65

I had dinner at the Gs today. When I kissed friends and kids and dog goodbye and walked to the road, I realised I shall take the bus home. A direct bus. The first to spring to mind was Bus #65. I said to myself, "Sixty-faaiive." I realised what I was saying.

It was from "'65, tensions running high...in my high school", which was from Springsteen's My Hometown. I did not have it on my iphone. I youtubed it. Heard it a couple of times as I walked to the bus stop and waited for my bus. I was moved. I walked, thinking it wonderful how a song so deeply & specifically relevant to America in the 60s could resonate with a 10 year old in Delhi, India. And now with a 30something year old in Singapore, in different ways and also in the same old way.

My undulating day bonded with the me that was being moved by the song. Circuitry connected, welling saltwater threatened, my inner rawness found new (even silly) connections that even in fleeting were weighty. I listened to music (Heloise now) and read nothing, did not even take out my book. I just sat in the bus and came home. I now don't even know what I thought of, or what I saw or quite what I felt. I just was.

And oh, I caught bus #64 home.

And oh, I just realised 65 is how I often refer to this place. The 'plus six five'.  

Crushed

Do you know that feeling when you see or hear a beautiful creation? The very depths of you touched by someone’s vision or desire or passion or hate or madness, or love? It feels so pure, so true, so powerful.

Yet it sometimes also feels so belittling. The power of the art towers above you, speaking for no one but itself, yet speaking to so many. And you look up, dwarfed by its existence, crushed by your own. Enamoured by its reason, disenchanted by your own. Swept away by its truth, swept aside by your lie.

,again

Little moments, like flashbacks from a past that warms- a soundtrack of moods, but also of words. Casual clothes, even shabby, even unappealing. A little broom falls from the hands, an arm wraps around a waist, a neck is found.

Autumn in new york
Why does it seem so inviting
Autumn in new york
It spells the thrill of first-nighting

A dance of blue, out of the blue. Deep breathing, gentle swaying, the warmth of proximity, the heat of togetherness.

Dreamers with empty hands
They sigh for exotic lands

A little trip, some eyes-close-looking. See, those four walls are here again and that little two-in-one with a pop-up cd player. There, there is the window, with darkness and a tubelight. Or the moon. A shot of Barcelona tinted whisky, a hasty latch.

Off with my overcoat, off with my glove
I need no overcoat, I'm burning with love!
My heart's on fire, the flame grows higher

Old times revisited in settings anew. Notes fall, like leaves setting a mood. There are stumbles, like before, yet not. There is urgency so unlike the past, there is a calm so unlike the present. Where do lovers go, if not into memory; into a continuity of connection, a permanency of love.

Stars fading but I linger on dear
Still craving your kiss
I'm longin' to linger till dawn dear
Just saying this, yes

. .

greyness, JB

A morning starts,
a gentle breeze
glad, grey clouds
and swaying trees
little words with
little melodies
the throat wells
a gentle tease
for vulnerability.

Plaintive stories
of falling snow,
of Denver and DC
tragedy, Mexico;
the striking blue
of robin’s eggs
permeating colour
the last dregs
of lost love.
Seasonal lovers;
of red telephones,
strangers’ beds
and autumn tones;
a wish, watercolours
on the sidewalk
a child never had,
would they talk
of possibilities.

A morning starts
now colder drafts
escalator rings
a routine wafts
in a tired mind.
Little words with
long silences
stirred thoughts
from idle devices;
hush, now.

...of music

A sweeping wave of nostalgia. After so long, I almost feel like I have waited for it. There was deep bass guitar, tablas, soulful voices, dishevelled musicians, seclusion in crowds. Dum dum na na na...

Before that there would be conscious, almost foolish entrances. Furtive attempts to stop the clinking bags from being too obvious, despite other clinks all around you as you walked in. Who would hold the bag? Who had spoken to people; were they there or would we have to pay? Ah, the days of student were over, already. Smiles. Foolish smiles. Fake smiles. Irrelevant smiles. Stamps on wrists. Happy smiles.

But before even that there would be drives. Usually long drives, at least medium long. Plastic glasses in the car. Who am I kidding- bottles, the PET type, our own premixes long before coolers entered our vocabulary. Bumpy roads, surely towards the end. Cars. Many cars. Parking, often far away. Trudges. Cold biting winds, hands stuck in jackets, or holding a bag. The bag with a clinking bottle- what did it clink against? If we were lucky, another bottle. Mostly white- the most acceptable to all. Golden was rarer, and more cherished. But I don't think it really mattered then. Would it now?

After the dodgy entrances- why dodgy- we were expected, almost advised to get our own 'water'. Blue inky wrists, and the next footfall would be slower, more casual, more relaxed. Take a few steps in, let the clearing clear in front of you. Look around- light, darkness; many people, few people; chairs, daris, sometimes some concrete, grass. Always the grass. Cool, often cold, damp. A corner, usually, but not too far off. There was much (or some) to be drunk, but there was always music to listen to. Strains of amateur guitar, sound tests, microphones being tuned, annoucements no one heard.

Up ahead, the chairs. Sarees, old tweed coats, pepper grey hair, handbags, little children, do I remember dogs? That was up ahead. Somewhere away to the right, more light. Bright light. Wafting from the light, smells of kababs and paneer, smells to be ignored. Appetising, tickling smells but ones rendered irrelevant by empty wallets. Near empty. We should have got another 1.5L bottle of orange or black. Someone would have to go get more pepsi now- and listen, try and get some extra glasses. Any ice? Two, three pepsis. Four, maybe. Later water (only mineral water available? surely not...)

Saxophones. Acoustic guitars. Harmonicas. Tablas. Flutes. One-man, two-man, interesting solos, happily amusing experiments, bands. Bandanas, torn jeans, distortion pedals, songs heard all too often; white goatees, checked waistcoasts and songs never heard; beads, long hair, kurtas, much awaited favourites. Foreigners, Indians, english, hindi, french, who knows what.

Away to the back, discreet groups, a grey cloud veritably hanging over them, but why the seclusion? There is none in our part of the garden. Discretion, that is. Only flavoured paper on a good day. The inevitable bumping into people, so many people ("what- I've met only two people I know today?!"). Some catching up, some PC, some bear-hugging reunions over drinks and drags. Never beer. Never enough, so often scavenging for more, partaking of generous friends or well-equipped acquaintances.

Lying back ,looking up; cool blades of grass caressing the back of your head, stars above, melodies permeating from all around, contented sighs. A haze forming, in front of your eyes. Smiling blissfully, not too blissfully. Not yet, there was still music playing. Long-resisted visits to the loo would wait no longer. Joint trips, talking all the way through to busy loos that were yet not crowded; never clean, never dirty. Walking back, relieved, refreshed, aware, sometimes eager to see someone new you have not yet met that day, then meeting someone absolutely unexpected. Stopping to talk and reaching another corner, another circle... of friends, strangers. Going round in circles, no person of the beautiful ilk draped around your arm, and no desire for one. The only ones are either those you meet and forget or those you backslap with genuine gladness at being there.

Always wanting to be the last to leave. Mostly being able to, always dependant on someone. Cars, lifts, coordination, favours, sitting on laps with some woozy heads and some laughter. Stumble back with music and other intoxicants in your veins, sleep in your eyes, hunger on your mouth and a smile in your head.

Then, now...if anything the smile seems to have widened in looking back...

Morning music, and a remembrance

I love what music can do to my mornings. Not always, but a lot of the time.

For starters, I am not a morning person. Not by a Long shot. So I wake not so much grumpy as feeling victimised. Sorry for myself, having to brave a new day that my senses are not prepared for at all.

On different days different songs have different effects on me. Sometimes they are a consequence of my mood, which interprets a certain sound in a particular way that day. Sometimes the songs affect my mood itself.
Off late, this has felt upbeat on many a morning. On good days, it even induces a spring in my step. It’s an This laboratory also comes to mind as a recent favourite. I love the distinct phases the song has, building progressively without ever slamming into you…

Today this was a blast from the not so distant past, because I have not heard it in a while. It made me sombre, yet made me smile. As trees and buildings went past (or I went past them), other memories flashed by as well. It was a whole period of early mornings, eagerly awaited, heart-thuddingly initiated. Nerves, smiles, calm and chaos co-existing. A first kiss. A lingering touch. A kiss ending, though it was but a beginning.

profile of creativity

one of my favourites,
this...

...has been on my work softboards for a looong while now

Credit to a Delhi art director whom I never knew, and whose name I now fail to remember. This is from of a calendar he made, parts of which I scavenged from a colleague.

Chilling of the Evening

song of the WEEK


Arlo Guthrie
review / funny review / anniversary edition /

thankyou apple

8:55am-4:45pm (and still going)
non stop music in my ears. through travel, reading, work, lunch, surfing...just have not been able to unplug.

Dylan/U2/DavidGray/ARRahman/Joplin/Alanis/Coldplay/ShubhaMudgal/Travis/DaveMatthews/Arcane/
Floyd/Steppenwolf/Bowie/BillyJoel/KillBill/IAmSam/JoniMitchell...

I have underestimated the appeal of shuffle mode.
about 100/741 right now...