Just as I pass my birth anniversary every year, I cross my death anniversary too. I just don't know when!
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Automan Empire
The capital city has many empires. Apart from the known bureaucrats, politicians, legal administrators, land developers, corporate media, and some more, one in particular has been bugging me for a few years now. It is of the auto-drivers (automen, coz there's probably one female driver among millions- one I'd read of in the news ages back).
They come in many forms, and mostly beastly. Once in a blue moon I'll come across a driver who is willing to put his meter down- something whose charge was increased 2 years back. Or one who'll drop you to your destination two steps away after you've paid, coz they want to reaching comfortably. If prices of basic essentials increased, they did for all of us, not just for them. If their licenses are steeply priced, why should the passenger suffer? They should go to the government on behalf of their union- why harass us passengers??
Charging whatever they want- like they've fixed the rates from spot to spot. They seem most demonic in times of need, like when you have to rush home during heavy menstrual bleeding, or an embarrassing malfunction of wardrobe, or simply at rush hour. And when you ask them why they didn't go by meter, they mumble something looking away. Or they blame traffic, or cry that they won't get passengers from your destination- like any of these is your headache.
They have the guts to laugh on your face when you threaten them with police complaints, and some tell you "not be seen in this area again"- deserved some mob violence that one. Talk about attitude!
The time taken in bargaining with them could get them much more business, and also otherwise add to the GDP, since others would get to work on time.
On the days the city went out marching against corruption, these guys confidently charged twice and thrice as much. Arre service to the nation!
What to do ji what to do?!!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Just a song, yet more!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1OfsZyYPLoI
Watch the balloon swaying, and listen carefully to the first few notes.
Watch the balloon swaying, and listen carefully to the first few notes.
Doesn't it sound exactly like a mood that is confused, yet eager? Somewhat like, I want to, but I don't want to... moving forth, moving back... like no, yes... like I-restricted-myself-but-on-second-thoughts.... Smart isn't it, the composition?
I never really cared about this song. But it came bounding up to me and became my earworm a few days ago, when I felt a void of someone who could take better control of a situation that I'd been handling, but felt I couldn't save from falling apart. (On hindsight, it wasn't really falling apart- I was growing up!)
Later I heard some more songs of Lady Antebellum. Wasn't impressed.
But there's something about this song- it's one of those things that match the silence of the night, the motion of an uninterrupted car.
And one of the best voices for the dead of the night, as well as when you're up with the lark- Lara Fabian's. The power of it! Her voice does so many things within me it's not funny!
I'll talk about some more brilliant music later. For now, see ya!
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Coke Provokes an Idea
Coke studio has launched on Indian TV this month. I started watching it a few days after the launch, and that first episode pulled me back to every other episode that week.
Though my friends say that the original season was a lot better, and I do recall watching an enthralling performance of the Pakistani series, the fusion of forms is really something. The sounds bring together geographical terrains of diverse kinds, and mix moods in quite delightful ways. Another thing that impresses me is the visuals- the space is limited, the song has considerable length, and the challenge is to hold the viewer's attention. The way the images move with the tunes, at least hold my attention.
And while watching it one night, an analogy struck me.
One day many years later, maybe if I start a show which carefully blends humour from world over, I could call it- Joke Studio!
Kiddin! & Kudos to the wonderful singers!
Though my friends say that the original season was a lot better, and I do recall watching an enthralling performance of the Pakistani series, the fusion of forms is really something. The sounds bring together geographical terrains of diverse kinds, and mix moods in quite delightful ways. Another thing that impresses me is the visuals- the space is limited, the song has considerable length, and the challenge is to hold the viewer's attention. The way the images move with the tunes, at least hold my attention.
And while watching it one night, an analogy struck me.
One day many years later, maybe if I start a show which carefully blends humour from world over, I could call it- Joke Studio!
Kiddin! & Kudos to the wonderful singers!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Purple Day
Today I had my music vocal exam. In the morning, the most convenient kurta that came out was purple.
As I was leaving the house, the hole in my umbrella seemed to be getting bigger, so my mum brought me another, and it turned out to be... purple! (The previous one was blue).
As I sang, my eyes absent-mindedly trailed along the examiner's sari border at her feet. Red, I realised as the song got over. And omg! Purple sari!
The exam got over before I knew it. I came out of the room thinking, it was a shade better than last year. That shade must have been black, I joked to myself, referring to my salwar. Unlike last year, when my entire attire was a mix and match combo of purple kurta and salwar, the last exam, in which I'd blanked out on the songs and hence repeated this year.
There shouldn't be an exam for music, I pondered as I fried purple-pink onions back home. Just you and your teacher, then you and your audience, then you and your teacher again. Of course I knew the merits of the exam. For the moment I wanted to believe in a life without exams, and I'm still stiflling an urge to go holidaying in the Caribbean, since a holiday even inside my country isn't possible right now due to too many reasons to quote here.
As I walked to my music teacher's house, there was a kid on a cycle, her father behind her (couldn't believe they were out on this exercise in the blinding sun). She had on an orange shirt, and mismatching purple pants! With white polka dots of course...
I was rummaging through my wardrobe in the evening. Dinner invitation. Thankfully, I'd already worn the last two purple tops yesterday. Knowing me and my habit of wearing 5% of my wardrobe 95% of the time, I'd have ended my day with purple, and I'd have started imagining that my tomato juice screwdriver was a purple whirlpool at that moment when I got sick of it...
As I was leaving the house, the hole in my umbrella seemed to be getting bigger, so my mum brought me another, and it turned out to be... purple! (The previous one was blue).
As I sang, my eyes absent-mindedly trailed along the examiner's sari border at her feet. Red, I realised as the song got over. And omg! Purple sari!
The exam got over before I knew it. I came out of the room thinking, it was a shade better than last year. That shade must have been black, I joked to myself, referring to my salwar. Unlike last year, when my entire attire was a mix and match combo of purple kurta and salwar, the last exam, in which I'd blanked out on the songs and hence repeated this year.
There shouldn't be an exam for music, I pondered as I fried purple-pink onions back home. Just you and your teacher, then you and your audience, then you and your teacher again. Of course I knew the merits of the exam. For the moment I wanted to believe in a life without exams, and I'm still stiflling an urge to go holidaying in the Caribbean, since a holiday even inside my country isn't possible right now due to too many reasons to quote here.
As I walked to my music teacher's house, there was a kid on a cycle, her father behind her (couldn't believe they were out on this exercise in the blinding sun). She had on an orange shirt, and mismatching purple pants! With white polka dots of course...
I was rummaging through my wardrobe in the evening. Dinner invitation. Thankfully, I'd already worn the last two purple tops yesterday. Knowing me and my habit of wearing 5% of my wardrobe 95% of the time, I'd have ended my day with purple, and I'd have started imagining that my tomato juice screwdriver was a purple whirlpool at that moment when I got sick of it...
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Story of a Song
(This was written for a 1-min story telling competition)
Once upon a time there was a song. She loved to flow, just like brooks and rivulets and impulsive poetry.
Birds trilled her, baritones embraced her.
She breezed through hills, she whistled through city lanes. At times she felt caged by her own network of notes. At times, she was the laughter of an alien tongue, a delightful surprise. At times her notes would stand parallel, in attention. At times, they'd rush and roll into a crescendo. At times she spoke nothing.
The last occasion she strummed a heart string, her last “sighting”, reported this time by a little leaf on a bountiful tree, was one melon-yellow sunset. She stepped lightly into a fallen ray. It was perfect.
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