Thank You for the Music

As I walked out of my apartment and into the lift, I checked my song list for any songs by Michael Jackson. I could find a lot of rock, few hip-hop and some retro. But only one Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson. How I have moved on in my taste for music. To develop a sense of music, do you need a strong foundation? The first time I heard Heal the World, I could hear Michael Jackson telling me, 'It is all in the melody girl!' And when I heard Thriller and the rest, I could see that there was a lot more to beat and rhythm than I had hitherto known. Frankly speaking, for an initiate, I could not understand what Michael Jackson was saying in his songs. [But he is a shade better than those Linkin Park's and others whom I listen to nowadays] But then,... who cared. When I was working about the house, the beats of Smooth Criminal, Remember the Time, Blood on the Dance Floor [picture me with the mopping stick mopping the floor in tune with the beats of this song...sometimes Queens can do the weirdest things. It comes with the position :)] used to keep me focussed. On my evening walks, Gone too Soon, Liberian Girl and Heal the World kept me company with their haunting music. Of course, They Don't Really Care About Us was quite therapeutic in my run-in with the authorities once in a while. My My! How have I moved on since those early days of my initiation into music. Most of all, Michael Jackson taught me to have a ear for beat, rhythm and melody, something that came in quite handy when I dabbled in playing a musical instrument. And he didn't stop there. He taught me how to appreciate music and enjoy it more. What Milton said of Shakespeare maybe quite true of Michael Jackson - he doesn't need a tomb in stone. His works become a standing testimony to his art - a vast sepulchre they will form - a sepulchre of songs that you keep returning to. As I hear the news about his untimley demise, I do wonder whether there was more to come out of him. Perhaps what he said of Aaliyah maybe true for him - I can't help but feel that he has Gone too Soon. Thank you for the Music, Michael Jackson!

Chasing your dreams with a mug of coffee

The night had been different too. For a change, Hyderabad witnessed some much needed showers, and a consequent drop in temperature. Morning had only brought a reminder of the storm that had passed the previous day - both on the landscape and the inscape. Dreams had been buried.

I have my one favourite coffee mug - Archies - with the message, 'Attitude is everything'. I mixed the instant coffee and made it sure that the mug was filled to the brim.

And as I slowly made myself comfortable on the chairs and with my laptop, with occasional sips of the instant coffee, peace dawned. A peace that passeth all understanding. A peace that promised that the joy lies, not as much in achieving the dreams, as in chasing them. A peace that said that you have at least tried, instead of regretting for the rest of your life that you could have,...but you didn't. A peace that said that this too shall pass. A peace that told me, never...never to stop chasing my dreams. My day moves on, as the last night remains just another chapter in the book of life. There are fresh pastures to be explored,... and I move on, creating and chasing new dreams. My book needs to be written...and it is going to be a tale filled with happiness and joy. 

Subway tales

One of the good things that has happened on the stretch of road from Mehdipatnam to Gachibowli is the number of restaurants that have opened shop, Subway, Dominoes, Wonton. Which means now I have decent choice for lunch and coffee.

A friend had said that she was going to be an hour late. And there was absolutely no motivation for me to hang around in the university. I remembered the Subway and headed there. Ordered a coffee and opened my books. I was the only one [as usual, wrong timing] and read through, making copious notes. My friend was nowhere in sight. Ordered another coffee. By now you guessed it right. I was just trying to kill time as there was no other decent place where I could sit and work. Checked my mobile for the time. Another 45 minutes to go. Helplessly I looked at the waiter. Silent communication. I did not particularly relish the thought of a third cup of coffee. The waiter smiled and said 'Maam, no issues. You can sit here as long as you want.' I flashed my best smile and continued with my work. And sort of felt a mild regret when my friend returned.

A week later

Waiting for my friend again. Headed straight to Subway again. Was greeted by a cheery 'Hello Maam. Welcome back! What would you like to have today?' I decided to experiment with iced tea. [It had been yet another hot day!] Sipped it slowly and sorta regretted again when my friend arrived.


Five days later

Sorta stuck with the work in the university and could not have my lunch. Headed for Subway and ordered for a sub. Needless to say, was again greeted by a smile and 'Hello Maam, What would you like to have today? A sub?' Obviously I was looking famished. Trusted the waiter's choice in choosing the best possible veg sub for me. I did not regret leaving the decision making to him. As I downed the chilled coke, felt the need to read and make notes. I dug into my bag, but could not find my elusive Parker. Requested a pen and got it. Sat for an hour peacefully and did my work.

Three days later

An SOS from a friend who needed some immediate help on a project. Subway was the meeting place. I asked my friend to come to Subway. Ordered for a couple of coffees and dug into my handbag for my elusive Parker. The waiter was watching me and knew what was coming next. By the time I reached the counter, he was ready for me.

Today

Honestly needed a coffee more than anything. Life has become quite difficult and complicated. Headed to the Subway for peace. As I settled down and opened my scribbling pad to make some notes, my Parker decided to become elusive again. By the time I made it to the counter, the waiter knew what I wanted. And both of us started laughing.

What I think about these Subway tales

I don't give a damn whether the waiters are paid to do all this or not. It's just that I feel happy at such simple acknowledgements, smiles, especially when they come from strangers, who suddenly seem to be sharing something with you, who try to make you feel at home. It makes the world feel....well... more connected and clued in. 

Daddy Long Legs

My favourite book till date, the best amongst the many, is Daddy Long Legs. Time and again, I have wondered what is it in this simple epistolary novel that has captivated me so much. Is it the assurance that kindness still prevails in this sometimes cruel world? The idea of a developing romance, through letters, or the Jerusha Abbot's pursuit of knowledge and excellence? I have wondered often and guess that more often than not, it is precisely these questions that make me return to the book.

First of all, the idea that simplicity and conviction of thoughts still reign the roost. Probably I escape into a world of fantasy when I think about that. Next, the idea that letters can be such powerful tools of expression. That is some food for thought in the present age of 'twittering'.

To me, the whole point is knowing about a person so intrinsically without ever having met them. The letters that Jerusha writes to her unknown benefactor are chronicles of her life, a record of her thoughts, her successes and her losses and sometimes, indignance. But all punctuated by honesty of thought. Hence to me, the book is not just a tale. This may not happen in real life, but as long as the possibilities of parallels exist, why not?

Or probably it is just the idea of a preparing to write. Whatever. This is the one book that I would love to curl up with on a winter's day, on a rocking chair, with a hot cup of coffee in my hands. And travel with Jerusha as she moves on with her dreams of becoming a writer.

A Pickled Life!

What's a meal without a pickle. A welcome sign in any kitchen is those rows of bottles filled with reddish brown substance. [colours vary from red to brown depending on the constituents] Come summer, it is the pickle season out here. Yesterday my aunt made fresh cauliflower pickle. Needless to say, anything that comes out of my aunt's hand is yummy. Remembrance of things past. My mind travelled to those days when another aunt of mine used to make mango pickle. It was more of a ritual, something that she did with reverence every summer. Let me tell how she did it.   First of all, the pickle making day was announced in advance. The children were warned to wake up early in the morning and finish the morning rituals, have their fill of food and disappear. Disappear here means going off to the groves, playing with the other village kids or watching movies on the rented VCR. The kitchen was a separate block by itself. In the garden, aunt would have already pounded the red chillies [they only look red, they are not so spicy!] and the other required ingredients. She would pound them into a fine powder. Then come out the cut mango pieces. Triangular pieces of raw mangoes. She would mix the pieces with the powder and oil by hand and store them in earthern jars....huge ones. Only after the kitchen was completely cleaned would the children be allowed. The result - red mango pickle. Mix it with steaming hot rice and add a dash of ghee - you are on your way towards a lip-smacking treat. Of course, the treat used to be punctuated by stentorian warnings that we should not eat too much, otherwise our stomachs would start behaving unpredictably. But...who cared. Today, very few people have the space and time to make pickles in such large quantities. My aunt in Hyderabad makes pickle using a mixer. It's good. But nowhere does it approximate to the taste of those pickles in earthen jars. But at least my aunt is making. As I walk down the supermarket aisle, I see the numerous bottles of pickles of all kinds and constituents. They remind me of those earthen jars, red mango pickle made by my aunt in my village. I sigh, and move on.

A Shouting in the Silence?

'Long time ma'am, since you last came here,' remarked the waiter. I was at Java Green in Punjagutta, and it had been a month since my last visit. He knew what I wanted as I settled down with my book. Out of the corner of my eye, my eyes registered something out of the usual. I could see hands flinging about. Words that were supposed to be heard but not heard. Right in the middle of the outlet, a group of five people around a table were engaged in an animated conversation. They were almost shouting, but silently!

I was amazed. So much of communication and so noiselessly. The waiter, obviously wanting to share his observations on them, felt a kinship with me and moved over. 'Just imagine the noise levels ma'am if five people had actually been engaging in this kind of a verbal discussion.' The five people were communicating in sign language.

I was interested. Who were these people? They were of a mixed age group and were of a professional disposition. Most importantly, they were starkly set off against the motley crowd by their willingness to connect and communicate. Fascinated, I asked the waiter. 'Do they come here everyday? Who are they?'

'They are employees of the Andhra Bank above. Everyday they don't take their break at the usual time and instead in the evening settle down here for a long discussion. I have been seeing them for the past eight months and everyday, watching them has been quite fascinating. If there is no place inside, they place an order and make themselves comfortable outside on the pavement. But the pattern has remained the same for the past eight months. The five get together at the same time in the evening and god knows what they talk, but they talk.'

I looked at the animated speakers again and was struck, by their willingness to connect to each other. Even at the expense of 'shouting' in silence. How many of us are willing to take time for that?

Michelangelo's Christ - Part 1

I had recorded the following extract from The Agony and the Ecstasy in my diary when I had been a student. Now, it moves to my blog.It captures the moment when Michelangelo was in the thought mode about the statue of Jesus Christ that he had been commissioned to make -

Michelangelo did not feel within himself any of the things that Donatello felt. He had never been altogether clear in his own mind why God could not accomplish by Himself all the things He sent His son down on earth to do. Why did God need a son? The exquisitely balanced Donatello Christ said to him: 'This is how God wanted it to be, exactly the way it was planned. It is not hard to accept one's fate when it had been preordained. I have anticipated this pain.'

Michelangelo thought - 'What went through the mind of Christ between the sunset hour when the Roman soldier drove the first nail through his flesh, and the hour when he died? For these thoughts would determine not only how he accepted his fate, but also the position of his body on the cross. Donatello's Christ accepted in serenity, and thought nothing. Brunelleschi's Christ was so ethereal that he died at the first touch of the nail and had no time to think'

He returned to his workbench, began exploring his mind with charcoal and ink. On Christ's face appeared the expression, 'I am in agony, not from the iron nails but from the rust of doubt.' He could not bring himself to convey Christ's divinity by anything so obvious as a halo; it had to be portrayed through an inner force, strong enough to conquer his misgivings at this hour of severest trial.'

It was inevitable that his Christ would be closer to man than to God. He did not know that he was to be crucified. He neither wanted it nor liked it. And as a result, his body was twisted in conflict, torn like all men, by inner questioning.