Saturday, January 21, 2006

The fondest dream #1

Am listening to Clair de Lune by a guy called Debussy. Funny name, I concur with you. There is something about the grand piano. Its like alcohol. Doesn't strike you till it strikes you on some odd night. The bass note, strewn almost all over the place. With these other notes which seem to want to say something. Midway, mid sentence rather, there's another bass note. And then it turns into something else. The feeling changes and the voice also changes. Makes you wonder where is this going? Is it your fault that you got it wrong? Is it making any sense at all? Do you need to get high to understand it?

If there is a song that I want to listen to while jumping off a cliff, then its Canon in D major. Its builds images of a fairy who comes and holds your hands and dances with you while from above the sky, velvet white drapes hang down and rose petals rain with a smell of lavender in the air and the wind blows carrying the sweet smell of a nearby stream and the sounds of birds singing and your feet move on the dew and you smile, eye in eye, feeling secure in the embrace of a fragile, surreal love. Her golden locks caress your face while you go round and round and the touch of her hand caresses your heart. As you hold her hand, you feel rocks cutting through your palm and you wonder, you cry. Blood flows out of the eyes, like the chirp of the bird - not a single beat is missed. Your fair face now boasts of a rivulet of the richest color. Richer than gold, more beautiful than diamonds adorning the tiara that the Father wears sitting on his golden throne in heaven. Its the image of the greatest beauty, coming out of the greatest pain, for a child's dream has been broken. And he weeps, innocence makes him sit on the grass which reminds him of the promise and hurts him like a bed of thorns and the tears flow silently. Maybe the Father rejoices in the contrast that presents itself. A fair face and a red stream which flows and the child still smiles, showing his bleeding palms to the sky, hoping that the Father sitting on the throne is content.

In one smooth stroke of a sword the head is severed. A head which stood on shoulders now slumping. Which dreamt of brooks and shade of trees and a breeze which brought a whiff of gramyre in its wake. And as he stood with open arms to embrace it, to lose himself in that one moment, a blade was thrust and instead of a kiss, he tasted his blood and found it bitter and laughed not at the irony as there was none that he could fathom, just at the state of being. Being in a dream, dreamt by a most cruel Cupid who sounded the chord that made him yearn for years and long with the labour of his tears and blood for one sensation. Alas, he realised that 'tis not meant to be. Ironic, he knew it all along.

Curse the Cupid? Nay. Why curse dreams if they seem not meant to be? Jump off the mountain and hum Canon in your mind. Leap with the wind blowing on your face as the crescendo of notes hits you and let your life flash in front of your eyes. Let it begin again. The beginning will remind you of your childhood, where dreams lay like fresh dew on a garden with bright red flowers and where you danced to rain for it was the only music that you could feel, both on your skin and in your heart. Let the rest of it come with vigour and the strength of youth and give the illusion of strength for diffidence is all that you have known, all through life. And close your eyes and your sensation to everything. Embrace your grave, and there wont be a you anymore. Just the Cupid - maybe its his turn to shed tears.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Childhood - guess it never gets over #2

My earliest memories seem to be all fuzzed up. I cant place the before's and after's at all. They range from getting bit by a scorpion to getting free rides on a vehicle called "spark" to going to the school, only to stuff my hand in my mouth so that I puke my breakfast out and then get sent home :).

I am one of those people who have been to more schools than desirable. At one point of time, I though that shifting places at the end of each financial year was my dad's occupation. It was good - we got to travel, to meet new people, to go over the drill of getting into a school once again, with all the interviews and tests and ofcourse we got to wear new uniforms every year!

The first day at school was just a step below my birthday. It was wonderful having all eyes on you - being the centre of attention, with a new uniform and shiny shoes. There was just too much newness in everything - I guess back then, I felt what a goldfish feels every fifteen seconds. Imagine, you are a goldfish in a bowl of your own and once every fifteen seconds, you forget everything that you knew, that you stood for, that you fought for, cried for, bled for, etc, etc. So after a 15 second hiatus, there you are, rediscovering yourself, your life and your world. And the best part of being a goldfish is that you get to feel that again and again and again and midway, start feeling that thing again. Whoa! With this much joy in life, I guess I might just die of cardiac arrest! Speaking of which, I remember that there was this friend of mine, who had some weird fish in his aquarium, which was acting funny - so they took it to the fish doctor who told the family that the poor thing had suffered a heart attack! Might not have believed in them back then but sure does seem plausible now.

Come to think of it, the dialogue from Bladerunner, seems to make a lot of sense - all those moments have been lost in time like drops in rain.
So much for days gone, the kid still seems to be there - sort of like the opposite of the "little Barney" in Ted's head. Or maybe its a bear cub that I always was or a panda as a buddy of mine proclaimed the other night. It's not a surprise - most grown ups I know of, have the maturity of a baby. Life is a lot peaceful if I imagine all of them roaming around in diapers - all of them - the professor who stuck a spanner in the works of my life, the teachers at my school, the people I hang out with, the seniors I got into fights with - the poeple who come here to recruit us - the ones writing books speaking of how all men are equal and even the ones who believe that some are more equal than others and the list goes on and on.

Maybe, someone noticed this an age ago and said in the same context - "it takes one to know one".

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Childhood - guess it never gets over! # 1

So there I was. The first child in a long time on my mothers side of the family. On fathers side, well, I was just about another kid, albeit the youngest. My days of fame and glory lasted about a year and half when a cousin was born and then he was the new kid on the block. My earliest memories are a collage of varied components. They range from jubiliant as I was convinved that I was the greatest, to shameful as I realized that I am the grand panjandrum, if ever there was one, to those of silent introspection on the fragilities of life and the fact that we look up to grown ups only because they are taller than us. Thus, the deconstruction began, one after the other, all pictures of the cherished dreams, the rosy sketches filled with laughter and sunshine - all peeled off, like bits stolen from a painting by onlookers who thought the parts were better than the whole.

It seems that I was very talkative as a child. Mother was about 21 years old when I was born. She seems to recollect the fact with a tinge of pain in her voice. She was young, very young. Well, me being 23 now does kick in a realization of sorts - cant imagine myself having a toddler around, let alone a baby. So there she was, with no idea on how to bring up this round, fat and hairless mass who seemed cute but all hell broke loose when he started crying. By the by, it seems that hell broke loose multiple times every hour. I sometimes wonder whether father had anything to do with bringing me up. All recollections at this point seem to point to him as a useless fellow. Well, I do appreciate that he was a guy and being a guy I can understand why someone would drink whiskey to kill time as a bachelor, but then it beats me as to why I was left to mother and her supervision alone. Its not like father was a superhero or better still, an evil scientist! I guess it turned out pretty well. I have always been a mama's boy. Even when father passed away, I was not affected much by it. Its like there is this stranger who comes home every evening with smelly shoes and all and orders you around and audits your academic status and punishes you if you have some little things wrong here and there (something that I seem to have had a talent for) and then one fine day, you find out that he's dead. But then mother - the one who brought me up - who would dress me up for school in a tidy uniform and polish my shoes and cook the best food for me and...well the list is endless...its a pain that a part of the mother I loved died with the father I had (in name and in blood but not in heart).
Maybe this is why the Blues, sometimes strike a chord with me. It starts off well but then there are these notes thrown here and there which dont seem right and start to give you a funny taste - something that you werent looking for, but then it all seems to gel together well and then you wonder if its just an exercise in making you feel so and then you marvel at the devil who wrote that piece of music. Guess, its just the blues that I lost my mother too, at the pyre of my father. I feel no pain, feel no pity...am just concious of those odd notes on the guitar and the sound of the harmonica for which I feel that mankind is yet to invent a suitable adjective. It makes me think that my life could have been like Pachebel's (or Pachelbel's) Canon in D major, with every moment of it appearing as the shimmering moon reflected on a river. Its a bit discordant now, so much so that at times I think that this is convincing and conclusive proof that there is a God and He is the greatest Blues musician ever. Its He who plays all the music that I am facing right now and its He, the master, who will make it all gel together, fit together and make sense to me and maybe after all these kicks that I seem to be getting the end of, I will get my kick!
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