Having lunch with Ganesha
Read -- Tripathi, A. (2011) The secret of the nagas, Westland Ltd., Chennai -- Cheesy, engaging, fun, clever. Mythology-based Bollywood-type action thriller, starring Shiva and Sati, supported by Ganesha and Kali, and featuring newcomer Kartik and award-winner Parshuram.
Reading -- Kapur, K. K. (2009) Ganesha goes to lunch - classics from mystic India, Om Books International, New Delhi -- Sensitive, poetic, unfettered, romantic, very, very clever. Suited to my flamboyant senses. If you've never known how Narada loves Vishnu you should read this.
Want to read -- Adiga, A. (2011) Last man in tower, HarperCollins, Noida -- The first couple of pages is a reminder as to why Indian authorship + English language + subcontinental masala = mindblowing writing!
It's not easy keeping all senses peeled at all times, but that's what this place forces you to do. I've seen Bharatanatyam and Odissi and Kathak; heard sarod and sitar and classical vocal; tasted paneer sandwiches and Indian garlic tofu and poori bhaji; smelled jasmine incence and fetid paan and chlorhexidine cleaning-solution; and I've felt curious stares and warm hugs and sweat sticking to me like an overzealous amour.
"Time flies when you're having fun". I'm not sure whom to credit for that. Hanging out with dance and music biggies seems too casual, but every time it happens I remember, as a child, hearing these names and being taken in by their legendary awesomeness. Or is that awesome legendariness? Thanks, A and S, for including me in family outings.
I've learned a couple of more phrases in Hindi, not all of them reproducible in respectable company. The rain is like a warm, gentle kiss that takes away the sting of the afternoon sun. My feet are calloused from dancing, but in this weather, truly, I have the ugliest feet in the world.
An auto ride from Connaught Place to the Red Fort, on a post-lunch Saturday, is inadvisable. And unless you want to part with precious Rupees, it's best to say a firm NO to 'guides' across the old city. The Red Fort, sadly, is only imposing from the outside. Its history is rich, and certainly there's magic and mystery, but physically it lies in want of a 'lick of paint'. Inside, there's not actually much that is 'red'. The Nizamuddin shrine is to behold, set amidst a filthy maze of shops and trinket-wallahs, it could easily be lost to a previous century. I was surprised at how casual it all was, much like any south-Indian temple I've been to: damp, dirty, noisy, carefree, and utterly blissful. C and A, to more revelry across old and new Delhi, day- or night- time.
I have learned Mangala Charan, Jagannath Swami, and Mohana Pallavi. There's only enough time to polish them. Unless I press ahead with prayers for an abhinaya piece. Thanks to the gandharvas who helped me with the trickery of tribhanga and the charms of chauka. I want to go back to Puri, to attend Ratha Yatra.
I'm not sure I can deal with seeing scantily dressed, undernourished-looking, sad-eyed children begging. I'm forever haunted by this. I want to make a change, but recycling plastic bottles and using a water-save showerhead in my London flat seems pointless. If I could dance away this misery I would. I would. How is it possible to harbour so much contradiction, to want the pleasures of life because I feel it is almost a right, and feel guilty for wanting them because I can't share them?
I've been unwell. It started as a tickling in the back of the throat, which scampered up my sinuses into my nose, and set up a drip drip drip. Then it congealed and slugged back down again into my lungs. Apparently Delhi dust is in cohorts with invisible critters that give you malaise. Lots of water, cold n flu tablets, vAITamin C and much sleeping over a couple of days and I'm on the mend. But that didn't stop me shopping. Tomorrow I shall visit Nalli. And, fingers crossed, Chandni Chowk.
Ah, just remembered that I should take my laundry down for the dhobi to collect in the morning.
Reading -- Kapur, K. K. (2009) Ganesha goes to lunch - classics from mystic India, Om Books International, New Delhi -- Sensitive, poetic, unfettered, romantic, very, very clever. Suited to my flamboyant senses. If you've never known how Narada loves Vishnu you should read this.
Want to read -- Adiga, A. (2011) Last man in tower, HarperCollins, Noida -- The first couple of pages is a reminder as to why Indian authorship + English language + subcontinental masala = mindblowing writing!
It's not easy keeping all senses peeled at all times, but that's what this place forces you to do. I've seen Bharatanatyam and Odissi and Kathak; heard sarod and sitar and classical vocal; tasted paneer sandwiches and Indian garlic tofu and poori bhaji; smelled jasmine incence and fetid paan and chlorhexidine cleaning-solution; and I've felt curious stares and warm hugs and sweat sticking to me like an overzealous amour.
"Time flies when you're having fun". I'm not sure whom to credit for that. Hanging out with dance and music biggies seems too casual, but every time it happens I remember, as a child, hearing these names and being taken in by their legendary awesomeness. Or is that awesome legendariness? Thanks, A and S, for including me in family outings.
I've learned a couple of more phrases in Hindi, not all of them reproducible in respectable company. The rain is like a warm, gentle kiss that takes away the sting of the afternoon sun. My feet are calloused from dancing, but in this weather, truly, I have the ugliest feet in the world.
An auto ride from Connaught Place to the Red Fort, on a post-lunch Saturday, is inadvisable. And unless you want to part with precious Rupees, it's best to say a firm NO to 'guides' across the old city. The Red Fort, sadly, is only imposing from the outside. Its history is rich, and certainly there's magic and mystery, but physically it lies in want of a 'lick of paint'. Inside, there's not actually much that is 'red'. The Nizamuddin shrine is to behold, set amidst a filthy maze of shops and trinket-wallahs, it could easily be lost to a previous century. I was surprised at how casual it all was, much like any south-Indian temple I've been to: damp, dirty, noisy, carefree, and utterly blissful. C and A, to more revelry across old and new Delhi, day- or night- time.
I have learned Mangala Charan, Jagannath Swami, and Mohana Pallavi. There's only enough time to polish them. Unless I press ahead with prayers for an abhinaya piece. Thanks to the gandharvas who helped me with the trickery of tribhanga and the charms of chauka. I want to go back to Puri, to attend Ratha Yatra.
I'm not sure I can deal with seeing scantily dressed, undernourished-looking, sad-eyed children begging. I'm forever haunted by this. I want to make a change, but recycling plastic bottles and using a water-save showerhead in my London flat seems pointless. If I could dance away this misery I would. I would. How is it possible to harbour so much contradiction, to want the pleasures of life because I feel it is almost a right, and feel guilty for wanting them because I can't share them?
I've been unwell. It started as a tickling in the back of the throat, which scampered up my sinuses into my nose, and set up a drip drip drip. Then it congealed and slugged back down again into my lungs. Apparently Delhi dust is in cohorts with invisible critters that give you malaise. Lots of water, cold n flu tablets, vAITamin C and much sleeping over a couple of days and I'm on the mend. But that didn't stop me shopping. Tomorrow I shall visit Nalli. And, fingers crossed, Chandni Chowk.
Ah, just remembered that I should take my laundry down for the dhobi to collect in the morning.