An Indian party juggler

By Shireen Moody - Bardez, Goa, India 

Sunshine streams in through the windows of my studio each morning as I sit, drawing. And through the windows of the juggling room as I work out each afternoon. Tabra, my house, is surrounded by the violent green of rain-inspired vegetation.

Last Thursday, labouring in pen-and-ink, I heard the front door creak open. Turning, I saw a large bunch of wildflowers enter the studio, preceding a little face as pretty as the blossoms.

"Tomorrow's my birthday," said Lovely.

That really is her name. Big brown eyes fluttered winsomely. "Please would you come and juggle at my party?"

Hiding the fIrst flutterings of panic, I agreed.

All drawing drew to a halt. That afternoon I collected my flaming torches from the tinsmith in Mapuca. Wooden pickaxe handles, tin-covered heads. At home, asbestos rope completes the lethal threesome. The kitchen was raided for kerosene and an extinguishing mug of water. With an audience of awe-struck, giggling house­boy and maid, I flailed nervously in the court yard, spreading smoke, fire and the cold sweat of fear. Never a brilliant club juggler (balls and boxes are my forte), I realized that the incendiary part of my routine was best kept short, simple and - please Lord - safe.

The next morning saw me back in Mapuca. This time, collecting my new bell-balls. Four large, round, brass cowbells, their hooks sawn off and polished smooth.

At 3 p.m. I packed a large wicker basket with props, wrapped it in a purple printed lungi (sarong), and tied the whole awkward bundle onto the back of my motorcycle. Sounding like a herd of energetic cows, I rode the five kilo­meters over Anjuna hill.

The party started in an empty field behind Lovely's house. About two dozen children of assorted ages, nationalities and character ran sweety-and-spoon races, blew giant, pink, bubble-gum bubbles in competition with each other and stuffed themselves with sandwiches, cake and fruit. About a dozen adults (in Goa, parties have no age limit) sat around on the grass indulging in assorted vices like Caju Fenny (an odorous liquor distilled from the fruit of the cashew nut tree) and ignoring the kids. When the clay-pot smashing competition started, I retired to the house to warm up.

I successfully built up a sizeable quantity of adrenalin, sweat and confidence.

I was on! Wearing an outsized IJA t-shirt tucked into Supergirl pants and sneakers. Lovely's father introduced me with a talking-singing monologue accompanied by his guitar, which also provided a steady, strumming, background beat for the routine.

I began with a fast three ball number using large, white rubber balls. Despite the warm up, the line of brown, blue and green eyes caused a familiar knee-quiver and subsequent drops. About three of those, glossed over by quips stolen from other jugglers. I am not a natural comedian, merely an exhibitionist. A pirouette stop, applause (such a sweet sound!) and on to the nine ball trick. Three sets of three balls sewn together. Squeals and boos!

Next came my favorite props - cigar boxes. The boxes soared, turned, somersaulted, spun, flew under my legs, around my back, over my shoulder and didn't drop! Knees steady now, I was beginning to enjoy this.

Then came the bell-balls, introduced by my only original line, about juggling being like meditation... a transcendental experience... the "music of the spheres." A noisy little act, the bells clank and ring none too rhythmically as they spin flashily in the sunlight. I ended it with the-four-bells-juggled-behind-the-back­with-eyes-shut hoax. The bells are ideal for this as they make a suitable racket when shaken behind the back. More acclaim. Pride was growing.

And so we came to the finale. Torches lit, rear wind checked, oohs and aahs from the crowd, ominous chords from guitar, worried juggler. Kids instructed to count the throws. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, double-toss, catch, bow. End! It worked!

Recognition is wonderful. Little hands tugged at my Supergirl pants. "Will you come juggle at my birthday party, please?!"

Praised, hot and happy, I trussed the props basket back onto the bike with even more excessive amounts of rope and rode back to Tabra through the twilight...feeling like a performer. Sounding like a cow stampede.

Lloyd Timberlake, author of the accompanying article, drawn by Shireen Moody, author of this article.

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