Slow Regression

The other day, during that awesome Electronic Music and Beer festival at Bandra, I had a little bit of an introspection-cum-forecasting session in the midst of it all. The music was thumping, the alcohol flowing, and nobody really cared about anything other than just having fun. And I don't blame them. It was self-indulgence time.

Point one. It's absolutely mind-boggling what holding a bit of money in one's pocket does to him. Never thinking twice before ordering that extra bottle, never thinking once about the 300 Rupee entry-charge. I feel entirely free at times, then entirely miserable for wasting my hard-earned cash away. Then I start to ponder what it's really meant for. But no, this is not a socialist pondering debating the intricacies of "to each his own" and the general idea of philanthropy.

Point two; and this one, though it may come as a surprise to the reader, is about music. Background. Currently, anything in the vicinity of Western/Indian Classical Music, John Mayer or Electronica/Techno (as many galaxies as may exist between them), I would pay to hear (in the context of ready availability at a single click). And so at the gig, I was swaying away to glory to the evil, Satanic visuals and heart-incapacitating beats - basically dying a slow, excruciatingly painless and altogether fun death. Hours no bar. Exhaustion preceded the impending disintegration, and we stopped. And then there was this moment. Am I going to be doing the same thing twenty years down the line?

More importantly, would I be listening to the same music twenty years down the line? Different generations like different genres of music. Uncontested fact. But over the years, as one regresses on to be a part of the previous generation, do choices and tastes in music, art, film, food and the like alter? Within the personal paradigm, I find that I have a lot in common with my future self. Connoisseur of alcohol and music, advocate of a welfare-state, *WB in general. And that isn't going to change. However, the general question is still at large.

Is it a question of our body refusing to respond to certain external stimuli? Does the mind stop shaking to the beats of Electronica, rather subjects its moods to some flowing Philharmonic pleasures? Do taste buds and stomachs jettison the idea of infinite beer and embrace the grace of silvery wine? And if so, when and how, exactly?

Then comes another thought. You are only as young as you want to be. Age is hardly the factor determining youth, isn't it? It is your outlook, the way you think, that makes and keeps you young. No wonder creams, no self-help books, nothing. And no amount of Electronica, beer, hair-gel or stupidity can prove you to be youthful either. If one has such tastes, but not the angst, he's just plain ol' vanilla silly, or as the youth terms it today, a wannabe. Urrgh. And on that ugly word, let's just call it a night, a very beautiful night at that.

PS: There's a vowerld of a difference between being 'deft' and being 'daft'. Irrelevant, but just wanted to keep it on record. Just don't leave me alone here, it's cold, baby, come back to bed. Irrelevant, again, but, wow. John Mayer. Personal insecurity. Wow. What will this fix? Enough, now, enough said.

Charkha, an attempt at an Album Review

The Album ‘Charkha’ by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. Get it, play it over and over again. Then slash your wrists and die*, because you’ve heard it all. Enough said.

But I will say more. After listening to the album, one has two options. Either he remains dead silent and lets the light bouncing off the tears streaming down his face speak the encrypted story of a thousand words, a million expressions and countless summer nights of wonderful dreaming; or if he has started writing something about it, he just never stops.

Before attempting my hand at classifying the art into any kind of genre, there are a few other things that I must touch upon. First, I have never heard anything that felt so familiar, so one with me. Maybe it’s the Indian soil reeking from every note, every ‘harkat’ completing every antara. It has the capability to touch people. Second, the lyrics – I am yet to found out who the creator(s) is (are). But the day I find out, and fate permitting, our paths cross, I will touch their feet. I don’t understand a word. But I can relate to them at some other level that simply cannot be explained in words.

This reminds me of an anecdote. About a year ago in Delhi, my mother and I visited the Nizammudin Chisti dargah – someone had advised mother to feed hundred needy ones a meal. Not that I believe in any such rituals as an opportunity to redeem your lost karma points, but I went ahead with it just because the idea was noble and for the sheer thrill of seeing a new place belonging to another time-zone and another culture. I went, I saw, I was moved. But then there was Mirza Ghalib’s dargah right there. I went, I saw, I touched his feet. Creating such poetry isn’t a skill, it’s a gift. Whatever respect given to such great men is just not enough.

I’ve heard a lot of sufi and Hindustani Classical music, owing to my parents. Although this album doesn’t belong to either, it pays homage to both. That is the beauty of it. The music is haunting, the compositions heart-wrenching. And from this horrible state of pain and terror emanates a gulf of pure pleasure, and joy of existence. I’ve also heard a lot of Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. He is gifted beyond doubt. People compare him with his equally superb uncle Nusrat, but I believe he has invented another class for himself with this album.

Finally, it delights me happy that there are people that just wouldn’t let these beautiful things about our culture die, despite giant alien influences. I want to do my part. Someone teach me how to sing, and then how to compose. Enough said now. I shall go back to meditating in my own state of trance.

*The apt description of the album borrowed from another review. I don’t feel the slightest bit of shame.