Love

It was afternoon when I walked in. She was there sitting with her legs splayed, a violin resting delicately over her shoulder gracelessly obscuring her lithe body behind wood and string. I has always seen her hair as a wet collection ending in little droplets that ran down to her skirt at the temple, today however they were dry, and beautiful though a tad colourless. Lengthy strands moved lightly near her face, and one troublesome bunch strayed across her eye, she brushed it casually eyes sparkling with the promise of music to come.

“I’m really rusty you know. Not proficient or anything, I just dug this out today”

And then with the incongruence that betrayed her shyness she blurted out

“Lets jam”

She slowly began, her arm moving in a rhythm, gently poking me every time she moved up an octave. I was captivated. By the music as well.

Absorption into music comes suddenly. One moment you are there listening to ordinary sounds, the telephone, people moving about, the trees rustling and the next second you are spellbound, stuck within a world without any escape. What happens in those few seconds of rapture I know not but the realization of having been lost in music always comes about as wondrous and novel. She moved through familiar notes quickly and I was humming at the crescendo I squeaked. She opened her eyes her large black orbs moving about a little shocked a first, with the intrusion of this alien note in her world of rich sounds, then a little apologetic.

“I’ll shift lower, how do you want it?...no no sing. I’ll continue”

And I slowly found strength to go over those notes with her. Shyly at first barely audible, then moving about cautiously as if testing the raga for endurance before breaking out, into full throated exuberance. Faster and faster she moved her arm, keeping up with my new found tempo across Shankarabharanam and Mohanam. Unawares except for constant poking of my chest by her elbow, dimly aware of her presence and completely ensconced within the confines of a few notes. Her string snapped with a sudden twang at Hamsadhwani when our eyes met. I was in a cold sweat.

Time

The earphones fit perfectly for a change, snugly, warm and comforting in my ears.

I reached into my pocket and turned up the volume of my iPod. Dido began to sing a little louder than one second ago.

'no white flag, above my door'
oh no baby, I thought, no white flag.

'...go down with the ship...'
indeed you will, and so will I.

Walking through the aisle, I looked at the passengers on both sides. They stared back mat me scared, faces pale and it struck me a little funny. I positioned myself and began my performance, I'd rehearsed my lines well and knew I would kill it. I realised though, that I was talking a bit too loudly, like headphon'ed' people normally do.

Same can be said true for people with 2 Kg RDX trapped on their bodies. One of my two brothers was done with the praying and he tapped me on the shoulder saying that it was my turn.

I walked into the pilot's cabin and sat in the co-pilot's chair. I smiled at the pilot's blood streaked face which radiated hate at me like a brilliant heater, the kinds we could ony dream of back home on cold winter nights. I sat there looking at the clouds, Strato Cumuls the passanger next to me had called them and the cities standing tall and far far away.

Not for long though.

I did not pray, just skipped to my next favorite song. The clock at my belt slowly ticked to blasting point.

Just enough time to squeeze in Floyd.....'Time'.

Of Music, Food and LOve

Scene 1: Independence Cafe, Hill Road, Bandra

A flyer...
HOPE 08 is a programme to promote love, peace harmony, forgiveness amongst all walks of society and to encourage people in distress going through various negative situations and emotions in life which could lead them to take drastic steps like suicide , nervous breakdowns, etc.We invite citizens from all walks of life for the HOPE 08 to come , participate, relax and unwind through the music of the famous Indian Jazz Fussion Band- CONVERSATION., which is a 8 piece Band with instruments like the Violin, Tabla, Drums, Keyboards, Bass Guitar, Mirdumgam, Saxophone and the Sitar.
When : Saturday 1st November 2008

Time : 6:00 pm to 10:00 pm

Where : Carter road Promenade

"Guys you want to check this out! We're not doing anything else yet anyway...AND its free!"

"Hey guys..Conversations is soooo great..The I've herad the drummer Vinayak and their vilonist jam! I'm so definitely going. Anyone interested??"

Scene 2: Carter Road Promenade, Bandra (west), Mumbai
The salty sea breeze carried the taste of anticipation through the crowd. A diverse pack of mottled rockers, high class socialites letting their hair down and the random people who had accidentally strayed into the awaiting mass thronged amongst the few who actually knew why they were there.
HE was lost absolutely new grounds for him...What Jazz?? Who Conversations?? He was just there to check out the chicks...with his buddies of course!!
"Ooooo...Hot one at 10 o clock..seems all trippy about the music though..Hmmm!"

This was her thing the entrancing trippy music, the serenity of a sitar combining with a six piece drum set!! She was loving the beauty of it all.. the evening...the music..She was lost in a world all her own!
"Buttt...A guy different from the ones you usually meet at these things...Hmmm...Hot in a geeky kinda way! Cute!"

Scene 3: Brownie Cottage, Off Carter Road, Bandra

"Can I have the Snicker Brownie Please!?!"
"Can I have the Snicker Brownie Please!?!"

"Sorry.. thats the last one I've got!"

They exchange glances and he gathers the guts to ask..."How would you like to split it??"
She gives him a lopsided girn. He hasn't seen anything as beautiful in the whole wide world.
After a cataclysimic pause, she said, "Okay, but only if you share a Guliyaan with me after this one!"

Damn!! He HATED Guliyaan!!
"Nah..I'm running late..Boss..Madam ke liye ek Snickers!! Bye! Enjoy your brownie!"

"What did I do NOW!! Well awesome evening! I got a date with Vinayak to top it all!!" ;)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.
(Twelfth Night, 1.1.1-7)

If food be the music of life…

I have vivid memories of my grandmother. Freshly bathed, towel wrapped sternly around her hair, cooking and singing. This musical affection to cooking has always existed in my family. My grandmother would start tadka with small invocations to minor Gods, fry with lilting prayers to obscure Gods and cook the main course in Pallavi, Neelambari and Kalyani. I asked her why, and she said she was calling divinity to bless her food and make it taste good. And boy was it divine! It was ambrosia. My grandmother strongly believed that the busy Gods had not much to do other than descend into random South Indian dishes, however, I mean no disrespect and she was undoubtedly the best cook in that hemisphere.

Things changed with Amma. Following the good Indian tradition of displeasing the mother in law in every way, not only did my mother cook differently, she also sang differently. Yes, Amma also sang, but god forbid, film songs. I for one enjoyed the musical medley. Amma blended past and present seamlessly, an 80’s soulful Illayaraja followed by a peppy Rahman. Boney M and Bappida. Nithyasree meets Nazia Hassan. Abacharam screamed the mother in law. But this only produced, if possible, better food. Music blending from all four directions, the gentle sauté in mild spices. New age organic tofu and spring onions in a Kumbakonam eeya chombu made for a divine gastronomic orgasm.

Occasionally a sour note would be produced, when Amma and grandma both cooked together. This was inevitable, after there are only seven swaras but eight notes, and when do-re-mi resonates with pa-da-ni-sa the odd dissonance shatters even the thickest of glasses. Weird tomato chutney and a soggy medu vadai, with lots of killer looks and heavenly curses. But it was soon forgotten, in the wake of fusion payasam and heaven-sanctioned tiramisu.

Appa also cooked. He would also hum sporadically, utilizing the pauses to decide whether he must add sugar, or salt to the concoction simmering away to glory. Appa’s food was like him, spicy, flavourful, hitting the palate like the rains on a Mumbai afternoon.

I recently discovered, much to my family’s horror, that I am a terrible cook. Amma said singing helps, good mood makes a good cook. Appa said humming helps concentrate, Grandma sent me a devotional CD. Only divine intervention can help now, was her diagnosis. I tried, but to no end. Probably growing up with too much good food, Newton’s third law at play, I reasoned myself.

But every time I cook, I can’t help but hum. A bad selection of odds and ends, songs neither here nor there. Not only does my wife have to be a good cook, she also has to sing, her own playlist.