garba and the gora
As one half of your favourite interracial gay couple, I’ve had the honour and challenge of taking on a completely foreign culture to me, one that comes with Rahul’s identity and upbringing. He is Bristolian, meaning over the last few years I’ve drunk a lot of cider, either in pubs or on boats that are pretending to be pubs, pointed at a few street corners to ask whether they were used in Skins, and become very well frequented with a certain godforsaken National Express route.
Rahul and his family are also Gujarati Hindus, and getting to know that culture has been a little bit more of an adventure for me than simply saying ‘Alright my lover!’ every time I cross the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I’ve been slowly introduced to this particular part of Indian culture, originating in the large north western state of Gujarat and arriving in the UK in the 70s by way of a stint in East Africa. Rahul’s parents have been wonderfully generous in welcoming me into these aspects of their lives and seem appreciative of my small efforts to integrate myself. Though if all you’ve got to do to please the in-laws is eat the food, I’m not considering that a hardship.
Life as the gora in a British Indian household mostly consists of eating copious amounts of the most insanely delicious food. No matter the occasion, Priti will pack the car with tupperware upon tupperware or fill the table with copious dishes and dips. We’re talking dal makhani, idli sambar, chana masala, handvo, malai kofta, pav bhaji, chaat… The list is endless, the plates piled high with a bombardment of colours and flavours, and just when you think you’ve eaten as much as you possibly could stuff yourself with, you look up to see you’re being served more.
When food is a love language, the only word you ought to learn is ‘vadhu’ (વધુ, more), but luckily for me, I have also learnt the word ‘bus’ (બસ, enough). I can’t hold a conversation in my broken Gujarati, but I can say hello and goodbye, I can count to ten, I can tell Priti I loved the food. What I can’t say is thank you because there isn’t really a word for that, which is totally fitting for the stereotype of Gujjus as entrepreneurial hustlers. Gujarati has a rhythmic, playful intonation; it’s a beautiful language to listen to. I enjoy hearing Rahul’s mum and dad shouting back and forth up the stairs or across the kitchen, even though the most I can glean is the occasional English word thrown into the middle of an otherwise incoherent sentence, a snowstorm of rising vowels and fiery plosives.
I also love listening to the music: not just the Hindi and Punjabi songs from Bollywood films, but also the bhajans Priti plays each morning. There’s a real comfort in that ritual, waking up to the same playlist of devotional prayers and hymns; I’m honoured to take part in lots of small religious practices and traditions, both around the house and when visiting the temple. The best bit about going to the temple is obviously dressing up, in shimmering bejewelled kurtas and saris, as well as the free food (more food!). If I understood a bit more of the language, I might have a better sense of what we’re all praying to, but as it stands I can admire the beauty of the buildings, bow when everyone else bows, and of course look incredible whilst doing so.
This week I was thrilled to have another excuse to don the finery as it’s Navratri, a nine-night Hindu festival, where people in Gujarat take to the streets to celebrate with a traditional folk dance called garba. There are many Hindu festivals that I’ve loved getting to know, from the family gathering together at Diwali to the genuinely hilarious Raksha Bandhan, where sisters tie rakhi bracelets on the wrists of their brothers and the brothers are expected to pay them in cash, the unfairness of this symbolic trade a source of irritation for all British Hindu men. However, garba seems to hold a special place for Gujaratis and I was so excited to get to join in for the first time this year, as we headed to a Navratri celebration in Wembley.
I prepped minimally - Rahul taught me some moves whilst up a mountain in the Lake District back in June - and the little I’d prepared left me feeling extremely inadequate when I walked in the room. Yes, I looked incredible, but in a decked out community hall in Wembley full of people in the most ornate, intricately beautiful garments I’ve ever seen, I hardly stood out.
Although of course, I really did stand out for the other reason… No one wants to be the only white guy in the room without any sauce, clumsily clapping along, bopping to the beat and awkwardly shuffling on the outside of the circle.
The only way to look good dancing is to be confident, so I tried to muster some confidence. Here are the main reason that’s difficult whilst dancing garba:
There is no one cohesive routine happening at any one time. Instead, at least four or five mini dances with varying degrees of difficulty are happening all on top of each other. You think you’re getting on well with the “step clap and turn”, but then you look up to find you’ve lost that group and you’re now with “jump hands and spin”. Shameful.
Every turn in garba seems to go against the natural way my body wants to turn; getting this wrong will result in you coming face to face with everyone getting it right. Mortifying.
The music only gets faster, so just when you’ve mastered a simple step at the standard tempo, you’ll come unstuck by a lift in the rhythm. Pitiful.
The room is packed with people, so the more confidently you throw yourself into each move, the more likely you are to step on someone’s swishing sari. Death sentence.
There’s too many good people distracting you by whizzing and flying past you in a blinding display of talent, leaving you stood still, shell shocked, wondering where the beat’s gone and why you’re getting bumped into. Calamitous.
Of course no matter how badly you feel you’re dancing, it’s important to remember that it isn’t really about doing it well. Garba is folk dance, it’s about gathering and sharing as a community, having fun, coming together in prayer.
And the secret I came to realise on Wednesday is that most people in that hall in Wembley is sort of an outsider to garba. We’re all the gora: none of our western feet, whether brown or white, are anywhere near calloused and roughed enough to withstand dancing in the streets like they do all over Gujarat. A true Navratri festival would send us spinning - we were all sweating after just a few hours dancing, let alone nine nights of it!
There were plenty of people getting the rules wrong, filming when you’re not meant to be filming (for if there’s one thing British Asians are keen for, it’s a good photo op) or not daring to take on anything more than the most basic steps. We’re all just enjoying it together, at different levels and for different reasons.
The Navratri night in Wembley was special, but any time I get to join in with Rahul’s family culture is special to me. Obviously I wouldn’t be there at all if it weren’t for Rahul, so I have to thank him and his family for showing me all of this. I have to blame them too, particularly for the massive blisters; we’ll have that out in a few weeks time over Diwali.
