When I was leaving for Delhi, I was asked to eliminate all shawls, sweaters, jacket [note, singular] from my spartan duffel bag. In fact all warmth, all protection. What if it’s a little nippy in the nights? No, I was warned, the city was “scorching”… Okay then, I was nervously prepared for this arid desert with sufficient anticipation, since I burn far better than freeze. And then I went off to the airport. Where I was summarily told that the terror alert was rocketing to the top of its chart, even as I argued, and no moral support would be allowed in. I was going in all alone. Now, I don’t sound this way for nothing. I was going to have to live with 15 people I’d never met before and I had spent a week having premonitions. Besides feeling horribly under qualified for the whole thing, I was suffering the thought of several artistic temperaments bull fighting each other for the next few weeks. Now I like artists. They’re my favourite kind of fascinating people, whatever it is that they do, whether painting, pottery, performance etc. But they are also almost always troubled, dramatic and moody people and I am one of those people mortally afraid of other people’s scenes. My own are not up for discussion right now.
I sulkily bid superstar goodbye. Bombs on planes apparently mean that one’s bags are screened before one even enters the airport. I put in my luggage, my handbag and the organizer that has, for the past 5 years, contained my whole life, career, cash and cards. Also items of sentiment and return ticket on this occasion. Foul mood unchanged, I collect boarding pass and return to pick up handbag. Am told that Terror Alert has made screening a long process and it seemed as though the last set of items would need rechecking.
I cheerfully contemplate the thought of a bomb turning up in my bag or my pots of lip gloss sparking mortal fear, and say so to fellow passenger who is also deprived of his laptop. He looks disapproving of such flippancy yet accompanies me to coffee place, bookstore etc. I remove earplugs as missing flight this time would be of serious consequence. (At some point I will put up post on How to Miss a Flight – Like Never Before) Then security and sitting around. My absconding bag and diary begin to worry me at this point and no amounts of reassuring from officials placate me. Particularly since boarding had begun. I rush around and finally retrieved the bag. The all important organizer has disappeared! Despite being promised that it was definitely somewhere (!) and that I would be the first to know when it was located, I panicked. If I called anyone, I knew they would tell me to not take the flight. And missing this one was not even a remote option. I was the last to board and I have never cursed as much, albeit mentally, as I did the airport and this bewildering madness. A crazy 2 hours with some exceptionally bad food pass excruciatingly slowly and I land. Switch on phone while people rush around as though local bus will restart movement in a few seconds. I have 21 missed calls from unknown number. I am informed upon calling back, by a cold voice called the Bangalore Airport Manager that a black organizer is waiting for me in that city, as I sit in another, trying to imagine what I will do without any money, identification, credit or debit facility etc. The next morning I was to reach Drama School but before that I was on my own.
I did what I haven’t done in many years. I called Dad ( who incidentally lives now in a different time zone) and bawled out my sad victimization by the cruel world. That took about ten minutes, without him getting in more than a sentence edgeways. And then, from halfway across the world, he flashed his magic wand, told me to go collect luggage, and wait outside. Some kind person arrived in 20 minutes, whisked me away to lovely food and shelter and gave me more money than I started out with.
5 years ago, my pride and independence would’ve been severely damaged. Here, I was just plain happy. Kind person in question kept asking if I needed more money, food, towels etc. And I was rescued.
The next morning, after much earnest navigation I found the school, only to be told that the programme was to be at a farmhouse on the outskirts since such blessed work was hardly to be conducted in the middle of the city. I suspect they were afraid of temperamental people as well and wanted to be as inaccessible as possible. In any event, all was forgiven and forgotten on reaching aforementioned farm. It is a sprawling, vast, green haven with peacocks and orange trees everywhere. It was as though Delhi and its swearing drivers and pomp, had disappeared.
Apart from our invasion, the farm was equipped with several studio apartments where artists from the across the world came and lived in for a year or more, to create their work in complete peace. Among the people I met ( Breakfast, tea, lunch, tea again, and dinner were in a common dining hall that one had to walk half a kilometer of beautiful stone path to reach) were a Japanese painter and his visiting American lecturer partner. Both entirely desirable and Tor, my Japanese friend is truly gifted at what he does. The others were Martin an English cartoonist (uncanny resemblance to what a cartoony, stiff version of Prince Charles would be like), Jane, the English writer, Carol, the American painter, Queenie, the Korean tai chi expert and Navjeet, the Sikh, Bharatnayam dancer( I was astonished at the combination of his profession and community and then, later, at his incredible grace and masculinity as a performer) . There were also two Russian women dancers who came to watch our rehearsals but never spoke a word to any of us.
My personal connection though was with Gwyn, the Australian potter. She’s 61, beautiful and can tell the most amazing stories though her work. The fame and money achieved through gallery showings in New York is important to her, and a means to stay in a place like the farm for a year and in that stillness, breathe life into the most exquisite creations I have ever seen. One of her instillation pieces is called ‘Breath’, and is a series of bottles and pots in a pale rose porcelain, that when put together seem to breathe out one long sigh. When she holds a pot in her lovely, wrinkled, mud-stained hands, and talks about its inner movement and energy, it is and was for me, incredibly wonderful to watch.
The first day and night were hard. I missed home and my friends terribly. Despite all the conversation and exciting energies, it took me a few days to really submit to these people, all of who were so entirely wrapped up in what they had chosen to do with their life. And once I did, the joy of being allowed to talk, learn and listen continuously, all day long on the one thing that mattered most to all of us, was a freedom I’ve never had before. It didn’t matter if some of us spoke different languages, except at rehearsal, where it did matter and tempers frayed. But even that was exciting and we tested so many boundaries that in ordinary settings, would be difficult to get past.
The magic was very inspiring. What was not inspiring, wonderful or magical was the bitter cold and freezing rain that schizophrenic Delhi chose to shower on me. After must nastiness over the phone, Super and Anand remorsefully couriered shawls, cap, woollies etc. Braving what was an extreme temperature for me at least, we began going out in the evenings to see the city, and some of us grew very close. It is however, the first time I’ve been in a situation where every one of us liked and respected the other enormously and while I have no doubt that things would naturally change if the situation were to extend to a year, it added an important connectivity to the whole thing. I made personal bonds with two people that I’ll always keep in touch with. And I came back with an incredible amount of clarity for the future, a result of the long walks and unspoilt quality of that perfect place. I’ve tried not to gush but I really do feel so much for my time there.
In a few weeks, I will move to another city, leaving behind all that is familiar, loving and reassuring. And this trip, while certainly not making it any easier, has inspired me to have the necessary strength.
