The passage to India

It's quarter to four in the morning, and Delhi is pitch black and empty. The monsoon is falling on the torn-up concrete path outside the hotel in torrential bursts, while the sweat drips down my cheek and makes my glasses steam. I'm half dead with exhaustion after a plane flight so uncomfortable that every time I fell into sleep, the very act of it jolted me awake again. And that's not the half of it.

A staccato stream of Hindi is being rapidly exchanged and the deep brown eyes of Mohammed Nazim, who is studying for his MBA in Executive Management when not moonlighting as an airport connection meeter-and-greeter, are flicking back and forth between me, who is in increasing agitation, and the driver, who has his hands up in defence.

I swear up and down and sideways to those brown eyes that I had TWO bags with me at the airport. My backpack, with all my clothes and toiletries, is sitting on the ground in front of me here at the abandoned reception desk of the hotel - but my Adidas sports bag, with my Canon 50-D camera, and my HP Netbook, and all my travel documents (including details of my travel insurance) is nowhere to be seen.

I *knew* I put it on the trolley. I *knew* it came to the car with me. But somehow the driver, who was fast asleep and had to be woken, has missed it. It was dark in the carpark - they are turning the lights off to save electricity ahead of the Games in October - so I can perfectly understand how it could happen, in the fog and haze of half-awakeness at three-fifteen in the morning.

My heart sinks. There's no chance of finding it now, I know. An hour later? In the middle of the night? With all of that stuff inside? I'm sure it's a lost cause. Mr Mohammed is terribly distressed and there's nothing for it - we decide to go back, just in case. If it's not there, at least we have tried.

The reverse trip is silent, except for murmurs of Hindi in which I can make out the words trolley, bag, and Adidas. There is much pensive shaking of heads in traditional Indian head-wobble way, and the inflection of the driver's voice is more and more disbelieving.

Dozing with exhaustion in the back of the car I have visions of spending the next three days in queues, making insurance claims. Trying to contact Intrepid in Melbourne with no internet access, no phone - my international roaming hasn't come on yet (thanks Telstra) - and no policy details. Having to outlay cash for a new camera because I'm damned if I'm going to Rajasthan without one. I fall asleep.

Forty minutes later, I'm in a demountable office in the base of the half-finished carpark at the new Indira Gandhi airport, surrounded by concrete blocks and mesh wiring, and twelve concerned Indian men are clustered around me, clucking with concern and worry and head-wobbling like their necks are made out of slinky springs. There isn't a great deal of hope in the room with us. An hour passes.

Then suddenly, the Supervisor Boss appears, puffed up with power and glory, and a cry goes up against the men and just like that the room is transformed and uniformed military officers with high-powered rifles are crowding in too and then like a bolt out of the blue, I see it, my Adidas bag, being carried aloft like a rock star crowdsurfing his fans, and it's passed and shuttled along to me on a wave of happy hands above their heads and I catch it as it falls into my lap.

And everything is there inside it. Every single thing. A young security guard has found it and submitted it, entire, to the wrong department. He's new, and the men are clapping him on the back, and the Supervisor Boss gives him a stern lecture about what to do next time something like this happens, with a gruff bit of praise for his actions, and the young man ducks his eyes and nods and the clothes hang off his narrow hips and shoulders like he's a ghost.

My faith in humanity is restored, and I can't believe how lucky I am, and the brown eyes of Mohammed Nazim fill with a genuine and overwhelming relief. The customer is safe, and happy, and has her things, and he's done his job and put to rights something that could have been altogether terrible.

The honour of India is intact. I see myself reflected.

An Indian Summer Dress

Our trip to India was not at all planned.

In April 2008, My One True Love was invited to present at a conference at the very last minute. He accepted the all-business-class-flights-and-accommodation-at-lavish-hotels-and-meals-and-sightseeing-expenses paid invitation as he rightly should have. How could he not? However, he then made what turned out to be the fatal error, and told me about it.

India! I screeched at him when he disclosed it. Six days in India! Where I have always wanted to go but have never been, I screeched at him. You're! Not! Going! To! India! Without me!

So there I was on a last-minute trip to India, without any time to see the big sights, and without any real time to visit far-flung places (we were only there for six days, three in Delhi and three in Bangalore). And that meant only one thing, naturally.

Fabric. Of course.

I love Indian fabric. Silks, cottons, batiks, damasks, saris, you name it, I love it. Loooooooooove it. And that's how I found myself in a fabric shop in Connaught Place in New Delhi, buying (among other things) ten metres of this astonishing mustard-coloured cotton with a red and ochre flowered print. (Yes I know ten metres might seem a bit much. That's just how I roll.)

It's sat in my stash up until now. When I buy a fabric I really like, it takes me ages to use it, because I'm worried about making the wrong decision/using a pattern that doesn't fit/ using a pattern that looks awful, etc etc. It's so precious to me that I become completely paralysed with adoration, and it takes months for the freeze to wear off.

This Christmas I finally cut into it, after about three months of toying with ideas in my head while I ran on the treadmill at the gym during lunchtimes. Hey, it gave me something to do while I worked out, I got to play with lots of different design elements, and it meant I went back to work feeling all warm and happy and crafty. Which is something I greatly needed in my job at the time.

I wanted to do a  long dress, pleated at the empire line - but not pregnancy silhouette - with sleeves. I had this old OOP Vogue pattern in the cupboard (a size too small) and after the months of thinking about the best way to make it, I decided to increase the pattern by one size and just wing the skirt.

It took me aaaaaaages to do the pleating at the waist in order to make the pieces fit together, but overall I am VERY happy with the look. I had to applique the feature band around the sleeves and the neckline, as it only ran down one edge of the fabric and I couldn't cut the pieces to use it. That was a long process, but worth it for the result I think.

So now I'm very proud - I've got a great dress, made out of an amazing fabric bought in situ in a foreign country, I've got the story to tell about the place I bought it from, where the Indian man behind the counter nearly fainted when he saw how much material I'd piled up, and the customs officers on the way back into Australia kind of interrogated me about the apparently "commercial" quantity of the fabric I had with me, and I wriggled out of it because it was seriously all for Personal Use, AND I even managed to find the perfect belt to accessorise the dress in the Boxing Day sales. Half price!

Cool, huh? Gosh I love fabric. And India.It's a fine, fine romance.