All but inspirational

Sheriff has lost his voice. Ragasthan 2012 has announced another casualty. It’s probably the intense man management that’s speaking for itself. High time those morning speeches and drinking binges acted out.
At its best, his throat can now utter muffled noises.

Yet he speaks.
When not a terrible reminder of the shithole we’re in, it’s all but inspirational.

Exchanged identities

‘Come in Deputy S. This is Batman’.

‘What’?

‘Oh, shit! So sorry! Come in, Batman. This is Deputy S’.

Overworked and sleep deprived, the deputies now get confused with their own names. I can only imagine what lies ahead.

One for the Team

‘Stage, do you mind taking one more for the team’?

Smi is spitting fire. She wants someone to put up posters, banners and direction signs on the road to Kanoi. She insists that it has to happen today itself. I haven’t seen her so animated since that time in Ladakh when she lost all pictures from her camera. Well, someone else deleted them actually but that’s probably a story suited for later.

‘And don’t you worry. You’ll have Den and Volunteer SK to help you out. Take a few labourers along. You might need them’.

‘Is that all, Smi’? Just the posters’?

‘Well, yeah, pretty much. Den does have a few other things to take care of but you need not stress about that. In fact, in that time, you can probably sit at a café and get some writing done. What say’?

‘I’d love that, yeah. When do you want me to leave’?

‘Right now’!

So we begin.
We take Young Zuzu along. He is a good driver for his age. I really trust his sense of the local terrain.

Deputy SK follows us in a pickup truck. He is supposed to bring with him a few labourers and some 24 bamboo poles. Two for each poster, I am intimated. However, we soon realise that the truck isn’t following us at all. It’s nowhere to be seen. We try getting in touch with Deputy SK but his phone refuses to comply. No network, it seems.

Den and I decide to head to the city anyway. We might as well finish what we can, in the meantime.

He tells me that he has to send a courier each to Pushkar and Ahmedabad. It’s for the caravan guys. They need a few banners for their buses. He also has some work at a bank in town. Money transfer, I presume. A lot of that has been happening.

He drops me at the fort and leaves.
I head straight to La Puerta Del Sol, my favourite restaurant in the city. The idea is to sit back with countless cups of chai and write some shit. Like always, it works like magic. Now that I think of it, I have probably spent more time here than anywhere else in the last 45 days.

Den comes back in a few hours with absolutely nothing to show for his efforts. He looks like he is going to pull his hair out of his skull. That could mean one thing and one thing only, a shit day. Apparently, all banks and courier shops in and around the city are still shut in lieu of Diwali. Lost and irritated, he chokes with anger.

‘Please tell me Deputy SK is here with everything we need. I can’t stand wasting an entire day, man’.
I make a final call to his number. This time around, it rings.

‘Where are you, dude’?
‘In the city. Why’?
‘What do you mean, why? We’ve been waiting for you for over 3 hours now’.
‘Waiting for me?
‘Arrey! Ajeeb aadmi hai yaar. You were supposed to get us some stuff from the venue, remember’?
‘No. No, I don’t. What are you talking about’?
‘What? Are you serious, bro? No shit, you are serious. What a fucktard, I should have seen it coming’.

Denver is absolutely shattered. He looks at the posters and cusses hoarse, like gentleman King Kong. I think he is a little too familiar with this act of taking one for the team.

Buzzing with activity

The flies are here again. They haven’t yet missed a date. Every day, bright and early, they throng to our faces and wake us up. They are our alarm clocks.

I put my hat on and walk out the tent. Without the hat, braving the desert sun isn’t too great an idea. It feels pretty much like walking straight into an overexposed film. Any other day, I would have put my shades on. Not today, though. Not since Batman flicked mine last night. He is an exceptionally cheeky man, that one.

Sheriff is up and about as always. He is beaming with joy. The man wakes up at 5 in the morning, works all day like a motherfucking machine and never sleeps for more than 3 hours. Yet somehow, he always greets with a smile.

He tells me it’s Diwali today, even gives me a bear hug to prove it. Forget dates, I can’t even tell a rabbit from a car. Is it Diwali already? If it is, moreover, shouldn’t we be scared shitless? Aren’t we too close for comfort now? In just about three days, we are going to open our shores for an ocean of people to alight upon. They will obviously want to find everything they have been promised. Are we even prepared?

It turns out we are.

The venue is buzzing with activity. Walking in, I find a man draping a 30 feet canopy. He looks really happy to be up there. Further ahead, I see a man working under a canopy of tables. I can’t quite make out what he is doing but he seems intent on doing it. I presume it is important.

There is movement all around.

‘Haan! Now it looks like we’re going to have a festival here’.

Batman can see no wrong. It could well be my shades. They tend to make things look better than they actually are.

Brothers in tights

Robin is here.
Batman must be absolutely thrilled to have him.

All Ye Faithful

A couple of days back, Deputy S asked me, “You want a story for the blog?”

“Sure.”

“Musician has bought a new tractor!”

But that’s not the story. The story is that Master and Musician have been on-site every day since Day One. They have been there sun-up to sun-down and beyond. They have cleared land and transported supplies all over the site. When not on their tractors, they have gone about on foot doing every odd and even job possible.

They are no less than any member on this team. They are friends.

I ride in Musician’s tractor every evening. It’s ritual by now. And every morning, Master comes by to share his cigarette with me. He found me at noon today, hiding behind the tent for shade while I write. He offered a cigarette and said, “I was looking for you all day. I have been saving this.”

Musician has bought himself a new tractor because he knows we’ll need a more powerful machine at the site. He has bought it because he knows we’ll be here again next year. Because he knows he will again be part of this team. Because he has faith in us.

This festival would not be possible without bucket-loads of such faith.

It’s not just Master and Musician. Gajju Banna was only supposed to put up a colony of 200 Swiss Tents for us. He has been with us every day on every small detail. He has let us use his own camp site wily-nily. He has helped us supervise and pull through more than his domain.

Grand Meister and his brother, Padam Ji, have been with us every step of the way. We are strangers in this land, helpless without them. They are the two able feet this festival is standing on.

But why? It’s not the money. It cannot be. I personally don’t think there’s enough to go around for the hours and the sweat that has gone into this festival already. What they do it for is worth much more than money.

They do it because they share our dream. They believe that even if not probable given the time and resources, it is still possible. They believe that, together, we will make it happen. They have faith.

Faith makes stronger men of us all.

The only problem with it is that acting on faith has stolen Musician’s mojo, his eponymous identity. The new tractor plays no music.

Can we please buy him a transistor for it?

MIA

Deputy V and Deputy N have been missing in action. But they are finally here again. They had been in Jodhpur for five days sourcing equipment and materials for pretty much the whole festival. They would check out at nine in the morning every day, hoping to wrap up and leave for Jaisalmer. But every night, they would have to check back in.

“Arre, it was so embarrassing,” laughs Deputy V.

“Wahan toh dukan-wale bhi pehchaan-ne lage apne ko,” says Deputy N.

They are a welcome sight. They have been sorely missed. Especially when the sun bites and the shade looks like heaven and you need all eyes on the field.

“Woh log hote, na, toh yeh sab kaam aaraam se sambhal lete,” said Deputy S one day.

I doffed my hat at the fire in the sky and agreed. So did Deputy H. “Woh to akela hi poora ek team hai,” he said about Deputy V.

And now Deputy H himself is missing in action. At this time, it is exactly three days to the festival. And he has gone back to Delhi. We suspect it’s because he doesn’t want to miss the Diwali goodies at home.

We hope he gets back some at least.

Dark Night

It was a scary Saturday night at the campsite this week.

The team had scattered. Some had gone to get drinking water. We keep running out of it. Some had gone to get diesel for the generator. We keep running out of that too. Trucks needed to be directed over dirt roads into the venue. Some had gone to rescue one that had its wheels stuck in a pocket of sand.

The crew camp was plunged in darkness when Batman snuck in to the tent.

“I need to figure out five lakhs cash in ten minutes,” he said in a hoarse Batman whisper. Very unlike him. “I mean, I had to figure out five lakhs in one hour,” he said. “I’ve been trying for the last fifty minutes already. Think, think. How do we do this?”

Holy shit-my-pants, Batman! I don’t think I’ve ever seen five lakhs worth of currency.

So I did the best I could. I held my knees to keep them from knocking, zipped my lips to keep them from hyperventilating, and racked my brain to oblivion.

A couple of weeks earlier, something similar had happened. Batman walked out of the ATM with a grin and said, “There’s no money in the company account.” It was Navratri week. Banks opened and shut every alternate day. Deposits stayed uncleared. But advances paid to vendors had been immediately debited.

At that time, Batman said they would probably need to crowd-source investment for the festival. Sponsors are few and the scale is immense. The partners have been reaching into their own pockets already. Before leaving for Mumbai, Batman had asked Kaptaan, “So should we start looking for alternate sources of money? ...Moms and Dads, I mean.”

Batman laughed then. Not now.

Less than a week to the festival, Saturday night, 45 kms from an ATM, and a vendor is refusing to unload his goods if not paid five lakhs in cash immediately.

This time, Batman hit the panic button. It’s a rare sight. It’s terrifying. But what else can you do at gunpoint? What can you do when one hitch threatens to dismantle everything you’ve brought to the table? What can you do when there are trip wires at the finish line?

Later that night, Batman confessed, “This... this was my lowest point of the entire festival.”

We’re beyond that point now. Things still go wrong every day as they are bound to. And sometimes we’re definitely in the gutter. But, God, we’re looking at the stars again.

Chores on hold

‘No water? Again? I hate this shit, bro’.
Kaptaan is enraged.

Early morning isn't the time to run out of water.

Back Story

The last three days – or was it four? – have been a flurry of heat, sand and Brownian motion. There have been no words at my fingertips. Only stone, chalk, rope and bamboo. And bhuruts.

This was not the plan.

I’m Back.

I’m a writer.

When Batman invited me to stay in Jaisalmer for six weeks and create content for the Ragasthan Facebook page, I had my reservations. They needed only a few posts per day; that’s a couple of hours work at most. I didn’t want to be on holiday. Besides, I dread being a drag on resources.

I told him so. And he mailed me some images of the venue.

I kicked myself and booked the earliest train out. I met Stage at Bikaner (he drove down from Delhi) and we were off to Jaisalmer in the Rabbit.

The first two weeks were placid. Touristy. We put on our shades and roamed this little desert city. We met the people, read the lay of the land and its legends. We went looking for honey pancakes, lemon soda and stories in every serpentine gully. We wrote. We relaxed.

And then Unit One arrived.

That night, they blew the lid off the room. There was so much energy buzzing around that I was zapped long into the night. I told Stage maybe we should write a blog. Just to keep an account of how the team pulled off a desert Woodstock – or not. Either way, it would be a good story.

We would keep it honest. We would keep it unofficial. And we would keep it up every day.

I figured it would be easy. It’s not been.

How do you maintain perspective when you’re writing about an idea you’re in love with? How do you keep yourself in and out of the story at the same time? How do you detail all the little waves that push this boat along?

Besides, how do you write? Electricity is rare. The internet is fussy. And hours go by in the blink of an eye.

Still, this story must be told.

So I left for Jaisalmer this morning. Once there, I pottered around with a pen for an hour, all the while wondering if the barricade has been marked, if the registration counters are up, if the pathway to the BYOT has been fixed, if the backdrops for the stages have arrived, and so on.

There are only four days to the festival now. Every minute spent away from the venue is fraught with concern.

I hopped into the next vehicle back.

It is now night. Almost midnight. Half the team is still on-site. As I write sitting on my dorm bed in the crew tent, my mind wanders and goes out to them. My feet will soon follow.

For now, I’m part of the crew. I’m labour, I’m supervisor, I’m a small cog in a mountain moving machine. For now, as Kaptaan calls it, I’m the Pathfinder. I’m anything Ragasthan needs me to be.

Tomorrow, I’ll be Back again.

For a while.

Deputy Stage, is it?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

A carnival of superheroes

Batman calls for a crew meeting. He needs to know who’s taking care of what. Only then can he best decipher how to distribute responsibilities amongst them.
The guys get together and gather around under a food stall at Mauro. They wait for him to begin.

‘You were wondering what’s next on your plate, right? I’ll tell you what is. Go after Kingfisher. Your deal is to sort all the alcohol and all the water. Get it’?
Deputy M responds with a relieved smile. She has been begging for a piece of the action.

‘Shaktimaan ka kya hua? Have we ordered any’?

‘Shaktimaan’?

Deputy NS can’t quite understand why Batman needs an aging superhero at his disposal. Are we under a threat of some kind? Were those calendar freaks serious about the year 2012?

‘Arrey, those Shaktimaan trucks, dude! We were planning to rent some, remember? The idea was to paint them in striking colours, decorate them with frills and drapes and use them as a festival carrier. You guys don’t remember that’?

‘I do. But I didn’t think you were serious. Were you’?
Sheriff adds in a hushed tone.

‘I most definitely was. Look at it this way, okay. People are going to make trips to the city on a regular basis, crew and guests alike. Correct? Won’t it be absolutely badass then to have a festival truck that ferries them to and fro? All we need is some paint and some streamers. We’ll empty the entire section behind and place mattresses for seating. It’ll be fun, man. Plus it’s excellent branding, you know. There’s no way people won’t notice it’.

Sheriff and Deputy R make a note of all requirements.

Shaktimaan is called for.
This festival has turned into a superhero carnival.