In Delhi, I am taken care of by hundreds of hands. Hands which open the doors for me. Hands which drive cars. Hands which carry my bags. Hands which cook my food. Hands which wash and iron my clothes and fold them neatly, like I never do. Hands which take away wilted flowers and arrange…
Aliveness, or To love flamenco is to love life
To love Spain, to love flamenco is to love life. Who doesn’t love life? Everybody does. Or do they? Or maybe love for life is not an inbuilt, by-default function in all of us? Or maybe sometimes it needs repair? When I was in Russia, I was following on social media the founder of one…
Returning to flamenco, or Relighting the light
Last Monday, our teacher was in a brooding mood. Just a little. She said: This studio is unique. I fix skirts for you. I fix shoes for you. I coach you. I provide psychological support. No-one else does it. All included in the price. She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the mirror…
Why do you dance? Or Magic, or Look at Me
Last Monday I saw my teacher summon the students at the end of their class. I was stretching before the next class and watching them. Why do you dance? She asked. She quoted Churchill first and things like that. She loves that stuff. But her intention was to ask: Why do you dance? You need…
My new voice, or They are not so bad after all
My feet spoke. Teeko, teeko-teeko; Teeko, teeko-teeko; Ta-da, da! Ta, da, da! – said my feet. Hushed voices, the clicking of my friend’s phone keyboard. Some indistinct shuffling and rustling. A siren somewhere far, far away. And then: Teeko, teeko-teeko… Ta-da, da! The sound of metal on wood. Polished, shiny silky nailwork on the upturned…
Not a memory, or Camera obscura
The first word my little son learnt when he came to India for the third time, just before his second birthday, was ‘auto’. The green-and-yellow autorikshas, the tuk-tuks of Delhi, captured his imagination. His grandfather bought him a toy auto which he wouldn’t put down – until he lost it somewhere, and it had to…
Pyramid, or Not making a dent
I am at the top. I am such a tiny percentage that, statistically, I am non-existent. When people look at me, they see a foreigner. But I am not. I am, if it is convenient for me. But actually, I am not. I am an anthropologist gone all native. But that’s beyond the point. I…
Liberation, or lack thereof
Everyone took off their shoes somewhere and are walking barefoot to the temple. Walking on the dirty dusty asphalt to the temple. Picking up the dirt and the dust and the mud on their feet, bringing it all into the temple. The idea is to take off your shoes so as to keep the temple…
Perish, unloved
I lost my love for India. Where did it go? Maybe the vultures took it. Those vultures I used to admire from afar. Mountains of ash outside Delhi, with vultures circling around them, as I saw them a decade ago, when a new heart was beating in my chest. Plains laid waste, surrendered to the…
I knew enough Hindi to tell her
Under the flyover, at the crossroads, the cars were waiting for the green light. A few steps away, on a street paved with red and white tiles, some uprooted and broken, a woman in a synthetic sari was beating a skinny girl with a stick. The girl was covering her head with her arms, trying…
Choices? Or Imagine India
Is Bombay India or does it defy India? Or both? Or is it Indian in its defiance? I guess it’s more or less the same as to ask if Moscow is Russia or if London is Britain. They aren’t. They are. The wealthy cosmopolitan Bombayites clad in Western clothes, or Indian clothes aspiring to look…
My dear, beloved step-motherland
At the passport control, the immigration officer questioned, one after the other, a bunch of Chinese young men. What is the purpose of your visit? How long are you going to stay? What kind of business are you doing? Their English was not very good, but they answered diligently, and the officer was satisfied. He will…
Surrounding Cultures 