Dancing, head-banging and santooring in Delhi

I love this big city. Tonight it dished up a heavy metal concert in aid of the environment (bogans for climate change?) and a stunning display of contemporary dance by young Indian choreographers.

I had wondered whether there was room for boundary-pushing forms of dance in a country with such a rich traditional dance heritage and ubiquitous bollywood. But there were no light bulb changing moves tonight. In their place, three contemporary dance pieces which hinted at tradition but were freed from it as well. The soundtracks were sparse, and for long periods silence was the only companion. The dancers were brilliant. Some detail on the performance is at www.gatidance.com.

And as for the metal concert, well that too spoke to an India moving way ahead of the world's perception of it. India, the cultural superpower is coming to a city near you.

Earlier in the week I went to a performance by Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, the legendary player of the Santoor, a folk instrument from Kashmir. Words can't describe how beautiful his music was, accompanied by tabla. And the rapturous applause from a large and surprisingly youthful audience spoke to the ongoing popularity of Indian classical music. But I think that nomenclature is somewhat misleading - it's more like jazz than western classical, free and dynamic and full of improvisation. Magic.

Monsoon II - a colonial construct

A newspaper this week carried an opinion piece arguing that India's famous monsoon was a colonial construct designed by the British to instill a sense of nationhood amongst restive Indians. The notion of a single, benevolent and nation-nourishing cloud was at odds with the reality of India's patchy and inconsistent rainfall - or so he argued. The storm last week in Delhi fitted my mental image of 'the monsoon.' And colonial constructs aside I'd like to maintain that name because it sounds so much more exotic . . . . A bit like 'the outback' or 'the far east' or 'El nino.'

Ethical fashion sans bono

On Thursday I lined a catwalk in a swanky nightclub to watch India's "First Ever Ethical Fashion Show." Spotlights swirled, cameras flashed, ladies strutted and pouted, and some very serious looking lads with high cheekbones walked in a straight line. Sadly, Bono did not make a live video cross, and there was no mention of whales or rainforests, but the room was chock full of very glamorous and, no doubt, very ethical people. I'm not clear on the technicalities of how quite the garments were ethical, but the peasant farmers/ garment workers in the accompanying video did look unusually cheery. And there was no polyester in sight. Everybody left feeling lighter and more virtuous as their late model Bentleys weaved into the late night Delhi traffic.

Monsoon

It's mid afternoon in monsoonal delhi, and the air is alive. The sky is darkening as the wind gusts teasingly at dust covered trees. Birds of prey ride the wild currents as though they were rollercoasters, soaring high then plumetting to earth. And then it strikes, first as ominously big dollops of water, then as a fountain. Trees bend double and shake with the fury of childish tantrums. The wind and the rain become one as they send unsuspecting shoppers scurrying for cover. Everything and everyone stops and admires the unhinged power of nature. Later, the sky turns grey-green, the rain becomes less penetrating, and to the unaccustomed eye it is as if winter has descended. All is still and magic. The traffic consequences are another story!

Khan Market

Independence Day

India celebrated it's sixty third independence day yesterday. It seems such a small number for such an ancient and strong country. As the years drift, the british era is joining the many rulers and conquerers who once tried to control the uncontrollable, now mere footnotes in history books. This country is independent to its core.

All through the night the drone of planes taking off and landing at the nearby airport filled my house. It made me think about India's place at the centre of the world, as the hub for India's vast diaspora, as a magnet for tourists who flock here to be spiritualised and to immerse themselves in smells and cultures foreign, as home to one sixth of humanity and half its religions. The drone in the night made me think of all the family reunions and weddings and funerals and festivals that form the core of Indian life, that binds the diaspora together, drawing them back.

And it made me think about the brittle pride people have for their country, their hopes that it will be respected and not typecaste, that it will shape world decisions, not be dictated to. The legacy of foreign rule is a deep sensitivity to anything that might encroach on India's independence or pride. But they need not worry - Independent India is here to stay. Viva.

Life made easy - Rs50

Work in progress

I've been trying for a week to write an update for friends on my life in Delhi. Six months ago when I landed, Indira Gandhi International Airport was shrouded in a thick mist, and now my thoughts are afflicted by the same. The things I know are these:

1)Living in India is deeply humbling. I feel small amidst its people and culture. That which I've learned before coming here feels abstract and foreign. I've crossed over to another world and my old one will never be the same.

2)There is a teeming energy everywhere that defies description, in peoples conversations, in the traffic, in the air. Life is in perpetual motion here, nothing is still.

3)Ancient India and modern India are inseparable. They pull away from eachother but one is nothing without the other - where they meet is a faultline. New forms of creativity are emerging as the ancient morphs into the modern. But there's baggage too.

4)This is a ruthless place, and life is tough for so many. But people don't complain. They just get on with living. I don't want to become immune to the reality of people's lives. I don't want to glorify their struggle either, just admire it, and be thankful for what I have been given.

5)The expat bubble is an occasional comfort, but equally a curse. It must be escaped.

6)There is nowhere I'd rather be right now than India. I feel like I've just begun.

The buses of Delhi

The old buses are being phased out of Delhi's fleet, replaced by shiny green machines. This is pretty much universally welcomed as an improvement to the lives of commuters. And given the number of unsuspecting pedestrians and cyclists that the buses mow down, this is probably a win for safety too. But there is something about Delhi that will be gone forever with them - something aesethic about the buses that is both brutal and free. Perhaps it's the open windows that emanate a glow in the early evening traffic, or the steep staircases that challenge each boarding. Perhaps it's the scraped bumpers gesturing to road battles faught and won, or the wide-eyed mania of the men who drive them. I'm not sure how to say this without it sounding like development is a bad thing, but I fear a future where every city in the world has the same sort of perfect bus, and perfect commuters commute to perfect workplaces and perfectly execute their jobs so they can afford the perfect education for their perfect children who repeat the pattern for eternity. Something is lost. Something of character.

Division of labour

This amused me - quite clearly there are proscribed limits to the job description of tractor drivers. Drive tractor. Rest.

White Tiger - The Musical

I tipped my toe into the White Tiger side of Delhi last night. A friend of a friend knew a guy who was having a party at a water park near Delhi airport's perimeter. We drove past parked interstate trucks down dimly lit streets. Rising from the 1am darkness, the spotlit waterslides looked tired, as though they had seen better times. A line-up of late-model imported cars spoke to the clientele inside.

We headed for the open air dancefloor where a motley crew were swaying unconvincingly. Bangra mixed with house music blared out at a volume fit for Wembly stadium, dwarfing the small crowd. We were introduced to a strikingly tall Ukranian woman who said the word 'model' with a thick east european accent. She was smiling at everyone, pulling business cards from her gold handbag as though at an Amway convention.

Under the faux-Hawaii huts, Indian men sipped drinks and slapped eachothers backs. Tired looking white women mingled in their midst, occasionally laughing. There was not a single Indian woman there.

We danced for a while, and talked to some NRI-types from London. One mixed a surprisingly tasty cocktail of beer, pear juice, orange juice and white wine - he swore by it - and so a hangover was born. We ran though fountains and got drenched and then danced some more. And then we left.

It was the wierdest party vibe I can recall. On the way home my driver (whose antenna is clearly more attuned than mine) told me it was a Rs2000 a head function, with the promise of free booze and lots of loose white women. Not pretty. If they ever make a 'White Tiger' musical, they'd do well to include a scene from the water park.