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thoughts mixed

I think F. I sent an e-mail this

http://www.youtube.com/watch? V = 8lmVZstFqlU

me and sparked fierce thoughts, melancholy, colored sugar cane. And I think to my dear friend L., who reads this blog, and every time we write about Italy see another view, another eye, perhaps wiser, mediated by years of struggle and resistance. Source of ideas, perhaps this is the only thing I find everywhere in Italy, small ideas, ideas of those who remain and resist. Some mixes

my thoughts, and not me.

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Mannaggiammè






Ciao bellezze, 
I had prepared a video to sociological background but, alas, our chairman of the board voiced again.
I know it will seem like a single theme, but in front of goodies so, how do you remain unmoved? This time the
Silvio fabulous addition to rave about the school, something that maybe more later, had the great taste to speak of the family.
Now, at this moment in history and political, I would appreciate so much that my prime minister spoke to me about things that are more competent, like the deduction of taxes escort, please reforms of justice and destruction of old jobs. The family no
though. The pope can come to understand why He works as the head of the church and must pretend to share in its dogmas, but Berlusconi did not really want to hear.
It 's a bit like Cicciolina told me that the Pippin is a carcinogen.
Berlusconi also said that as long as he will, gay couples can never be a family as he understands it.
This, however, think of it, for homosexuals, Italians could be good news.

President Jack Schematic

Traversata?

Qualche costatazione iniziale (tanto per far vedere che non scriviamo solo in francese)

1. Almeno nel tratto Africa/Cabo Verde verso il Brasile, ognuno ha la propria esperienza. All'arrivo, ascoltando i racconti, sono proprio tutte diverse.

2. Dal nostro canto, tecnicamente tutto ok, nessuna rottura ecc. Dal pdv vela abbastanza ok, nel senso abbiamo avuto vento, ma passato tre notti nella zona di convergenza intertropicale con fulmini  tuoni e lampi dzppertutto. Shbammm shbammm dappertutto, vuol dire riempire lo schermo di un radar a 24nm di macchie nere dove non si sa dove passare. Alla fine ci si va dentro a occhi chiusi. Non se ne scappa, le celle convettive saltano fuori dappertutto, e lampi e tuoni quasi peggio dell'adriatico. Beh un po' peggio, le differenze di temperatura qui sono molto più forti, nonché l'intensità dei fenomeni.

3. Dopo due tre giorni allucinazioni uditive, ma al decimo giorno un'amnesia quasi totale (ero alla terza notte quasi insonne). Mi sveglio senza riconoscere nulla, Daphn che dice "almeno ti ricordi che stiamo attrversando l'atlantico, che andiamo verso Salvador ?"
Siccome avevo dimenticato tutto scendo giù per vedere se mi ricordavo almeno di come fare il carteggio. Poi dopo due ore sono rientrato nei ranghi.

4. La bambine, incredibili. Siamo partiti con l'idea di do some 'of the west, then route and wind WNW 25-30 knots NW: hauled large, oh how nice to begin a voyage. Daughters seasick for two days, also vomited vomiting, then sip after sip of Coke is a bit 'tprnate in life. On the third day until the end were the same as ever. We show you the chart saying "look where we are the ocean, continent, etc., etc." but cares for a child, waiting for quiet or Brazil.

5. Miles in a straight line are 2050, shows the route optimized climatically 2150, we have made in about 2200. In seventeen days. Gaits conservative, so maybe the boat side with a more serious crew could scratch a day and a half. On the side there was good weather, most arrived in El Salvador told us the speed of 2-2.5 knots sailing, a 400-liter, two additional 500 gallons of diesel consumed, as our boats with motors using 3.2 liters per hour




continued tomorrow, so better to start daughters effervescence

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still have memories of our journey for those who re-ask that

- AVANT MACHINES TOUTES! if Dessine maintenant la terre à l'horizon, le jour se lève sur notre dernière journée de navigation. Une atmosphère douce et à bord comme peace reigns is the vision de la terre nous had brought in a state of collective happiness. (Or maybe is it the prospect of soon being able to eat without plates and glasses flying on the table, take a nice shower and endless, sleep without being buffeted right and left, who knows ... ). The wind dies down, do not worry now that we reach our goal, we can start the engine without watching our fuel consumption. Roberto activates forward motion, yet the boat back. He returns to neutral and then re-tried. Same result, the boat is propelled backwards. After removing the control panel, he noted that the transmission cable died. But we're not there yet and the wind is now completely fallen, it was no longer progressing. The only solution that remains is to go directly to the motor and manually engage the forward gear which means giving up the reverse. While we are at sea, no problem, but how to maneuver our arrival at the port? Unfortunately, we can not do much except to limit the damage. We commit ourselves in the place allocated to us and pensions rely on the assistance of port personnel who warned that we had a damaged engine. But nothing was done and we will gently but surely embrace with the bow of the boat dock. Unforgettable our first contact with the mainland!

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Horoscope

1. Pisces February 19-March 20

   In the coming weeks I hope Give your ego allowed to shine , Pisces. I hope that allows them to be more glittering, show more passion and power to exercise more. After all your moments of self-sacrifice, worthy of poetic license to brag as a singer, hip-hop millionaire. Once you are engaged with a tireless dedication to maintaining a sense of self ocean, you have every right to scream out loud "I am."

   
   

   I am I am I

   sonoooooooooooooooooo!!

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"Phir bhi Dil Hai Hindustani"

few photos of the weekend just past, the last in Bombay. Here began the summer. Photos do not have a logical order, or chronological, are simply random.

Asif, home of Mukesh

Sev Puri, Saturday evening at Vihar Restaurant, with Ganesh-ji and Pradeep -ji Temple: this is the flavor of Bombay.
Ganesh asked, and how do you describe the flavor?

Ganesh, 2 glass of sada breads, and Mysore sada dosa

Sunday morning, a dog at Our Door (our door is the one with the purple tent).
Floffuto The dog in question, before the bath Sunday

Floffy, the friend and the dog, just one of the harem of Floffy

Beena and Clara in the living room again, Juhu

The family temple at the home of Mukesh

temple

details

to perfect place to chill out, as would Dannyboy

Helen, Dannyboy, Ric and Mukesh

a table chez Mukesh and Beena: pao bhaji, veg byriani, raita, e altre bontà

quel che resta del byriani

ancora cibo

Gajar-halwa, il mio dolce preferito a base di carota

non sono fotogenica ma ogni tanto qualche foto ci sta

Meeting For Jelly Bands

Books

I libri sono la mia ossessione, e anche un grosso problema quando vivi "on the road", spostandoti spesso, e cambiando casa, paese, prospettive. Dall'India, più precisamente da Bombay, spedii i bauli carichi di libri, riviste, appunti, diari, quaderni. Era l'aprile del 2003, e poi in India ci sono tornata tante volte, e ogni volta ho comprato libri.
Da Portsmouth, nell'aprile del 1998, spedii scatoloni di libri, libri per la tesi, libri e basta. Oltre ai soliti diari, quaderni, appunti. All'epoca anche le lettere di carta.
No, non sono ancora pronta per l'e-book, così come invece fui pronta per l'e-mail, anche se ogni tanto mi concedo ancora il lusso e il piacere a letter of paper.
Brindisi there are still the old boxes with books of his high school years, Brindisi and my adolescence. Kerouac, Ginsberg and many others buried there, in the closet turned into a boiler in my house with the red metal door to protect the dreams of those years. Those books do not know yet when they come to me, because now I am waiting for the end of March to move to another ... and I have a lot of books (as well as diaries, notebooks, notebooks, notes, paper dictionaries) from Antwerpen to return to Italy ... although it probably will make a selection of books in English, especially those bought at flea markets or second hand, and I'll give them to my friend Flemish Leen, avid reader omnivorous.

So today, finally on leave to go shopping in a bookstore, I bought only three books. One of Crossword, and two used a "Bookfair," always in Bandra.

order:

Mumbai Fables of Gyan Prakash, who is really a must for passionate of Mumbai like me

"Bombay, Bombay
or my dear slut
May I say good-bye to

but not before I will take you in multiple ways "(Namdeo Dhasal)
(chap. 2, The Colonial Gothic, p. 25)



Bridging Connections: An Anthology of Sri Lankan Short Stories, edited by Rajiva Wijesinha because I love anthologies of short stories, and I'm curious to read what is written in Sri Lanka

"I May Not Be Able to send you poems from here onwards ... But You Are My poem" (p. 69 Sms, Sunetra Rajakarunanayake)



Mad dogs and an Englishwoman of Crystal Rogers because I love dogs and biographies of eccentric people like Crystal Rogers

http://www.cupabangalore.org/

It is difficult to say which of the animals dominated by man suffer most. The cruelties of the West are different from the cruelties of the East. For too many years, I have seen the barbarous method by which animals are slaughtered in the reeking abattoirs and alleys of Indian cities. The cruelty involved in the transport of domestic animals, the terrible distress and terrors of monkey exported for medical research. The hunger, misery and bewilderment of animals turned adrift because they no longer serve any useful purpose. The agony of sick and lame draft animals who are still made to work, beaten and over-loaded. All the above descriptions are patently obvious to those who live in the East. But do not imagine that the West is any less cruel. It is equally so. While putting up a show of being humane, behind closed doors, where none may see, the blackest and most unforgivable crimes are committed. 
(cap. 14, The Unknown Martyrs, p. 134)  
 

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Cesira Sora and hypocrisy of the Bedouin tent







today are in the mood for serious reflection.
A few hundred kilometers from our italics ground reality is taking a somewhat 'blood.
a kind of caricature of Michael Jackson octogenarian dressed as Mr. Magoo, almost half a century master of Libya, is holed up inside a bunker and throw bombs and proclamations from the same acidodipendente, while a slightly pissed off people can not wait to corcho with Mazzella, then throw away any remnants Hades.
Meanwhile, the forward-looking (and ironically) and drunken parties responsible for the "Italian propaganda, smear the walls of the city with slogans like" Stop the massacres in Libya. "
Oooooh! But what a great idea! But how did we not think that the posters would be enough to end the carnage?
After a few years ago 'we have paid homage to the caricature of a dictator, leading him in triumph as a great statesman and leaving the camp with his Bedouin tents sputtanatissimo on our soil.
What I wonder why this is just laughable hypocrisy typical of the periphery of the world.
For years we suck the oil-General of my ovaries, we do real estate business, which we host and we bless him.
I think it would be much more consistent on our part and help tear the posters solvers (maybe with our soldiers so that they have nothing to do) to get out of that bunker and take the upper hand on those so uncivilized that are not accustomed to democracy .
protect the oil, we use the most unlucky people to make our fortune, the colonies also reopen we would do much good. Gaddafi
it's not crazy now. Gaddafi is stupid for forty years, so there are just excuses.
Now we do some pretty direct "door to door", where Vespa will try to capture live the death of a sacrificial sent and where commentators will inflame the colon of complacent viewers. Then we will make many special services on the graves. Then perhaps a television format called "Who wants to be dictator?" With the "Stragine", who will tickle the eyes of those who always prefer the blood jag.
I chant a mantra in the meantime more and more full of fuck, pending, of course in vain, for a ride to Mars.

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Che Guevara died, maybe not coming back

Questo è un post dedicato al mio amico brindisino, Sergio, che ieri era molto, molto triste. Febbraio è un mese beffardo, crudele, perchè dura solo 28 giorni. Febbraio: 50 anni, la vittoria del tuo Vecchioni al Festival di Sanremo, e una giornata crudele, come tutte le giornate su cui c'è scritto Fine.
Ho cercato una canzone per te, Sergio, e ho trovato questa di Guccini, non so, mi sembra adatta a questa giornata.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Myux2viKiM4

Qui tutto splende, ferocemente. La vita è feroce, e la morte non è mai lieve.
Coraggio, amico mio, un abbraccio profondo come gli oceani, i continenti, ma lieve come la brezza marina.


E un pensiero, luccicante, per il tuo papà. Perchè non smettiamo mai di essere figli.

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water than water as a result

few highlights of our journey (and not the end)

- ALLO, HELLO DOCTOR ... : a nasty sinusitis elongated nails me in a booth, unable to do anything. Contact by mail (thank you Roberto and his experimental radio that transmits and receives e-mails even in the middle of the ocean) with CIRM, a medical surveillance for mariners at sea (business or pleasure). Response within ½ h following with specific prescription and go to 12 H for action. But bad luck followed me on board because the antibiotic has been expired for six months, our pharmacy has been almost 2 years. In my desperation, I try to take it anyway but to no avail. Re-mail the day before medical doctor who confirmed what we thought, he must go to the other format available on board, namely the format "pediatric". And here I am sucking pipettes full of Augmentin. Rather disgusting but much more efficient and this will allow me to take up our landfall.

- STORM WITH G. CLOONEY: when, last night, where it is hoped that nothing will happen as we start to be exhausted and it is now so close, I try to pass the time (while Roberto dozing off), sitting at the shelter before the chart table by various simulations of the type: the GPS indicates a distance of 50 miles to destination, speed Current boat 6 knots, if we maintain a constant speed, what time should we arrive? mais si le vent faiblit et qu'on descend à 4 nœuds quand on arrive à 15 miles de la côte, qu'en est-il alors ? Ces calculs sont complètement inutiles mais me tiennent éveillée. Je suis donc tranquillement perdue dans mes règles de 3, quand je sens dehors le vent forcir et le bateau qui accentue sa gîte. Je sors une tête dehors et je vois devant nous de gros nuages noirs bien menaçants. La pluie commence à tomber drue et réveille bien entendu Roberto. Les instruments de contrôle commencent à s'emballer et donnent plus de 30 nœuds de vent. Une rafale force encore davantage le bateau dans sa gîte. Et si cela finissait par déchirer une voile, arracher un hauban…. Je revois alors le film "The Perfect Storm" with G. Clooney in the role of a sea captain caught in the storm of the century, and my fears are only amplified. Roberto (my George Clooney to me) is standing now. Or fatigue accumulated during the previous 16 nights of sleep chopped, or white, had the better of him or the situation is under control because it displays a certain serenity. Course I opt for the 2 nd solution. The grain seems like an eternity and yet gradually cleared the horizon and the boat is recovering gradually. Back to normal, I share the anxieties that haunted me at the height of the grain. He smiles, no fear for him, our Sun Legend is up to his reputation, he has held perfectly, even subjected to the test. And then, the grain offered only benefits: the rain has washed the boat salt and sand, the wind blows improve our average speed and still further away may end up without fuel. Frankly, a little grain, just 30 knots of wind, lost in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, now that I think it's really not rocket science, is not it George!

to follow ...

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the new video is coming ... do not you leave!! The Cesira








beauties Hello my beloved! I'm putting subtitles on behalf of the new video and post it shortly. In the meantime, we honor the work I'm doing for the TV show "The scoured", broadcast on Sky one at 21 from Monday to Friday.
Do not stray ... eh!

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When the Albanians disembarked

a Brindisi, era la primavera del 1991, o forse inizio primavera, perchè portavamo ancora le maniche lunghe, e le onde blu si riempirono di vecchie carrette, color ruggine, e da un paese arrugginito all those Albanians fled. The exodus of Albanians believe has forever marked the memory - and, above all, the historical consciousness - all of Brindisi. I was in high school at the time the fourth year of high school, and for the first time I met History. History materialized, hunger had a face, the despair was an outstretched hand. Even before the attacks of the Mafia, even before the unsettling reality of India, where poverty is also a smile on the street, or the skeleton of a child dressed in rags.
History was one of those impossible vessels in the port of Brindisi, the story was rusty anchor. I remember the streets of Brindisi, a river of Albanians fleeing. I remember the school of my village, Tuturano,

per chi non lo conoscesse,  http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuturano

case d'accoglienza improvvisate, mi ricordo la scuola elementare di Via Vivaldi, straripante di famiglie, bivacchi arrangiati, pasti caldi, gente che si sbracciava per aiutare gli altri. E mi ricordo la famiglia di albanesi, mai sbiadita nella mia memoria, che ospitammo a casa nostra: la coppia di giovani fidanzati, lei bionda e dal sorriso immacolato, lui coi baffi, vestito come un poliziotto degli anni Settanta, (avevano imparato l'italiano guardando la televisione) scappati da un paese in malora, e poi rimasti in Italia, dove si sono sposati, e hanno trovato lavoro a Trento. Da qualche parte conservo their photos. All those who were just pages of history books, pictures on the news, numbers, phrases newspapers took the body and form.
I remember one afternoon in particular, stop the Commandery, the stop in front of 7 ... that stream of people, Albanians, hand in hand, seemed popped out of a movie in black and white, and poured everywhere, no direction, with eyes of fire and storm ... I remember that spring, I realized that if you were a human being, do not you could watch, when the sea and I was screaming for help.

and now we're all there to watch, including me, while Libya burns.

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pages

open, like those little books for children, with designs in relief, basta aprire una pagina e spunta fuori un mondo intero, un castello fatato, i draghi, e i folletti. A volte, girando per questa incredibile metropoli, spuntano pagine, si aprono senza che io le sfogli: un turbinio di storie, emozioni, impressioni. Un arcobaleno di suoni, sguardi, e il colori sono soltanto un battito di ciglia. Così diversa, la mia Bombay da altre città in cui ho vissuto, tutte città di mare, come Ravenna, Portsmouth e infine Anversa. Anversa, però, come Ravenna mi è rimasta estranea. Come l'impronta su un velo, o un piede che non entra in una scarpetta di cristallo perchè quel piede è abituato alla terra rossa, alla giungla del cemento, agli squarci verde acido, ai disegni incantati del Tempo. Raccontare Bombay is like trying to explain his own soul, the inner geography that at each step, each transition from West to East, you change, you rewrite. My impression is that Bombay is part of me that has always been, and that in a corner of the immense interior landscape that is my soul, my essence or my innermost being, this miniature flower Bombay , wilt, and flourished again in every trip. As a meeting or appointment of love, on the edge of a coffee table, hands that touch, the expectations. Bombay and I, my hold. Bombay is an overexposed photo of my very soul. A dear friend L. wrote to me that maybe I'm the incarnation of an Indian princess. Chissà, in questa città dalle pagine ora opache ora lucenti, tutto è veramente possibile. Io apro le braccia, e accolgo il vento che sta prolungando questo inaspettato, fresco inverno indiano, in attesa dell'Holi, e della primavera. Colori che questa volta non aspetterò, purtroppo. Perchè tutte le storie d'amore con le città prima o poi hanno una scadenza, un visto, un biglietto di ritorno.
E il ritorno è per me un non-luogo.
Anversa e Ravenna sono due stelle di carta, appiccate sul cielo buio dei miei pensieri. Non brillano, e non luccicano. Troverò un ponte, un passaggio segreto, per accordare le stringhe del mio cuore. A una musica meno stonata di quella che mi aspetta.
Chi mi conosce da tempo, dice che sono inquieta. L'inquietudine è una dote di ogni viaggiatore, di ogni scrittore, di ogni rabdomante di storie.

E, voi che (mi) leggete, quante storie avete lasciato come Piste del Sogno, o come Vie dei Canti? Vi siete sporcati le mani con le parole?

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water than water ...

That's it, we touched down!

After 17 days and 3 hours of sailing we have traveled the 2,200 miles that separate the Gambia Salvador da Bahia, Brazil. It is not without some relief that we come out our moorings unused for 3 months in Africa in the absence of port and dock where the hanging.

It has taken a few days to recover from our emotions, fatigue and some deprivation: Roberto beer, ice cream for girls and simply land for me!

But as promised here are some highlights of our trip.

- THE ENGINE DIED: in the middle area of \u200b\u200bInter-Tropical Convergence (pot-au-black for insiders), Roberto looks at the engine control panel to check our fuel consumption and rises, look completely panicked by announcing that for some reason he can not explain, the batteries are fully discharged engine. After long minutes of anxiety, the time required to check the circuits, it is a little innocent hand had simply disconnect the circuit breaker of the windlass en jouant avec ses playmobiles.

- UNE NUIT D'ORAGES : quand en pleine nuit, notre radar ne montrait plus qu'une seule grosse tache noire sur l'écran symbolisant la concentration d'orages, qu'autour du bateau on ne comptait plus les éclairs et les coups de tonnerre et que le ciel semblait éclairé par un grand projecteur. Après plusieurs heures à chercher à éviter le contact, Roberto décide de mettre le cap Nord Est (c'est-à-dire exactement dans la direction opposée à notre route) pour s'en éloigner. (Ok on évite peut être les orages, mais si c'est pour revenir en arrière, on n'est pas vraiment avancé). Je crains pour sa mental health, and if he had taken a gas blast without my noticing. Finally, another change of course and he decides to go through. I am so far more reassured about his mental state? not really, I do not know what to think, too much electricity in the air, fortunately the girls, at least, sleep and patience and soon it will be light.

to follow ....

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Hanuman Bombay House, or the House of the Perpetual Nostalgia

"In the arcade of Hanuman House, grey and substantial in the dark, there was already the evening assembly of old men, squatting on sacks on the ground and on tables now empty of Tulsi store goods, pulling at clay cheelums that glowed red and smelled of ganjia and burnt sacking. Though it wasn't cold, many of them had scarves over their heads and around their necks; this detail made them look foreigner and, to Mr Biswas, romantic . It was the time of the day for which they lived. They could not speak English and were not interested in the land where they lived; it was a place where they had come for a short time and stayed longer than they expected. They continually talked about going back to India, but when opportunity came, many refused, afraid of the unknown, afraid to leave their familiar temporariness . And every evening they came to the arcade of the solid, friendly house, smoked, told stories, and continued to talk of India.  
(A House for Mr Biswas, V.S. Naipaul, 1961) 

Ieri sera, in giro per Bandra, i vecchi bungalows ghosts of the Portuguese arrived in Goa with suitcases full of waves and memories. Small porches, curtains like green leaves, the music of the past. The trees devouring tales of forgotten families, such as certain letters in the drawers. Beauty cleared by bulldozers of modernity. India is full of past history, buildings that are sacrificed in the name of speed, luxury, or technology.

Peace-Heaven, is one of my favorite bungalow. The photo is not mine, I got it from the blog of Ash that can be found here: http://thehungrycopywriter.blogspot.com/2010/05/bandras-bungalows.html

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Afternoon Kalina

Vidyanagari. I pomeriggi sono orlati d'oro e arancio. La luce è un abbraccio setoso. Le palme frusciano al vento. Negli angoli verdi, piccole famiglie. Cuccioli. Vecchi lottatori. Cani alpha e omega ripetono le gerarchie dei secoli.

Ric ha trovato una famiglia di gattini, davanti all'ostello nuovo

El rais, Floffy: the king of Vidyanagari, in posa meditativa

So cute!

The cat family

Our "shack"

Floffy and inseparable friend, the dog omega

Floffy after una spedizione dal veterinario

Meditabondo

Canine loyalty

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The Fine Arts Society, Chembur

Ieri sera, io e Ghiro dopo aver attraversato il ponte della stazione di Kurla, che è un caledoiscopio di bancarelle, mercatini, luci, rumore, suoni, profumi, puzza, donne col burqa, vecchi storpi, albini, edifici fatiscenti, invenzioni di ogni tipo, abbiamo preso un risciò per Chembur. Lentamente, per i vicoli colorati popolati di ampi giardini, trees, houses from the sky or sand-colored walls, the suburb of Chembur has opened, allowing ourselves to breathe. At one point it looked like a village in south India, among tangles of trees, red earth and the empires of the sky. The Fine Arts Society of Chembur has a nice theater for concerts and shows, and is also a school of Carnatic music, and arts of south India, including dance.

http://www.fineartschembur.com/

The first time we had been .... August 1999, after nearly two months of train length and breadth of India (Bombay-Goa-Karnataka-Tamil Nadu-Sri Lanka-Delhi-Agra-Rajasthan and then back to Bombay, where we spent a week at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Sarla at Dadar). On that occasion, Nemchand, alias Mr Sarla che si curava al mattino con l'urinoterapia - una terapia che nn credo proverò mai! - ci accompagnò in macchina fino a Chembur per uno stupendo concerto di bansoori, Hariprasad-ji Chaurasia. In pieno monsone, con la pioggia intrecciata alle note.  Mi ricordo di un lungo giro in macchina, sotto la pioggia, a Marine Drive, alla spiaggia nascosta dalle nubi, alle palme percosse dal vento, a quella magia che si chiama monsone.

Ieri sera invece c'era la terza serata di un festival di musica carnatica, ovvero la musica classica del Sud India, e sul palco si esibiva lei, la mia cantantessa (contemporanea) preferita: Aruna Sairam .

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aruna_Sairam

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExcbNWLBwLE
(For those who get an idea of \u200b\u200bhis voice, his style)

Here, she is simply the voice , full, bright, powerful. Having listened for years on CD, finally live. Arriving at the ticket office, an old man has sold his two tickets, gave them to us ... here, this love of India - immediate humanity - and that's why I'm here splendor, pure light. Despite the ugliness, the atrocities of caste, the social gap, the brutal poverty, the indifference of the rich and the rich, well '... India è ancora un posto dove basta stringersi la mano per volersi bene. Dove l'arte, la musica, la creatività hanno una loro profonda dignità. Un valore riconosciuto. In Italia, purtroppo non è così. E ve lo dice una che di arte si nutre.