My dad sent me this link and I thought of sharing it with you all even though it’s a fairly popular song. This song, STand By Me, holds a special place in my heart because my brother dedicated it to the OA and me at our engagement and sang it for us. Sweet child.
I love the way they’ve taken street singers from around the world and overlaid the voices and mixed it to create one song – music uniting the world. Over the last couple of months I find myself gravitating towards jazz, blues, R&B and really soaking it in (I’d be happy for any recommendations from you all). They send these little shivers down my spine as I sit entranced, marvelling at the talent that goes into something like this. As I rediscover music that my parents played day after day, it feels like a rebirth. The angsty days of hard rock and the love struck days of Bollywood fade into the background as I put on CD after CD of soul music and hope that it will soak into my children’s very bones as they go about their daily business.
I remember my grandmother lying between my brother and me every night, patting us to sleep and telling us about stuff around the world. One of the things that made a deep impression on me was her telling us about the atrocities that the Africans suffered. It built a great deal of empathy and her words still run through my head at the oddest of times… She’d say “Africans have such beautiful voices because that was God’s way of carrying them through their darkest hours. The kernel of sorrow they carry manifests itself in their singing and that is how why they are blessed with so much music.” Prevented from reading, writing, praying, living freely, all they had left was the music in their souls. The songs were mostly about freedom, but very often they carried codes as the slaves helped each other escape. As part of the human race I feel the burden of guilt for what they’ve been through. I remember crying when Obama won, not because I’m interested in American politics, but because the walk was such a long and difficult one. Over 12 million slaves were shipped to America starting in the 16th century until just 150 years ago.
People often tell me that driving a car is the ultimate in freedom and self-sufficiency. I think you are truly self sufficient only if you have music in your soul and an instrument at your fingers. Walk, hop on to a truck, hitch a ride… as long as you have some music to keep you company you won’t feel the lack of anything. What more can a person want if they have a song in their head and a melody running through their heads? Can you ever be truly alone if you can pick up a guitar and strum? Now that it is winter I go for my walk after the children go to bed, my head wrapped up to my nose in a shawl, hands dug into my pocket, singing loudly to myself in to the cold dark, windy night.
I envy musicians more than I envy writers, inventors, doctors or any other professional. Actually I don’t even think of music as a profession. It is part of who you are – like your nails and your skin. There’s no getting under it. There’s no getting away from it. You can always have it along with someone or something else. Your lover might leave you, your parents will die, your children may desert you and you might lose your job, but music? No one can take that song away from you.
Last night we went for a wedding reception. It was late and today is a school day but the couple are close friends and I thought it would be fun for the kids because the guest list was small and intimate and the venue beautiful. Things began to go wrong within ten minutes of leaving home but clearly we can’t take a hint. We were stuck in the mother of all jams. The kids began to whine after a while, sitting in the dark and irritating each other. I kept threatening scolding to throw them out of the door. I’m glad I didn’t have to act upon that threat because the traffic was too heavy for me to even crack open a door.
An hour and a half of being in traffic and the Bean began to say she was feeling pukey. I took her in my lap and rolled down the window for some fresh air. Unlikely that there’d be any fresh air, stuck in the midst of traffic and fumes as we were. And then as we sat there cursing, there was a sound behind us and the Brat threw up all over himself and the car. I took one look at my peacock blue kanjeevaram and mentally kissed it goodbye. The OA pulled over and we hopped out and I begged a bottle of water off a kind driver somewhere (Salaam driversaab, I’m sorry we left you waterless). We tried to wash him out but he was beyond repair. His shoes, socks, pajama, everything was caked in puke (I don’t think we feed him as much as he expelled). We cleaned him as best as we could only to realise that now he was freezing to death.
So we pulled off his by now sopping wet but still miraculously puke-encrusted pajama and the OA put his waistcoat on him. It went down to his knees and stiffly stuck out a good foot on either side of his shoulders. The poor child was wet and shivering in the nippy early winter night and the OA and I were this close to smacking him for not warning us. He can talk ad nauseum about blue whales and stingrays, but can’t tell us he’s feeling like vomiting?! At this point he decided to break the ice by pointing out that the moon was blue and moving. Argh.
At this point I had what I like to think of, as my brain wave. The Bean was in a brand new anarkali crushed kurta and churidar – I took off her churidar and I made him wear it. It just about went up his legs and left him unable to walk. The Bean didn’t object but looked rather sad. And then the OA and I surveyed the situation and laughed. Our son was in a maroon kurta with his sister’s purple and gold churidar, minus his socks, and floating in the OA’s large oversize waistcoat. The Bean was in a pretty purple and red crushed cotton anarkali kurta with a chiffon dupatta, ending in a pair of black skull and cross bone socks and Mary Janes – what? I hadn’t anticipated her having to take her churidar off!
We walked into the wedding looking bedraggled and smelling of puke (what? we couldn’t have bunked it – the couple were too dear to us and we were starving and in no position to drive another 2 hours back home) . The bride and groom were gracious and laughed with us. We figured the kindest thing we could do to them was to stay away from them and not pose for the mandatory picture. Fortunately some kind souls lent us some clothes and we put the Brat into a pair of tracks under his kurta, took off his thermal and wrapped him in my shawl, and returned the Bean’s churidar and her dignity to her.
By the time we were ready to eat, the OA and my sanity was hanging by a thread. The kids had forgotten the ordeal and were running around happily after eating a good meal. The entire evening had got derailed and it was way past their bed time. We finally left, dragging them behind us, back into our car that was stinking of puke. We got some paper from the caterers and cleaned up the floor as best as we could. Then we laid out fresh paper and made them sit down quietly, telling them they were not to move an inch or they’d know the reason why.
We’d barely driven for two minutes when I realised they’d both fallen asleep in the back seat. We haven’t carried a baby bag in 2 years or more and these are the times that I suppose we should have one. On the other hand, it’s good for the kids to rough it out and not take themselves too seriously. I wish I’d had a camera to record the moment we walked into the wedding venue, looking like a bunch of castaways.
The roads were empty, the night RJ was playing some good music and the OA and I were soon smiling and laughing over the kids’ antics. Mimicking them, discussing their temperaments and so on. He often asks me how women go through a second pregnancy and delivery after the discomfort and pain of the first one. So I gently asked him if he was still exhausted and annoyed. He looked surprised – Of course not. He’d forgotten all about it. And there you have it, I said. That is how it works. Where your children are concerned, it’s so easy to forget the trouble and only focus on the joy they bring. Do you agree?
As to the songs that put us in a good mood (yes, it’s always about the music…)
If I thought my ten year college reunion was touching, attending my parents’ college reunion was another thing altogether. The college completed 100 years and people were coming in from across the world. I attended one with them 10 years ago and then I attended one about 3 weeks ago. People have college reunions all the time, but the difference here is that these people belong to a small college and the reunions invite you to come with family and friends. And so it was that I tagged along with them and ended up meeting OJ, in attendance with her dad. We struck up a friendship that has only grown stronger each year. She sat there with her broken legs, I danced, we chatted, we carried on a tradition unknowingly, of becoming part of the family.
Attending a college reunion shows you a side to your parents you’ve never seen before. Ma has always been slim and lovely, but she’s always been Mama. Smart, business brain, practical, unwilling to show temper or passion, efficient. Dad has been hot headed, musical, fun, forgetful, intelligent. You think you know these two people, and then you put them back in a college setting and all of a sudden you wonder if you really ever did know them.
Quitting my job was the best thing I could have done because I went home for a week and cleaned up my parents’ home before the big alumni get together. The first night was to be a huge party at their place and were to have many people staying with them. Mum and dad did tell me to stay on and attend but I went back because the kids’ Dussehra holidays were over.
For three days before the event, my house was like a hotel. All people heading to the meet were going via Delhi and I was picking up, dropping, taking home, feeding, and then putting them on a train to my home town. The excitement was infectious but I didn’t think it would be right to up and leave.
Until the morning of the first day of the reunion. I called home and the chaos in the background literally called out to me. That and Ma’s voice – she sounded exhausted and I felt like a terrible daughter for not being there when she needed me. And so I took it as a sign from above when Cousin J called and said Delhi University was on strike and she wanted to go home for the reunion too (it says something about the fun people my parents and their friends are if all of us younger generation were dying to go back and meet them). The kids’ school declared an unexpected day off. And the OA took one look at my face and gave me the DDLJ line – Ja beti, jee le apni zindagi. Go to Allahabad and be with your parents. And so it was that Cousin J and I frantically rushed around trying to get tickets to leave immediately. Since I was going with her she didn’t even mind sitting on the floor and travelling, which was to be our last resort. Fortunately tickets were managed and then the usual happened – I was short on time.
She was at the railway station, feeding her face. And I was in a car rushing towards the railway station, fighting traffic and curbing the urge to whack the idiotic driver on his head as he took wrong decisions and got stuck in wrong lanes. I called the OA – 20 minutes away from the station, 20 minutes for the train to leave. He sighed, said he had nothing to add, and hung up. I called Cousin J, who with all the enthusiasm of youth said – I’ll jump on anyway. Until I reminded her that I had the tickets.
We pulled into the station just in time and I began running. Now one might imagine that I would be travelling light because I was going only for two days, but no… I had 4 bags. Two of them full of clothes and toys that I had kept aside in my usual spring cleaning for the children of all the domestic help at home. A bag full of sarees and salwar suit options for Cousin J who suddenly called and said she had nothing to wear. And a bag for myself. There was no coolie in sight and I had no option but to pick up everything and run because I had no time to wait for the driver to park and help me.
I was running down the platform and the deja vu was worth a post by itself. Thousands of missed trains later, I find myself still running to catch one. Bags whacking my legs, knees aching, shoulders paining and heart on the verge of attacking me with an umbrella. The train lurched forward as I got on to the platform and I felt my heart skip more than a beat. Here we go… I said. Only to realise that it was a false alarm. I got on and realised – hang on – no Cousin J in the coach. I call her and realise she is floating around on the platform somewhere. I scream at her like a banshee on LSD. She rushes in. As she walks in the door, the train jerks to life and moves. I almost smack her. Apparently she forgot the coach number and was calling me – Dude, I had four bags to lug. I could either catch the train or take your call.
And then we hysterically lay down on our seat and laughed till the tears ran. We’d done it. We were on our way home. Being with an 18 year old makes you feel like one. We giggled, laughed, bought chips and biscuits for dinner instead of a meal and exchanged ear phones each time one of us got a good number on our iPods. Context is everything. Dressed in a pair of tights, a shift and flip flops, I looked less mommy and more older PhD student type (hah – I flatter myself) but it was fun to know that boys still offered to help with our luggage and tried to strike up conversations. Cousin J couldn’t get over the fact that her older sister, mother of two school going kids, local guardian to her, was the recipient of a pick up line. Good fun while it lasted. Then I showed them the kids’ pics on my phone and the matter ended there. Deep joy.
The meet was already in full swing by the time we got there and we missed the first day. The next morning I tried to pick up the threads and be of some use. Sadly I couldn’t do as much as I wanted to because I really didn’t know what was going on, but I could atleast ensure that Ma didn’t have anything to worry about at home. Meals were organised, tea was brought out, feet were rubbed and pressed and uncles and aunts took home pictures of me pressing their feet to guilt their own kids!
A very precious memory to me is of dressing up Cousin J for the first night. I held her in my arms as a beady eyed baby and she still turns to me for everything. As I pinned her pallu I sternly told her that I wasn’t going to do this too many more times. If she wanted to wear a saree, she’d jolly well learn to drape it herself. I lent her a tissue blouse that was rather demure until you saw the back – laced down to her waist with a sliver of her back showing, worn with a crepe saree in blazing orange and red. Just the right thing for an 18 year old at a party. The rude family I am from has called her Fats for years (they had unprintable nicks for me) and suddenly the chubby little girl transformed into a curvy young woman, bringing a lump to my throat. She has the most lovely natural curls and only wore mascara and a lipgloss. Youth needs no make up, does it? The glow is enough. She literally walked in beauty that night. Or maybe she didn’t. But I was her proud small mama, watching my beautiful baby carry herself and the saree with grace, looking far better than she would have in any little skirt or dress. There was a moment when she caught my eye across the room and saw me looking at her with such maternal pride that she forgot her ladylike demeanour and came running into my arms across the dancefloor, like a little baby.
The music was lovely, the food was exceptional and I was so proud of my parents for having done this by themselves. No help from the rest of the alumni association. But most of all, as I sat there manning the stall selling the coupons and souvenirs, I observed people around me. There were so many beautiful moments. An old friend was received personally at the station by my parents instead of being met at the help desk they’d set up for the other 100s of students coming in from across the world. He got off the train and saw my parents standing there (my dad was his room mate) and he broke out singing in his beautiful baritone – “The old hometown looks the same, as I step down from the train and there to meet me are my mama and my papa….” That of course made ma burst into tears. For those of you who don’t know recognise it – they are the lyrics to the song Green green grass of home.
So many old students walked up to my mother and mentioned being students of my grandfather who had also taught at the Institute. A national level badminton player and state football team goalie (even Anamika’s dad knew of him in the good old day), he was one of the best sportsmen they had seen. I watched ma’s eyes well up as people remembered her father fondly. I can only imagine what if felt like to her if I felt my own heart burst with pride. There were gifts galore and I was touched by the generosity. A group of ladies from Sri Lanka asked me about my children and I laughingly said Sri Lanka is the first place on my list of places to visit when I can afford it because the Bean loves elephants. Ten minutes later one of them pressed something into my hand -an elephant fridge magnet. Another gave me a bag of chocolates for the kids. A third gave me a Coach bag and some make up. I was overwhelmed by the bond they share and the generosity with which they spread their love.
Speaking of love, I saw so many kids like my own, pre-dating them by atleast 20 years. Ma took me around introducing me to couples, classmates of hers. Hindu married to Muslim, Christian married to Jain, Muslim married to Buddhist. I’d never have noticed really, because each couple was so in tune with each other. Their kids as mixed up as my two little mixed breeds, yet so comfortable in their skins. I wondered why the OA and I ever even stopped to wonder if we’d be able to make this mixed marriage work. So many people had done this before we were even born. Done it and done it well. What kind of idiots would prevent this today when so many more had done it so many years ago? I met their children. Tall, beautiful, confident of their place in the sun. Not a pride born of a long line of pure blood lines but a confidence arising from knowing what is essential inlife. Cutting through the crap of rituals and customs to the bare bones of humanity and compassion. Children who knew they were born of a deep, deep love. Not because their parents thought it was time to get married to someone suitable, but because they’d met, fallen hard, and loved deeply and not given a f**k about the world.
I saw my mother turn 18 again as she and her best friend giggled over something completely catty I am sure. She ignored the guy who ditched her friend 30 years ago and is still unforgiven. She bumped into a classmate who she always got into arguments with and at one point offered to shove him into the swimming pool. I watched in amusement. She’s a grandmother now and is most often reminding her grandchildren that violence gets you nowhere. I saw old flames and favourites gravitate towards her. Still more gentle in their ways with her than they would be with anyone else. Getting her a drink, telling her to put up her feet and rest awhile. I nodded approvingly at two of them – ‘Ma, I wouldn’t have minded one of those two uncles if you’d picked them over Pop.’ She grins. Pop glares at me and stalks off.
My father is one of those people who takes change in his stride. I am rigid and old fashioned in my ways and I think it is a reaction to bohemian parents who grew up in the 70s, listening to John Lennon and preaching peace. And I give them a lot of credit for letting my brother and I be the square people we are. Their generosity let us be the people we are. I am not sure if we have it in us to let our children be the people they want to be. Dad still has a young man’s stride. Alert, energetic and purposeful. He might have lost his hair (never mind daddy, God only covers imperfect heads with hair) but his charm has just grown over the years. I watch him stride across the dance floor and stop to ask an old lady for a dance, check on someone’s drink, offer to send the car to pick up someone else. My daddy strongest. And darlingest. He drives my mother mad because he just goes out of his way to be generous to people and never mind how that turns our lives upside down. Over the years I’ve learned to accept it as part of his nature but I can imagine how annoying that is for a spouse. Most of all though, I love seeing my dad when his classmates are around- didn’t I say, context is everything?
And so when Dad went up on the stage and gave the band a break, I smiled. I love his voice and the way he is the life of any party. He forgets lyrics and makes them up as he goes along but he has a way of getting the crowd to participate that I’ve yet to come across in any one else. The mad sibling is good, but still not a patch on the old man. Their old college band is no longer together, but Dad’s brother, and three other friends can still put up a good show. I grabbed a camera and went up to get pictures, realising that the 5 deep voices in harmony were something I could not capture on film. And then my aunt got up and headed close up to the stage with a handycam. She’d spent the day helping out too and after picnics, parties and whatnots, this third day was telling on her as well. As she stood there, barefeet (having discarded her heels somewhere) I looked over her shoulder at the monitor and even though her face showed exhaustion, the focus on my uncle spoke of a wifely pride she didn’t need to vocalise.
Some of the songs they sang, I associate only with them. I want to share some of them with you for your listening pleasure. The words are beautiful. So much more when you realise that 5 men, aged 50 plus meeting after 30 years just walked up on stage and performed this on stage without a minute of practice, in perfect harmony. That’s what friendship means. Being in tune with each other. The words are so apt – “When you’re down and troubled, And you need a helping hand, And nothing, nothing is going right. Close your eyes and think of me, And soon I will be there, To brighten even your darkest nights. You just call out my name, And you know wherever I am, I’ll come running, To see you again. Winter, spring , summer, or fall, All you have to do is call And I’ll be there … You’ve got a friend.”
And then they played the song that is always my mother’s undoing. Greenfields. The words rang out, each of them taking their note instinctively – high here, low there… Fingers moved confidently on the strings and the keys. A harmonica rang out. Dad was singing with his eyes closed. Ma was looking at him with an indefinable expression in her eyes. Me, I was an outsider just looking in through the window. Knowing all of a sudden that I was here today because of this love. A product of this love. I could see them as they might have been. A black and white tableau. The slim Bengali-Garhwali girl in the chiffon saree, her thick plait hanging down her back. The dimpled, skinny Tamilian boy in his bell bottoms and his thick shock of hair. I see them meet across a college football field, a mess table, a chemistry lab. It’s hard to be in the presence of love and not be caught up in the force field. And I wonder what kind of mean spirited people tried to prevent the force of this love. What kind of jealous fools would want to break up something so elemental and beautiful. I see the others in the room. Their old faces blur and disappear. Heartache, children, job loss, migration, ailments, terminal diseases, financial woes, death, everything vanishes and a room full of young people stand around in black and white. Eyes full of hope and wonder. The magic of music. I only wish my brother had been there.
I don’t know if I will ever make editor. I don’t know if I will ever write a book. I don’t know if I will live to see my children grow. I don’t know if I will travel abroad and see wonderful places. But it doesn’t matter. In the last few weeks I’ve had moments of intense happiness, almost bordering on pain. I’ve felt my heart fill up and leave me with enough contentment to take me through many years.
And so to the two people who gave me life and then let me live it on my own terms, I dedicate this song. Just to see you cry, Ma. And if this post made no sense to the rest of the world, thats okay. This one was for mamma and dada
Edited to add: This is an old post, dug out of the drafts – written some time last winter after we went for the show and I wrote this post also on Raghu Dixit ( yes, rather obviously, I am a fan). Pliss excuse me for passing off stale maal.
One of the hazards of being a journalist is that you end up getting too jaded, too soon. You see too many fancy people up close. You see the makeup that goes on. The airbrushing that the covergirls get. The thighs that are slimmed down, the fillets that push up the breasts, the shading that creates a jawline and a sharper nose, the body makeup to hide scars and lighten the complexion. You sit for hours with the photographer for that perfect shot, the angle that slims, the perfect light. And you begin to realise that the professionals are the ones who turn up in flip flops, with every bodily hair shaved, strapless bras and an iPod. They’re also usually cold and uninterested but it doesn’t matter. You have a job to do and you do it.
But the thing with turning 30 was that it also set me free from some rather pseudo notions about what being cool was. When you’ve dealt with top models, the finance minister and Shahrukh Khan, its hard to be excited about anyone less! Until you realise that part of the job *is* to be open to being impressed. To see something where others don’t see it. To find the people who make a difference. To still be thrilled. To be awe struck and to admit that once in a while (okay I’ve been star struck more than once a in a while – can’t lie to those who’ve seen me write paens to Mohit Chauhan and Farhan Akhtar )) you’re completely bowled over.
And recently I have to admit I have been completely bowled over by Raghu Dixit. The man is a performer. I don’t know why they chose to call themselves the Raghu Dixit project. But when I see what they’re doing, it does seem like a project. Wearing khadi became cool a long time ago. And Fabindia, Anokhi and Cottons are doing their bit for desi print and desi wear – and a whole host of other small names who are not getting their due yet. But few other desi bands are doing what these guys are doing. Yes, of course, Indian Ocean is, but these guys are doing it differently. Much respect to all of them.
Far be it from me to go all jingoistic and say that we should all sing in the vernacular considering how much Western music I listen to – but I look around and everywhere I see new bands coming up, playing metal and singing in English. Does everyone here really think only in English now? For mixed kids like my brother and I and now my kids, we grew up speaking a mix of many languages but primarily English simply because that kept all the family members on the same page – and we were’t fluent in any of the others because there were so many of them. I’ve tried to make up for it by polishing my Hindi and I am pleasantly surprised when I find that I am better able to explain certain things in Hindi these days and that I come up with sayings and phrases in Hindi or am complimented on my Hindi by other Delhiites.
But really – what about all those kids who come from families where they speak their mother tongue at home? Don’t you think in that language? No? I’m just curious. I met an artist recently who mentioned that classical music is in no danger of dying out (I’m not into classical at all – I quit my training at 13 or something and have never again felt the urge to pick it up or to listen to it) but Indian folk music looks all set to go the dinosaur way. Even the music channels have reality shows that hunt for VJs and rock bands and all of them are kids who pick very cool desi names and sing in English. A lot of them are really good and for a person who writes in English I can’t afford to diss them and I am NOT. I am just pleasantly surprised to hear music, good music, in other Indian languages. And I do hope he doesn’t sell out and become completely Bolly/Tolly/Kollywood.
It takes balls to go up on stage bare feet and wear ghungroos, sing in Hindi and even Kannada, and wear the coolest most colourful desi wear and STILL be so f**king cool! The babies, OA and I are complete fans now and we turned up at their last IHC show with our hair up in braids. The Brat fell asleep on the way and woke up at the venue like a bear with a sore head. It was a bit of a shock to his system to find himself in the midst of the hordes and when the music blared he sat up, glared at us and then announced as loudly as possible – just when the music levels dropped for a second (with that unerring timeliness that kids seem to possess) – “I DON’T like music”. The OA and I slunk away from him, totally embarassed by the little monster that was our spawn. Rows of young people around us heard and turned around grinning at us. The Bean of course freaked out – smiling and clapping, feeling quite at home.
The Brat is truly his father’s son and so we took him for a quick bite to Eatopia after which he was considerably better natured and he came back to sway and clap. Raghu really knows how to get a crowd moving and we were all standing up and singing and naturally the two little munchkins could see nothing. So up they went on our shoulders, the Brat on the OA’s and the Bean on mine. And from that vantage point they rocked with the best. Singing, screaming, waving their arms and clapping.
One of the songs called for the audience to jump up and down like the artists on stage and we did it. Broken knee forgotten I was jumping up and down like a rabbit on LSD (there’s a good reason I don’t do intoxicants – I’m bad enough without them) and the kids were squealing with excitement, caught up in the moment. I was sure I’d come home to discover muscles and aches in places I didn’t know existed but I woke up fine the next day.
Anyhow, I offer up my kids to Raghu as his youngest fans. We’re listening to his music everyday and the kids want to know when they can go see him play again. Turns out his drummer had taught the OA drumming (yeah, whaddya know, the grey ibanker has layers!) for a while. The OA took the Brat up on stage to introduce him to the drummer as the reason he’d quit drumming. And the Bean and I waved to him and felt rather pleased with our tenuous connection with the band.
And it was then that I started smiling. Happy to know that I am still star struck and not all that jaded yet. Happy to see good desi music. Happy to see crowds of young people up and dancing and totally wrapped up in the music. Now if someone like Raghu convinced me to learn the local language just to understand his music, and because he does it with so much enthusiasm – it would be far more effective than the MNS or the general rumblings and grumblings in Bangalore. The old one about catching more flies with honey … blah blah.
I’ve never really liked you. I don’t care for your face, your body isn’t up to the mark and your acting is passable. What really works for you though, is your choice in films – you have your strategy well worked out. Until you picked Aisha.
How could the man who picked DevD, agree to even watch the film, let alone act in it? If I were you, I’d not make this mistake twice. Stay away from the candy floss – its the last thing standing between you and failure. That said, I loved the music. Particularly Gal mitthi mitthi( – the kids are freaking out to it) and Sham.
)) you’re completely bowled over.
