Honour — Confessions of a Mumbai Courtesan
When I was 8 in Buenos Aires I would go to our backyard shed (galpón) where we had a large wooden box. I would place two bricks on one end with some little planks on them (brake pedal and gas pedal). On a broom stick I would attach with string an old tricycle wheel (the steering wheel). With that and a bench I was Juan Manuel Fangio driving a Maserati.
One day, perhaps a few months later, all that stuff reverted like Cinderella’s carriage into a pumpkin. My imagination had grown up.
I long for those days when imagination could transport me to exotic places known or wonderful places unknown.
Curiously at my ripe old age of 75 Honour: Confessions of a Mumbai Courtesan (at the Cultch’s Vancity Culture Lab and on, 8pm, until this Sunday November 4) somehow transported me to a Falkland Street house of ill-repute in Mumbai. I have never been to Mumbai but I was there the two nights I saw Dipti Mehta’s show.
Any show that can transport me like that box/Maserati of so many years ago has to be a powerful reason to why this show keeps selling out.
