos Aires. Twice a week she teaches reading and writing to adults there, which is government funded (though the money she sees is minuscule), and she noticed that the kids were interested too, so started up a third session just for kids off her own bat. What began with a few kids has now ballooned to around 20 children of all ages, so she’s had to employ her two best friends. She’s only 22 and the way she spoke about missing ‘her kids’ was just lovely. She's studying full time but spends 3 nights a week helping other, an exceptional youngster.

The food at the ashram is almost all from their garden (oh my gosh to eat fresh salad again!) and the dairy comes from cows kept in the compound. They even make their own gas from the cows and use the dung on the fire that hasn't gone out for 25 years. The atmosphere is light and warm. Mandakini’s husband Vivek appeared and I was entranced as the two of them prepared the fire for the puja/aarti. He sounded a well worn conch and the small gaggle, (two lovely Mexicans appeared who had spent the day in Haridwar), of residents and visitors chanted together and gave thanks to the Ganga. It may sound a bit hokey, but life here is enacted with such dedication, love and devotion it’s impossible not to be swept up in the communal atmosphere. It’s just shanti, shanti, shanti (peaceful).

I love that the place is so empty and calm. I love that I don’t have to lock my door. I love that there aren’t strict rules, that you’re welcome to join in whatever you want. I absolutely love being away from the mayhem and the madness of ‘India proper’ for a moment of reflection. It would have been too easy to stay in Pushkar. This is a sort of paradise and I’m so grateful to Lucienne for suggesting I come. She and Mira arrive in a day or two and I look forward to reconnecting with them. It’s incredible how quickly friendships form and plans mutate – remember those days? Remember what it was like to let the wind blow you? India will take you back, back to yourself and to ancient times. If you let it.

I’ll try and post again soon, but for now I must rest. I am coughing like a banshee and managed to fall on my arse last night during aarti (prayers). I insisted on taking part and my leg went completely to sleep, so when I tried to put weight on my right leg it felt like nothing was there. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground ruining the spell of the puja and now I’m sniffling, snuffling and streaming. Not a pretty sight. Mandikini says that this happens a lot to people when they come to the ashram and that I should just rest. She keeps bringing me delicious tea remedies and soups.

Yesterday I devoured the book ‘Tears of Bliss’, that her German mother wrote about her journey to find her guru. Mandakini’s holy father ‘left his body’ at the last Kumbh Mela (in fact 12 years ago exactly today). They’re planning a special ceremony at the full moon, when Matterji (her mother) is back from Kumbh Mela and there will be 200 sadhus in orange at the ashram. What an incredible sight it will be.  What an astounding family they are. I feel very lucky to be in their care. Typical that I’m sick as a dog in paradise! (Talking of dogs there are 3 here, one is an Alsatian puppy called Shanta who is so naughty, Pushti the golden lab who bounds about eating everything in sight and the huge old brown fellow Managanam is very vocal during prayers.) I’ve been feverishly sleeping today away with the sounds of the cows, monkeys, dogs, guests and the flowing Ganga as a soundtrack. Heaven.

MOVEMENT AND RHYTHM

I have never experienced anything quite like our desert mission. While most other travellers I met were riding romantically off into the sunset on camels to sleep under the stars, I squashed into the back of a 4WD with 8 people, to experience a little of the reality of a Rajasthani musician's life.

An hour early and without warning, Pempo appeared at my guest house and Stephan (the French morchand guy - the correct spelling for the mouth harp, that is not called marjong!) warmly greeted him. It was nice to know that all my new friends in fact know each other, funny how small a world it really is. Even here, amongst untold gazillions of people. Though of course Jaisalmer is a small city in relation to Jaipur and Delhi.

I spent an hour on the Khan rooftop in Kalakar (the artists' colony) with Chugge and Kheta's wives, their and Saleem's mother and a gorgeous gaggle of children being stared and laughed at. The little girls were irresistible and one of them a sharp character, she expertly lead me around the house and suggested a donation at their shrine then sniffed out the pens and books I'd bought for the trip. I relented and there was much delight as they were handed out.

The men were dressed in white, Pempo's kurta was embroidered and he carried a fine white coat with gold buttons, which he fussed over in the car to ensure it wasn't crushed. Rajasthani men take a lot of care with their appearance, all wear studs in their ears (preferably gold and diamonds) and look after their hair with the help of various oils. After a lot of giggling in the back seat with the two dancing girls (Sonam with her tiny baby and sister Indra), the car settled into its motion with local folk music blaring. About an hour into the journey, we detoured to Chandan village where Pempo's family were based (though his wife and children are in another village with her parents) and soon I was drinking tea in a front yard, absolutely surrounded by a small army of kids with entrancing eyes and shy smiles. This was a very basic setting and I wished I knew more Hindi as noone spoke English. Pempo and the men all hung out on the street (well the dusty track) in front of the house, so they could greet everyone who wandered by. There seemed to be no rush at all.

I'm not sure how long I lasted with the kids crawling all over me, but when I went out to get my supply of chocolates and pens, I found that the car had disappeared. So Pempo's brother zoomed us in his jeep and I collected my loot to distribute. Each pen and crayon was whipped out of my hand with ferocity. Luckily Pempo came to my rescue, as it was getting a touch overwhelming, and we continued our journey to Mirvana Resort. The ladies were now in costume, Indra in red and Sonam in back, covered in intricate embroidery, mirrors, shells and jewels.

Post arrival, I found myself in a tiny little back room, watching a young man transform himself into a female dancer with wig, full make-up and jewels galore. Noone spoke English, but I was warmly welcomed as part of the troupe. The men wrapped their heads with coloured scarves that transformed into regal turbans. As we all walked to the event where they were to perform, Pempo told me that I was welcome to sit with the guests or with them. Of course, I wanted to sit with my friends, but the Indian party-goers couldn't believe that a Westerner was happy on a rug with a bunch of musicians. They all came racing over and wanted to take photos and sit with me, talk to me, it was intense as the group were trying to perform. Not for the first time here, I cursed my light-bulb hair and skin.

The music began to take hold in tandem with the huge amounts of whiskey the revellers were guzzling. With Pempo busy singing, Sonam decided now was the time to tell me how hard her life was and that she was in desperate need of money. With her baby suckling in between dances, I could feel the post dance breathlessness when she, her sister or the ladyboy re-joined our crowded mat. They put so much into their dances and had to smile widely while the party-goers tried to join in. I had to fight hard to remain on the mat, so many of the guests invited me (well tried to pull me up) to dance with them. Not something I fancied doing at all. They were getting increasingly belligerent and drunk, banging on the group's drums and ordering more dancing from the girls. The baby was being thrown around between us all at an alarming rate.

Some of the musicians split off to a separate party and with relief, I followed Pempo to where a bunch of westerners were being entertained in a grassy enclave. I had been sitting down for hours, so finally relented and attempted some dodgy dance moves around the fire at this much more sober gathering - definitely more un-co-ordinated than the drunk Indians, but the mellow vibe was welcome.

After the music ended, I was lead into various random rooms where the men were now indulging in rum and whiskey. I was inside the heart of the workers quarters, in places where it felt as though few travellers or indeed women had been. I had no desire to drink hard liquor with the men, so was taken back to help the ladies de-robe. I ended up in the corner of a yard with a gaggle of the hotel workers. A lovely family insisted on building up a fire, pulling a special seat close for me (they all sat on the ground) and served me a very spicy but delicious dinner. I attempted to rinse my hands (had shaken SO many since the journey began) and ate local style as they watched closely, then kept trying to feed me more and more. I gave them chocolates and some cashew nuts, plus the last packet of crayons that were left for their daughter as they wouldn't let me pay, even though it was clear that they were dirt poor. They were proud to be hosts and I hope I made the right decision letting them.

Amidst the snoring, rooster crows and goat scuffling that populated my sleep, I did manage to drift off. But must admit to being seriously relieved when I made it back to my guest house. That delicious moment when you lock the door, collapse on the bed and just bask in the moment, it's something very special. Luckily there were some power outages, (the only solution to the stone-saw), so I did manage to get some more sleep before yet another 12 hour bus journey followed, but this time I had a sleeper.

The bus to Pushkar must have been taking people into the heart of Kumbh Mela as it was packed to the rafters and I could hear people mentioning the name of this holy festival as we made our way across the rough terrain. I was very happy to have a sleeper, as I was somewhat protected from the men (though some felt it their right to push open my door and stare in - they got short shrift I can tell you) and the smoking, farting, burping and loud conversations that populated the trip.

I arrived at 3am in Pushkar and found my hotel by foot as the guy who was supposed to pick me up, didn't materialise on the dusty roadside. Phone calls went unanswered, so I jiggled the locks and made my way inside the Paramount Palace. It took a lot to wake up one of the guys, but I finally managed it and soon entered a brightly painted room and then a bizzare dream land. I won't bore you with the details, but basically there was a very odd bunch of westerners in India for some sort of convention. There were some high profile Australians and what was rumoured was that there was one important person who was going to commit an act of terrorism.

No idea why I was brought into this situation, but I was investigating the various suspects and I wish I could remember all the different characters. But I remember clearly that everyone discounted Paul Hogan (Mr. Crocodile Dundee) because he is so beloved, but I was convinced that he was who we should be targeting. It's all a bit hazy now, but safe to say I was absolutely correct and naughty Paul was caught with a bunch of dodgy people and incriminating evidence.

So Pushkar is a hippie paradise. It surrounds a lake and has a lazy, peaceful pace to it. I feel more relaxed than I have since I left Australia. I am recharging the batteries and am weighing up my next move. There is a place called Rishikesh that is in the north, that I am very tempted to visit. It would mean skipping Bundi and Udaipur, but slightly depends on train availability, as I'm not sure I can handle another bus trip. There is much to see in Pushkar, but I don't want to get stuck here and I've not got long to go for my trip.

Plus Rishikesh is on the Ganges and is full of yoga and meditation places, so it might be the perfect ending to an incredible trip. Also, it was one of the 3 holy cities for the Kumbh Mela last time and isn't too far from Allalahbad, so I can imagine it would be a way of dipping into that incredible gathering if I'm not going to make it all the way to the heart of it. We'll see.

For now, shanti, shanti.
Lx

THE GOLDEN DESERT CALLSS

After some delirious web searching at Diggi, whilst waiting for my midnight bus and fending off a very strange cardiologist from Jodhpur, I managed to choose the noisiest, dustiest, craziest, cheapest guest house in Jaisalmer. The online reviews were rapturous about the rooftop and food and there’s nothing like that combination to attract interesting people. And Dylan Guest House has not disappointed.

I phoned Rajiv whilst still in Jaipur, and his response to whether they had a spare room for me the next day was, “Why not? No problem mate!” Cripes what a bus trip, I settled into a fabulous seat only to be kicked out by a tiresome young man, but then found a good place next to a female (always a boon in India) who got off at Jodphur, so I stretched out somewhat and fell in and out of a kind of slumber as the bus bumped, grinded, skidded and hooted its way across Rajasthan.

At one point as the sun was threatening to rise, I peeked out from under my moccasin eye shades (Emirates specials care of Dad and Mum's blow up pillow have been a godsend) to sight a temple covered in electric blue peacocks surrounded by cows, goats and desert. It took me a few seconds to realise what planet I was on and why I was getting such a close up, slow motion view – the bus was doing  a u-turn. When less than a minute along the road, the bus did another u-turn I simply pulled my shades back over my tired eyes.

As so often happens here, directions and explanations are completely misheard and understood, so Rajiv thought I was at the railway station (I said and texted that we'd just passed it!) and then went to a different bus station, so I battled through the touts and hid under my scarf waiting for him. Following the seventh phone call, I did lose my cool a bit. Turns out there’s more than one bus station in Jaisalmer and we were at the government one, despite being on a private Volvo bus (which sounds much fancier than it is!). Finally Rajiv appeared and I had to balance my bags on the back of his motorbike (thank god I brought my back pack) as we zoomed around hair-pin bends, dodging the usual people, cows, dogs, goats and even some pigs, as well as all manner of vehicles.

It was a steep climb to the roof, but I was met with tea by Abdul who then cooked me a delicious lunch. I think I’d only managed a banana and some cashews on the bus trip, so I was famished. Soon I was washing the dust off and collapsing into a clean bed. Bliss. The simplest pleasurse are amplified here without exception. Just having toilet paper and soap to use, my what luxuries. Hot water, who needs it, I had enough of that in Jaipur!

I woke to what has quickly become a familiar noise – a saw cutting through stone. In fact that noise has woken me every morning. Throw into the mix that it's the peak of wedding season and that hordes of people feel the need to dance past our windows with speakers blaring music at all hours, I must say uninterrupted sleep has been rare, but most of my friends have kids, so hey ho I know I shouldn't complain. I managed to to roll over a few times my first morning and spent some time writing on the rooftop.

The previous night, I had watched the sun set over the fort and had found a lovely restaurant (Om) for dinner where I was sadly the only customer, for them, not for me as I adored the quiet. Well I say quiet, but there were a bunch of very insistent kids shouting at me for ages from above, who I chose to ignore. There’s only so many times a day that you can say your name, your country, whether you’re married, have any children, your occupation etc. I am as polite as I possibly can be, most of the time, but it does wear you down.

Hankering for a swim, as it’s warmer here in the desert, I had been told about an expensive hotel with a nice pool that you can visit for 200rupees (almost AU$4). Rajiv has left the wonderful Abdul in charge of Dylan, having absconded to his cousin's wedding in Jodphur, and Abdul suggested I try another fancy hotel much closer to us. Set in a gorgeous Haveli (old style houses with intricate wood and stone work that are really stunning), I found a rather small pool in a gorgeous setting but with two very snooty looking guests for which a stern Indian wanted to charge me 400rupees. So I set off on foot to find Gorbandh Palace instead. As luck would have it, I wandered in the right direction. It felt so good to stretch my legs and even better when I found the hotel and with the entire swimming pool to myself, (double the size of Mandir Palace), I tingled with delight as I plunged into the water. I didn't even mind that there were bound to have been many pairs of eyes watching my white, wobbly body descend and ascend. I was reborn.

With only a cold shower and no hairdryer to be found back at Dylan, I sought out a tiny little hairdresser where three women were hard at work on a tiny mezzanine above a clothes shop with no windows and piles of boxes everywhere. They were most surprised to see me and had no idea how to deal with my hair. Well, they washed it a-ok (I had to flip my head upside down and squat over a sink), but when I asked for conditioner they were at a loss to find any. One girl ran out and bought some, while another tried to comb my bird's nest, which I explained was impossible to achieve without conditioner. I put it in then combed it myself to show them, then the girl insisted on rinsing it out (only slightly) in cold water. Her hair drying skills were laughable. I had to force myself not to show them how to do it, I reminded myself of the mantra that it's not my country and even though my hair was greasy and sopping wet still, I was sure it would be ok.

Then the girl managed to get a small, wiry little brush so matted into my hair that it then took four different people over half an hour to extract. They had to chop off the teeth of the brush with razor blades while they all giggled and customers stared. I attempted to meditate but finally, when it was clear the brush was really stuck, the rotund owner was called in to help out. Then I really was surrounded. By then, I think there were five customers and five employees all around me in a space smaller than most kitchens. I took lots of deep breaths, smiled and laughed along, as there was nothing for it. But after a while, I felt claustrophobic and my head started hurting, so I pushed it along a bit. When the brush finally came free, my oh my it was so liberating. I had been convinced that they were going to have to cut it out and was preparing for the worst. There was a lot of my hair still on the brush and all over the floor and me, but what's a gal gonna do?

Back at Dylan, Penpo came to pick me up in a rick and take me to the Kalakar district (artist colony) for a music session with Chugge’s little brother Saleem. A brilliant evening where I listened to beautiful music for hours. What a welcome they gave me. The harmonium Saleem played hails from Pakistan and Penpo plucked his traditional guitar, while I attempted to learn the clackers (as I call them) at I was hopeless. Saleem encouraged me though. They sang Sufi, Muslim, Hindu and Pakistani songs with a healthy dose of Rajasthani folk music thrown in. After many hours of this, some delicious dal, chilli curd and chapattis appeared (the women were upstairs?) and I tucked in with my hands, local style.

Chugge (a friend from Jaipur) and Kheta (middle brother) both called from their various locations to check that I was being taken care of. The conversations were hilarious as noone really speaks much English, but music is the perfect communication tool. Penpo’s brother-in-law joined and picked up a drum as I clapped and hummed along as best I could. Music is the soul of any country and I am so honoured to have been invited to a desert village tomorrow for a family musical performance. I rang my English friend Christine today, who manages Chugge and his group of Rajasthani musicians and she urged me to join them. We’re going to meet up in Pushkar next week so I can tell her all about it. She assures me that this sort of invitation  and trip to their village is really what India is all about. I have been buying pens and chocolates for the kids on her advice today. I must say I wish she was here, but I know I will be safe. Life is to be lived.

After Saleem and Penpo walked me back to my guest house, I joined an interesting group of Frenchies on the rooftop. There were some Aussie and American kids playing western music on one side, but I sat at a table with Stefan and his friend, while Nathan a Sri Lankan therapist flitted between the two parties. Would you believe that Stefan has known Chugge for 15 years and he is the one who introduced him to this incredible mouth harp, which I keep calling marjong but that is wrong - I'll find out the correct term.

Saleem had not an hour before, been telling me that Chugge was the first person to perform with this harp in India and that only a very select few know about it. It's an ancient instrument that is widespread, apparently in Japan, Asia, Laos, Burma and some other countries. I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I sat down and Stefan had about 15 of them spread on the table in front of him. He’s teaching Nathan to play and was showing him the different types. I enjoyed their demonstrations, but I must say that they had nothing on Saleem. He plays it expertly (as of course does Chugge) but Saleem’s voice blew me away. He is only 19 but is intensely passionate about his music. He is getting married in 2 months to a girl he’s never met. Incredible. Tradition I know, but somehow it’s still a staggering concept.

I was supposed to go back to their house today and learn the clackers a bit more, (Stefan gave me some pointers last night as he also had a pair in his bag), but I woke up feeling slightly dusty, to drums and then the ear-splitting stone saw soundtrack. I felt a strong urge to go to the lake. When I texted Penpo to say this, he insisted that I would feel better if I went to the house and played music. Bless him, he may have been right, but I wanted to see the Gadisar Lake and I made the right choice. The sun broke through the hazy morn and  the pale stone sparkled in a golden light. It felt as though I was met by a mini city of Benares. It is an incredibly beautiful lake, very clean for India (it used to be the source of all water for Jaisalmer until wells came along, so it's revered and respected) and full of what look like massive eels which visitors love to feed. The stone carvings and temples are truly stunning. I had to beat off various “guides” and beggars, so made my way around the lake to find some space. I walked on past the stone steps and decided to follow a dusty path towards a temple on the other side. Again, I ignored the shouts of the Indians on pedlos who were trying to follow me, but luckily I am a fast walker and those thing are cumbersome.

At the temple, I found utter peace and serenity. Three men were going about their usual morning routines, one was a priest, another was grinding bhang, while a man who spoke good English welcomed me. He said that the priest had invited to join in his mantras, his prayers, as very few people venture to this temple (particularly tourists) so there must be a reason I had come. I was instructed to think about what it is that I want most in life and he would include me in his daily prayers. I spent a wonderful hour entranced by all that surrounded me. Memories of Benares (Varanassi) came flooding back as I joined in the pooja at Hinhlaj Temple, which is connected with the Sing Temple in Pakistan. I had stepped back in time, the only sign of modern life was one creaky old motorbike that was pootling around dropping an old man off at his home. I will never forget that temple, it resurrected me when I was in need.

So now, to pack, to say goodbye to new friends, to dream of the desert to come tomorrow.
To give thanks to India. To life.
Lx

DONE, DUSTED, DAZZLED & SHATTERED

Here I sit in the Diggi Palace. I'm surrounded by the desolate debris of the Festival. The people have gone, the buzz dissipated, the lanterns and rainbow colours have been tossed aside. The final car just left for the airport with Sanjoy and Sheuli in it! It is red rover. Sad but true.

I pray the duo make their flight, which is the last out to Delhi tonight. The police took their sweet time bringing a flimsy bit of paper with the one signature necessary to allow them to go home. It's sobering, the power of one signature. Particularly after all the threats, press and hoopla!

So, to the 5th and last day of the Festival where my crack team were joined by a lovely Pakistani girl called Tahrub. She had arrived in Jaipur on the 24th (first day of the Fest) with some fellow students and their teacher from Lahore to volunteer. The police had demanded a signature before granting them permission to stay. They had all been forced to back track to Delhi in a nasty little power play. By the time the crew returned to Jaipur, it was the final day of the Festival. I ensured that our team were super friendly to her, she got involved and she hosted a Q and A, but how dreadful for this wide-eyed, softly spoken youngster who just wanted to be a part of the event. Instead she was beaten down by bureaucracy, though she didn't seem resentful, just resigned and happy to at least get a taste. I guess one day is better than none.

Yet again, I'm getting ahead of myself. A rather special event during the Festival completely passed me by! It seems that the Man Booker team were in Jaipur and hosted a launch event at JLF, where the 2013 prize shortlist was announced. How thrilling that Tim Parks was here to do this. I've been reading up on the 10 finalists, which include the incredibly talented American writer Marilynne Robinson (my gorgeous friend Jenny gifted me her novel 'Home', which I found moving and lyrical, but very sad). She is one of only 3 authors on the list who write in English, it seems the the diversity perfectly reflected that at JLF - what a fitting relationship. Tim Parkes, who was here announcing the list, said that he was excited to be discovering 9 new writers.

What's crystal clear, is this Festival's importance and far-reaching influence. In fact, it's quite astounding, though I may be slightly biased. William tells me that four separate Festivals have sprouted in Pakistan, plus one in Nepal, Sri Lanka and Mynamar - all inspired by Jaipur.

Our final day was sunny and gorgeous. I was slightly dusty from the previous night, but my new friend Kaveri from Chennai was up early and insisted that I had to wear my saree. She was prepared with advice from her mother and I had finally sourced the right pins. With painstaking care and much consternation on Kaveri's part, I was wrapped up in my saree and you can see the results as she sweetly emailed me photographic evidence. Bless her, she was nervous about how the older women would react. It seems that you MUST wear a saree properly or you risk being inelegant. I was styled by my friend and when I tried to wear a big red sparkling jewel around my neck, she shook her head. When I attempted to put a gaggle of red bracelets on my wrists, again, I was told to keep it simple.

On my way to, and at the Festival, I got a huge amount of surprised looks, laughter and compliments from almost everyone I came in contact with. Mostly they were positive comments, (phew), though one woman insisted on pulling the entire outfit down during the day. Apparently I'd been wearing it far too high on my waist and it was much more elegant for it to sweep the ground, rather than show peeks of my ankles on stage. Oops! One interesting by product of my outfit was that when I finally made my way home as dusk hit, I wrapped my scarf around my head and noone on the street gave me a second look. For 15 beautiful minutes, I was just another Indian walking home from work. Those moments of anonymity are so rare for a Westerner, unless you barricade yourself in your room. Though sometimes, I must admit, it is a relief when you close the door on the outside world, I would much prefer to be in it.

The sun streamed in the Mughal tent and a quiet Monday soon gave way to a seething mass of bodies. Bhalchandra Neade and Jeet Thayil discussed 'A Rebel State' in conversation with Rupleena Bose. Sadly, I hardly got to listen to a word as I was briefing Tahrub and introducing her to the girls. Gosh, I'm proud of how inclusive they were. Of course, by the final day of the Fest were were a well oiled machine. It was hard not to feel bittersweet waves of emotion. Events truly are crazy things to be involved with, but they definitely keep one on one's tippy-toes.

'Maps of Love and Hate! Nationalism and Arab Literature' followed, as the stage almost buckled with heavyweights including Ahdaf Soueif (fabulous), Tahar Ben Jelloun (back with a much better translator), Selma Dabbagh and Reza Aslan (great to have them back with us) while a bearded Yank, Jonathan Shainin, moderated very well. William D introduced, but the British Council insisted on introducing his introduction, as they were co-sponsoring the event with the Edinburgh International Book Festival. Both Reza and Ahdaf had to go straight to another panel, so we were once again restrained by time, but this demanded taut debate and some great questions stirred things up further.

The incredible Wade Davis was up next. He is a Canadian explorer extraordinaire and author of many books, who visits roughly 30 countries a year. Labelled the extraordinary title 'Explorer in Residence' (as what explorer ever stays 'in residence'?) for the National Geographic, it has taken him a decade to write the definitive book on "Mallory and the Conquest of Everest". Patrick French guided him, though he's a wealth of knowledge who needs little prompting, through intense and dazzling discussion. I will never forget the way he invoked the Great War and evoked the times that these men were trail blazing up mountains. It was immensely moving. Though I know I'd heard a lot of them before, the figures of dead and maimed are staggering. I felt myself tear up more than once as he described how countries, villages and families were impacted, particularly Britain and India. Plastic surgery was born out of trying to help some of these youngsters regain their confidence, as so many were grossly disfigured. Britan lost 10,000 men (mostly boys) a month. A month!!!!!

Post lunch, where I managed to snatch enough time to devour a plate with Olive D (who was feeling desolate without her two sons who had absconded back to Delhi and Sam back to London), we hosted a fabulous panel entitled "Mahanagar: Writing the Megalopolis". Anosh Irani moderated, while Ajay Navaria (with my new friend Julie translating), M. A. Farooqi, Tania James and Mr. Everywhere Jeet T each read from their novels. It was a welcome change of pace to hear such a range of people reading their own words. It left little time (yet again) for questions, but we squeezed some in and then moved on to the final panel - "The Art of Historical Fiction". This time Jeet was moderating and Linda Grant, Madeline Miller and Lawrence Norfolk were a dynamic combination. His questioning was spot on and these very different writers (two Brits and a Yank) all laid themselves bare. Lawrence stole the show when he described going to the London Book Fair with one A4 sheet of paper and coming away with an agent.

It was the perfect ending. A multitude of hugs and photos ensued with my volleys and some audience members. At the risk of sounding too self-satisfied and ridiculously enthusiastic, I was overwhelmed by the kind comments directed at all the Mughal crew. We were proud of our venue and did our utmost as a team to run things smoothly and respectfully. I think the girls took a lot away from their time. I know I have. Would you believe I was even approached by Radio National for a quick interview? Sadly I did so after the last session and it went on a bit long (yes, I rabbited on too much!) so I wasn't around to join the main stage with the other Venue Managers before the final debate. Oh well, it would have been nice closure but Prithvi was for some reason keen to get my views on lots of aspects of the Fest, having interviewed volunteers, chai wallahs and speakers.

I was a bit shattered and wanted to clean up before the final night's celebrations, so I absconded after a lovely chat with some of the speakers - Kota Neelima and Vaju Naidu in particular. The debate on the Front Lawns was "Has Capitalism Lost Its Way?" and although I was interested, my hair was filthy, my feet were aching and I needed to catch my breath. So I shuffled along SMS Road in my saree, making many school kids in their jeans and shirts laugh with glee, and made my way to a beauty salon (it was the walk post the salon where I was in hiding). It was divine to close my eyes, turn my phone off and let the water wash away the grime. Not having brought a hair dryer, I guess should never have assumed that hotels would have one! But how lovely to be forced to pamper oneself.

The closing night ball was majestic in setting, scale and excitement. Arriving at the Amber Fort, we had to walk across water via a bridge (which terrified Bea, slightly affecting my enjoyment of the gobsmacking entrance) and then into the Fort. Upstairs, tables abounded and I found Andrew Solomon at the bar. Finally I was able to meet his husband John and catch up with him after all these years. We took our red wines to the top terrace, surrounded by twinkling lights. It was dazzling. A spectacular ending to a triumphant Festival. Gosh am I overdoing the adjectives or what?!?! Sorry.

I managed to snare Wade Davis, and engage his wonderful wife and their great friend, (whose name sadly escapes me but was an actress in Kathmandu for many years and absolute heaven - gosh did sh have some stories). It turns out that he knows my divine cousin Zoe and thinks highly of her (no surprise there). I then ran into two Aussies who had been sent to Jaipur by the Wheeler Centre who looks resplendent but freezing in their sarees. The night developed in a whirl of red wine, delicious food and excited, relieved discourse. I reluctantly joined the final revellers as we closed the party and headed off into the night. My friend Deepak, who runs the accommodation and transport (yuck!!! he and his team have hardly slept more than 8 hours the entire Fest) and his crew escorted me home. His son and his friends sang and danced their way down from the Fort. I must have had about 10 Indian men escorting me safely home. It was very sweet and I collapsed in a heap of content exhaustion.
For those of you who read my early blogs, uou'll be pleased to know I can't remember a single dream!

Dinner has just arrived, I'll fill in the gaps when I get to Jaiselmer.
Lx

CONTROVERSY ABOUNDS AT JLF

Yesterday was the most explosive of all at the Festival. Interestingly it coincided with a full moon.

While we were dealing with a flood of people, social issues and emotions in the Mughal tent, protests began outside the Diggi Palace. Whilst talking about corruption, sociologist Ashish Nandy managed to offend the Dalit, tribal and OBC castes. There are all sorts of legal threats and the Police Commissioner has told Sanjoy and Sheuli not to leave Jaipur until further notice. I'm sure it's not quite as sinister as it sounds, but they are transcribing Ashish's exact words into Hindi.

It's hard for westerners to understand how inflammatory this debate is, as it concerns what's called 'reservations', which in essence is affirmative action for women and lower castes. Finding a place on the reservation lists is easy if you have any sort of connection, but if you don't it leads the lower castes to corruption. This is the point that Ashish Nandy was making and of course it's been taken completely out of context and certain castes and tribes have taken serious offence to the notion that they are corrupt (the inference being that the higher castes are not - which is ridiculous, this is India!!!!). It's intensely political and complex so I'm bound to be oversimplifying the furore, but the police presence outside the festival has been significant as the protests continued right through the final few days.

Luckily Dalit author Kancha Ilaiah, has put out a statement that it was "a bad statement with good intentions" which has helped somewhat. The fact is that the winner of the DSC Literature Prize at JLF this year (the brilliant poet and now novellist Jeet Thayil) is under 24 hour security guard protection after reading from 'The Satanic Verses' last year. Plus, at one of our panels at the Mughal tent, he chose to read a passage from his book that basically offended different regions around India and has caused more controversy. Not a very smart move, from a very smart man. One must learn to read your audience, slightly reminds me of Rhys Muldoon getting it SO wrong at our opening at Dungog Film Festival 2011. Sydney and Bombay are very different places to Dungog and Jaipur!

I must warn you that I'm supposed to check out in an hour, I haven't packed nor decided where I'm going to next.....

Ok-doke, so Day 4 began with a session on Russian literature that was focused on British novellist Orlando Figes' (pronounced Fygees) book, alongside the fascinating Elif Batuman (feeling dreadfully sick, but thoroughly eloquent and provocative - yes, a common theme here) in discussion with John Kampfner, a serious ex-journo who ran the Russian BBC bureau for many years. Following this insightful discussion, American philosopher Michael Sandel hosted the debate for Radio 4. There was the odd technical hitch, but the BBC crew got what they needed and Michael expertly involved the audience in heated discussions about the Delhi rape case, women's rights, foetus sex-scanning and freedom of speech.

We had four mikes roving the audience and Michael chose people based on their differing points of views and often got them to talk directly to each other. The audience was mostly divided about every issue - thank the lord noone attempted to justify rape, though according to Tehelka a lot of Indian men don't see it as a crime. It was a full hour of debating the hottest issues in India today and he covered a lot of ground. I thoroughly enjoyed watching him weave in and out of the issues and controlling the crowd, but also giving voice to a huge cross section of the audience. He never let his views be known, he simply presented issues and asked people to share their thoughts. Such a simple concept and seriously effective.

Directly afterward the session, I felt the urge to defend our team. I used the fact that even though we'd just had a full hour for questions, only a small amount of people could be heard despite best intentions. I appealed to everyone to be patient and to trust us, that we were doing our best to give a diversity of people a go. There was a positive response, which was a relief and I got a lot of support from people afterwards.

A seriously grown-up panel followed for which the Chairman of Tata Steel had flow in by jet especially to witness Director H M Nerukar join the wonderful Kota Neelima, Shoma Chaudhury and Tarun Das in conversation with John Eliot to discuss, "Whose Legacy is it Anyway? Land, People and Development". We were under pressure to start on time, which was near impossible, as the BBC had really pushed things (as they needed to record at least an hour to make a 40 minute show). Nerves were fraught as these heavyweights fiercely debated the future of industry and land rights in India. Yet another frantic Q and A session, that reflected the gravity of the subject matter.

A welcome break for lunch and then we hosted 'the gay panel' entitled "Literature of Love and Longing", which was fantastic. Andrew Solomon, Tahar Ben Jelloun (an incredible French writer, with a translator on stage), Saleem Kidwai and the heavenly Devdutt Pattanaik were moderated by Sandip Roy, for yet another heartfelt discussion. The fact that we didn't need security shows how far this country has come, though it's clear there's still a long road towards gay rights and equality here. As is true of most of the world.

Benoy Behl then gave a wonderful presentation on "The Aesthetics of Impermanence", introduced by Sujata Chatterjee. Followed by "The Epic Imagination" with Devdutt back on stage, the sparrow-like Madeline Miller again, joined by Sitanchu Yashaschandra (try that surname out loud) in conversation with the divine Vayu Naidu, who launched her new book at the session. These fantastically diverse discussions lead on to art expert B.N. Goswamy, who gave a lecture on the influential artist Nainsukh. Would you believe he was introduced by Pramod K.G. who is the art curator I met in Delhi, when I went to see the photographic exhibition of Ghosh' film stills? Such a small world.

This ending to the day was like floating in a warm bath, Mr Goswarmy's voice was like velvet and I was drawn in by the audience's enthusiasm. With each new slide and description, I could see everyone on the edge of their seats with wide smiles of delight. It was almost the polar opposite to the previous day's ending.

I am fast running out of battery and time, so can't write now about the music and the evening's hilarity. I indulged in whiskey, which I never drink, after two dry days at all events (due to the Republic Day). But must turn to our final day, which was epic and wonderful tinged by melancholy as the Festival came to a close in lush style at the Amber Fort.

In fact, I will have to save it for the next post. I really must pack and book a train/bus or something....

Forgive any typos and here's hoping the police allow Sanjoy and Sheuli to leave Ragasthan.
Stay tuned.
Lx

PASSIONS RUNNETH OVER

After three mammoth days of running the Mughal Tent, I am struggling a bit this morning but my mind feels sharp as a razor.

I have to be quick, as the BBC are are setting up from 7am to record for Radio 4. It's 6:30 and I've woken up disturbed by the image of an almost toothless old man who spat in my face at the end of a very, very long day yesterday. This Festival is such an overwhelming experience that these morning downloads have become a necessity to keep somewhat balanced.

Yesterday began with serenity amidst intense discussion. Three inspiring women talked about their  their battle strewn paths to a life of meaning, amidst societies that wouldn't accept them or have tried to reject their choices. A Sri Lankan teacher (Ranjini Obeysekere), a Nepalese nun (Ani Choying) and the top notch moderator Swati Chopra presented a fabulous panel, but the ending of the day is still haunting me.

The next session delved into music in literature and connected, once again, on a deep level with the audience. Our talented panellists (Indian vocallist and novellist Vikram Sampath and Bhutanese composer and vocalist Sonam Dorji) sung, strummed and discussed what their music means to them. A peaceful, warmth filled the Mughal Tent as moderator Rupleena Bose (love a pair of patent, cherry Doc Martens!) guided this lively discussion. We had no idea what was to come.

The panel "Punjabi by Nature" hosted five big personalities of diverse ages - Nirupama Dutt moderated with Kishwar Dessai, Navtej Sarna, Ravinder Singh and Shauna Singh Baldwin. They drew a bulging crowd and serious debate about what it means to be Punjabi. The youngsters pushed against the elders, the women against the men, it was loud and proud but respectful.

Historian Tom Holland then presented a seminar about Persian history that again drew a very healthy and different crowd. The American novellist Madeline Miller introduced him and Tom, a wiry Brit, devoured his topic and the audience responded in kind.

We were then supposed to host a session on cricket with one of India's most famous cricketers, Rahul Dravid, but thankfully it was moved to the Front Lawns where there is more space. According to Sirish there were more people than the Dalai Lama! We were given the 'Out of Africa' panel where the super sharp moderator Kwasi Kwarteng deftly moved between BBC journalist Animatta Forna, journalist and Somalian expert Mary Harper and the young reporter Anjan Sundaram, who had just returned from the Congo. This was one of the best sessions of the day and when the first person who asked a question made a 5 minute statement, Kwasi handled it brilliantly and the QandA was rewarding as most people curbed their diatribes and actually asked questions.

The 6th session of that day, that runs 5-6pm, seems to be the trickiest session of the day and often is when my team of volunteers are exhausted and flagging. A very healthy crowd gathered to hear Rahul Pandita (who has written a memoir on Kashmir) and Siddiq Wahid (a political historian who is a Director of the University of Kahsmir) to discuss the issue of exile. The moderator Asiya Zahoor, (who is a professor of literature and a novellist), was very nervy and it seemed that she would have been better used as a panellist as her experiences were incredibly raw. This was again a Q and A session where so many hands went up it was almost impossible to choose people. The temperature had plummeted (as soon as the sun goes in, you're chilled to the bone) and so had the atmosphere, people were struggling with their own demons and it was a very tricky session to close.

Or so I thought, until we arrived at the final session of the day. I turned my back for two minutes to help set up the stage for our staggering 7 panellists - Reza Aslan, Selma Dabaggh, Mary Harper (back again) , Laleh Khadivi (Oscar winning documentarian), Sharmeen Obaid Chinoy and Declan Walsh, moderated by a fiery, fabulous Barkha Dutt. When I glanced again at the audience, it felt as though I had shrunk and was in the middle of an ant colony. The tent was seething with people and I had to put in a mayday call to security. One of my volunteers was celebrating her birthday and had disappeared with her family, and didn't come back, while another was not feeling well and had gone to the medical tent. The others were busy and out of sight and overwhelmed. I felt a slightly metallic taste of panic at the back of my throat. "Falling off the Map: The Question of Failed States" was a powder keg as it was dominated by discussion about Pakistan as well as Somalia and the Sudan.

The truly astounding thing about this festival is that despite the huge growth, they have insisted on keeping entry free and are suffering financially because of it. This means that the intellectuals and academics who are populating the 6 stages, are in fact talking directly to the people they are writing, thinking and talking about. These sessions are electric because they are not elitist, I have never witnessed audiences this diverse. East, west, male, female, school children, professors and everything in between. It is thrilling but when the Q and A session for this panel kicked off, it was almost impossible to handle. Barka was insistent on some people she knew getting the microphone and that image that's been haunting me, was an old man with few teeth who shouted in my face so passionately about democracy and demanding the microphone, right at the moment while a young girl was speaking mind you and directly in front of the panel under the lights. Meanwhile, my incredible volunteer Kriti was being abused by the audience for trying to get the microphone away from a BBC journalist and to new people. It was awful having the wrangle this old man, dodging spittle and trying to calm him down. Barka was insistent that I didn't give him the microphone, so I avoided his gaze and tried to manoeuvre between the bodies for the final questions.

It was a very stressful end to a long, wonderful day. We then had to meet with the BBC crew that I must race off to now. They wanted to discuss the running of their session with Michael Sandel today. Immediately after, Kriti dissolved into tears at how the audience turned on her. She is the shining star of my volunteers, so I gave her lots of hugs and related my experience with the toothless man (who is slightly haunting me). After the session, I had young people telling me off for not respecting him and older people congratulating me for not letting him bully me.

Kriti's father dropped us off at Clarks Amer for the Coke Studio/MTV night that all the kids have been desperately excited about. I didn't connect with the music, but had dinner with a fabulous bunch of people who had all met at SOAS in London. I had an Israeli on one side, a Norwegian on the other, two Indians and a Brit. They debated the festival's highlights with such insight and passion, I managed to let go of the stresses of the day. Seems a huge controversy has erupted, but I'll turn to that in my next post as I must get moving.

Clarks was packed to the hilt and kids were squealing with delight at the music as I made my way home. I found myself in a car with a fascinating Canadian speaker called Sheniz Janmohamed. The older men in the car were strangely quiet (everyone pretty done in) as we nattered away the entire trip home. The hug that she gave me, as I leapt out at my hotel was pure and soothed me beyond words.

One thing is for sure, this Festival is challenging me in ways I never predicted and I am LOVING it.
Day 4 here I come.
Lx