Landlords move in mysterious ways. At least, mine does. All through the mellow months of January and February, he seemed fine with life as we know it. Perfectly civil tenant-landlord ties, we shared. Loosely translated, this meant polite 'good mornings' and good evenings' when I crossed the path of my landlord and his lawfully wedded wife. Our occasional chats covered the weather (too hot/too cold/ what fine weather), my job (journalism, such an exciting job, no?), annoying breakdowns (no water/ no power/bad plumbing).
Not that I took it to be a bond for life or anything, but we seemed to be getting along just fine. Lulled into a false sense of security by this state of affairs, I was trudging up the stairs one fine March evening. Living in a barsaati is an elevating experience. Both for body and soul. The terrace, a wide open space, such a rarity in the national capital. Blue skies above. The wind in your face. As for the daily climb up seemingly endless flights of stairs, that's mandatory exercise I can't shirk if I want to get home at the end of the day.
So, as I was humming a tune and floating (in a metaphorical sort of way, of course) up the stairway, my landlord decided to drop the bomb. There are many ways to shock tenants out of their minds. You could do it at a gradual pace. Begin by dropping a hint or two every week to warn the unsuspecting victim. Build up the tension a bit before pulling the plug. That way, the tenant might actually be prepared for the blow. And be left unscarred to move on to live a more productive life some place else.
Of course, my landlord did not subscribe to this school of thought. He executed his mission with the rashness of Bush ordering his men to bomb Afghanistan or blow up Iraq. No warning or prologue. Just a brusque announcement that he was not planning on renewing my lease. Ergo, I must clear out of the house as soon as humanly possible. End of conversation.
If only landlords didn't make arbitrary choices. If only they believed in reason or rhyme. If only there was a law against arbitrariness. If only someone would issue a fatwa against feudal lords like these...After wasting a few precious days on such bizarre wishes, I started my preparations for the move.
There must be people out there who can move houses in the blink of an eye. They break down the convoluted process into pre-orchestrated steps. The moment they hear their landlords string together 'lease' and 'move' in a sentence, they speed dial their realtor's office. Movers and packers are summoned. Curtains and carpets and cushions and kitchenware are bundled into cartons. Books are bubble wrapped. Antiques and trinkets, photographs and paintings. Each in its own case, neatly packed, colour coded. Walls stripped bare in the blink of an eye. House dismantled in the space of a heartbeat. Moving at a war footing. Made ruthlessly efficient.
I must confess my circle of friends does not include members of this exemplary tribe. But I am not ruling out the possibility of their existence. Unlike the Sufis, I am not a stickler for experiential truth. I assume they occupy the planet, these ruthless movers, though I haven't actually run into any yet. The efficient movers must be zipping from apartment A to apartment B, belongings safely in tow, even as we speak. Some of them may write best selling guides on 'moving made easy' in the near future. Dish out dollops of chicken soup for the mover's soul. Enlighten the faint-hearted on the art of moving without moping. But until that day dawns, moving will continue to be a loopy, disorienting, emotionally exhausting experience for us mortals.
First, the fundamental annoyances. Wheeling and dealing with your realtor. Infinite number of expeditions under the blazing summer sun to zoom in on a new place. Inane conversations with landlords/ladies haggling over astronomical rents. Your concept of a house – lots of light, airy and light, many windows to let in the light. Power, water, plumbing in place. Their concept – four walls, a ceiling. What else could you possibly want?
Bruised and battered from these encounters, you enter the next round. Knowing where you are going is not the end of the story. Round two lies in wait. Deciding what you want to take with you and what you can junk/leave behind. This is no simple task. It's as befuddling as life's most enigmatic questions. If death and sex are eternal riddles hovering over humankind, so is this one. It calls for stock taking of the worst kind. It demands superhuman objectivity. It asks you to make an inventory of your life and then whittle it down to bare essentials. Packing up is letting go. In every sense of the cliched phrase.
For example. I have lived in three cities in the last three years. Souvenirs from all three are part of my baggage. Some of them have no utilitarian value. Some do, but I picked them up more for their finely crafted exterior than their actual, everyday purpose. Wicker baskets from Kashmir. A hookah from Srinagar. Metal work from the interiors of Maharashtra. So I line them up and give them the once over. What must I take? What can I junk to lighten my load?
I single out the wicker baskets. But in comes a flood of memories. This one – I picked up in a crowded Srinagar market during my first assignment in Kashmir. This one – during a lazy jaunt in Sopore, strolling past saffron fields in bloom. That one...
Move on to the piles of books and magazines that have sprouted like hillocks on the floor. Saying goodbye to a book is like having an organ removed from your body. Better not risk it, I decide.
An old picture in a smashed frame. May be that could go into the trash can. But the people in the photograph have electric eyes. They watch my every move. If you dump us in the bin, there will be retribution, says their glint.
As the evening fades to night, I put a stop to my hopeless pruning exercise. Step out on the terrace and breathe in the cool air. Across the street, the familiar green of the tall neem tree. Darkened a shade deeper by the night. I hear parrots chirping from their perch in the branches. This tree is their home, asylum at twilight. I listen to them.
This tree. This green. These birds.
These, I must leave behind.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
All you need
Last month, twelve finalists on American Idol were sweating it out as they do every season. Many howled like men and women possessed. Some did sound familiar with the concept of finding the right notes and holding on to them till the song's natural end. To state the obvious – these were the few who actually seemed to realize the singing part mattered more than pouting like Angelina Jolie or mooning before the television cameras like Michael Bolton on an extra sappy day. Enough about the Idol…Idols come and go, riding on waves of flimsy sms polls. The only reason I dragged the show in here is because all the desperately seeking (shrieking?) finalists were set the same task. Stick to Lennon/McCarteny numbers please.
The Beatles are always on my mind. Buzzing in my head in a nice way, playing on as life's essential soundtrack. Bad days: Whisper words of wisdom, let it be. Charged days: One thing I can tell you is you got to be free, come together. Long days: It's been a hard day's night, I've been working like a dog. A new day: Here comes the sun, and I say it's all right...
I'm a huge fan, always have been. So this episode of Idol was music to my ears. "Hail to the Fab Four," I said, curling up on the couch. "Play on…"
Their melody and harmony, the chart-topping, heartbreaking lyrics. The soul, the sound. Who with a ear for music can resist the Liverpool four's magic? What human with a beating heart can not bow at their altar?
There are philistines who argue that the Beatles – yeah, with an 'A' – best belongs to the sixties. (Lennon once joked in a magazine interview that the group's name came to him in a vision. In the said vision, a savant had emerged from a flaming pie to declare that henceforth they would be called the Beatles – with an A. Ah, the whimsy stuff of legend!). So the carpers say that the group is a relic, best suited for a time when answers, my friends, were blowing in the wind. "All that 'I want to hold your hand' stuff, man" drawls a friend. "A bit out of touch with our time, methinks," says the ignorant. "Forgive him ye gods," I mumble. "For he clearly has no clue what he's dismissing."
Over 50 years have rolled by since Lennon ran into McCartney at a garden fete. That was July 1957. A year later, a very young George Harrison joined the group as lead guitarist. Three years later, Ringo Starr (aka Richard Starkey) played with them. And the stars, they shone bright over Liverpool's obscure skies. Lucy In the Sky with Diamonds, girl with the kaleidoscopic eyes, floating down the river in a boat, she smiled under tangerine trees and marmalade skies.
The Beatles not just defined the 60s and 70s, they owned those tumultuous years. Beatlemania became a legitimate word in the world's vocabulary.
They set an unbeaten record with 13 multi-platinum selling albums in the US. They created six albums which sold 10 million copies. They have had the largest tally of number one albums than any other band – 19 in the US, 15 in the UK. They stayed on for the highest number of weeks in the number one slot in the albums chart – 174 weeks in the UK, 132 in the US.
No more lists. Why cheapen their magic with tawdry statistics?
What makes them special, what ensures them immortality on the musical landscape as well as in our memory, is their enthusiasm to create new sounds and experiment with their possibilities in every album. Rubber Soul, Revolver, the unforgotteble Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. The sounds have a freshness that hooks you in. The band daringly used instruments which were never considered to be part of the popular rock and roll scene. String quartets, brass ensembles, sitar, swarmandal. They blended the new with the old, the regular with the unexpected. Made sure their songs cross the barriers of time and space, the lyrics winging their way over the years, all the way Across the Universe.
Those of us who watched the Grammy night on television this year were treated to a live Cirque du Soliel performance. The interesting mix of dance, acrobatics and theatre was choreographed to 'A Day in the Life' from the latest Beatles' album titled Love. Sir George Martin, the group's iconic producer and his son Giles Martin had edited the entire Beatles archive to compile the soundtrack of this Grammy winner.
Before new kids on the block like Rihanna rocked the Staples Centre at Los Angeles, the Crique du Soliet artists danced. And the Beatles cast their spell over the audience and millions of television viewers all over the world. The sixties may have become a dim memory. In the global village, there is no talk of revolution except the retail revolution. All that anti-war angst, all those dreams of a world where people live together in peace. You may say, they were given a decent burial. You may say, they don't matter in our time. But the magic of the Beatles, like a miracle, still seems to be working its wonders. Even in our time.
According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the Beatles track 'Yesterday' is the song with the highest number of cover versions in the history of popular music. The number of covers done so far – 3000. The song was released by the band in the summer of '65. The list of artists who went on to do cover versions includes Ray Charles, Marvin Gaye, Sarah Vaughan, Frank Sinatra, En Vogue…
"Why she had to go I don't know she wouldn't say
I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday…
Yesterday love was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday…"
The game still goes on. There is war in our world, there is terror and dictatorship. The meek haven't inherited the earth, and the battle is still being won by those with the biggest arsenals. Money can't buy us love and never will. Heartbreak hurts like hell, even in the age of the all mighty free market. And without the sound of that Beatles album in the background, that song reaching out to hold our hand, how would we ever make it through the hard day's night?
The Beatles are always on my mind. Buzzing in my head in a nice way, playing on as life's essential soundtrack. Bad days: Whisper words of wisdom, let it be. Charged days: One thing I can tell you is you got to be free, come together. Long days: It's been a hard day's night, I've been working like a dog. A new day: Here comes the sun, and I say it's all right...
I'm a huge fan, always have been. So this episode of Idol was music to my ears. "Hail to the Fab Four," I said, curling up on the couch. "Play on…"
Their melody and harmony, the chart-topping, heartbreaking lyrics. The soul, the sound. Who with a ear for music can resist the Liverpool four's magic? What human with a beating heart can not bow at their altar?
There are philistines who argue that the Beatles – yeah, with an 'A' – best belongs to the sixties. (Lennon once joked in a magazine interview that the group's name came to him in a vision. In the said vision, a savant had emerged from a flaming pie to declare that henceforth they would be called the Beatles – with an A. Ah, the whimsy stuff of legend!). So the carpers say that the group is a relic, best suited for a time when answers, my friends, were blowing in the wind. "All that 'I want to hold your hand' stuff, man" drawls a friend. "A bit out of touch with our time, methinks," says the ignorant. "Forgive him ye gods," I mumble. "For he clearly has no clue what he's dismissing."
Over 50 years have rolled by since Lennon ran into McCartney at a garden fete. That was July 1957. A year later, a very young George Harrison joined the group as lead guitarist. Three years later, Ringo Starr (aka Richard Starkey) played with them. And the stars, they shone bright over Liverpool's obscure skies. Lucy In the Sky with Diamonds, girl with the kaleidoscopic eyes, floating down the river in a boat, she smiled under tangerine trees and marmalade skies.
The Beatles not just defined the 60s and 70s, they owned those tumultuous years. Beatlemania became a legitimate word in the world's vocabulary.
They set an unbeaten record with 13 multi-platinum selling albums in the US. They created six albums which sold 10 million copies. They have had the largest tally of number one albums than any other band – 19 in the US, 15 in the UK. They stayed on for the highest number of weeks in the number one slot in the albums chart – 174 weeks in the UK, 132 in the US.
No more lists. Why cheapen their magic with tawdry statistics?
What makes them special, what ensures them immortality on the musical landscape as well as in our memory, is their enthusiasm to create new sounds and experiment with their possibilities in every album. Rubber Soul, Revolver, the unforgotteble Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. The sounds have a freshness that hooks you in. The band daringly used instruments which were never considered to be part of the popular rock and roll scene. String quartets, brass ensembles, sitar, swarmandal. They blended the new with the old, the regular with the unexpected. Made sure their songs cross the barriers of time and space, the lyrics winging their way over the years, all the way Across the Universe.
Those of us who watched the Grammy night on television this year were treated to a live Cirque du Soliel performance. The interesting mix of dance, acrobatics and theatre was choreographed to 'A Day in the Life' from the latest Beatles' album titled Love. Sir George Martin, the group's iconic producer and his son Giles Martin had edited the entire Beatles archive to compile the soundtrack of this Grammy winner.
Before new kids on the block like Rihanna rocked the Staples Centre at Los Angeles, the Crique du Soliet artists danced. And the Beatles cast their spell over the audience and millions of television viewers all over the world. The sixties may have become a dim memory. In the global village, there is no talk of revolution except the retail revolution. All that anti-war angst, all those dreams of a world where people live together in peace. You may say, they were given a decent burial. You may say, they don't matter in our time. But the magic of the Beatles, like a miracle, still seems to be working its wonders. Even in our time.
According to the Guinness Book of World Records, the Beatles track 'Yesterday' is the song with the highest number of cover versions in the history of popular music. The number of covers done so far – 3000. The song was released by the band in the summer of '65. The list of artists who went on to do cover versions includes Ray Charles, Marvin Gaye, Sarah Vaughan, Frank Sinatra, En Vogue…
"Why she had to go I don't know she wouldn't say
I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday…
Yesterday love was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday…"
The game still goes on. There is war in our world, there is terror and dictatorship. The meek haven't inherited the earth, and the battle is still being won by those with the biggest arsenals. Money can't buy us love and never will. Heartbreak hurts like hell, even in the age of the all mighty free market. And without the sound of that Beatles album in the background, that song reaching out to hold our hand, how would we ever make it through the hard day's night?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)