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
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
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