Projectile Arts @ WSF MUMBAI 2004 : journals and articles page 02

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daily accounts- \| by Saugat Datta - revised January 29, 2004 \| Introduction: Unconfirmed 2.4 million dollars sponsorship budget from corporate sector, numerous Mumbai volunteers and a professional event management team made sure the landing pad was soft enough. During the second to last week in January 2004, the WSF Mumbai increased the intensity of local train crowd through Goregaon station. Busy roads were filled with WSF signs and possibility of “Another World”. The dress code was indigenous, laced with propaganda; fashion at its best. Being a shutterbug was easy when an aboriginal walks past in a traditional dress topped with a WSF/NGO jacket. Crowds of people lined up in front of the entry gate, their diversity visual by shapes and color. Getting through the main WSF gates was scary, a battalion of police, series of metal detectors, I was too giddy for my first sight of activism. I admit I use plastic, pollute the environment with my 14 year old car, walk past silently as trees are cut down next to me, I am ignorant but definitely not insensitive. Rushing out of New Delhi straight out of Peoples World Water Forum along with the group within couple of hours notice didn’t allow me much time to pack or research. For me WSF started well before I was traveling with old and young, veteran activists, Water council of Canada, Corporate and Media watchers from Europe, almost a 60 strong contingent of activists from the PWWF heading towards Mumbai. The atmosphere, perhaps also fueled with the contents from (now empty) beer cans, was charged with impromptu activist songs, discussion groups, preparations, chants and exchange of notes between representatives from Pacific islands, Europe and America. Tiring 12-hour delay of our train was subdued by the energy against the governments, corporate giants and their joint forces. The page three content of Times of India was filled with pictures of WSF preparation and weird looking ‘Firangis’ (foreigners) with drums. On my way to the opening fiasco, one of infamous Mumbai locals, painted with WSF graffiti filled with rush hour commuters blew past me. It wasn’t tough to realize on the east side of Goregaon Station that all roads led to the NESCO grounds and few public transports were making more money than their fare meters could have ever imagined. In fact of the one Autos we refused earlier, zipped past us with a big wink and a scream that he got his Fifty Rupee ride (double the amount we paid to reach the venue). Nesco Grounds, a high wall perimeter of roughly two square kilometers of open area half filled with empty warehouses, was now transformed into debate venues and stages. Walking in was chilling as hundreds of Indian delegates were stacked up by police for security (b**#@@$) sake, numerous layers of metal detectors, n number of questions, I felt invisible moving in with two westerners. People outside the grounds distributed literature questioning the forum’s viability in India. Being late for the opening ceremony we headed straight for the main stage, which had already blasted off with a rhythm connecting the crowd under the promises of Another Possible World. The citizens of this Eden were dancing in ecstasy to a politically charged band from Pakistan, a South African dance group, and finally a Brazilian band whose vocalist got assassinated last year while traveling to a performance. An overwhelming feeling made my throat swell up and eyes fill till I screamed my lungs out (with whatever was left) to the chants, and ran all around carrying a Mayan Calendar flag (I still don’t know what it means but it made me feel good). The first vision of another World was rising within the eyes of hundreds of Indian aboriginals, Europeans, Latinos, Arabs, East Asians, intellectuals, farmers, beautiful women and gods. All convinced of this potential reality, chanted faithfully to break barriers, jiving and grooving freestyle to an uprising rhythm. Flags and more flags, colors and more colors and a small ocean of mass activism. Yes! I danced with my free spirit. I danced like I never danced before (and for the old-timers, seeds are no more just seeds). The ride back home was full of weaving dreams (I know, I know counting chickens before they hatch) around promises resonating throughout the opening day speeches, some translations more censored than others. (I couldn’t help noticing that the Hindi translator of Arundhuti Roy’s speech omitted reference to Indian Human rights violations against minorities.)
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FEATURED STORIES:

daily accounts- | by Saugat Datta - revised January 29, 2004 |

Introduction: Unconfirmed 2.4 million dollars sponsorship budget from corporate sector, numerous Mumbai volunteers and a professional event management team made sure the landing pad was soft enough. During the second to last week in January 2004, the WSF Mumbai increased the intensity of local train crowd through Goregaon station. Busy roads were filled with WSF signs and possibility of “Another World”. The dress code was indigenous, laced with propaganda; fashion at its best. Being a shutterbug was easy when an aboriginal walks past in a traditional dress topped with a WSF/NGO jacket. Crowds of people lined up in front of the entry gate, their diversity visual by shapes and color. Getting through the main WSF gates was scary, a battalion of police, series of metal detectors, I was too giddy for my first sight of activism.

I admit I use plastic, pollute the environment with my 14 year old car, walk past silently as trees are cut down next to me, I am ignorant but definitely not insensitive. Rushing out of New Delhi straight out of Peoples World Water Forum along with the group within couple of hours notice didn’t allow me much time to pack or research. For me WSF started well before I was traveling with old and young, veteran activists, Water council of Canada, Corporate and Media watchers from Europe, almost a 60 strong contingent of activists from the PWWF heading towards Mumbai. The atmosphere, perhaps also fueled with the contents from (now empty) beer cans, was charged with impromptu activist songs, discussion groups, preparations, chants and exchange of notes between representatives from Pacific islands, Europe and America. Tiring 12-hour delay of our train was subdued by the energy against the governments, corporate giants and their joint forces. The page three content of Times of India was filled with pictures of WSF preparation and weird looking ‘Firangis’ (foreigners) with drums.

On my way to the opening fiasco, one of infamous Mumbai locals, painted with WSF graffiti filled with rush hour commuters blew past me. It wasn’t tough to realize on the east side of Goregaon Station that all roads led to the NESCO grounds and few public transports were making more money than their fare meters could have ever imagined. In fact of the one Autos we refused earlier, zipped past us with a big wink and a scream that he got his Fifty Rupee ride (double the amount we paid to reach the venue). Nesco Grounds, a high wall perimeter of roughly two square kilometers of open area half filled with empty warehouses, was now transformed into debate venues and stages. Walking in was chilling as hundreds of Indian delegates were stacked up by police for security (b**#@@$) sake, numerous layers of metal detectors, n number of questions, I felt invisible moving in with two westerners. People outside the grounds distributed literature questioning the forum’s viability in India. Being late for the opening ceremony we headed straight for the main stage, which had already blasted off with a rhythm connecting the crowd under the promises of Another Possible World. The citizens of this Eden were dancing in ecstasy to a politically charged band from Pakistan, a South African dance group, and finally a Brazilian band whose vocalist got assassinated last year while traveling to a performance. An overwhelming feeling made my throat swell up and eyes fill till I screamed my lungs out (with whatever was left) to the chants, and ran all around carrying a Mayan Calendar flag (I still don’t know what it means but it made me feel good).

The first vision of another World was rising within the eyes of hundreds of Indian aboriginals, Europeans, Latinos, Arabs, East Asians, intellectuals, farmers, beautiful women and gods. All convinced of this potential reality, chanted faithfully to break barriers, jiving and grooving freestyle to an uprising rhythm. Flags and more flags, colors and more colors and a small ocean of mass activism. Yes! I danced with my free spirit. I danced like I never danced before (and for the old-timers, seeds are no more just seeds). The ride back home was full of weaving dreams (I know, I know counting chickens before they hatch) around promises resonating throughout the opening day speeches, some translations more censored than others. (I couldn’t help noticing that the Hindi translator of Arundhuti Roy’s speech omitted reference to Indian Human rights violations against minorities.)