For nine days, a city with no formal nightlife (bar a solitary 24-hour coffee shop) lived after hours and dozed during the day. Of course, preparations had begun much earlier: one month ago, cloth merchants were politely telling clients to come back after Dussehra if they wanted to buy anything as mundane as salwar-kameez material. Little trolleys sprang up at street corners, laden with oxidised metal jewellery; they found immediate patronage in girls of all ages and shapes. Pieces were tried on, admiredand junked for yet newer designs. Parandis, dupattas, turbans met a similar fate, but the shop-keepers didn't despair, for the queue only grew longer, the desperation ever more evident as the new moon appeared on the horizon.

And then, finally, it is time for the stands to be swept, the lights to be switched on, the `party plot' to be bathed in brilliant flourescence in readiness for the first comers. They come in shy groups; the boys set aside from the girls by the entry fee they must pay. The first hours are self-conscious: the girl wonders if the backless choli is showing too much skin; the boy frets over whether he's overdone the kediyu and turban bit. But as the instrumental music gives way to the throbbing voice over the loudspeaker, the tight little groups unwind to form undulating little lines. Each group still maintains its identity, dancing as if to beats of individual drummers, but merging into a cohesive, synchronised whole of concentric circles several thousand strong.

The distinctions areless evident in the smaller gatherings: the participants, as gaily, if not as richly, dressed as their more prosperous counterparts, move in single lines around a central deity. The music may come from a scratchy record, rather than live performers, but that does not take away from the mood; if anything, it only serves to accentuate the hilarity, for untrained voices join in in the chorus without embarrassment or diffidence.

The sense of community is important: it is perhaps the only difference between a garba and, say, a private wedding. Religion, of course, was the raison d'etre of the garba, but if Bengal's Durga Puja still retains the central motif, Gujarat's garba now centres around the all-too-fragile bonds of community. The same faces frequent the same garbas; they probably live in the same locality, but it is in the garba ground that the sense of conviviality and fellow-feeling grows up.

It's not unusual to see whole families dancing together either: a bearded father, a portly mother andschool-going children learning to keep pace with familiar tunes... Perhaps someone, somewhere says a silent prayer that they move together in similar tandem throughout their earthly existence.

The Festival of Nine Nights comes but once a year; for nine days it's possible to ignore the stifled yawns, the calloused feet -- for no one, but no one, ever dons footwear in the garba ground -- and the aching limbs. The spirit of Navratri builds into a crescendo as the moon waxes on its journey across the sky; the climax comes around when the bright smiles are just a little droopy and a disobedient pimple has made its presence most awkwardly felt. But with the ennui comes a secure feeling that the same nine nights will come around next year; the community will unite once again to sing the same songs.