Sitting in the middle of a LOT of people and listening to an ipod and blocking out sounds = super fun activity. Its like watching Charlie Chaplin in colour without Charlie Chaplin. Animated faces and lots of hand movements. It shuts me out. But when I look at them it keeps me guessing.
Note to self: Do it again. Once a day.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Because Gibran knows EVERYTHING
The Vision
There in the middle of the field, by the side of a crystalline stream, I saw a bird-cage whose rods and hinges were fashioned by an expert's hands. In one corner lay a dead bird, and in another were two basins -- one empty of water and the other of seeds. I stood there reverently, as if the lifeless bird and the murmur of the water were worthy of deep silence and respect -- something worth of examination and meditation by the heard and conscience.
As I engrossed myself in view and thought, I found that the poor creature had died of thirst beside a stream of water, and of hunger in the midst of a rich field, cradle of life; like a rich man locked inside his iron safe, perishing from hunger amid heaps of gold.
Before my eyes I saw the cage turned suddenly into a human skeleton, and the dead bird into a man's heart which was bleeding from a deep wound that looked like the lips of a sorrowing woman. A voice came from that wound saying, "I am the human heart, prisoner of substance and victim of earthly laws.
"In God's field of Beauty, at the edge of the stream of life, I was imprisoned in the cage of laws made by man.
"In the center of beautiful Creation I died neglected because I was kept from enjoying the freedom of God's bounty.
"Everything of beauty that awakens my love and desire is a disgrace, according to man's conceptions; everything of goodness that I crave is but naught, according to his judgment.
"I am the lost human heart, imprisoned in the foul dungeon of man's dictates, tied with chains of earthly authority, dead and forgotten by laughing humanity whose tongue is tied and whose eyes are empty of visible tears."
All these words I heard, and I saw them emerging with a stream of ever thinning blood from that wounded heart.
More was said, but my misted eyes and crying should prevented further sight or hearing.
- The Prophet
There in the middle of the field, by the side of a crystalline stream, I saw a bird-cage whose rods and hinges were fashioned by an expert's hands. In one corner lay a dead bird, and in another were two basins -- one empty of water and the other of seeds. I stood there reverently, as if the lifeless bird and the murmur of the water were worthy of deep silence and respect -- something worth of examination and meditation by the heard and conscience.
As I engrossed myself in view and thought, I found that the poor creature had died of thirst beside a stream of water, and of hunger in the midst of a rich field, cradle of life; like a rich man locked inside his iron safe, perishing from hunger amid heaps of gold.
Before my eyes I saw the cage turned suddenly into a human skeleton, and the dead bird into a man's heart which was bleeding from a deep wound that looked like the lips of a sorrowing woman. A voice came from that wound saying, "I am the human heart, prisoner of substance and victim of earthly laws.
"In God's field of Beauty, at the edge of the stream of life, I was imprisoned in the cage of laws made by man.
"In the center of beautiful Creation I died neglected because I was kept from enjoying the freedom of God's bounty.
"Everything of beauty that awakens my love and desire is a disgrace, according to man's conceptions; everything of goodness that I crave is but naught, according to his judgment.
"I am the lost human heart, imprisoned in the foul dungeon of man's dictates, tied with chains of earthly authority, dead and forgotten by laughing humanity whose tongue is tied and whose eyes are empty of visible tears."
All these words I heard, and I saw them emerging with a stream of ever thinning blood from that wounded heart.
More was said, but my misted eyes and crying should prevented further sight or hearing.
- The Prophet
Monday, September 28, 2009
Baudelaire
Lovers of whores
Are happy - fit and satisfied;
As for me, my arms are broken
from having clasped the clouds.
Are happy - fit and satisfied;
As for me, my arms are broken
from having clasped the clouds.
- Ouevres
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Hail World History
As a child, I was always surrounded by books at home. Lots of books. Its one of many things we were taught to respect - no underlining, no earmarking, no folding, no keeping them on the dinner table, no spilling milk over them. No manhandling them period. I see now the value of that treatment, the books look as beautiful as they did when I was young, despite repeated readings. 
Of these, one of the books that I've always seen around and whose cover is almost ingrained in my head, is my grandfather's copy of the Glimpses of World History by Nehru. I've been meaning to read it for a while, and I finally did this summer. I couldnt finish it unfortunately, but what little I read I was fascinated. As an undergrad (and even as a grad student), I've been far too quick to criticize the nationalist account of textbook history, and embrace instead the subaltern accounts, without really giving the former a chance or without really trying to understand where it came from.
This book, written by Nehru between 1930 and 1933 is a collection of about 200 letters written from jail to his daughter, then a teenager. It is an extensive account of world history and world politics, dating from 6000 BC to his present, and perhaps constitutes the formative years of his perspective on the nation-state, and the premise of his foreign policies eventually. In a gigantic chart laid out at the very beginning he summarizes world history and puts it in a beautifully organized table with dates, numbers and important events. The main underlying idea in the letters is that there is no such thing as a nation's history - we must adopt a more integrated approach and think about the history and politics of the world. That given the vast spread of ideas, people and capital since times immemorial, it makes no sense to continue evoking the nation-state as the only legitimate container of history. It in fact resonates beautifully with post-colonial literature written almost a century later, that calls into question that very same notion of national borders, sovereignty and citizenship. Aside from being a fantastic narrative of history, it is also a narrative / diary of his struggle in jail (as an individual, family man and freedom fighter) and an account of the Independence struggle as witnessed from the confines of imprisonment in those three years.
Beautiful. Imagine reading these letters as a 13 year old. Imagine the kind of ideas you could be exposed to in your formative years. Imagine their power. It made me wonder why we never read this book in high school? Rather than having to search for history on my own as an adult, I would've learned to love history a lot more as a child. Rather than loving to hate my history lectures, I might have learnt to love and grasp world history at a time when learning was easier, and the ability to remember (not memorize) was sharper. Its still undoubtedly an elite account of history but not in the fashion taught to us by f***-all NCERT. As a well known post-colonial historical-anthropologist, Partha Chatterjee, writes:
"Those who had the misfortune to study the diplomatic history of Europe will remember the sleepless nights spent trying to memorize the unpronounceable names of remote provinces that were transferred on who knows which dates from one European power to another. This is how we were taught to relish the sublime beauties of sovereignty." (Politics of the Governed)
But why were we taught to relish it when we had access to something as beautiful as this book that questions the exact same? It makes no sense to me, but what does make sense is going back to the book again and again, and professing it to all that come my way, especially those of my generation.
P.S.: Speaking of my generation, whoever made this man GenX's mouthpiece?? (Thank you S, for pointing this one out):
"Really, whether Mr Jinnah did wonderful things or he did horrible things and whatever point of view your party likes to take — who gives a damn? How is this relevant to the India we have to build today? Are we electing leaders for the future or selecting a history teacher? ...let’s let Mr Jinnah rest in peace... And let’s not worry too much about this subject called History; let’s create a new subject called The Future."
- Chetan Bhagat, Dont Fix History, Look at the Future, TOI, 30 August 2009
Wait, what????
Of these, one of the books that I've always seen around and whose cover is almost ingrained in my head, is my grandfather's copy of the Glimpses of World History by Nehru. I've been meaning to read it for a while, and I finally did this summer. I couldnt finish it unfortunately, but what little I read I was fascinated. As an undergrad (and even as a grad student), I've been far too quick to criticize the nationalist account of textbook history, and embrace instead the subaltern accounts, without really giving the former a chance or without really trying to understand where it came from.This book, written by Nehru between 1930 and 1933 is a collection of about 200 letters written from jail to his daughter, then a teenager. It is an extensive account of world history and world politics, dating from 6000 BC to his present, and perhaps constitutes the formative years of his perspective on the nation-state, and the premise of his foreign policies eventually. In a gigantic chart laid out at the very beginning he summarizes world history and puts it in a beautifully organized table with dates, numbers and important events. The main underlying idea in the letters is that there is no such thing as a nation's history - we must adopt a more integrated approach and think about the history and politics of the world. That given the vast spread of ideas, people and capital since times immemorial, it makes no sense to continue evoking the nation-state as the only legitimate container of history. It in fact resonates beautifully with post-colonial literature written almost a century later, that calls into question that very same notion of national borders, sovereignty and citizenship. Aside from being a fantastic narrative of history, it is also a narrative / diary of his struggle in jail (as an individual, family man and freedom fighter) and an account of the Independence struggle as witnessed from the confines of imprisonment in those three years.
Beautiful. Imagine reading these letters as a 13 year old. Imagine the kind of ideas you could be exposed to in your formative years. Imagine their power. It made me wonder why we never read this book in high school? Rather than having to search for history on my own as an adult, I would've learned to love history a lot more as a child. Rather than loving to hate my history lectures, I might have learnt to love and grasp world history at a time when learning was easier, and the ability to remember (not memorize) was sharper. Its still undoubtedly an elite account of history but not in the fashion taught to us by f***-all NCERT. As a well known post-colonial historical-anthropologist, Partha Chatterjee, writes:
"Those who had the misfortune to study the diplomatic history of Europe will remember the sleepless nights spent trying to memorize the unpronounceable names of remote provinces that were transferred on who knows which dates from one European power to another. This is how we were taught to relish the sublime beauties of sovereignty." (Politics of the Governed)
But why were we taught to relish it when we had access to something as beautiful as this book that questions the exact same? It makes no sense to me, but what does make sense is going back to the book again and again, and professing it to all that come my way, especially those of my generation.
P.S.: Speaking of my generation, whoever made this man GenX's mouthpiece?? (Thank you S, for pointing this one out):
"Really, whether Mr Jinnah did wonderful things or he did horrible things and whatever point of view your party likes to take — who gives a damn? How is this relevant to the India we have to build today? Are we electing leaders for the future or selecting a history teacher? ...let’s let Mr Jinnah rest in peace... And let’s not worry too much about this subject called History; let’s create a new subject called The Future."
- Chetan Bhagat, Dont Fix History, Look at the Future, TOI, 30 August 2009
Wait, what????
Friday, September 18, 2009
Crazy Little Thang Called Love
Yes. I have the balls to write about it. And why not? Its probably not a lot different from any other emotion - anger, humour, sadness, sympathy etc. If anything, at one point or another it evokes at least one, if not all of them. Then why do we worry writing about it? Why do we deliberately keep ourselves blind from how love works?
I was chatting with M today. She said its the one thing she prefers not to blog about. She (succintly) put it this way "...I feel crystallizing it might take away the strength of it, the instictive power or complexity. And i'd hate to lose the mysterious often dark magic as it is undefined in my head." And I hold M in very high regard, especially for her ability to articulate her own thoughts as well as everyone else's. If she stays away from it, I should undoubtedly stay away from it. But like I told her, and like I strongly believe, the further we push it, the more it will continue to elude us.
So then how do we know what love is? How do I know true love from the not-so-true love? Have I felt it, or am I likely to feel it in this lifetime? Where can I find the answer? Google? Of course! (slapping forehead in obviousness). And so I put the word 'love' on google. And who does google promptly direct me to? Wikipedia stupid! So then, according to wikipedia:
The word love can refer to a variety of different feelings, states, and attitudes, ranging from generic pleasure ("I loved that meat") to intense interpersonal attraction ("I love my boyfriend").
Really??? Everything from meat to my boyfriend?? Ahem. Moving on.
As an abstract concept, love usually refers to a deep, ineffable feeling of tenderly caring for another person.
Ah! Now we're talking. But wait, what does ineffable mean?
Ineffability is concerned with ideas that cannot or should not be expressed in spoken words often being in the form of a taboo or incomprehensible term.
Damn it! M was right then.
I wonder though, is it really that incomprehensible and complex? I think about it a lot, and maybe just the fact that I think about it a lot is an indication of the fact that I havent 'really' felt it or I dont know what its meant to feel like or somewhere deep down inside I'm convinced that its a cultural delusion. Another good friend, P once wrote in her blog, that love is separate from lust, infatuation, vanity, codependency or guilt. If it isnt one or more of those five things, then no, I dont think I've ever really fallen in love. My familial, platonic, religious or romantic love, can all be classified as a combination of those five things.
Shites!! Did I just use the words 'love' and 'classify' in the same sentence?? How very scientific and oh-so-not-me of me! But wait, have other, more openly scientific people tried to quantify love? Apparently not a whole lot. According to another frequently cited, very academic source, the TIME magazine:
Love is mushy; science is hard. Anger and fear, feelings that have been considerably researched in the field and the lab, can be quantified through measurements: pulse and breathing rates, muscle contractions, a whole spider web of involuntary responses. Love does not register as definitively on the instruments; it leaves a blurred fingerprint that could be mistaken for anything from indigestion to a manic attack. Since it is possible (a cynic would say commonplace) for humans to mate and reproduce without love, all the attendant sighing and swooning and sonnet writing have struck many pragmatic investigators as beside the evolutionary point.
But during the past decade, scientists across a broad range of disciplines have had a change of heart about love... Whatever the reasons, science seems to have come around to a view that nearly everyone else has always taken for granted: romance is real. It is not merely a conceit; it is bred into our biology.
Fantastic. I can live with that. It is bred into our biology and we're preprogrammed to love. So come meat, come boyfriend, I too shall love!
I was chatting with M today. She said its the one thing she prefers not to blog about. She (succintly) put it this way "...I feel crystallizing it might take away the strength of it, the instictive power or complexity. And i'd hate to lose the mysterious often dark magic as it is undefined in my head." And I hold M in very high regard, especially for her ability to articulate her own thoughts as well as everyone else's. If she stays away from it, I should undoubtedly stay away from it. But like I told her, and like I strongly believe, the further we push it, the more it will continue to elude us.
So then how do we know what love is? How do I know true love from the not-so-true love? Have I felt it, or am I likely to feel it in this lifetime? Where can I find the answer? Google? Of course! (slapping forehead in obviousness). And so I put the word 'love' on google. And who does google promptly direct me to? Wikipedia stupid! So then, according to wikipedia:
The word love can refer to a variety of different feelings, states, and attitudes, ranging from generic pleasure ("I loved that meat") to intense interpersonal attraction ("I love my boyfriend").
Really??? Everything from meat to my boyfriend?? Ahem. Moving on.
As an abstract concept, love usually refers to a deep, ineffable feeling of tenderly caring for another person.
Ah! Now we're talking. But wait, what does ineffable mean?
Ineffability is concerned with ideas that cannot or should not be expressed in spoken words often being in the form of a taboo or incomprehensible term.
Damn it! M was right then.
I wonder though, is it really that incomprehensible and complex? I think about it a lot, and maybe just the fact that I think about it a lot is an indication of the fact that I havent 'really' felt it or I dont know what its meant to feel like or somewhere deep down inside I'm convinced that its a cultural delusion. Another good friend, P once wrote in her blog, that love is separate from lust, infatuation, vanity, codependency or guilt. If it isnt one or more of those five things, then no, I dont think I've ever really fallen in love. My familial, platonic, religious or romantic love, can all be classified as a combination of those five things.
Shites!! Did I just use the words 'love' and 'classify' in the same sentence?? How very scientific and oh-so-not-me of me! But wait, have other, more openly scientific people tried to quantify love? Apparently not a whole lot. According to another frequently cited, very academic source, the TIME magazine:
Love is mushy; science is hard. Anger and fear, feelings that have been considerably researched in the field and the lab, can be quantified through measurements: pulse and breathing rates, muscle contractions, a whole spider web of involuntary responses. Love does not register as definitively on the instruments; it leaves a blurred fingerprint that could be mistaken for anything from indigestion to a manic attack. Since it is possible (a cynic would say commonplace) for humans to mate and reproduce without love, all the attendant sighing and swooning and sonnet writing have struck many pragmatic investigators as beside the evolutionary point.
But during the past decade, scientists across a broad range of disciplines have had a change of heart about love... Whatever the reasons, science seems to have come around to a view that nearly everyone else has always taken for granted: romance is real. It is not merely a conceit; it is bred into our biology.
Fantastic. I can live with that. It is bred into our biology and we're preprogrammed to love. So come meat, come boyfriend, I too shall love!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
I never ask for it
Sometimes facebook can do wonderful things. I came across today a volunteer-run participatory project called Blank Noise, that takes a fairly sophisticated stand against eve teasing in Indian cities. They organize events and explore street dynamics and recognize eve teasing as street sexual harassment or violence. Fantastic. Of course the cause I support. But what made it appealing was the sense that the project is ongoing and fairly open. They question everything - from the very definition of eve teasing, to its source, its legitimate response, and they even question the use of violence (also pepper spray) against it. What makes it more interesting is an underlying academic interest in understanding street dynamics and people's perception of public spaces.
When I was going through their website, I noticed on the side a little blurb that asked '...do we accept it, because we expect it?' I didnt think about it for more than a second, but when it sunk in, it really sunk in. I dont think as a Delhi-ite, I've questioned it, ever. I remember spending hours hating myself for having chosen to wear a particularly bright colour, or a moderately fitted jeans, or even hating my body type, but I dont remember questioning it. I remember having felt proud for being able to stare back, or being able to abuse someone on a bus, or even hit back an old man, but I cant remember not blaming myself for it. I cant remember not feeling ashamed and scarred for it. And all of this combined with a subtle acceptance of that feeling. Yikes! So much so that I remember having felt borderline unattractive when I walked down the streets of New York or Boston or Paris, just because no one stared at me. And despite all that I feel more at home and more at ease walking down the streets of Delhi than New York?? That makes no sense to me. But reading about this project made me feel a lot better, and I'm glad they gave a public forum to what I thought all along to be a personal and private reaction.
This week they urge women to unapologetically believe, (and I quote):
No matter what I’m wearing, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter what my body type or size is, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter where I am, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter when I am out, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter the fact that I was alone, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter what language I’m using or my skin colour, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
Source: http://blog.blanknoise.org/
When I was going through their website, I noticed on the side a little blurb that asked '...do we accept it, because we expect it?' I didnt think about it for more than a second, but when it sunk in, it really sunk in. I dont think as a Delhi-ite, I've questioned it, ever. I remember spending hours hating myself for having chosen to wear a particularly bright colour, or a moderately fitted jeans, or even hating my body type, but I dont remember questioning it. I remember having felt proud for being able to stare back, or being able to abuse someone on a bus, or even hit back an old man, but I cant remember not blaming myself for it. I cant remember not feeling ashamed and scarred for it. And all of this combined with a subtle acceptance of that feeling. Yikes! So much so that I remember having felt borderline unattractive when I walked down the streets of New York or Boston or Paris, just because no one stared at me. And despite all that I feel more at home and more at ease walking down the streets of Delhi than New York?? That makes no sense to me. But reading about this project made me feel a lot better, and I'm glad they gave a public forum to what I thought all along to be a personal and private reaction.
This week they urge women to unapologetically believe, (and I quote):
No matter what I’m wearing, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter what my body type or size is, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter where I am, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter when I am out, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter the fact that I was alone, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
No matter what language I’m using or my skin colour, I NEVER 'ASK FOR IT'.
Source: http://blog.blanknoise.org/
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The Impure Science
A couple of weeks ago, I met an old school friend for coffee. We were catching up and started talking about what other people from school were upto. He mentioned another friend, and mentioned how hard his life as a Phd student is. I made the mistake of saying, 'Yuck. I understand'. He corrected me promptly - 'His Phd is pure sciences dude. Its hard core.' To which I smiled politely and said, 'and what is mine, an impure science?' but my brain really said '@#$%^&*@#$*&^%!!!!!!'.
I have great difficulty, I repeat GREAT difficulty explaining to people what I do for a living. Most of the time it doesnt bother me that people dont get it. I'm spending five precious years getting a Phd in Sociology. Of course it makes no sense to anyone. It fails to make sense to me sometimes, so I cant blame them entirely. The standard response is usually '...Aha! You can tell me all about the functionings of my brain then!' No. I'm not a psychologist. '..Oh wait, so its like social service stuff?' No. Unless you're talking about all the free labour they extract from me at grad school. '...then what is it about? what do you really do?' Well, I sit on my ass, and watch the Onion news all day, and whem I have the time, I pick up jargon from fat books written by dead or dying sociologists and talk in extremely complicated ways to my fellow sociologists over drinks in the middle of the day (or night, or afternoon, or evening) so that no one can understand what I'm really saying. And guess what stupid f***s, its more fun than waking up in the morning, wearing a business suit, and looking important while you sit on your ass and punch in obscure numbers in obscure spreadsheets, breaking in between only to inquire about the box seat tickets to the next baseball game you cant even make it to because of all the new obscure numbers that need immediate punching in on a Saturday night.
Phew!
Blogging = therapeautic.
I have great difficulty, I repeat GREAT difficulty explaining to people what I do for a living. Most of the time it doesnt bother me that people dont get it. I'm spending five precious years getting a Phd in Sociology. Of course it makes no sense to anyone. It fails to make sense to me sometimes, so I cant blame them entirely. The standard response is usually '...Aha! You can tell me all about the functionings of my brain then!' No. I'm not a psychologist. '..Oh wait, so its like social service stuff?' No. Unless you're talking about all the free labour they extract from me at grad school. '...then what is it about? what do you really do?' Well, I sit on my ass, and watch the Onion news all day, and whem I have the time, I pick up jargon from fat books written by dead or dying sociologists and talk in extremely complicated ways to my fellow sociologists over drinks in the middle of the day (or night, or afternoon, or evening) so that no one can understand what I'm really saying. And guess what stupid f***s, its more fun than waking up in the morning, wearing a business suit, and looking important while you sit on your ass and punch in obscure numbers in obscure spreadsheets, breaking in between only to inquire about the box seat tickets to the next baseball game you cant even make it to because of all the new obscure numbers that need immediate punching in on a Saturday night.
Phew!
Blogging = therapeautic.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Like the keys of a piano
Of late, I've been listening to a lot of trashy music and a lot of different kinds of music. Its slightly unusual on my part cos I usually stick to a genre or a person at a time. But the current state of affairs and jumbled playlist is disturbing because nothing seems to fit my mood. Maybe for once I'm not being able to hold on to a mood (hence a song) for too long.
I cant actually remember at what point I started depending on music so much, or at least where it all began for me. As far as I can recollect, it began with my mum forcing me to train in Indian classical. But I dont think I ever really fell in love with what I trained in. I fell in love with what I couldnt train in, what no one my age (7 or 8 at that time) would listen to, and that which I didnt even know the name or genre of at that time. It was my brother's collection of classic rock - his very own 'Hits and Pits'. The 14 carefully recorded tapes played on and on for the first few conscious years of my life, and are still playing in my subconscious mind. So much so that till date, when I listen to some of these songs in bars and concerts, I can sing along word for word, but I couldnt tell you what the name of the song is, or who sung it. But I loved it. I loved the powerful vocals, I loved the solo guitaring, I loved the drumming, but more importantly, my brother taught me how to pay attention to the less obvious - the bass guitar and the backup vocals. How beautifully and selflessly they blended in without making a fuss, and quietly became the backbone of a song!
Eventually when I began collecting music of my own, it had to be what others were listening to. I paid my tribute to the BSBs, the Boyzones, and all the BoysIIMen type groups I could lay my hands on. The 'yuppy puppys' as my brother would disdainfully refer to them. Eventually I moved on (or back) to the 'more sophisticated' country, rock and jazz. My taste in music changed, my situation changed, I grew older, I moved out, but all of this time, some form of music or the other stayed with me. I've let it pull me out of yuckiness, but I've also let it push me further into more yuckiness. I've allowed it to lift my spirits, but I've also let it take over entirely and drag me down. I've traveled, read, drank and slept to music. In fact for every signficant and insignificant memory in my head, there is a song. It sits pretty with my memory, almost indistinguishable from the event itself.
Now, as I sit in my room, cuddled up with earplugs, I know in my head will remain from this night, bits and pieces of 'Mama, we're all gonna die.. Mama, we're meant for the flies' and 'Oh, holy night, the stars are shining brightly' and 'Oh Lord, wont you buy me a Mercedes Benz?' And while that does confuse and disturb me more and more, it also warms me up for the next 4 months of disturbia, for after I go back to grad student life. Until then, as the days drop one by one, like the keys of a piano, I feel my life sort of rising in crescendo form, until the next phase / semester hits. And then I will slide back smoothly and start again at the beginning of the piano.
I cant actually remember at what point I started depending on music so much, or at least where it all began for me. As far as I can recollect, it began with my mum forcing me to train in Indian classical. But I dont think I ever really fell in love with what I trained in. I fell in love with what I couldnt train in, what no one my age (7 or 8 at that time) would listen to, and that which I didnt even know the name or genre of at that time. It was my brother's collection of classic rock - his very own 'Hits and Pits'. The 14 carefully recorded tapes played on and on for the first few conscious years of my life, and are still playing in my subconscious mind. So much so that till date, when I listen to some of these songs in bars and concerts, I can sing along word for word, but I couldnt tell you what the name of the song is, or who sung it. But I loved it. I loved the powerful vocals, I loved the solo guitaring, I loved the drumming, but more importantly, my brother taught me how to pay attention to the less obvious - the bass guitar and the backup vocals. How beautifully and selflessly they blended in without making a fuss, and quietly became the backbone of a song!
Eventually when I began collecting music of my own, it had to be what others were listening to. I paid my tribute to the BSBs, the Boyzones, and all the BoysIIMen type groups I could lay my hands on. The 'yuppy puppys' as my brother would disdainfully refer to them. Eventually I moved on (or back) to the 'more sophisticated' country, rock and jazz. My taste in music changed, my situation changed, I grew older, I moved out, but all of this time, some form of music or the other stayed with me. I've let it pull me out of yuckiness, but I've also let it push me further into more yuckiness. I've allowed it to lift my spirits, but I've also let it take over entirely and drag me down. I've traveled, read, drank and slept to music. In fact for every signficant and insignificant memory in my head, there is a song. It sits pretty with my memory, almost indistinguishable from the event itself.
Now, as I sit in my room, cuddled up with earplugs, I know in my head will remain from this night, bits and pieces of 'Mama, we're all gonna die.. Mama, we're meant for the flies' and 'Oh, holy night, the stars are shining brightly' and 'Oh Lord, wont you buy me a Mercedes Benz?' And while that does confuse and disturb me more and more, it also warms me up for the next 4 months of disturbia, for after I go back to grad student life. Until then, as the days drop one by one, like the keys of a piano, I feel my life sort of rising in crescendo form, until the next phase / semester hits. And then I will slide back smoothly and start again at the beginning of the piano.
Shites! I did it!
After spending a painful one week picking a template and an appropriate blogname, profile name and description (phew!), I finally have the courage to begin writing me own blog. To give credit where its due, I am inspired by two good friends, S and P, whose blogs I secretly follow. Their love for writing and their ability to scribble freely has inspired me to carve my own little e-space, where I hope to pen things freely! Incoherent and coherent - the twain shall meet here.
As for a theme for this blog, there is none. And you dont need one either. Primarily because you're not looking for a theme when you read this. You're reading this, either because I forcibly made you read it, or because you love me and want to know me better. So well, if there is a theme, its me! As for who me is, you will know soon.
But if you need a quick preview on me, I will leave you with a depiction another dear friend, S, frequently (and very appropriately) resorts to:
P.S.: In case you're wondering what the shites in the title means and you're totally not with it, shites is the new 'oh shit' in delhi, correctly pronounced shait-ez. Like oh my god. You're so like.. dude.. like uncool. Like shites.
As for a theme for this blog, there is none. And you dont need one either. Primarily because you're not looking for a theme when you read this. You're reading this, either because I forcibly made you read it, or because you love me and want to know me better. So well, if there is a theme, its me! As for who me is, you will know soon.
But if you need a quick preview on me, I will leave you with a depiction another dear friend, S, frequently (and very appropriately) resorts to:
P.S.: In case you're wondering what the shites in the title means and you're totally not with it, shites is the new 'oh shit' in delhi, correctly pronounced shait-ez. Like oh my god. You're so like.. dude.. like uncool. Like shites.
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