In a Story Telling Festival
The winter eve was lazy as ever. Dogs curled up in corners, unwilling to bark. Forget the lazy cloud and the shameless sun engaged in their deep slumber even as my clock ticked 2’o clock. Motionless trees have disconnected themselves from the wind around. As I walked past the gates of IGNCA, I was led to an open stage facing rising layers of semicircles seating the audience. The cushions wrapped in white cloth were placed over seating and ground left red carpeted. The branches and leaves of Peepal tree roofed the open stage sketching an ancient India into the space. Lighted uncolored bulbs were knitted on to the leaves painting eyes to the uneyed, yet the unblind trees. With its hundred eyes gazing at the stage waiting for the stories from across the world, its green leaved head let the calm breeze swing it to her winter symphony. Only her head and part of her brown rooted neck was visible for the people populating the space above the land. A Hungarian Story Crowd