Done or not?

There are days when I open my wardrobe with anticipation: I dig in and pull out my favorite biggest ever black patiala pants, hip-long light green kurta with low V-neck and black little top to wear under. I match it with golden metal ear-rings with little bells that ring whenever I move my head, with a black velvet bag decorated with golden embroidery, fish scales-like beeds and a ribbon instead of clasp and golden sandals – what can make you happier than being able to wear these cuties without doubts in November. My Indian-Western mix-n-match outfit deliberately thought through gives me amazing confidence and I step out of the house in the incredible mood. I easily convince an auto-walla to go on my price after the second try. I am on the way to meet a friend or a few of them; I am texting some other people on the way and get messages back. I am sticking my head out of the auto just to get a feel of the huge motorway, wind, sun, rush of the vehicles and people around – and the ultimate love to the country that saturates every pore of my body.

There are days when I dig in the piles of clothes all over the room and put on my favorite shabby pants that I have been wearing for at least a week now. I get a random comfy top. I do not have any interest in picking a pair of earrings as there is nothing to match them with anyway. I fasten my walking sandals, put my bag of rough cotton across the shoulder and step out of the house in the total indifference to the life happening out there. I am deep in my thoughts even when constantly challenged to interact with the outside world. I am maneuvering between dangerously-close passing by men and vehicle without a sign of concert. In fact, these days I go outside only if there is a burning need, such as visiting an Internet café ;o). But that no need seems urgent – I am so reluctant to engage in any interaction that I would prefer to survive on the food stock available in the house, rather than bothering myself with any shopping however minor. I am thinking my past and future or at times not thinking at all – anything but present is on my mind. I am watching my old pictures and strangely longing for the places I am yet anchor at one day. I am carefully protecting my mental peace that can be established only if I know if I am not in this country – my mind can be anywhere and as far as I do not go outside or get to see people I can be happily convinced in that. My phone is silent the whole day and even I have no will whatsoever to bother it with calls or messages to anyone. I feel done – work-relationship-anyhow-wise. I open my wardrobe and look around – this I’ll post, this I’ll give away, this I’ll wear, this I’ll carry home. I am mentally packing.

Yet to the questions as for when I am leaving I still give ambiguous answers. I do not mind explaining things when I am sorted in every detail. When I am not – I rather prefer making sense for myself than for the others if I am to choose. And I am to choose these days. Sorry, people…

Post-Diwali mood: longing for family

Poonam’s place is one of the greatest houses I have ever been too. Its greatness is in the feeling of completeness that saturates each and every part of the house - being it an interior detail or the people inhabiting it. Here comes the perfect understanding of Russian concept - “house like a full cup” (they live in plenty) – that signifies harmony and happiness in the physical habitat and emotional relationships in the family. In the “house like a full cup” you can sense the peaceful co-existence and self-sufficiency of the people living there and they space they altogether create and use.

On the first place, the notion of a separate house makes the difference on its own right. A house with a small garden and a cozy door-yard, creates the feeling of space and independence that is unthinkable for an apartment in a block of flats where your habitat is limited by the ceiling, floor and walls of your neighbors from all sides. Moreover, a house that you can just walk in from the ground floor looks incredibly open, hospitable and relaxed.

A fairly spacious living room welcomes you once you enter Poonam’s house: the room is organized in concentric rectangles – the outer frame is made up by the cupboards hosting souvenirs, crafts, photographs, vases; the mid rectangular is organized with sofas and chairs that are set along the sides of the beautiful carpet, the inner rectangular in the middle of the room. A transparent curtain separates this room from the other living room, a smaller one with the intimate atmosphere created by the soft lights and small sofas cozily set around the small table. That room further flows into dining room and open-plan kitchen and leads to the bedrooms, bathrooms and other-purpose rooms. The very number of rooms in the house creates the notion of abundance - abundance of space for each and every family member and any guests happened to drop by, abundance of ideas as each room is finished in its distinctive style and abundance of stories that the house has got to tell. The decorations – vases, lights, candles, paintings, pictures, statues, souvenirs - brought from all over by the family members or gifted by the friends – silently speak volumes about the family. They shows the long history that the family has got, show how firm the family bonds are if they have been maintained for so long, show how the family is connected to the outside world, how it explores around and show the efforts invested in creating and nurturing its space, its home - shelter or fortress or open house depending on the occasion….

How, how, how – to create such an atmosphere and to maintain it? Every time I come to this house I find a few bouquets of fresh flowers decorating the rooms. The flowers look like a sign of continuous care over the house that is meant to look beautiful and welcoming.
How come you’ve got so many fresh flowers in the house? – I asked once.
I just got them this morning, - she explained.
Indeed, as easy as that: if you want your house to look taken care of - take good care of it. Indeed, Poonam as may other women in India resorts to the services of various domestic helpers (gardener, sweeper, cleaner, cook etc) yet it comes down to her agency as for whether, what and how. Everything in the house is under her deliberate supervision and the caring eye.

Poonam would always be an exemplary of an excellent host for me. She invites you to come over whenever she sees you and she means it. She gives you space yet makes sure you are provided with anything needed.

“Hi Olga!” – after hugs and kisses and taking seats the questions comes “What drink can I offer you? Vodka-juice, rum-coke? Baccardi-lemonade?” – she smiles perfectly remembering that last time I opted for the latter. Everything in the house follows the routine yet without any sign of being imposed. Poonam opens her impressive bar and keeps fixing the drinks throughout the night. She makes sure the conversations flow, empty glasses get refilled and snacks get passed around. She feeds the conversations with her stories: oh, she can knowledgeably talk about any topic and would definitely have a point of view to present.

On Diwali she suggested we follow the tradition and play cards to welcome prosperity in the new year. She was encouraging and maintaining the spirit of everyone and made sure everyone was involved. When discussing how high the stakes we should go for and when her father-in-law said, “1 rupee a bill”, she played up “Papa, at least 2 rupees” not for the sake of the deal but to raise the competitive spirit - it is clear from the beginning no money would be involved. She explained the rules, we played an open round and only when everyone understood the rules we could start. It is the rule of thumb in this house – no one can be left out. Poonam was passing comments on the course of the game – teasing gamblers, cheering unlucky fellows, praising the winners and jokingly bluffing herself. “Lovely!”- and she applauses. “What a game!” and she discusses the combinations that just won.

The conversation and the game are followed by the meal with explanations about the preparation tricks and cooking as such. After that sweets are served and accompanied with discussions of dining out places and cuisines of various parts of India. Then we move back to the big living room where coffee and liquors - the ultimate luxury to indulge – are served to round up the evening.

Poonam exactly knows how to treat her guests. I wonder if there is any situation she would not know how to go about. And what is more important - she is true to herself and the same irrespective to the people around – the ones she’s known for ages or for just a few days – her maid, in-laws, daughters, dog, adopted Kate, Kate’s parents and orphaned me.

Poonam and Lalit have 2 beautiful daughters, Meghna and Sanjana and a cute fluffy dog Pixi – all those people and creatures comprise the family and its space. Lalit is a captain of a merchant ship and at least half a year he is away. But even when he is not at home he manages to make his presence and care felt. Understandably, it costs tears and many painful moments for the family not to have him and his support around. Yet, gestures like a gorgeous bouquet of red roses and cake he sent to his wife and daughters for Diwali and his calls when the phone is passed from one person to another still make it complete.

…..

Every time I leave Poonam’s house as much inspired as melancholic. I get ultimately convinced that only having a family makes one’s life complete and the ability to set up and nurish one is the only true check of your worth…

Ben

On Thursday I got a text from Karo: “I am coming back. Are you at home in 1,5 hours? Is there a place for me and a friend in the flat?”

Thinking that once upon a time we would have to get some extra mattresses to be able to host people even when we are full: by far this issue is left for the resourcefulness of the generous hosts… I texted back: “Come! I’ll be here if you need me. I can offer a beanbag and my mattress for you two”. She replied, “I love you! ;o)”. “Come, come, girl!”

This is how I got to know Ben, the guy who Karo met on her trip to Varanasi. A medical student in UK he came to work for a hospital in Assam. He was briefly traveling after that and now came to Delhi to take flight back home in a few days.

The thing came up when he asked if he could download his pictures on my computer so to burn CDs later. That night he joined us for the dance festival and at some point headed to the stage where he kept taking pictures with his digital camera looking way more sophisticated than both ours – with better lenses and greater zoom. So, I was particularly anxious to check out his pictures from tonight show.

So we were downloading those along with his shots from Varanasi and on the way were watching my snaps that randomly pop up on my laptop in the screen-saving mode. Ben showed appreciation for quite a few shots I took and I was happy to tell the stories behind those. The conversation brought the memories about the times when I was excited about the new horizons my digital camera had brought into my life. I was exploring the settings, experimenting with exposure, making those solo sallies in the mountains, woods and town of Bergen, all around my home town in Russia and the wide avenues in the hospitable Moscow and then later in the streets and lanes of Delhi. I derived particular fulfillment from the artistic or just aesthetic shots I managed to take and I was glad to hear wows during the multiple demonstrations of my shots to the family and friends. Later on I found out how rewarding the sharing on the larger scale can be: I joined trekeath, treklens and photosight where I could view and comment all sorts of works by all sorts of keen photographers; where I could upload mine too and hope for some interest and feedback on those. However, soon after leaving Norway I discovered that another passion of mine is craving to come out and get exposure. I started writing my journal and then this blog. Initially, I believed in the possibility of the intimate dialog of text and image. I felt images are too bare to tell a story unless accompanied by an account. So, along with those lines I made my blog on the last trip in Norway and I think even later I had a couple of decent samples of the concept . Yet, more and more text was taking over and photography and story telling took separate paths in my life. I am still endlessly clicking to treasure the memories of moments, people and places. Yet, I feel that to share on the same I can do much better when resorting to text. I just do not have enough patience to master the technicalities of photography: every time I would sit down with a book I would get bored too soon to memorize anything. So, technical excellence is beyond my reach then. And if I cannot get close to what I think is perfect why to venture at all. Moreover, I realized that rather than calibrating the exposure I enjoy playing with the words. Here I have got patience for continuously fine-tuning my sentences, exploring my vocabulary and pushing the limits of my narrative skills. This was my part of the story to tell Ben about.

We started the slide show with his shots. I got struck by the abundance and quality of portraits he had taken. Portraits are my unfulfilled dream, as I do not think you can really fulfill it when the camera with 3-fold zoom. A better camera with a decent zoom – that would do, I thought. I started questioning about the specific portraits and Ben started narrating his stories. He was explaining how he interacts with people whose portraits he takes. “Once they see you with a camera pointed at them, they start smiling, yet if you haven’t adjusted your settings properly from the first go and keep trying, they lose their interest soon and you may never catch the same face”, shares he. “This one was not cooperating at all”, says Ben while we go through a dozen of shots of a potentially very interesting character in yet very unappealing postures. “These guys played volleyball with a plastic bag and I ended up joining them – it is so easy to take pictures of the people once you get to spend some time with them”. And he shows me a bunch of pictures with openly smiling guys who seem to joke and tease each other. “And with beggars”, continues he, “you can just give them ten rupees and take infinite number of pictures. Yet, I do not think all the pictures should be taken for money”. I was wondering how close I could get to such sort of interaction – being a woman in this country (again, gender-sensitive me, what to do people?). I was recalling the portraits that Juan Mi took in the markets of Jaipur – smiling men happy to be photographed and maybe make friends with a white man. And I was so frustrated with mine taken in the same town – puzzled and suspicious faces came out on my snaps clearly saying “what is this one doing here?” Ben and me were going through the hundreds of his snaps – people of all sorts, yet majority being children and enders. Faces of old people looked particularly striking with every wrinkle holding a story to tell. “I used to treasure those portraits, but now when I’ve got thousands of them they hardly have the same value for me”, confessed Ben to my great astonishment. “I really envy your portraits however much you yourself undervalue them”. At the end of the day, it is far more than just a decent camera with a zoom: those portraits are owed to Ben’s ability to immediately build and masterly capture human interaction. Thank you so much for sharing and inspiration!!!

Festival of Indian classical dance

Purana Qila has become the mantra I have been reciting in front of rickshaw-drivers every night these days as the old fort has been hosting Ananya, a festival of Indian classical dance, “brought to you” by Ministry of Tourism and Culture and Delhi Tourism. Similarly to the concept of Qutub Festival, the event was held at the site of a heritage monument (Purana Qila) so to facilitate a dialogue between various cultural forms, this time being dance and architecture.

I remember how I was running late on the first night and the shuttle bus brought me inside the gate of the fort. A brief ride on a windowless vehicle did not give any comprehensive ideas about the appearance of the spread-out fort complex sunk in the quiet dark. Yet, it was a perfectly sensual experience. Fresh breeze was stroking my hair and calming all my senses. We were approaching a wide path framed by the tall palm trees, artificially lit and hence looking as giant street lights. At the end of the path I could see only a two-headed minaret - the improvised concert hall and the stage were yet hidden.



I was walking along the dark path towards the reinforcing sounds of harmonium with slight touches of tabla accompanied by the rustle the palm trees and could not imagine how divine the performance so beautifully foreplayed can be. The lights of small Diwali lamps hanging on the wall of strings were luring me in. After passing the lamps I climbed the steps – and stood still in front of the gorgeous stage on which incredibly feminine figures of dancers akin to beautiful ancient statues were gracefully moving. Ancient ruins and ancients dance were taking to each other.



One of four styles of Indian classical dance was featured every night by the prominent dancers of India. Each style originated and has been honed in a distinctive area of the country and therefore differs in its concepts, steps and dresses.

Odissi comes from the state of Orissa and is believed to be one of the oldest surviving dances in the world: ancient temples in Orissa depict the scenes of the dance. And nowadays the dancers in the glowing draping of their yellow sarees with red borders, wrapped between their legs to allow the composite choreography look just like those graceful statues when stay motionless without any sign of hard breadth after the intense performance. Non-action seems to be as important in this dance as action. The composite choreography of the dance is based on the three pillars - head, bust and torso – which slow flowing movements, strikingly synchronized for the whole group, are used to express specific moods and emotions. Yet, when the dancers freeze for ever-lasting seconds in the completely motion-less state they still can resort to the facial expressions, another key element in this style. The dance looks like a sacred ritual devoted to Lord Krishna and the movements are truly saturated with of love and devotion.

Kathak used to be performed at the courts of the kings and therefore meant to be entertaining: dance and music were used by the minstrels, or storytellers (kathakaar), to dramatize the lyrics of the heroic tales and legends. The dancers’ dresses look like those on the Mughal miniature paintings: women wear legengas with churudar pants under and men wear long achkan with salwar pants (kathak is the only style of Indian classical dance where dancers can be males too). The dance is woven of swift turns, graceful movements of hands and precise footwork. Flaps of the shining sink suits swing following the multiple turns of the bodies and create the distinctive pattern of this spectacular dance. The movements of hands act as a delicate finishing of this royal entertainment where everything ought to be perfect. The rhythmic footwork is an important feature of the dance that is performed straight-legs and the ankle belts are used to the full capacity here: following the rhythm, anticipating the rhythm and creating the rhythm is in the full agency of the dancers.





Mohiniattam dance originated from the southern state of Kerala. Mohini according to the Hindu mythology is a beautiful woman who attracts people instantly and who was an enchantress, thus it is a dance of enchantresses. Yet, the dance also signifies transformation of Lord Vishnu into a female form and the concept of male and female as one. The dance narrates the legends about Krishna and his beloved Radha and in this capacity stands very close to drama. The slow movements of the dance show the anticipation of Krishna, love and devotion for him and joy when he is around. Dancers are attired in white sarees with red borders, specialty of Kerala, with their palues arranged as a fan under their waist. A woman in purple saree blouse is clearly playing Lord Krishna, traditionally depicted with blue body.





Bharatanatym, dance from Tamil Nadu, appeared to me as a combination of the previous three. Sophisticated synchronized choreography of Odissi, heavy emphasis of hand moments from Kathak, narrative nature of Mohiniattam – are descriptive for Bharatanatym. In this style the body is visualized as if made up of triangles, one above and one below the torso – women always dance bend-kneed – and the geometric perfection of each dancer’s figure and the compositions they merge in set up the dynamics of the dance. Poems on the hero-heroine theme are a special feature of this style and the choreography conveys unconditional devotion on the part of the performer.





All the featured dance forms in Indian classical dance (even Kathak originally) emerged and were nourished as temple dances. And even now when dance is popularized the devotional part seems to go hand in hand with its aesthetic value. The stage where the dance is performed is considered a sacred area to step on which people are ought to remove their shoes. Some even touch the floor with their palm and then put the palm on their forehead – a ritually invariably performed before entering a temple. It is fascinating to realize that a place can just become sacred by the virtue of hosting a sacred activity. Generously hospitable Purana Qila got its blessings from the bell-heeled bare feet of the dancers.

Diwali around the corner

The festive mood of Diwali takes over the markets and shopping centers, houses and offices, streets and lanes of the city. To get a flavor of what matters here as much as Christmas does in Europe we headed to a couple of Diwali bazaars in Delhi.

Diwali bazaar in Blind School is one of the most famous in town. It seems that originally the Blind Relief Association arranged the bazaar to sell the candles along with some other items made by its wards for the charity of the establishment.



Yet, while the good-value candles still attract people, these days Blind School rents out the majority of the stalls to the external vendors. In fact, the bazaar is also renowned as the market for rich Delhi wives, which is certainly true.



Really pleasant, hassle-and-extra-attention-free atmosphere and upmarket stalls seem like a great place for women wearing sophisticated kurtas and jeans (the combination is a profound trademark of (upper-) middle class Indian women), bags with the logos of Louis Vuitton, Gucci and Channel and delicate perfumes.



They come accompanied at times by their husbands or teenage children or more often with the girlfriends in a Western manner; they wander around, amass bags and boxes and then load those into their cars looking like the lorry of Santa Claus. And the potential for amassing things is really great at Diwali Bazaar. Hardly anything that can cater to the picky tastes of the shoppers looking for presents and new dresses is missing here: clothes, traditional and western, readymades and dress materials, fancy bags, jewelry and jewelry boxes, exclusive chocolate,



pickles and pan,



natural cosmetics, handmade paper, worship items – lamps, garlands, statues of gods,



paintings, mirrors, bed linen and cushion covers, rugs and plats – artificial and live. Obligatory snack stall serving anything from kulchas to pasta salad is also there. I realized I have not seen much of the sort of things I have found in bazaar - the result of too much roaming around cheap markets and deliberate avoidance of posh shopping malls. For me personally, one Diwali bazaar a year would do.


Later in the night we headed to another sort of arrangement – this time Diwali Mela in Sundar Nagar. Many localities have this sort of festivities around Diwali, yet Sundar Nagar attracts crowds from all over Delhi due to its vast scale.



Mela (fair) is essentially a community celebration with trade stalls,





entertainment, music, side-show and obviously food arrangements.

I realized that some events are worth visiting just for the sake of their mass character. Call it Soviet gigantomania but I love huge parades, big markets, massive open-air concerts and festivities that pack the venue itself and 10 kilometers around it on each side. Call it Soviet collectivism but I enjoy it when you see the anxious anticipation on the faces of the people queuing to get in such an arrangement, excitement of grown-ups which it not any less than that of their small children, joy of being around people on the special day or its eve and sharing your joy with them. This is how I felt at the Mela that night. We tried it all - spectacular food stalls with elaborate selection,





all sorts of goodies sold for Diwali presents and requisites, awful dance performance by some local talents (I guess my standard had soared since the dance festival (LINK), massive swinging boat that made my heart sink every time we were free-falling from the upper extreme of the swings’ trajectory and breakdance that started swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinging right after disappointed me asked, “Where is the thrill?” and Karan replied, “And here it comes”. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Pre-Diwali weekend fuss

The overwhelmingly happening weekend could have left me in a very confused state of mind if I were to think. Yet, as I do not do so, my state of mind can be comfortably described as tired. Indeed, festival of Indian classical dance, more and more time spent with the flatmates and masses of other people on the scene and behind it, Diwali bazaar and Mela, dance contest of the street and working kids. Kate - who is far in the North-East with her parents these days, Claudia - this impressively wholesome independent woman who is managing to give me both loads of personal space and amazing company, Karo - who has returned after her last traveling session to leave the country next Sunday and with whom we are re-inventing our relationship in the new settings of our old flat, Karan – with reasonability and patience of a mature men and pranks of a small boy, and Ben - who generously shared his awesome photographs and experiences and whom we happily hosted during his last days in India - they all could be definitely called the people of the weekend. Again, my (un)ability to prioritize is challenged – on what to post first?

Cult of tea

I pour purified water out in a big bowl that we have got in the kitchen. I let it boil and in the meanwhile I peel a big juicy apple and a small clove of fresh ginger and chop both. Once the water get boiled I throw the fine pieces of apple and ginger along with a stick of cinnamon in the water and quickly cover the bowl. The flat mates get together at the low seats and the beanbag spread around the low red table and I let the water boil on the low fire. The conversation slowly advances and Claudia helps me with cups, sugar and spoons. I cover the bowl with two towels, put one more underneath and bring it on the table. We start discussing the practicalities of the communal life in the flat and I let the drink steam for some time. Once the major tension is released in the talks, I slightly open the bowl and we all inhale the smell given away by the boiled apple, ginger and cinnamon. I pouring out the light colored drink to the bright cups and each of us seasons it with sugar and freshly squeezed lime juice. We indulge our tea to the melody of unhurried chat.

This treat followed the one the other day offered to all of us by Claudia, who is a keen devotee of ginger-lemon tea, wholesome bread, yoga and many other ways she uses to cherish her life energy. The treat was followed by the one prepared by Reima, who has been coming up with most adventurous ways ever to treat his cold. This time he prepared a mix of grated ginger, some mysterious grass – watch out - and Himalaya honey that he himself had with a drop of the Old Monk – for good health. We helped him with the drink so to ensure good karma, health and energy for the whole flat.

Two mornings

I woke up in the large living room of Lajpat Nagar trainee house about quarter past eight and following the recently developed routine was wondering if I can stay in bed a bit longer. The doubts got quickly clarified by Roel who came in the living room with a package of bread and a toaster and Norman who came to plug in the iron. I got up to find only Kirsten sleeping and the rest were already out or on their way to. I could feel the silent and carefully suppressed, yet evident, spirit of the fight for the scarce water resources, queue for the shower and your space in the apartment of eight people. I got suddenly happy that neither had I to rush for work, nor to take shower, nor to wonder about disappeared bananas. I took a bus ride home feeling as serene as one can be in a morning rush hour when you can witness it but do not have to participate. I came to the flat about half past nine to find most of my flatmates still at home. Reima was indulging his morning coffee and readings. Claudia was doing some stretching to the sounds of Tibetan matras filling in the flat. I quickly chopped my fruit salad, exchanged weekend updates with Claudia and joined the guys for breakfast. The notion of calm and peace prevailing in the flat did not delay people who left for work soon. I was struck by the two different mornings I have just seen.

Weekend = weekdays

This weekend came as a puzzle for me. With all the freedom to command my time to my own taste, I have recently adopted a new lifestyle. My mornings have become a bit late: I am hardly urged to wake up about 7 -7. 30 am as I used to. Yet, I get up early enough to see my flatmates for breakfast. Then during the day I am reading on the topic of my prospective doctorate research and writing posts for my blog. Also, by the virtue of staying home I tend to engage in one or another domestic routine in the breaks between studies and writing. The whole last week every single day I was doing one sort of laundry or another - there is nothing as easy as amassing dirty clothes India. Cleaning is also a sad necessity in the flat of six people as the dust tends to accumulate at an impressive speed and never-removed outdoor shoes along with open windows and doors hardly help here too. So, maybe I am more urged than my flatmates to fight any of the listed as I get exposed to that most of the day. However hard, I am trying though to cool down my conscious that may turn me into a non-paid domestic worker instead of a freelance writer as I’d rather fancy being. Anyway, since my major aspirations and duties get fulfilled during the day I have got a whole night which tends to happen out these days. Lots of the new trainees have come, so everyone is pretty keen on meeting, parting, dining out and exploring around. Bunch of the old friends is always there and has not become any less demanding in terms of the investments on both sides, so busy nights are ensured.

The lifestyle of the post-traveling time reminds me of that I had during a brief stay with Tikhon in Moscow Nov-Dec 2004 and my summer 2005 in Norway. In the first instance, I came to Moscow during the break between the classes and the exams at NHH: as an exemplary wife I saw off Tikhon for work in the morning (breakfast and ironing shirts included on the special days), during the day I was studying, doing some grocery shopping and whatever small things I had to fix and every night I was dressing up so we could go out in one way or another. Two weeks of leisure and illusive ‘marital’ happiness. The summer in Norway was all devoted to earning money to come to India, finishing my thesis and proving my ability to get reborn from the ashes. However monotonous the activities were the result was stunning in all the three instances. The social life was almost non-existent, though, in the empty-by-summer student dormitory, yet it started rocking just before I was leaving when in late August all the great new MIBs arrived. Well, in my present situation I am enjoying the best of both situations – being the master of my time, doing the things I really love engaging in, having social life and no relationship bonds.

Yet, the weekend challenge appeared as bewildering as unexpected. I really wondered how to distinguish all-at-my-disposal time of weekdays from all-at-my-disposal time of weekends. And differentiation felt desperately needed: it seems that when we break “normal” routines, e.g. as start working in the night or on weekends and having days for sleeping and weekdays off we find ourselves on a funny frame of reference. Different from that of the majority of people. And to define my comfortable (X,Y) location on it feels more important than explaining to the others that ‘life after work’ is possible.

Cinderella night

It was thanks to the Amit's invitation to a fashion show, that night got filled with fascinating happening. I could not inspire anyone to keep a company, so I had to go on my own. On the first place, I totally grab any opportunity to see what my friends are doing, what constitutes their jobs, lives, expertise and aspirations. By doing so you can better understand the people you know and show your appreciation to them, which immensely contributes to the relationship. So I was happy to see Amit modeling in a show. Secondly, I am always trilled to attend an event of a new-to-me format and being on my own just reinforces my receptiveness, let me be more open to meeting new people and catching new ideas.

Fashion show at a 5* hotel is a certain occasion for dressing up which I indulged. The time when I had to dress up for a party at least once a week is left behind in Norway. So these days, when I mostly resort to shabby traditional or hiding-the-curves Western, dressing up is a luxurious opportunity for me. The fact that walking to the market where I could get an auto was seriously hampered by calls and whistles and that auto-walas initially overquoted price to the hotel by three times showed that I looked just right for the occasion.

The tranquil ambience of the reception lounge soaked in the semi-darkness was as relaxing as teasing for all your senses. People, first very few, were arriving and filling in the room with the smells of their perfumes, sparkles of their dresses, shine of their hair, sweetness of their greeting kisses and hugs. Gastronomic delights were served to keep people busy before the show started. I tasted the canapé with salmon, the most tender paneer ever, melting-on-your-tongue pork, very folk yet elegantly served little momos and the Italian ice-cream which appeared rather expensive than good. Whisky and vodka mixed with anything in any proportion were starting off the merry evening.

Almost before the show started, I spotted a group of guys, also AIESECers, whom I knew – yet, instead of usual 3 they were 4…and that fact determined the dynamics of my evening. The eyes that chill you down and sarcastic jokes that tease you on (I am really getting used to such jokes as a way of communication after having been lived with all these nice people from this amazing region), interest in you and in everyone around, confidence and sense of direction, agency and initiative… It took the first few seconds to realize I was in trouble, but the realization came too late: already then the process had become irreversible…

We saw the collection which appeared to be both male and female traditional ware, discussing the models rather than the clothes. Couple of drink and new friends did not divert us from the initial plan which was TC.

However hard it was to get in with one girl and six guys (I enjoyed the sex-ratio for one time sake, but for the couple entry places it is a huge inconvenience), we made it. I pitied that Roel and Kate could not come, but seeing Kanak after five long moths felt great. It was him that night who made TC look like in those old times when I first started going out there, it was him guarding me from a continuously trying Indian guy (something Western buddies would never pick up, I guess), it was just him and I was happy he was. As an absolute surprise, Daniela and Karan were also there: we could get enough of hugs with the girl who was traveling all this time and just arrived back to Delhi and the guy is just so much fun to see each time. Then, my new flat-mate also made it to TC and I took initiative to introduce everyone to everyone - kind of be at the origin of the relationships the development of which you would not get to witness. So, the fun of the night was shared by the whole marry bunch.

... I love these Cinderella nights when you prepare for a ball and end up with a thrill in your heart, happy and stupid thoughts in your head and anticipation of the next time you will get to see the eyes and hear the jokes. Tomorrow.

Burning the evil

The last night of the celebrations for the greater glory of the Mother Goddess was marked with the burning of the evil spirit. Again, each locality had some figures of the spirit to burn right at hand, yet we decided to go for a mass happening. The area nearby Nehru stadium was identified as the probable place for such happening by impressively informed Kate and we headed there with a couple of new trainees. The flyover nearby the stadium was flooded with people walking towards the area or just taking their place on the flyover to watch the burning from there. We merged with the crowd heading to the scene and raising the clouds of dust on sand-like ground. Before the actual burning the performance of Ramayana (ancient Sanskrit epic) was developing on the stage





and enjoyed the undivided attention of thousands of people gathered at the place.



The scale of the event was mind-boggling: the deafening sounds of the show, crowds captivated by the performance and anxiously anticipating its climax, three huge figures of the evil spirits to be burnt in the culmination of nine-day celebrations.



Once again, we enjoyed the working principle of “Atithi Devo Bhavah'' which is easy to appeal to when dealing with educated people: a polite “Excuse me, sir. How can we?” won us a shortened queue and the best seats nearby the stage and the evil spirits. The latter were burnt with noticeable pleasure.





However scary it was to watch a huge object getting quickly burnt in front of your eyes (or, I wish videos were possible to share), you get thrilled by the felt warmth of the fire, by the proximity of the burning figures and by the realization that the evil is conquered and destroyed.

Musical night

To keep the continuity of the festive activities we went to a concert on the third night. The concert concluded the Qutub Festival that Delhi Tourism held -for the youth of Delhi- The happening took place at the beautiful Qutub Complex welcoming the quest with a carpet-covered path framed with a snake made of Lego-style–red-bricks and shivering candles. The small scene demarked with long bamboo sticks looked like a tribal assembly spot and was prudently set so to have Qutub Minar right on the background. The low old walls and arched gates along with some tall bamboo constructions serving as lights to dilute the darkness of the night created a very atmospheric place for the sufi music that was to be played. That was my first time here when .I saw a band rather than an individual in the classical performance. When introduced they all came on the scene one by one – all in cream traditional costumes with golden embroidery – and got seated with their legs crossed. Two masters followed – the eldest was actually helped to get on the stage – so hard it was for him to walk. They all started tuning in their instruments and warming up their voices. Despite the presence of a very populous band on the stage the performance clearly looked as a one-man show, or that of the master. It was very interesting to observe how the issues of hierarchy came into play in the musical settings too. The master was clearly the oldest in the family and in the band, had more practice than anyone else and therefore was entitled the unquestionable respect. In the classical singing the songs often build up around just a few lines constantly repeated. So, the master was reciting those which were then picked up and sang by the junior master sitting on his right and then further supported and developed by the other instrument and voices. The master himself would rarely sing, yet he would enjoy the prerogative of the interaction with the audience. He would more often act as a narrator rather than a singer: he would recite the lines and elaborate on those, invariably causing the burst of applause, cries of approval and agreement. He would also take the liberty to interrupt others singing and recite some lines. Even when silent he would be gesticulating while listening to the song. He would tap on the shoulder of the younger singer sitting on his left when the latter sings a great piece. This all makes you realize that the master is the centre that the performance carries on around. Otherwise, putting aside anthropological observations of the social interaction, I can say that the music was beautiful. The sound was getting born from the initial dissonance coming out as a complete cacophony. The voices and the instruments then would merge at some point and the sound would get reinforced: it would grow and grow to find out its upper limit like a firework raising in the sky and then upon reaching it would open up to its most and would blossom in the ultimate celebration of its power.

So more unexpected after that was to face the second part of the concert which appeared to be popular music. Three great Bollywood voices were singing much and little known songs from various Hindi movies. And here one could get simply taken aback by the intergenerational dynamics in the audience. I would expect the younger part to endorse the major excitement, yet the older part of it gradually vanish from the scene so calmly blessed by the sufi sounds before and now with undue familiarity insulted by the Bollywood beats. Yet, the craziness appeared overarching: while young people filled in all the space between the stage and the seating and were enthusiastically waving their hands, dancing and clapping, the older part of the audience did not remain calm either. The whole audience was singing along, moving their heads and hands with even some grannies jumping up and dancing in the most culminating moments of the show. That’s the truly musical nation with unbeatable masti spirit!