The festival site is tucked away into the interiors behind Kanoi village. There are no roads here. Only dirt trails that go every which way at once. Stage and I take a wrong turn or three every time we leave or return to this place.
I’m used to getting lost on these roads.
But today was different.
We went looking for Gajju Banna at the Swiss Tent campsite, Sheriff and I. We went on foot, starting a couple hundred feet from the Morio stage. There’s only one generator at the site and it is being taken to the Morio stage. We need another. Gajju Banna has a spare.
It’s dark, so we went by torchlight. And we got lost. Within the festival grounds.
We circled half the perimeter and would probably have walked on through the night if we hadn’t seen lights at the campsite from afar. So we headed there in a bee-line, across fields of bhuruts and thorns.
By the time we got there, Gajju Banna had already left for his own campsite. So we headed for the crew tents. It’s only a five minute walk away.
The moon rises late these days and you can see the Milky Way stretching across the sky like faraway strands of sparkling cotton. It’s a beautiful night, quiet, cold and calm. All around, strange shapes loom and melt into the darkness. We stumble on to the dirt trail and keep walking.
It’s a good walk.
Sheriff and I joke about how it would be a terrible idea for guests to sneak out of the festival premises on their own for a clandestine rendezvous in the dark. How would they find their way back?
After what seems like fifteen minutes or so, we step aside as we see headlights approaching. The car pulls up next to us, a window rolls down, and Vinay, our driver from Mumbai, peeks out. “Where are you going?”
“To the crew tents. Where are you going?”
“To the crew tents.”
“So why are you going that way?”
“And why are you going into the village?”
Lost again. Another fifteen minutes and we would have walked all the way out on to the main road.
I’m used to getting lost on these roads.
But today was different.
We went looking for Gajju Banna at the Swiss Tent campsite, Sheriff and I. We went on foot, starting a couple hundred feet from the Morio stage. There’s only one generator at the site and it is being taken to the Morio stage. We need another. Gajju Banna has a spare.
It’s dark, so we went by torchlight. And we got lost. Within the festival grounds.
I swear there used to be a road here!
We circled half the perimeter and would probably have walked on through the night if we hadn’t seen lights at the campsite from afar. So we headed there in a bee-line, across fields of bhuruts and thorns.
By the time we got there, Gajju Banna had already left for his own campsite. So we headed for the crew tents. It’s only a five minute walk away.
The moon rises late these days and you can see the Milky Way stretching across the sky like faraway strands of sparkling cotton. It’s a beautiful night, quiet, cold and calm. All around, strange shapes loom and melt into the darkness. We stumble on to the dirt trail and keep walking.
It’s a good walk.
Sheriff and I joke about how it would be a terrible idea for guests to sneak out of the festival premises on their own for a clandestine rendezvous in the dark. How would they find their way back?
After what seems like fifteen minutes or so, we step aside as we see headlights approaching. The car pulls up next to us, a window rolls down, and Vinay, our driver from Mumbai, peeks out. “Where are you going?”
“To the crew tents. Where are you going?”
“To the crew tents.”
“So why are you going that way?”
“And why are you going into the village?”
Lost again. Another fifteen minutes and we would have walked all the way out on to the main road.
Why is it that tales of misfortune or in this case misery (field full of bhurut's ouchhh) makes one laugh so so much!
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