Looking the part

Last time I did a concert with my choir, I cheated a bit on the outfit. Maybe I hadn't quite got the confidence up yet, but I took advantage of the black colour scheme to take a decidedly half-hearted option: long black kurta over ordinary black trousers and a pair of suitably unobtrusive shoes. I felt like a bit of a fraud to be honest. So when I was told that the colour scheme for the spring concerts was off-white with blue or gold, I decided this was my cue to make amends.

Off-white doesn't give you much to hide behind. The closest thing I had in my wardrobe was a pair of beige slacks, which would stand out a mile with everyone else in full Indian get up. So there was no choice for it: not just a new kurta (yes, I now have two) but pyjama and juttis too.

In case anyone's confused at this point, I'm not talking about the pyjamas your mum used to put you in before bed. This is the original pyjama, and the whole reason why the word is familiar to English speakers at all (it entered the language during the colonial period). It's a curious, lightweight leg garment that is very baggy at the waist, tapering to a tight tube around the calves. The first time I encountered the thing in the changing room at the wonderful FabIndia store) I was genuinely bemused. I'd never seen anything remotely like it and I wasn't entirely sure how it was supposed to match a human body shape:

Just to clarify, that's a 1 litre bottle of mineral water at the bottom. Those legs are very far apart. This is because of the crazy amount of material at the top. When you struggle into the things and pull the drawstring tight you look remarkably like a Tudor gentleman who's decided to combine his doublet and hose into one odd-looking garment. For those of us of the lankier and not-so-young-anymore persuasion, it manages to perfectly show off our spindly legs at the same time as emphasising our incipient middle-age spread. Needless to say I didn't spend a great deal of time admiring myself in the dressing room mirror.

Happily, they're not designed to be worn alone, so I was able to hastily throw my matching kurta over the top and try to erase the image of the pyjama-clad me from my mind (it didn't work, so I'm sharing the pain with all you lucky people). But of course the trickiest thing was footwear. Slipping on a pair of brogues or converses was clearly not going to work with the pyjama. So it was back out to the shops to get my first ever pair of juttis.

Juttis are traditional Indian shoes. They come in two main types: Punjabi (flat) and Rajasthani (which curl up at the toe like the shoes from the illustrations in the copy of the Arabian Nights I read as a kid). I've discovered a number of things about juttis:

• They are surprisingly difficult to find, especially if you're a bloke
• When you have found men's juttis, 95% of them will look like they are supposed to be for women, and hard cheese if you're not fond of gold or silver
• They are possibly the most uncomfortable footwear known to man.

Anyway, after a lengthy search I found a pair that were towards the acceptable end of the gaudiness scale. And here they are:

Yeah, I just can't get away from the fact that they look like they belong in my sister's wardrobe, not mine.

Anyway, despite all my misgivings I have to admit that the sum total of all this finery is actually quite nice to wear and (shoes aside) comfortable. Here's me and fellow chorister Johannes in all our glory:

Not too bad, right? At least I don't feel like a complete idiot as a white guy wearing Indian clothes, which I probably would have if I'd ever gone in for the traditional dress in Korea:

Or, indeed, in Holland (actually now I come to think of it, even juttis are pretty comfortable compared to clogs. Wooden shoes - how was that ever a good idea?).

Anyway, the ladies of the choir assure me that the outfit looks just fine, and it does make a nice change from a suit and tie (it's great to feel like you've dressed up but that you can also breathe). Not sure what I'm going to do with all these things when I leave in India (costume parties? get my theatre society to stage A Passage to India?) but in the meantime: when in Delhi...

Entertaining Madam President

Last night I participated in one of the most unusual carol concerts I've ever attended - certainly one of the most memorable. It took place in the ballroom of the Rashrapati Bhawan - the Presidential Palace - with the President of India, Pratibha Patil, in attendance. The carol concert takes place every year with several choirs from across the country invited to take part, and this year (for the second time) the choir I have recently joined, Capital City Minstrels, was included in the programme. Needless to say, I was quite excited at the opportunity to sing for a Head of State!

The palace itself was built towards the tail end of the British colonial period as the residence for the Viceroy of India, and became the President's residence on India's independence. I'm not particularly inspired by the exterior - or indeed by the rest of Lutyens' Delhi, as I've blogged before - which manages to combine squatness and pomposity (though, as a fellow chorister pointed out, it's still better than Buckingham Palace):

Sadly we weren't allowed to take cameras inside, so you'll just have to take my word for it when I say that the interior is much more pleasing. Of course it's all terribly grand, but somehow the proportions seem to work far better once you're inside, and the marriage of classical architecture with strong Indian influences is really stunning. The effect is only slightly marred by the red masking tape marking the edge of all the stairs (the original designers apparently having failed to realise that two white marble steps in the middle of a long white marble corridor is a recipe for unfortunate mishaps).

The ballroom itself, though, is quite simply one of the most gorgeous rooms I've ever been in. Mostly this is due to the paintings that cover the walls and ceiling, featuring scenes reminiscent of the best Mughal miniatures (though magnified rather a lot, obviously) surrounded by lovely arabesque floral designs. I spent quite a lot of the concert (when not singing) with my head back feasting on the beauty of it all. I felt enormously privileged to be able to do so.

Preparations for the concert were extensive - we arrived at 3 and didn't start singing until half past five - and organised by the Indian military (I presume the Presidential guard) with a technique that showed a great deal of respect for tight timing and absolutely no recognition of the practical matters of getting entire choirs on and off a stage. As a result we over-ran by nearly an hour, but good humour seemed to prevail.

Apart from our three numbers we had a mixed programme, including a couple of children's choirs (actually not bad) and a really amazing performance by a group called Voices of Hope, from Nagaland on the border with Myanmar, whose conductor Nise also plays piano for our choir and who has a heartbreakingly beautiful singing voice. There was also a group called the Delhi Syro-Malabar Mission, who sang a number in the Malayalam language from Kerala which, upbeat and highly enjoyable though it was, is, I fear, unlikely to be joining Silent Night and Jingle Bells on the list of Christmas classics any time soon:

Apparently, that little mouthful translates roughly as "Do re mi fa so la ti do...the holy light over the stable". Doesn't really trip off the tongue in either language.

Once the choirs were finished we had a Christmas message from the Cardinal of Ranchi, who rejoices in the superb name of Telesphore P Toppo. No, really. It's an even better name than Cardinal Sin. The evening was then slightly marred by the appearance of two very skinny santas wearing frankly terrifying masks, which of course put me immediately in mind of a certain episode of Dr Who and made me fear for the safety of everyone present:

Baffling, this. As a fellow singer pointed out, India hardly has a shortage of rotund gentlemen with white beards. The preference for skinny guys in hideous masks is something I can't really fathom.

To round off the evening we had a good old singalong, including the following verse of Jingle Bells. I can honestly say I have never heard this verse before, so I'm wondering if any of you have ever come across it. And what is the meaning of the word "upsot"? Answers on a postcard...

And the President? Well, she sat dutifully through it all, perched in splendid isolation immediately in front of the stage in a white armchair that seemed far too large (she is a tiny but dignified elderly lady). At the end she congratulated all the conductors and then posed for photos with all the choirs (I will post ours on here as and when it's sent). At one point one of the choirs sent up two of their members for a photo dressed as Mary and Joseph, at which point the President grabbed the Baby Jesus out of Mary's arms for an impromptu shot, which I thought was a nice touch. But it's rather hard to say how much she enjoyed it all. The presidential role here is largely ceremonial so I imagine she has to go to a lot of this kind of thing, and she maintained a fairly inscrutable expression. But it was an honour to perform for her, whatever her thoughts on the matter!

Altogether a truly memorable evening and one that reflects India's embracing of its many different cultures and creeds as well as its love of festival. Despite the rigid security, the inevitable formality of the event, and the fact that a majority of the people present were not Christian either by background or by belief, it was one of the most enjoyable Christmas events I've been to. And just the fact that it happens at all - hosted by the President of a country that is only about 2% Christian - is really quite beautiful. I feel lucky to have been there.