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

RAJASTHAN MAGIC IN FULL SWING

The afternoon was beckoning with intoxicating ease, following five fabulous sessions in a row on Day 2 of the Jaipur Lit Fest. Then I made a huge error in judgement. With smug satisfaction, I stated loudly and more than once, that things were running smoothly. Then came the Latin Americans.

Our first session was a stunner. Andrew Solomon, who welcomed me into his home on many occasions in Greenwich Village (NYC) when I was in my 20s and in love with The City, arrived at the Mughal green room and we were reunited after about a decade. He gave me a warm embrace and we were off and running. The brilliant Madhu Trehan probed expertly into, what is clearly an incredible book about parents and families. It's entitled, 'Far From The Tree: Parents, Children & The Search For Identity'. Andrew has explored the relationship between children and their parents the world over, but with a focus on children who are different - deaf, autistic, severely disabled, gay, trans-gender, dwarf and the list goes on - as it seems that most often they are born to "normal" parents. Andrew read passages from his book with such emotion, I witnessed the audience gasp and tear up as their preconceived notions were smashed to smithereens time and time again.

How could this be bettered? Well it couldn't, but it was equalled by Faramez Dabhoiwala's confronting and hilarious session about the first sexual revolution. William Dalrymple introduced him with this usual flair and style. Soon the audience was reeling with disgust, then laughing uncontrollably as Fara described sexual habits and mores pre-eighteenth century. He finished his brilliant presentation, complete with slides of all manner of paintings, cartoons and images to furnish his stories, by introducing (most of) us to the world's first celebrity Kitty Fisher. She managed her image and brand with an iron rod, with the help of England's most famous portrait painter Joshua Reynolds. She fed the press images she had approved and even created a tiny miniature portrait for her fans to keep inside their pocket watches, for when they wanted a private moment with Kitty. The audience lapped it up and asked probing questions. The tent was heaving and the sun shone brightly through the acquamarine blue bunting. At times it felt rather like we were floating, that we were all wrapped up in a cumulus cloud and surrounded by the brightest, blindingly beautiful sky.

Next we had a raucous session on Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond, 007. Andrew Lycett has written the definitive biography of Ian Fleming and Sebastian Faulks joined him on stage, having recently commissioned to write a new Bond book, continuing Fleming's legacy. Or should I say franchise? It's an awful word, but apt and these two men (guided by Zac O'Yeah) delved into Fleming's life and cogitated Bond's different incarnations. Faulks was scathing about the length, over-branding and the warped representation of women in 'Skyfall'. They all agreed that 'Casino Royale' was one of the best in the series. Of course there were a million questions, mostly from young guys asking about gadgets and guns. JLF is so different to most of the film festivals I've attended and worked at, where one commonly has to pry questions out of glum faced attendees. Here there are a plethora of waving hands and they are often determined to be heard.

After lunch, a well attended and policed session on Sharia Law once again filled the Google Mughal tent. Just to give you an idea of scale, we can seat almost 700 people, but the tent is open on all sides around the stage, so I would guess that for some of these sessions we've held well over 1000 people once those standing, squatting and sitting are included.

Four fascinating panellists (Sadakat Kadri, Asghar Ali Engineer, Tom Holland, Mary Harper) were guided by Reza Aslan through tricky terrain. They explained the origins of Sharia, quoted the Koran and challenged an extremely diverse audience on many levels. Incredibly well prepared panellists, great questions and open minds allowed what was potentially an explosive session, to go off without a hitch. It was unnerving being surrounded by security, but I was grateful they were there in case of protests. As you may know, last year there were many security risks and the controversy has continued this year on many levels. But more on that later.

Next an extremely lively panel debated the current economic climates and the futures of India and China. This drew strong reactions and some fascinating stories, as the two fastest growing economies were dissected, revered and attacked (most often by their own people). Peter Hessler, Nandan Nikelani and Gucharan Daz were guided in conversation by an intense Yank, Daniel Kurtz-Phelan. Yet another session where the collective intellect and level of discussion was top notch.

Then came the Latin Americans. Ariel Dorfman is an unstoppable force and although he had only met Santiago Roncagliolo an hour before their panel (guided by Chandrahas Choudhury), they bantered like old contemporaries despite being from different generations and countries. They were utterly fascinating and raucous. I made the mistake of allowing one question too many and the session ran way over, as Ariel recounted the divisive history of Latin America at the very end. He was so brilliant, it was impossible to staunch his flow, but after peppering the discussion with direct quotes from Umberto Eco, Garcia Marquez, Pablo Neruda and so many more authors, he had the audience in the palm of his hand. It sounds cliched, but the passion of this session and the sense of fun but also the gravity of what was discussed, was dynamite.

By the time I finally ushered them off the stage, Ariel late for his press conference and the temperature dropping by the second, I raced to brief the final panel of authors who were waiting for me. I was mid flow, when an angry gentleman felt the need to come and remonstrate me for not allowing him to ask a question. It was very tricky as he was apoplectic. I wanted so much to be terse, as it's simply not possible to get to everyone and often the authors give long answers (or the questioners make a long statement or ask more than one question) but I was surrounded by writers for our next panel. Plus my team (I must now introduce Kriti, Kanika, Era, Ruchi and Shivani - all brilliant girls who I couldn't have survived without) had raced off to prepare the stage and the tech for out next session, which was by now a quarter of an hour late. It doesn't sound a lot, but it is when you're at the end of a very long day and the eminent Diana Eck wants to just get on stage and forgo all formalities, despite the fact that you're under strict instructions to show a sponsor reel and follow a script of introductions.

Luckily, the final group were awesomely erudite and once again, we packed out the tent as David Shulman joined Diana, guided by the divine Devdutt Pattanaik and introduced by Kota Neelina to discuss the sacred geography of India. At the end of the session, I wanted to immediately start a pilgrimage to the Kumbh Mela (a gathering of 60 million people that is taking place in India right now and only happens every 12 years). Do a quick online search of Kumbh Mela and look at the photos - apparently this particular cycle is particularly special and rare. Some friends of mine are off there post the fest to photograph and interview the sadhus who roam naked, covered in ash and drink blood from a human skull.

Once again, I joined Sirish who runs the Front Lawns and is married to a Canadian called Laura (who I keep getting mistaken for), and some other vagabonds for a journey in the Disco Bus to Clarks for some more music. As I'm short on time, I can't do justice to Chugge Khan's voice and his group of Rajasthani musicians, who took the crowd on the most heavenly musical journey. There was rapturous dancing, waving, laughing, applause and joy as about 12 musicians played magical instruments and sang their hearts out in harmony.

The crowd truly went wild when two goddesses glided onto the stage with burning pots on their heads and twirled around with bracelets jangling and bejewelled outfits flowing in the wind. It was truly gob-smacking and I enjoyed it with a friendly Scottish poet, novellist and environmentallist John Burnside. We just happened to meet at dinner. He lives near Elie in Fife and close to Pittenwheem, outside St. Andrews where Mum's godmother had a home. It's the most beautiful part of the world and he is returning there today to drifts of snow that have forced his family to rent a house on lower ground.

With a heavy heart, I left the music behind as it was reaching fever pitch. I simply couldn't face the shit-fight to find a lift home. Instead I wafted off into the night and straight into a waiting car, so I could gather my strength for three more jam packed days.

Deep breaths.
Lx

LITERARY NIRVANA, WE HAVE LIFT OFF

As I scoff my breakfast and prepare for our second epic day at JLF, I must share some highlights from our first.

What a triumphant launch. The VIPs were treated to an opulent dinner at Rambagh Palace, which according to all was spectacular. I worked into the night on various lists and last minute madness with the crew, then joined some new friends for an Italian dinner - oh my first taste of red wine for weeks was truly sweet. I ignored the Indian label and rather strange balance of flavours and tucked into a margarita pizza with zeal.

All but one of my volunteers showed up at 8am sharp and I was much relieved when the fifth made it just in time to be briefed. We needed every body to keep things running smoothly and of course there were some hiccups, but overall it was a roaring success. The sun shone brightly and all of our authors made it to the stage (though a few were rather tardy) bar one who is a Pakistani author called Mohammed Hanif, who was denied a visa rather contentiously. Such a pity, as he would have balanced out the panel perfectly that closed our day, which debated "The Future of the Novel". However, we made do with Zoe Heller, Howard Jacobson, Lawrence Norfolk, Linda Grant, Nadeem Aslam and the fabulous moderator Anita Anand.

It was electric. In fact the whole day was, but what an ending. Nadeem Aslam spoke with such passion about what writing means to him. He described the importance of the written word to people who struggle in this world, how it affects those you love and can change the fabric of society. All the panellists were impressive and Howard Jacobson in particular ruffled lots of feathers with his wonderfully outspoken truths, but I will never forget how Nadeem's voice broke and the audience gasped, before breaking into applause.

Our first session was on Shakespeare, who is adored in India (and of course the world over) and suffice to say that we once again had a panel of knowledgeable and eloquent writers (Elif Batuman, Chandrahas Choudhury, Anjum Hasan, Christopher Ricks, Tim Supple and a fabulous moderator Supriya Nair), who had the audience in the palm of their hand.

The opening keynote address on the Front Lawns was given by the much revered Bengali political activist Mahasweta Devi. She is now 88 and was wheeled over in a chair for a session at our Google Mughal tent, where Naveen Kishore guided questions from the audience after they watched some previously filmed interviews. Madam Devi is much beloved and there was a scrum around her wheelchair afterwards. She was tired after giving two presentations and her minders had forgotten her insulin shot, so we had to hide her backstage and let people in one-by-one. They all wanted photos, hugs and words of wisdom. They were overcome. I even heard one man asking Naveen what she ate!!!!

The next speakers had to contend with being in competition with the Dalai Lama, who drew an immense crowd to the Front Lawns. It took eight security guards in a human chain to get him in and out, his minders left behind. But somehow the Vice-Chancellor of Mathematics at Delhi University, Dinesh Singh, and Manil Suri a novellist and Professor of Maths, managed to pull in a good crowd for a dynamic session. There were many school children in the audience and they asked some of the best questions of the day. One young boy with rainbow braces asked, "Why is it good Sirs, that students seem to fall asleep in Maths but not in other subjects?". The audience erupted. Gender bias was attacked head on and much more. It was great fun and unexpectedly so.

With hardly a break and a bit of naan bread for lunch, we catapulted into the afternoon with a sizzling panel on "The Art of the Short Story". Richard Beard, Nicholas Hogg and the dynamic Chinese writer Yiyun Li debated the importance of this medium with Anjum Hasan moderating. Once again, the tent was packed with people from all walks of life. The festival's insistence on allowing free entry and promoting itself as the most democratic event in Asia provides a thrilling diversity of ages and backgrounds.

In haste, as I can't be late today, but I have to mention the panel with Javed Akhtar, a much beloved and worshipped poet and lyricist. He was in discussion with Ameena Saiyid moderated by Syed Shahid Mahdi, who was calmly sitting in the audience while about 10 people searched manically for him. This meant the panel started late while people jammed into every available space in the venue. We had bodies lining the aisles and every single bit of space. There wasn't a seat in the house, and the crowd standing at the back was thick and overwhelming for my team who were still finding their confidence and flow as a team. Security showed up and I did my best to keep things under control, but it was challenging. It reminded me of the session we had with Gulzar (again, a lyricist and poet, in fact an Academy winner for his lyrics to 'Jai Ho' from the film "Slumdog Millionaire"). They moved in and out of what sounded like three different languages, but I was mesmerised by Javed's connection with his audience. They hung on every word as though being showered with diamonds of truth. It was entrancing.

Wish I had time to describe the music last night, the Coca-cola stage has moved to a luxury hotel called Clarks Amer and it was on a scale I had not imagined. It was a wonderful ending to an exhausting but exhilarating day. I am so happy to be a part of this magical event. I must now get myself back to Diggi Palace, where our first session is in conversation with an old friend from New York, Andrew Solomon. I adore how life throws people back into each others' lives when one least expects it.

That's it for now...

A SPIRITUAL STIRRING, OF SORTS

Deep apologies for the lack of photographs, but I resolutely left my phone turned off in Sydney (so liberating) as I didn't want to travel with too much technology on show. Every single person has at least one phone here, (and often up to 4 SIM cards!) but it's Blackberry-land - I've hardly sighted an iPhone. I'm told they're too expensive for everyone except the really well off.

The announcement has been made, the shining light of this year's Festival is the one and only Dalai Lama.  He'll be doing an in depth conversation with the much celebrated Indian author Pico Iyer, who has published a bestselling book called 'The Open Road', a meditation on 34 years of discussions he's had with His Holiness. What a coup.

William Dalyrymple's bio: "His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso, is the head of state and the spiritual leader of Tibet. The Dalai Lamas are believed to be manifestations of Avalokiteshvara or Chenrezig, the Bodhisattva of Compassion and patron saint of Tibet. Bodhisattvas are enlightened beings who have postponed their own nirvana and chosen to take rebirth in order to serve humanity. He is the author of several books, which include: My Spiritual Journey (Co-author Sofia strill-rever) and Toward a True Kinship of Faith."

It's exciting that the Festival has embraced Bhuddism this year, with varied discussions and musical performances too. In fact, monks start every day with prayers and chants on the front lawns of the Diggi Palace (the beating heart of the Jaipur Literature Fest). Sprinkled alongside this overarching theme are in depth explorations of all manner of ancient religions, with a hefty dose of modern issues to keep the event relevant to all ages. It is hard to believe how many topics and themes are being embraced this year across fiction, non-fiction, poetry, theatre, sculpture and of course music in all sorts of divine incarnations. A recent press article labelled the festival "a macchiato coffee", as it shies away from froth. Love it!

Desperately in need of some exercise and keen to centre myself, I sought out a yoga class near my hotel. Amidst a massive complex of three rambling hotels, all interlinked by very dodgy walkways that feel like temporary cardboard structures, a verdant courtyard was transformed into a dazzling sight, dwarfed by great swathes of orange, red, yellow and green material. As I donned my yoga gear and covered up with 3 layers of jumpers and shawls, (gets chilly in the eve), I passed a gaggle of guests all drenched in their finest. The women looked so regal and resplendent in their saris, while the men were holding their own in various types of suits. 

I was assured by the front desk that the celebrations wouldn't go all night. There had been sound checks as I was getting changed and the levels were out of this world - not just ear splitting, but shredding. A bit like bloody Deni Hines nearly bursting my eardrum when she sang "Ain't No Sunshine" which has never quite recovered.

Yet another rickshaw ride went around in unnecessary circles, despite my having an address and directions in addition to the driver's fervent nodding that he knew exactly where my destination was. Late and slightly stressed, I found myself in the midst of a gymnasium full of sweaty Indians. The girl on the front desk greeted me by name and I was ushered into a little room, where a tiny little man waiting for me. I was given a lumpy exercise mat and a man joined us, next thing we were racing through sun salutations with very little guidance (simply right leg or left leg would have helped). The man gave up, after much huffing and puffing, and then a rather overweight young man shuffled in and took huffing and puffing to a whole new level throughout the class.

It was a challenge for the teacher to give the class in English, which I much appreciated, but almost everything about it was odd. Though it was good to stretch and I transcended the strange set-up. So  we set a cracking pace with very little time to breathe or make any adjustments. That is until a portly girl called Sonali joined us half way through the class and we all had to move, so she could have what must have been her usual spot. Almost immediately, her phone rang in her bag and I was shocked when she answered it, but even more so when she placed it beside her and picked it up twice more during class. The length of each discussion thankfully shrunk with each call but in the west, if your phone emits even one beep during a class it's a massive no-no, but to answer it is punishable by yoga law. I think you might be excommunicated if you did so 3 times!!!!!

Go with the flow, I kept telling myself, this is not your country. What a perfect example of how Indians cannot bear to be parted from their technology. I'm told that people even answer their mobiles during the opera or theatre - or so my new friend Laura (daughter of a British Council man in Delhi) tells me. Funny how one full expects to be shocked by so much, but India still finds a way to subvert those expectations. Every day, in some sneaky way. I'm not saying that Aussies are perfect when it comes to invasive telecommunication behaviour, but the only time Sonali (she introduced herself after class but ran off before I could question her) didn't answer her phone, was during the final breathing exercise when she physically couldn't. Perhaps the silent option doesn't exist in her realm. I guess for a lot of young, it doesn't nowadays.

After a slightly hair raising walk home, I found the wedding in full swing with no sign of abating. Guests and workers alike were openly staring at the revellers, who were twirling around to all manner of tunes to get jiggy with. It was refreshing to be the one looking on. There were two groups of young guys pulling out some seriously special moves, but only dancing with each other. While one gaggle of women were much more demure and co-ordinated. I smiled and thought of all the incredible weddings I've danced at over the years, all the celebrating and hilarity that has taken place. Despite the loud music that went on quite a bit, it was impossible not to laugh as the whoops got louder with each new track. A familiar sound the world over.

After a morning of admin, I was delighted to get a call from Beatrice, who is also volunteering at the Festival. She is a stunning brunette, who lives in France but speaks perfect English due to her heritage. Her twin sister lives in Florence and she has been working at the Arts & Crafts Fair here for years. She has decided to stay on and help for the JLF (as the Jaipur Lit Fest is fondly called) and we met at the Anoki store, which has a fabulous cafe (coconut and rose cake anyone?). Bea works with textiles and told Laura and I great stories about how the owners of Anoki have revitalised the ancient Rajasthani craft of block patterns. It was nice to wander the streets with two stunningly beautiful girls in their early twenties, who got all the attention. I hid behind my scarf and we popped into a few stores to look at luscious jewels and wares that were way beyond our price bracket.

I suggested that we walk to Diggi and became team leader as we managed to circumvent endless vehicles and animals and cross some major roads. The girls were thrilled, as they've both been too nervous to walk the streets and I somehow managed to get us to Diggi Palace on time for our workshop session. What followed was a series of team exercises and instructions that at one point had me cry-laughing as the tuneless fellow beside me sounded like a dying dog. I met the 5 wonderful (well hopefully able) girls who'll be on my team at the Mughal Tent and I now have to leave for a full day of orientation. It's such fun seeing the Diggi Palace come to life as the workers fill it with hot pink and orange lanterns, swooshes of materials and rainbow colours are bringing the place to life. I must get moving as I have a venue tour starting shortly.

Just a quick thanks to Kanika, from my team, who took Bea and I to her Uncle's bar last night (The Rock - everyone in cowboy hats!) and hosted us to ginger massala chai that was divine. They were all genuinely friendly and gave me travel advice for my onward journey post fest. After that, Kanika insisted on dropping us to a bar she recommended, as I was in need of a drink after a pretty dry first week here. The place she picked was like being in a New Jersey diner. There were posters of mostly American musicians and actors on every wall, plus much random memorabilia. T'was truly bizarre, with high octane American rock (though one Inxs track made it onto the playlist) and we were surrounded by young Jaipurites sipping sickly cocktails.

Our faces must have been priceless when we received not two but four cocktails at once. It seems the happy hour is most generous at Rock Around The Clock (a strange theme emerging here). We shouted above the music and devoured our drinks, before I walked Bea to my hotel where we feasted on the most incredible local food. God I love a good dal and naan. A much more spiritual experience than the yoga that's for sure.

The Festival begins tomorrow. I better get to Diggi and train up my team.
I'm jumping out of my skin with excitement.
Bring it.
Lx

DARK DREAMS IN THE PINK CITY

Chez Dalrymple was as warm and wonderful as I remembered it.  Poor Olive was just back from Jaipur with a stonking cold, but brimming over with fabulous stories about the arts and crafts fair that she takes part in every year. I love that Suggs from Madness was part of her painting group!

As Willy fielded calls every few minutes in between hugs and stories, I got the chance to hear all about Olive's miniature art and devour a catalogue of her work. It's stunning - beautiful rich colours and such moving compositions. I fell in love with a piece entitled 'Creation' that if I happen upon a nice pile of cash, I must purchase. Very unlikely but one can dream.

We ate the most delicious lunch whilst bathed in sunshine on their balcony, as Albinia, the Aussie golden crested cockatoo squawked in the background. It's incredible that feeling of dejavu, like being surrounded by a soothing balm of timelessness. We swapped stories of my last visit and the people we know in common, of course soon discussion turned to the Festival. I am longing to write here who the star attraction is going to be this year, but it's under embargo. Luckily I noticed that it had been revealed on the website by mistake, so earned myself a signed copy of W's new book 'The Return of a King' which recounts the First Afghan War with such charm, enthusiasm and knowledge, I am deeply engrossed. What an incredible talent he has, to make war time history with an endless plethora of characters, so digestible, juicy and engaging. I just wish that his 'In Conversation' session was in my venue at the fest!

Just as we were about to take the dogs for a walk, The Guardian released their double page coverage of his book online, so I beat a hasty retreat with their driver Vijay. I have been devouring the latest copy of Tehelka, the magazine that I discovered on my last visit and amidst the political pieces that make your hair stand on end, I read about a gallery in Hauz Khas. An exhibition of stills by acclaimed set photographer Nemai Ghosh sounded fabulous. He had a symbiotic relationship with top Indian director (now deceased) Satyajit Ray and photographed him and his films over many decades.

The traffic was backed up like crazy, so I deserted Vijay to his Dalrymple duties and made my way on foot to Hauz Khas village. What I found there was aptly described by Olive as "young Delhi gone wild". I spent a fabulous afternoon wandering the monuments, set against a lake that is much better seen as a backdrop than up close, and then sauntered into the Deer Park. In amongst the hundreds of deer and people milling about, I sought out a group of musicians who were celebrating life. Various drums were set up, women were dancing and sweating in the afternoon sun while a pink faced Westerner blew into his sax with all his might. A crowd gathered, clapping and pulsating with the riffs and rhythms. There was a free invitation for all to clap, jiggle about and laugh along with the gang. It was frenetic and fascinating, but as the sun started to sink I was keen to find the gallery.

The little alleyways of Hauz Khas were alive, seething with creativity and enticing boutiques. I looked into a few vintage stores and could almost have been in Windsor or Fitzroy. It didn't seem right looking at alice collars and fluoro sandals in India, so I explored the fusion stores of which there were many. The fabrics and creativity were too much, I simply had to buy myself a new bag (made of old tyres - upcycled!) and in one irresistible store I bought a warm wrap up jumper and a fabulous purple dress. I felt completely justified when I found out today that the colour theme for the closing night of the festival is purple, black and a touch of gold!

The New Delhi Gallery was beautifully laid out and the photos were sublime. Ghosh's eye for composition was often flawless. One of his photos of Ray seemed to me, to sum up what it is to be a film director (well a truly great one). I was entranced by the majority of his stills but noticed an interesting looking foreigner being fawned over by a group of locals. I struck up a conversation with him and was soon introduced to the curator of the exhibition. I heard all sorts of interesting secrets and stories behind the photos and their subjects' relationships. Love a bit of inside skinny.

After a delicious dinner at Gunpowder and a chapter of 'Return of a King', I jumped in the cab of a heavenly Sufi called Babba. Of course Babba had a big belly, huge laugh and a moustache to boot. He spoke very little English but he chatted with all his might in broken English and taught me some Hindi. I think he tried to invite me to meet his guru at the Sufi temple the next day, (though he could have been asking me to levitate for all I really could undertand) but I hit the road to Jaipur first thing.

What a hell of a road trip. The task of getting out of Delhi was pure insanity and the team were pretty tired and tense after their Head of Security, Rahul's mother had been hospitalised. I jumped in a car with Ila and we picked up Mani on the way - what incredible women, I loved our discussions and listening to their banter after my neck got too sore to turn around and my eyelids dropped. Ila is in charge of all the authors (what a job) and directly after the fest is off to Oz to oversee a performance at the Perth International Arts Festival before many more missions. Mani's husband is Ambassador for India to Egypt and she has helped start up off-shoots of the lit fest in South Africa and Israel (his last two posts I believe) and now Egypt. She is here to do all the design for the festival but has to fly back to Cairo on the 26th for the National Day - funny it's Aussie day too.

The youngsters, Ila's daughter Kritika, lovely Wasu and Namita's (Festival Director) niece Aishvarya were in another car and we battled our way to Jaipur together. I can't even begin to describe the mayhem on the roads, but anyone who has been to Asia can imagine. What should have been a 3-4 hour journey, took us 7 hours. A memorable moment was when we passed a sign that said 37km to Jaipur and I breathed a big sigh of relief, then a few kms further on there was a sign that said 38km to Jaipur. I had a giggle to myself as the driver was intensely honking and passing all manner of vehicles at break neck speed, while the ladies snoozed in the back. We arrived at the Diggi Palace with much relief but sadness, as the news of Rahul's mother's passing had struck and the team were upset not to be with him - he's an only child and they are like his family.

I finally checked into my hotel, (massive but well located and with hot water!), then ate a mountain of excellent food, (much better than our roadside lunch) and fell into bed with authors names whirling around my head. At what I'm tempted to call an ungodly hour of the morning, the Muslim call to prayer resounded as though the local mosque were located in my room. It seems my neighbours are very vocal at that time of the morning and on top of that, I was convinced a rat was stuck inside my air con (just testing it out now to see if it in fact doubles as a heater - not likely but worth a go).

A dream came rushing back to me as I lay in the darkness, rather confused and chilly....

There was a huge park that was choc full of bodies. The location and the people were unspecified, but a mixture of young and old, backgrounds and ages. A group of distinctly unfriendly men with guns marched up and began ordering people around. A lot of the youngsters were shocked and simply didn't understand what was happening, however some of the older people recognised these men as terrorists and were frozen to the spot where they stood, their eyes wildly scanning the situation. One young girl tried to challenge these men, who were shouting at some kids, they turned their guns on her and showered here little body in a hail of bullets. The adults grabbed at the youngsters and tried to calm them, to explain that they should keep quiet. It was scary as hell and noone knew who these men were or what they wanted. As things escalated, various characters emerged and groups formed. In particular one grey haired man began to act very strangely and became like a shamanic figure to the prisoners. I think that he held the key to their eventual escape.

I never saw the conclusion of the dream, but after my 'call to prayer' and rat fears, (not my fave animal), I managed to fall back into a different version of the same dream. This time a long, thin, bespectacled Scandinavian film director was talking about why he felt driven to make this hideous story into a movie. He was a young father, who had promised his wife that his next film would be lighter in content, but was compelled to tell this story. I can't help wondering if this guy was a version of the foreigner I spoke to in the gallery, but I'm unsure how this dastardly story found its way into my dreams.

Perhaps I am consumed by how important it is to tell stories that challenge the viewer and the author.

Today our briefing began at Diggi Palace and I met some volunteers. It was exciting to see the event coming to life and how it's expanded on the grounds. There has been press today in the Times of India about how some Islamic leaders who protested against Salman Rushdie reading from 'The Satanic Verses' last year, have in fact taken out legal cases against four writers who read extracts in his place. According to Lou, who does all the blogging and social media for the Festival, Mr Rushdie offered to do the reading via video link but that was still protested vehemently against as illegal and appalling.

Two of the four writers who read extracts from 'The Satanic Verses' are coming back this year and apparently there is outrage towards them and court cases are pending. Guess whose venue these two authors will be engaged in a panel about Sharia law? You guessed it, my Google Mughal Tent!!!

Namaste.
Lx

WELCOME TO MUDDY, RAINY DELHI - HURRAY!

It's a miracle. At the very least, life is a series of mini-miracles.

I have reached way back into the recesses of my brain and in a blinding flash of necessity, the password to resurrect this blog has appeared to motivate my twitchy fingers.

After many years, here we are again. Some of us at least. My family and perhaps a few mates, but that is enough. I had forgotten how this country demands to be documented. Forgotten the extent to which it lacerates your emotions, pushing and pulling you to extremes. Despite requests from nearest and dearest, even the excitement of re-reading my last India experience via my posts before I left, I had decided not to blog this time. The universe has conspired to laugh in the face of this decision. Silly Laura, do as you're told. Or the final words of my friend, that have been resounding in my head since I left, as she dropped me off a few short hours before my 3:30am taxi on my final night in Oz, "Work harder"! That was her response when I told her that I'd be far too busy to keep a blog this time. Such sloth!

The power points in my dusty little guest house (Janpath) refuse to charge my laptop. I seem to have short circuited them in fact, as now the TV refuses to work (not a problem really as I don't understand a word of Hindi).; Though inexplicably one located in the bathroom does work, but the moisture in there is intense, so only my local mobile is allowed into that drippy cave.

With no other outlet for my whirring mind but scribbling in notebooks, I have returned to the internet cafe where Suress has demanded my passport despite 2 visits here yesterday.

A quick recap to when I had 36 blissful hours in Sydney before my neverending flight to Delhi via Dubai. Thank you to all my gorgeous mates who showed up to The Hollywood to wish me well on my travels. But above all bless you Suzannah for having me to stay and sharing your adventures and enthusiasm with me, it was just what I needed before I flew. All of it was nourishing, the swim at Bondi with Kylee and Harmony (what a little kook) and the walk afterwards to Bronte followed by another float in the healing ocean. Jean Pierre's magic hands (a massage!), the meetings I squeezed in and above all the daggy tunes at my fave pub in Syd with so many lovely friends.

Despite ticking off a million lists and whirling about like a dervish before I left Oz - totally manic in Melbs and apologies to those I couldn't say goodbye in person to - I neglected to check in online. What a doofus. It completely slipped my mind, despite the fact that I've done it for pretty much every single flight I've taken in the last decade (well most!). So, you can imagine my delight when I bagged an aisle seat next to two young mothers with their squealing babies.

That's not fair, one baby Zia only cried at the very end and every time she woke up, she smiled. Her mother is Libyan and has been studying in Sydney. They're to meet her family in Dubai and when I asked if they had kept safe during the conflict, she recounted a harrowing story of how her younger brother had been shot twice in the hand when he tried to stop a thief from stealing his new car. He had just been given it by his father for completing his studies and his older brother had to stand by helplessly and watch the shooting. Poor Rasha broke down in tears as she told me about it, her little brother has spent 3 months in Germany having operations and the hand is still no good. Her older brother has nightmares.

Right next to me, was Marwa from Syria and her daughter Janna. She didn't speak enough English to tell me her story, but when she said she was flying to Egypt to see her family and then looked away, I could feel her immense pain. Both mothers were taking their children to meet their families for the first time. Rasha wants to stay in Australia and do a Masters in Public Health but she isn't sure if she'll be allowed to remain. She feels ripped apart by her desire to live in Oz and give Zia a safe upbringing, while her family are stuck in Libya living a sort of hellish existence, one that I can't quite fathom.

The warmth of these women outweighed their pain, but I arrived in Delhi feeling heavy hearted and my grotty guest house suddenly seemed like heaven. I had a freezing cold shower, drank delicious chai and soon crashed into a confused dreamscape.

It was raining at 3am when I jolted awake, wondering where the hell I was. I boshed half a sleeping pill and thanked my beautiful Mum for her generosity. Luckily, I was soon asleep again. It was still raining when I awoke and I cursed my stupid choice of shoes, as I leapt over puddles in search of breakfast.

Luckily the best dhosas in Delhi are a few minutes from my door. I ripped the coconut rasa dhosa to pieces with my right hand and gulped fresh watermelon juice with my left. Each bite was more delicious than the last as I dipped and re-dipped the luscious concoction (a sort of bread that is light and thin and infused with coconut, with a smooth potato filling in the centre) into sambal, vegetable, green and coconut sauces again and again. After some time, I realised that about six waiters were lined up watching me.

Oh the eyes that are constantly watching you here, mostly male, they are so dark, broody and unnerving. With recent events in Delhi that I don't need to recount, I am particularly on guard (and yes, I have a travel alarm in my bag - Xmas gift from my parents) though I was nervy my first day, the only situation worthy of note arose when a bunch of school boys passed me. I am staying near Connaught Place and for those of you who've never been, it's very central and busy, made up of a series of circles divided into lettered blocks. I was racing manically between blocks N and M trying to get myself an umbrella, a local mobile phone (four different stores) and some more socks, when a young boy who couldn't have been more than 11 brushed my butt with his arm. 11 years old!!!!!!

I stopped cold as he and his friends walked on, a gaggle of about ten, without a single hair on any of their faces. I could see the culprit trying to nonchalantly swing his arms around, as though it had been a casual mistake but while his friends turned around and looked at me, laughing, he guiltily kept his straight ahead and his back to me. I stared at them and motioned that I'd felt it and that I knew it was him. He refused to turn around and walked on, while his friends whispered and laughed. I have to admit that it was not a slap or a pinch (which so often happened in Italy) but there was something disgusting about a boy that young, feeling it was his right to touch a grown up foreigner that way, particularly with all the "soul searching" that's going on in this city right now about women and sexual harassment. I was shocked. I felt sick and it has remained with me, just a tiny moment amongst many other examples of warm welcomes to this city, that I will not forget.

After my various boring missions, which were satisfyingly successful, though protracted and each a minor miracle when achieved, I made my way to Rajiv Chowk Metro station.

Perhaps I never got on a local train last time I was here, but I have never travelled on a local subway that has men with machine guns standing bored behind stacked sacks, metal detectors and body searches. It wasn't much fun having to place myself in a carriage with hundreds of eyes pointed straight at me, fingers often doing the same - but I was proud when I reached Hauz Khas and jumped in my first tuk tuk When I made it to the Teamwork office, I was excited to see everyone again and was given so many hugs and kisses from the exhausted looking team.

Seems I'm going to be emcee of the Google Mughal Tent and there are some incredible authors that I'll be hosting. What a huge honour. Directly after this, I'm going to jump back on the Jaipur Literature Festival site and really explore each one. It was slightly daunting to discover that since I last worked there in 2009, the audience has increased from approximately 5,000 people to over 100,000!!! I am going to have a team of four volunteers working for me, while back then I had only one. Mein godt!

How I wish my gorgeous friend Nichole was here to experience this all with me again. Back in the day, she ran the music stage, which has been moved off site to Clark's Hotel and apparently the Diggi Palace has expanded and reclaimed adjoining real estate, specifically so that it can retain the Festival on its grounds. Everyone has to register now, while previously attendees just wandered in. The catalyst was Salman Rushie's death threats last year, coupled with Oprah Winfrey's visit and a host of celebrated authors. This year, we have Sebastian Faulks, Anish Kapoor, Patrick French and so many more (240 in total) including an old friend from New York Andrew Solomon. I'm sure I'm forgetting all sorts of incredible names to mention but I promise to post here when possible during the Festival.

I met a Malaysian architect who lives in Wellington, NZ, last night who was also struggling with Airtel (the Telstra of India) and it was lovely to connect with a friendly, gentle male amidst the fray. Often it's not menace, but curiosity that prompts the constant stares but it's impossible to feel anything but mistrust. Though when you enter a conversation one-on-one, like the umbrella man who asked me if I lived in Delhi, you are reminded that there is so much good here. "You have the face of someone who lives here Madam. It is wonderful that you have returned to India. I hope you have a wonderful stay in my country."

In a few hours, I'm off to visit William Dalrymple for lunch. You may recall that he is the reason I first worked at the Festival and it was his almost immediate response to my email less than 2 weeks ago that propelled me to return to India. To just book a ticket and come back, to let go of all fears and logic and just get on that plane. So here I am.

It's heaven and hell, it's wonderful and terrifying but above all, I feel utterly alive and kicking. Plus the sun has just come out and is beckoning me.

Warm Delhi love.
Lx