Postcard From Beijing

Reflections on home and the world from across the Great Wall

- Avtar Singh

There is such a thing as the mehfil-e-Beijing.

The “Indian community”—that well-known monolith—gets together for a “musical afternoon of evergreen Bollywood songs”. Tea is served after.

Before you think I’m sending this up, I’ve actually been to something like this at a friend’s home. The singers took it in turns— more Rafithan Nigam, praise be—a couple of semi-professionals played a harmonium and a keyboard, a man I know jammed on the tabla. There was even a quiz.

No, I didn’t sing. But I did kill the treats on offer afterwards—jalebis!—and my family enjoyed the desi music, offered up with zest and received without judgement.

The only odd thing, and only I seemed to notice, was that in a room full of South Indians, only one non-Bollywood number was attempted. It didn’t matter, really. People had come from far and wide. I haven’t seen most of them since.

What I do remember was how happy the singers were to sing.

By the time this magazine hits the stands, I’ll have been resident in Beijing for 11 months. We arrived in the hot weather, when the spotting is good for the lesser-shirted Beijinger. The male of the species lounges about in public with its ganji rolled up under its boobs.