Hooray for Bollywood!

Five hundred women and children were crammed into a hall built for 200. I had a child on each shoulder and a seat next to the speakers, which blasted Afghan music. On the positive side, I was also located next to the tiny strip of a dance floor. On the negative side, I was constantly being dragged up to perform before 500 writhing, sweating, cranky women and children.

Thankfully, one of the guesthouse maids, decked out in a sparkling orange and gold gown, made sure I was regularly fed and watered. Then in the middle of a shouted conversation, she leapt up, said, “That’s my song,” raced to the empty dance strip and launched into a routine straight out of a Bollywood film. The dance was so well choreographed that she’d clearly been practicing in front of a mirror (a shameful habit I’m also afflicted by). I watched in an oxygen-deprived fugue, mouth agape, running escape routes through my head in case of fire. Smashing a window, ripping a banner from the wall, and gliding down it like Errol Flynn to the street below was my best plan. Actually, it was my only plan.