paro- normal activity Paromita Vohra Last week, I went to a mela after what seemed like forever.
The word mela calls up filmi imagesu2014 ferris wheels, gypsy women, palmists, and of course, crowds whose main role is to part siblings for life, or the length of a movie, whichever feels longer. As a child, the mela feels thrilling and frightening.
The terror of the crowds separating you from parents, the excitement and sensory overload of candy floss and fried food, joyrides, games of marksmanship ( ring the object, shoot the balloon), announcements mixing with each other: the self- congratulatory rhymes of tombola intoning u201c two fat ladies need to lose weight, eight and eight, eighty eightu201d, the station announceru2019s voice saying u201c a child has been found whose name is Dolly, Dolly ke parents please collect her from the announcement boothu201d while Dolly cried in the background.
The idea of getting lost in a mela is a persistent one, and reminds us of all the songs about u2018 duniya ka melau2019. The world is like a fair, unpredictable, dazzling but maybe dangerous, for a ladki akeli could get carried away in many senses. The melau2019s haphazard structure with an incredible mix of stalls, set in a field, its edges open, as well as its transient nature, mirrors life, which is why we find it so exhilarating and overwhelming.
These old- style melas were linked to the rhythms of nature, happening usually around harvest season, or to the feasts of saintsu2014 whether itu2019s the Mahim Urs or the Mount Mary fair ( where I once got my picture taken in a photo studio, sitting on a crescent moon, looking simply dreamy in a t- shirt with two tortoises on it). They link the community through these shared rituals.
The best one I ever went to was in Lahore, at the urs of the local saint. My host took some persuasion, horrified at the idea of slumming it like this. Once he agreed, his cook and driver also decided to come along, in golden jootis and embroidered caps. Together, we listened to the qawwali, then roamed eating a gigantic malpuha called aflatoon. I acquired a locket but was prevented from getting a cheap tattoo on my arm ( PV hearts SRK). Its meaningfulness lay in its purposelessness.
Old style melas fill wellheeled urban types with terror, of the sweat but also the mixture of classes. Diverse spaces are increasingly perceived as uncomfortable and unpalatable.
In comparison, the modern day hipster melas aka flea markets feel more streamlined and sanitised. They are linked to the rhythms of consumption and appear around the season of gift- giving. Organised in rows and clusters, they are fun in their own way, but very expensive and also more predictable.
The same floral hair clips, the unoriginal Bollywood kitsch, the unstructured muslin garments and minimalist trinkets from Hipsterville. The purposefulness of revenue models fills the air with ennui. It is hard to get distracted by such a fair, much less lost.
The mela I went to last week combined the pleasures of both and I returned with black masala, ragi papad, jadi bootis, a saree printed with emojis, a magical oil for pain, a tummy full of crab and fish fry and my future read to me by a tarot reader who has invented a tarot for desi situations. A little bit of the past in the future, is always a nice present it seems.
Mele mein ladki Paromita Vohra is an award- winning Mumbai- based filmmaker, writer and curator working with fiction and non- fiction.
Reach her at paromita. vohra @ mid- day. com
