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

THE NORTHERN LIGHTS ARE BLACK AND WHITE

I've dreamt of seeing the 'aurora borealis' many times. It's a rare, natural phenomenon where the sky turns into a full intergalactic rainbow.

I'm taking a different sort of northern mission and moving up to Sydney to work at a film festival, which takes place north of Newcastle. Filmmakers and friends Allanah and Stavros bought a property in Dungog on their return to Australia from London and were inspired by the creative community up there. So they started a festival. This year will be the 4th Dungog Film Festival (May 27-31) and I am excited to be part of it.

Having not lived in Sydney for a long, long time (last time was only for a handful of months), I'm very much looking forward to getting to know the city again. I'm going to continue to pursue my own projects, whilst helping to source and exhibit Aussie films at Dungog. Allanah and Stav are huge go-getters, they set up a distribution company and are pursuing their own film projects as well. I can't wait to be around that sort of energy.

Now it's taken me a while to re-find my voice here. I had a busy January with my various missions. But I also had a disaster and stopped talking to myself for a while. I was so angry that I could be so stupid.

This may sound like something less than momentous to some, but Collingwood football fans may want to skin me alive. And we all know that Pies supporters are the most committed of all!

Whilst on a Christmas clear up at the back sheds at my parents' home in Flinders, I found something I'd been dreaming of. Longing for. Wishing to see again. I unpacked an old suitcase and there it was - my long sleeved, VFL Collingwood football jumper from when Dad was President in the early 80s. It was signed by everyone in the team. All my old favourites were there - Tony Shaw, Peter Daicos, David Cloke, Mark Williams, Mike Richardson..... - and some that I didn't quite remember.



I hugged the jumper with glee. I was reunited with my very own, precious piece of footie history. I skipped across the lawn, with the detritus of my past lives littered everywhere and felt as though I was dancing on air. Seriously. A link to a past almost forgotten until my return to Melbourne last year.

For those of you who don't know, my brother's nickname for me is 'Joffette'. A rather snaggle-toothed, bleached blonde ruffian named Joffa heads up the Collingwood Fan Club and Hame is convinced that I'm destined to be his right hand 'man'! I have embraced all things black and white so much, that when offered the job in Sydney, the fact that I won't be in Melbs for the season almost made me turn the job down. Almost.

I hope to make enough money to fly back regularly for games. I will go and watch the ones I can't be at on the big screen somewhere in Sydney. I'll sniff out the best place to watch them.

So back to my old jumper. I packed it and other things I wanted to keep handy in an old trunk and forgot about them for a few weeks. Christmas, my birthday and new years eve all raced past at a galloping pace. It was the first Macdonald Christmas that we'd ever spent just the four of us (parents, brother, sister) that I can remember. We ate lobster, cleaned out the pond (Hamish of course threw me in the scum when there was one inch left) and played some golf. It was blissful.


Instead of celebrating my birthday on the annoying date of 30th December, I decided to have a gathering at the Balnarring picnic races on Sunday the 3rd of January. Dad took me out seriously early to nab a space (I am always rather grumpy at that time of the morning) and Mum cooked her heart out to make it a wonderful day. Friends and relations travelled from afar to have a bet, a sanger and a bevvie or three. It was a wonderfully relaxed, rural, delectable day.

So, the day after, I was feeling rather worse for wear. I was immersed in a film project all day and Mum insisted it was time to empty the trunk and air the clothes. Fair enough. She kindly offered to put them out for me. That night, as I was heading to bed, I simply couldn't muster the energy to bring them in. I though, oh well, the dew will do those musty clothes good. I'll grab them in the morning.

Ohmybloodygod NO! I woke up with a gasp at 6am with only one thought. 'Was my Collingwood jumper in that trunk? Oh god no. Please. NO!!!!! I have never got out of bed as fast as that morning. I moved like lightening and found two very surprised parents watering the garden. They hadn't seen me up that early for a long time. When I saw the black and white stripes, and the smudged signatures I cried like a baby. For hours. How could I be so lazy and stupid and idiotic and sloth-like not to have simply brought the clothes inside? A hangover is not a good excuse.

I have almost forgiven myself. Not really. But I'm trying to.

All those years in London, living next to Stanford Bridge in Chelsea and Emirates Stadium in the Arsenal, I could utterly empathise with the faces of jubilation and bitter defeat, dependent on the outcome of each game, as I watched the fans from my window. One of the highlights of 2009, has to be when Jack Anthony kicked that winning goal against the Crows. One of the bitterest pills was being beaten by Geelong in the semi-finals, yet again.

Our first preliminary season match is again the mighty Sainters, so it'll be a toughie, but we'll have Luke Ball and Darren Jolly. Two top, brand spanking new players. But St. Kilda will be out for blood after losing to Geelong in the Grand Final. It was an amazing match, but Geelong were simply too good.

So as I set off on the road again, almost exactly a year after my return to Oz, I promise once more to keep you closely posted.

Here's to Aussie film and to Aussie rules. Two great reasons (apart from my family and friends of course!!!) to be back in this wonderful country. We are truly blessed.

C'arn the Pies!
2010 is ours.
Lxxxx

SUDDENLY, THE SILLY SEASON

Today, I realised that I've been woefully neglectful.

I was planning to write all about my time in London town when I was in Thailand, but I was so behind with my script re-write that was my only focus. Thailand was as gorgeous as ever, but after India it felt empty and rather colourless. Though the Thais are wonderful and the food is extraordinary. I am not complaining, but every place seems to pale in comparison to India.

After a seriously hectic few weeks in London, Thailand was the perfect place to catch our breath. Mum and I had three nights at the Hyatt in Hua Hin. It was divinely quiet and the spa was absolutely blissful. Despite the most heavenly treatments, (how bloody lucky am I?), I was unable to sleep. This does happen a lot to me in the lead up to a transition. My mind simply refuses to shut up. It almost feels like I short circuit, or maybe I re-boot. Whatever the correct technical term is, my brain whirs like a dervish.

It was truly lovely to have some time away from everyone. To not talk, which I do far too much of. Mum and I had some 'quality time' and the General Manager and his gorgeous Aussie wife Jamie, made us feel welcome. A great friend of Hame's, Carly Adler, is old mates with them and went to the trouble of introducing us. We found a corner cafe called, bizarrely McFarlane House (after a previous resident) that made incredible fresh juices and salads that sat almost on the beach. It felt like it was there just for us, until some chain smoking French ladies discovered it!

Mum was keen to go to Chiva Som, but the prices have gone way up since she was last there, so we decided to give the Hyatt a try. CS looked amazing when we walked past it on the beach one evening (dodging the gelatinous jelly fish bodies), but the Hyatt was understated and quiet. We had a great few days in limbo-land.

Mum then flew off to Melbourne and I travelled further south. Via a local recommendation, I found a quiet beach called Khao Kolak which is in the province of Pranburi. It was a beautiful drive there, past fields bursting with pineapples. I felt utterly spoiled and ready to tear into the script.

I allowed myself a plate of fruit for breakie (unbelievably delicious array, some I'd never seen before in my life), one swim and walk per day and then a meal in the evening. The rest of the time I wrote and wrote and wrote. Luckily I was the only guest at the Orchid Guest House, run by a nice Brit called Tim and his lovely Thai wife Nat. Their two little boys rolled around happily and it was quiet enough for me to really concentrate. It was cheap and set back from the beach, which got infiltrated with Bangkokians (no idea if that's right!) at the weekend.

The seafood was seriously fresh and delish. But the best thing - I simply adored not having to speak and being able to shut the door and immerse myself in my writing. It felt like the best sort of retreat. Of my very own. One member only.

I had spent most of my trip thinking about the changes that I wanted to make to the previous draft. I had attempted to write when in London. But I was staying first with Mellie in Miranda's lovely flat in Maida Vale and I was on a (very comfy) pull out bed in her living room. Mel runs Choi Time from there, so it was tricky to find much space. Though I absolutely adored being there with her. I've missed her SO much. She's had a tough year, like so many people in London in particular. For anyone who loves tea, you must go to choitime.com and order some of her incredible tea for Chrissie. Her divine teas make the best presents ever.

Mellie and I did manage to squeeze in some lovely missions. One of them was a special screening of Terry Gilliam's new film THE IMAGINATION OF DR. PARNASSUS, which was incredible. Despite Heath Ledger dying in the middle of filming, they managed to make the film work and it's an amazing achievement. I adored it. I always adore Gilliam, as at his worst he's so far and above most directors. He has a truly unique voice, in a similar vein to Tim Burton, who's another of my faves.

So, London town. It was Spring like my first week there and I had a bit of time to catch up with various friends and their new babies. I met a lot of babies. All absolutely sweet mind you. It's just such a momentous change in people's lives and so all consuming. I understand that you need to go to them, but I was tearing across town at such a rate. Thank you Shiv for making the effort to bring Noah to Jenny's - he's a peach! Luckily I managed to go on some lovely walks in Hyde Park to clear away the cobwebs. I arrived pretty (seriously) broken from NYC.

The rest of my time in London is a bit of a blur, as there were so many family lunches and dinners and get togethers in the lead up to and over the wedding. My first weekend was spent at Pinhills (where Mum's bro Anthony lives on the Bowood estate near Charlie - the Marquis of Lansdowne, an old friend of the family - and his wonderful wife Fiona) with my cousins, which was great fun. We rarely get proper time together, so it was most welcome. Ed and Nina are loving married life and despite the tough year economically, Ed is doing very well in property and Tor is starting her own jewellery business. So brave!

Zoe and I had caught up in New York but it was rather brief, so it was lovely to hear all her news and help her with her book proposal a bit. She's found a top agent who is moulding her TV idea into a book. She's now in LA moving it all forward. She does manage to get around, as she's appearing here next week.

This weekend Ed, Tor and Nina all arrive. I don't remember the last time we had so many of them on Aussie soil. They've got Olivia Milne's wedding up in Myrtleford next weekend.

There's so much else that happened in London but Charlie and Katie's wedding was the focal point and it was pretty magical. I can honestly say that they are wonderfully in love and suited. It was held at the family home in Sandwich, (Kent), which is a beautiful part of England. The marquee was huge and so pretty incorporating parts of their garden. I caught up with SO many relations and met some lovely people. It was well worth the visit. Charlie gave a moving speech and his best man Ed Tollemache had everyone in tears, when he talked about their Mum. Dale was definitely there in spirit. She would have been so proud of her children.

The day after I went to stay with my old friend Maddy Baillieu and it was such fun to hang out with my goddaughter, her first born Charlotte. Her younger daughter Claudia is also very sweet. It's rather gobsmacking that her hubby Harry has managed, amidst such a tricky time, to become a partner at Allen Overy and move them all back to the UK. It's definitely for the best. They've bought a house in Godalming in Surrey and I stayed on their second night there, so boxes were abounding but it has a homey feel to it. I know they'll be happy.

On my return to London I moved North, back to my old hood. I stayed with my gorgeous friend Jenny in Tufnell Park and it was like coming home. Her house on Dalmeny Rd has been the setting for a plethora of great nights and lazy movie/footy watching sessions. I just adored being back there and spending time with her son Jamie and his lady Checky. They are a special pair. A special family.

My final week was a whir of meetings and catch ups. I hardly had time to scratch myself. Then Jenny kindly hosted a farewell soiree at Dalmeny Towers and it was very civilised. A lovely cross section of people I know in London came by and I felt very loved and missed. The weather turned pretty cold and I must admit, knowing that summer was waiting for me in the southern hemisphere made it bearable getting on the plane. Though it was very hard to leave the people I adore there. Luckily so many of them will be visiting Oz in the next year - Bron and Clive are having an Aussie celebration of their wedding, Mel is planning a February visit, Amber in January and the list goes on.....

So here I am, back in Hame's spare room juggling all sorts of random jobs. It's weird, after being so focussed on my career and survival in London for so many years, that I am now able to reconnect with what really matters to me. I found so many people in London were in dark or troubled places, and some in the States. I know it's been a tough year, but that city in particular does drain you and when Winter stretches out in front like a swamp, it's hard to imagine having to knuckle down and see it through. Life is not perfect in Oz, is it anywhere? - but it's healthy and positive and beautiful. I am resolute to give it more time, to see where it leads.

And I need to finish that final act of the script.
Wish me luck.
Lxxxx