Saturday, September 29, 2007

Music and Lyrics.

Have you come across these songs which sound so amazing but have lyrics that don't make even a glimmer of sense?

Well,I have.

Take good old RHCP. Their music is great, but more often than not their lyrics sound like random words strung together for the fun of it. And for Lit. student (meaning someone who can find meaning even in the meaningless)to say that shows how completely unintelligible it is. And I'm not the only one- my good friend Ms Pouter also feels the same and she is a respected editor and critic! But why talk about firangee music when our very own Indian music shows this sad lack of meaning. Perhaps a better word to use would be comprehensiveness.Imagine a love song which addresses the object of affection as "Rakshasi"?????You actually expect the girl to fall for you if you call her demoness? How dumb are you? And this from the same industry that created songs like "Neelaponnmaane" and "Akale". If you consider malayalam too far south let's go to the north. Tell me, where's the beauty in something like "You are my Soniya"? It's like a nursery rhyme for Godsakes! But then Hindi songs are easy to make. Add a couple of "deewanas" and "pyars" with a good dash of adjectives(not necessarily appropriate) and a few punjabi phrases for the fun of it and - TADA!- there's your popular Hindi song.

The trouble is we are just way to busy nowadays to actually listen. So it's naturally imperative for the pressurized music director to create the catchiest tunes and to hell with words and all that. Which is why ad jingles are so satisfying. But consider this, when time flies off and all that is left of us is a few words on a page in a history book- will they remember us as the age of Jingle music?....

Ah well, what does it matter. After all

...It's only words
And words are all I have
To take your heart away...

The Stories they tell...

Like every child, I too used to bother my parents for stories. Since my father was a rather inaccessible entity- him working in another country and all- my mother got the brunt of it. Through some kind of innate sadism I'd want a story exactly when she can't keep her eyes open. And thus we had interesting versions of Krishna pulling the uruli betwen the trees while Narasimha Rao and Nehru were cooking upmav.(yes, evidently my mothers half asleep stage made her imagination even more fertile)My brother and I used to watch out for these gems so we could tease her when she was fully conscious and among others who knew not of her subconscious yarns. (yes, we were evil children- it's a wonder why she didn't sell us to gypsies)

From those toddler stages we moved on to the age where we wanted stories of our parents' youth. Amma spun splendid epics of hordes of marauding cousins and hot food on rainy days, of huge dogs that turned into lambs at the sight of the children. Achan would talk about how his toys consisted of coconut leaves turned into carts, of having to share the single oversized bicycle with two older brothers, one very strict father and a little sister who always got her way, of jumping into the pond just about anytime he felt like it,of dipping into the great jar of honey whenever he passed by... And my heart would cry out for those simple joys lacking in the dreary desert sands of Kuwait. It was probably why my brother and I became close- I had no one else.

The years passed and the stories changed. Now it was stories of how if you didn't study you'd end up like so and so . And glowing stories of how someone else was doing so well and subtle hints which weren't so subtle. They weren't happy stories anymore. They were serious and grown up and didn't have the spring of the old stories. Those happy stories seemed to have been left behind sometime before your adolescence. Sadly, we grew up. I began to avoid the stories- they only created more confusions. The black white world was turned into a static gray. And again time skipped by swinging his scythe and humming a tune.

College happened, and there was a sudden shift in the equation. I was the one who told the stories while they listened.It was... different. I was in several ways an exhilarating feeling to have your parents listen to you as an equal. And naturally the feeling gets to your head. And much like most highs, it is followed by an deep bone piercing low. You are self reliant now. You do everything yourself,you don't need anyone, everybody(even you)believes that you don't need any help...

And when you go back to your sterile,empty hostel room and stare at the walls you realise how alone that makes you.

The phone rings. It's my mother.

"What happened mole? You don't sound happy."
"I'm fine amma, how are you?"
"Everything is alright over here. Achan and I were just talking about the time when you..."

And time smiles at me. Stories change, people change, places change- but just as we think the milestones are zipping away too fast we look down and see we're traveling the same road, the people who started it with us are still with us. Nowadays, the stories we share are mixtures. Some of it is theirs and some of it is mine. We supply each others examples, add colour to each others tales. The plots are intricate and new characters keep coming in. The stories change, but never stop.

Thursday, September 13, 2007


Oy!Wake up!!

That was to the blog.

Yes it has been awhile...but the sad lack of a comp and net connection demands that this sad lack of updates be overlooked.
This post talks about one of my favorite subjects- waking up.
I always feel it's a rather mean thing to put a being to bed when it doesn't want to[say, around 8pm( infernal I know)]-and just when it begins to fall asleep, wake it up with admonitions or the staccato rhythms of the detestable alarm clock. And all for what? A measly day in a class room where most of the lecturers simply encourage one to resume ones disturbed sleep.

A nocturnal animal, such as myself, gets the full brunt of such an evil system. I mean- we're supposed to work when we are most alert- not when our greatest inclination is to journey to la-la land. And just as we finally wake completely-alert and tingling with energy- the lights are turned off! The irony! My hostel employs a power saving system where the light in the rooms is cut at 10(which means 9 in most cases).Floundering in the dark, we night lovers are forced back into a stupor for lack of anything else to do- unless of course one braves the vampiring hordes of mosquitoes waiting in the tube light-lit corridors. And believe me- unless you are desperate or courting anemia, such a choice is BAD.

So you see- that's why we are so full of apathy. It's a conspiracy! The evil forces are plotting to keep us, the youth,shrouded in a dazed doze. We're just too sleepy to be bothered if the world is being destroyed by the higher-ups. Well, now that we have a excuse, let's go back to sleep?