The Unbearable Ecstasy Of Being

I must have been 6. Maybe 7.

Certainly too early to fall in love.

But, as Shah Rukh Khan says, I saw God in that love. Yes. Rab.

I may have been too young to know it was love. Looking back, now I think it mighthave been the real thing. A ‘thing’ so real that it put me in perpetual state of dizziness. So potent that I have since gone through life in a state of an absent minded daze, drifting along all the events that were critical, supposedly, significant and important to any South Indian Tambram middle-class boys life (- you know, Calculus, Cricket, Athimbers, Poonal, Physics, Brilliant Tutorials, IIT,…)

School exams, report cards, ranks, cricket matches, never really mattered, even though I went through it all, even worrying over them from a reluctant periphery of the mind, from a distant, detached, uninvolved observing state of consciousness.

I may have worried. But I don’t think I ever really cared.

An existence that maybe had my body all into it, but not quite my soul.

Nothing else that happened in my life mattered. I think. For I never really felt sad, or ecstatic, never felt disappointment, or exuberance, never felt shattered or broken when things - good or bad –   happened – the things that would normally mean something significant to any average South Indian Tambram middle class boy. I went through none of those ‘teenage’ phases and rebellion and awkwardness. I never ever understood why teenage was supposed to be a challenge for the teenager, parents, school and society. Whats really all the fuss about anyway?

Maybe it helps being an observer and a reluctant participant of your own life.

Yet, I am not claiming it was love. For I knew not what Love was.

And honestly, I didn’t care.

What I know is how I felt. How I’ve been feeling. And how I feel now in moments like now – when I hear Baghishree.

Back off now before I pound your face for thinking Baghishree is a girl.

She maybe. But I am referring to the Raag.

And then another powerful moment came when I was perhaps 12. When I heard a Jugalbandhi between L.Subramanium and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan. In Sindhu Bhairavi. 10 minutes of string sounds that created an emotion so vivid I have relived each second over and over several times.

And over all those years, steady yet passively administered doses of Madurai Mani, Semmangudi, Lalgudi, GNB, TVS, MLV, DKP, DKJ, Ramani, MSG,  etc, and then the predictable phase of Pink Floyd, even The Eagles and The Beatles,  have only etched that state of mind deeper into my mind(or call it consciousness)

This weekend brought some of that rush back. I dusted off my speakers and set up a sort of an acoustically agreeable mini theatre and played a few solo concerts of the one and only Zakhir Hussain and it all came back rushing like one huge out-of-control avalanche.

And the more I write, the more futile it all seems trying to describe, narrate and report what happened. I’ve made a few futile attempts earlier – here , then here and then a few more. But don’t even bother clicking those links until you have read through this whole thing and have visited the links below.

For now, let me just leave you with some Youtube links – something you should simply find time for. If you really want to relate to this whole post, here is what you should do. Get a pair of headphones. Sit alone, close your eyes, and totally submit to these sounds. Embrace them and let them lift you.

Let them take you to the state of an unbearable ecstasy of existence.

Then read this again if you really care to.

Gateway of India Concert (9′55)

Srinivas and Zakhir Hussain (1′46)

Zakhir Hussain TeenTal (4′24)

Ravi Shankar, Alla Rakha – Tabla Solo in Jhaptal (8′24)

Treasure trove of ZH

 

The Zakir Husain Story

From Regressive To Progressive – A Matter Of Choice.

Some time back I watched I am Legend, and wrote about it. It was, to me, a brilliant movie idea executed very well. Of course, there are always moments when you go “Oh damn, they could’ve dealt with THIS part slightly differently!”, but by and large that did little to radically change my overall good impression of the script, storyline and execution.

The movie is based on Richard Mathesons book as we had discussed in that post. The book was first made as a film in 1964, and then again in 1971. I am Legend was the third adaptation. Although this is a well known fact, no one sighed or rolled their eyes or dismissed it as a me-too.

Stop and think about it. A third attempt. A much used plot. Yet, why was there not much rolling-the-eyes?

Now consider this.

You’ve watched Pyar Toh Hona Hi Tha?  Well that’s French Kiss. Bad Boys, Reservoir Dogs, Hitch, When Harry Met Sally, What Lies Beneath…..they’ve all been used. And its not as if the cinema viewing public doesn’t know about it. The Blogosphere is full of these references, for example this exchange of comments in the forum of Think Digit. And everyone is noticing these  supposed ‘inspirations’ and eyes roll about in their sockets in a crazy frenzy all the time. With each release of such ‘inspired’ movies, reports suggest that Ophthalmologists yelp out in joy and keep their clinics open for 3 extra hours each day. 

DishumDishum.com,  the blog dedicated – sort of – to Bollywood exploits even made a sort of a cross referring analysis of the general views in the blogosphere on shameless copythis, copythat orientation of Bollywood. They even referred the post of a famous blogger you follow religiously. 

Apparently, and I havent noticed any myself, no credits have been made to the original in any of these ‘copywood’ releases, as DishumDishum.com calls them. And really that lack of grace is probably what sets eyes rolling. Adaptations are not new and need not be objectionable. But trying to pass it off as your own certainly is.

Oh and theres music. Take a look at this.

It is time for some serious change. As people of this country, we have history of producing some of the worlds most awe inspiring creative thoughts. But now we confront creative bankruptcy.

Now read this refreshing piece and you will see what I mean. What incredible magic with just black and white! As Karthik points out, what brilliance in 1959!

It is now 2008.

We seem to have have mastered the art of One Step Forward, Two Steps Back. I won’t be surprised if 9 out of every 10 movies is a copy. Nothing surprising, if you consider that 8 out of 9 alphabets in the name of our movie industry is a copy afterall.

The fact that the media, industry and the public allowed the industry to be called Bollywood should say something.

Sigh.

Chetta Chetta, Bong Bong!!

Updated

A day after I flipped April’s golden brown desert sand over to display to my drawing room the wide expansive green fields of May, he breezed in again.

You’ve met Jobi before. Once when he had summond me to Bandra’s JustAround the Corner at 1.00 am, and then again when I narrowly escaped to get a second chance at life the time I met to give him tickets to the ‘Shakti-like’ concert that held in Mumbai some months back.

He has been in and out of my life most of the time, but for a recent while, he’s been mostly out.

“Happy Birthday ol’ chap!” he said.

As you see, Jobi has a perceptible British influence in his language, particularly when he is wishing someone a happy, hearty birthday. He thinks it is the influence of his stint in England. But I think it is because he is a Wodehouse junkie. Jobi never forgets or lets others forget his 8 day  visit to to London 4 years ago, so don’t let him fool you into thinking his roots are in England.

But I can vouch for him – he did not mean anything crafty when he said ‘Happy Birthday ol’ chap’. He certainly is not the common type that comes to your birthday, waits for you to blow the 4 candles (it’s just a custom – 4 candles are fine!), then cough loudly to get everybodys attention before asking at 150 dB, “So, how old are you today?” 

It is a universal problem really. A global, world-wide, trans-cultural, trans-ethnic, trans-religious, trans-sexual,  trans-portal, trans-parent and trans-late.  There’s always ONE person in any birthday party who brings up the crummy numbers.

But that’s not Jobi. The last year he had said, ‘Wish you many more happy returns of the day’, and two friends giggled when they heard that extra stress on the word ‘many more’. I just dismissed it telling myself that the two were tying to read more into Jobi’s line.

And when we were in Pondicherry 11 years ago (Yes. Now you know I must be at least over 11) – he had given me a card that said - ”its not the years in your life, but the life in your years”. But umm, no I don’t really think he was referring to my age.

The music came on even as I was connecting the dots from the past – I was becoming aware of a new truth. Something that has been out there all the time, yet something I had refused to see. Refused to accept. Or believe.

Has Jobi actually been giving me those jibes all these years deliberately?

Nah.

The music was getting louder.

“Oh! Adipoli!” said Jobi, warming up to the music. “Your zamana songs!”

Was that another jibe? Maybe not. I was probably reading too much into these.

Oh well, let me cut the C-major Rap and stop beating around this man. Lets just get over it quickly. I just had to make a point and be certain about the undertones, just for the record.

“I am not an old chap”, I said annoyed. 

“Huh?” Jobi had the same look he had in the final year Engineering exam when he saw the Engg. Design – III question paper. And he said the same thing he had said back then – “Where did that come from? What is this about?”

But Jobi was too lost swaying to the music to wait for an answer. I just let it go. But he absentmindedly continued,

“But of course da! That is what you’d said last year. And the year before. And I don’t disagree. So anyway, what’s up and what’s new this time!” asked Jobi.

“Nothing spectacular!” said I.

I was already wondering if something should be new. The tone in which Jobi had asked made me think I might have taken, perhaps a tad too lightly, this incredibly glorious get-older-overnight-by-a-year day.

“Nothings new!” I mused. An alert observer would have noticed terse defence in my tone. 

“Great!”, he replied. “Lets kill the cake then!”

I wanted to make the day as memorable to Jobi as he had wanted it for me.

I had evil plans.

A minute after the cake was cut, I had timed a mix of Mallu and Bong songs to play. This was partly to kill the opportunity for stale ‘age’ jokes and the other ‘partly’, to make Jobi feel as warm and loved as he was making me feel.

 And then all of a sudden, this one played.

Jobi’s ears perked up just the same moment the cake was submitting to his teeth. The cake got a moments reprieve while Jobi tried to process the complex aural signals accosting his brain.

He turned this shade of pingue. All his past gnawlage and gelf experiences came to the fore.

“Ayyoda!!!” he yelped. The fat black mallu moustache under his nose twitched threateningly and a smile was beginning to form under the aegis of that dense growth.

He jumped about. Giggled. Laughed loudly. He was generally going crazy.

“Beef curry Hahaha!” And he rewound and played several parts over and over again. “pay attention to the subtleties – it’s scooatch..A for Yeappell..hehehe…Bata chappals! Perfect brand stereotyping!”

Jobi was echoing along in chaste mallu accent – not at all getting agitated!

My half mallu half bong friend was showing how much more fun it is to laugh at oneself.

I put the Beef Fry back on the table. I guess I wont throw it down his head this time. I’ll wait for the next year – if he makes another comment, I can then be sure he has been crafty all the time. One needs to be sure before you take stands in life.

Bah.

 

PS: Liked the parody? listen to one more on this click.

Does it work?

The music link I mentioned that’s here on the right column at the bottom under Background Music…does it work for you?

Does it stream right or does it play in stops and starts? Just wondering if it requires a big fat broadband connection to work right. On my PC, (the XP wala- and I just had to mention that!) the  streaming in-fact is perfect and the sound is excellent and crisp. If you play close attention you can hear the air rush into Norah Jones’ lungs.

Again, like I’d mentioned, being open-source, the HTML codes get stripped and that’s not letting me put the realactual player here on this page. What that means is a boring unappealing widget for you to look at that doesn’t show the play-list on this same page. And that means one additional click and a new window for you – and that is blasphemy according to How To Win Friends And Influence People and The Catch 22 Immutable Laws of Web-page Experience, Ver Web 2.0.

Anyway, let me know.