And then- look that way!

It truly feels euphoric! COEP, for the second time in two years and the third time in the last ten years has made it to the finals of Purushottam Karandak, the city's most prestigious college level drama competition. It has been around two decades since the title glimmered in the showcase at college. Under such circumstances, it feels good to know that we have a fighting chance.

So what does any of that have to do with this piece of literature? Well, I have been fortunate enough to be on that Purushottam team- and will now share what went on behind the scenes in the last few days before the first round show. The team of writers from college thought that it would help the flow of the storyline if we were to introduce a certain character who could bring out the transformation of the lead actor. And bless their holy stars (or you could wonder which cruel act of the devil led them to this juncture), they picked me. That was a gamble. With under a week to go to D-Day, it would have been catastrophic if for some reason that plan backfired. It didn't. The show went off well and I'm still alive.

So here we have an enthu newbie on stage who's horrid at acting. Well, its actually painful to see him amble, emote or simply talk on stage. In such a situation, the whole team must come to his help and lift him up from the dregs of mediocrity, self doubt and complete lack of talent. Imagine, trying to infuse talent into a 20 year old- but they did that. As I tried helplessly to learn up my lines, a hint here or a word of advice there were constantly at hand. Finally the situation got so desperate that they said

"We'll microdirect this. You learn your lines and leave the puppeteering to us"

What would otherwise have taken an accomplished stage performer no more than two hours, those poor souls tried to bring in my acting over 3 days. A brief set of instructions that I received during the course of one of our sittings follows:

Team Member: The diction is all wrong. You're not supposed to be sympathetic. You're the practical dude of the story. Hakuna Matata. You're the guy who made the NatGeo job. Bring that flamboyance and that arrogance into the role.

One: Ok, whatever that's supposed to mean??!!! Ok, I'll try. here goes.

( I try in vain. T shakes her head in despair)

T: Let's try that again shall we.

O: OK

(I go at it again)

T: Never mind. Just say it the way I say it.

(and so i chirp along)

T: Okay. Now say "तू अस कस म्हनू शकतोस रे?" and then- look that way!

O: "तू अस कस म्हनू शकतोस रे?"

( this line is followed by a violent jerk of my head in the opposite direction- drawing scandalous looks from T)

T: Good

O: Yeah Right. Really?

T: That was great. Just do the same thing on stage and we'll get through this.

After similar such choreography (spiked generously with threats) I was able to not embarrass myself or the team on stage and the show went off without incident.

Nirvana

A jolt. A killer test. Free time. A back ache.

Perfect ingredients to instigate my insides to want to blurt on- thereby making me write a post again. I have been busy. Eighteen hour schedules; if you pretend to pretend- sleep just evades you. And now that the mood has been set for some complaining- it would seem like the right thing to do to rant on about a recent Maths lecture I had the good fortune of sitting through.

The entire discussion from this point on may be peppered with worthless insights on conventional education. It might also contain words or phrases that only the average engineering student could comprehend, even appreciate. Make no mistake, I would have it no other way.

So, Monday morning- late as usual for the 11:30 am lecture because of making the most callous of assumptions that it really only takes 14.53 minutes to make it to college from home when it really takes closer to 28. But in the face of danger (of expulsion from lecture) when witnessing the clock at home already reading 11:15, it pays to be optimistic. Let's not lose focus. Twas a Mathematics lecture and I was late. Sat down after muttering an apology I did not even mean at the most superficial level. There were strange symbols on the board. They looked to be associated with integral calculus. There were also some other unfamiliar but intimidating expressions. I chose to ignore them (for the time being). I looked over the entire board again. Nothing. Again I tried. In vain. There was just one possible explanation. I had walked into a class that clearly wasn't my year. But then all around were the same faces- exasperated, sleepy, disgusted, frustrated and simply bored. It was happening finally. The whole world was racing ahead too fast for me to keep pace with.

Twenty minutes had passed. The usual droning noise that emanated from very close to the board was now undulating with characteristic fervor. The derivation was nearing completion. But this time I thought, all hell has broken loose. What the eff is going on? How could it be that less that 24 hours ago I had registered just the prelude to this scenario but never saw the avalanche coming? How is it that the introduction of a simple exponent has now enabled the confusion etched onto the board to seem like lines of chalk alone and nothing else? Pure emptiness. Nirvana. Nirvana? It's times like these when doodling comes to the fore encapsulating the mind in all its recessive tendencies. Circles, spirals, boxes, all the albums of Pink Floyd, blotches, alphabets and anything more that could collectively fall (shamelessly) under the category creative juice were explored in the next part of the lecture. By this time of course, the differential operator and its direct consequence on what seemed to be the word "sin" was making its presence felt publicly. Sin, I thought. Is it sin not to feel even a shard of shame when the world around me is disintegrating and I'm doing nothing about it? Is is a sin that I find the two quarrelling freshers(as seen through the west window) more interesting rather than the chaos on the board? Is it a sin (Lord, tell me!) if I am able to convince myself that three weeks and two tests later all this will just be a bad dream, the contents of which I am never required to recall again?

Mind boggling mathematics. Crammed in a semester. 900 pages of text. 24 hours of survey before regurgitation. Zero utility of knowledge (under the callous assumption again that some has been gained through the course of the survey). Why man? Why can't we take this slow and steady? Why not add an extra month to the course? But no! Then that would mean a month less of vacation. One month less of absolute lethargy and negligible productivity. Instead, if that same time were used to pursue the "understanding" of a subject, imagine how much more could be delivered per individual. But come on, who needs deliverance and similar such hobnob.

And may it continue that way till nothing remains. Let us go to rest having fooled ourselves into thinking that one hundred percent is oh so synonymous with what I have done. We're all perfectly happy being mediocre.

Vive le Tour or Leave le Tour?

Again. Again. Its all that dope again. You thought it was over with Landis. You thought Rasmussen was the last of 'em. Vi-noooooooooooo! And then Beltran! Now Ricco. The champion of a monster mountain attack at 26km. The leader of the White Jersey. And latest addition to the most dubious list in Pro Cycling.

I hope the plague is not on again. Going into the Alps (the Alpe d'Huez being part of this year's edition) with just a second separating the top two contenders, a tantalising final week lies ahead. All we need now is one more positive result. One more blotch on the face of this sport. A sport that has for a hundred years personified what teamwork is all about. It has been the embodiment of sheer personal grit.

With drug use raising its ugly head again in cycling- one wonders when it will stop. Saunier-Duval have pulled out. That's a top team out halfway through the Tour. Why, why would you want a shot of EPO if you can climb like that man? Two stage wins in a week. Agreed, you're mostly skin and bones (and loads of concealed muscle), but you managed to crack the likes of Hincapie and Cadel Evans out there. I pray that was all you and not the EPO. I want to hear of a clean Tour. A hard fought tour. A fare Tour. A beautiful Tour.

Hot, Sweet and Cute

The frugal yet timely use of the above words by females all over the world in seemingly (to the male brain) unusual situations has led to my writing this. To the untrained eyes as well as ears- each of the exclamations will appear out of place; but only after sufficient deliberation (a process of self discovery) will one really appreciate the subtlety of the implications. Hot, sweet and cute make up the trident of impression and judgement as they are meted out to classify the male in question- a classification that lingers on only to ever be influenced by third party intervention or churlish cat fights.

So what exactly is required to be graded hot, sweet or for that matter cute? The answer is evasive but results of the research suggest the following:

1. In a group of upto three girls, the first impression made on any one of them automatically becomes the default expression for the other two. This first impression must be expressed publicly for it to count. Its mere presence in the mind's eye qualifies as void.
2. When the crowd is beyond three, your chances somewhat improve*. Once an opinion(not impression) has been made, a first level of inspection on their part is made. A series of giggles later the final judgement is passed. This judgement is considered to be unanimous in every sense and is final.
3. Acts of service, manner of laughing, sense of dressing and accessories that accompany you are critical factors on which your HSC quotient depends.
4. At no point in time must you try to fathom why it is that you have been associated with a particular adjective. Men have been driven as far as insanity in trying to answer such questions and have failed. Often, they find it easier to find a solution to the String Theory using celestial mechanics. Failure in this exercise brings with it repercussions that are no doubt severe. But the sheer helplessness to figure out what churns on within is a greater load to bare than not being able to solve one of the greatest Physics problems posed before mankind.
5. There is this misconception among males that it is possible to alter the HSC quotient. Nothing you can do can ever change what you are (supposed to be). 6 packs, chiseled face blah blah blah- all worthless if you're already "sweet".
6. Trying to be what you're not has led in many cases to incorrect branding (or so the other side say). It has to do with drastic behavioural change- what is commonly referred to as an attempt to "impress". It may momentarily be comforting to know you have earned yourself a better* tag. In the long run you will lose out in the race because they will perceive you as a "mistake"- the subconscious automatically directing the query of your whole personality to that first take!

In the final analysis what can be even called the moral of the story it would do man-kind a great deal of good to simply mind one's own business on the road and proceed to the intended destination without pausing to think. Somehow, one must learn to seal away the ears from those damned words that float over to corrupt the rational chain of thought. Or simply say:

Cocoa is Hot

Sugar is Sweet

A alarmingly large stuffed bear is (somehow) Cute

* Depends- whether you think cute is a better way of defining you that hot.

Disclaimer: All the statements that compose the body of this post are shrewd guesses and conclusions drawn on the basis of incorrect and insufficient analysis. If serious emotional scarring were to befall you due to your course of action on reading this post, the responsibility shall not be borne by the author in any way. The author of this post would like to stress on the fact that at no point of time does he understand the magical ways of the female brain. The author is also not a clinical psychologist or counsellor of any kind. If at any point of time you wish to differ with the author's opinion- feel free to do so. If you persist with your effort and try and convince the author you are right- you will lose that debate. The use of the above information in an unsupervised manner may lead to serious relationship problems. Discretion is advised.

Innocence

The window of opportunity takes on new meaning when seen through the view-finder of the camera. For instance, the two photographs below were captured at just the right moment. They are exhibits in my continual efforts towards proficiency behind the camera.

1) Location: Dive Agar Beach, Konkan Coast
Sunset.

2) Location: Deer Park, Tirumala Hill Slopes, Karnataka.
Just won't pose!!!

My Dirty (Right) Foot

With the EURO on in full swing it inspires me (yes, I have given up the "one" tag since I realised my meagre vocabulary and dismal grammar do not permit such a luxury) to tell a tale about my exploits on a football pitch. But before that some key facts:

• Approximate age at which intentional contact was first made with a football: 7 yrs (direct result being loss of 2 incisors- I was going for a header!!!)
• Time for which I have been playing proper football: Around 3 years
• Goals scored: none
• Goals defended*: lost count

Being completely devoid of even an iota of skill, I often bank upon factors such as sheer dumb luck and opposition mistakes to justify my presence on the field. A direct fallout of this is that I tend to use the right foot more than my left in attempts to change the direction of rolling or movement (forget about dribbling people!!) of the ball. Hence on rainy days the right shoe is a lot dirtier when I get home. As a result of my phenomenal ball control I was assigned to the defensive line up as a full back. Eventually realising that this was still a major liability- "Tu ja goalie ban le". I was of course elated. Finally I had been accepted(pooh!). I had made myself a place, a niche even!(No one else was interested). So began my journey.

*Goals defended: Lost count Well, as my journey at the line began (I wouldn't move much, was generally never tired and would constantly bark instructions which bounced off the walls of the closest cement structure), it became evident that there was a spark there. Once in every ten goals scored through my guard, the ball would graze against some part of my body, causing it to deflect away from the intended target. A collection of all such instances are called saves. There have been innumerable such saves but not everyone endorses the above definition. They believe the GD count should be a bold zero.

The Road Ahead: You do realise I was made for this game. Therefore out of complete pity (read as utter awe in the light of skills displayed) I am occasionally allowed to sniff the midfield grass nowadays and often receive pats on the back for passing the ball to the right player. People even cheer if any pass ensuing from my (right, obviously) foot even sniffs the D-top. I see myself going a long way- a long way ahead!

Sweet Car-ess

Pedestrians face newer and bolder challenges nowadays on the streets. Wet streets, coupled with one crazy amateur on four wheels means that Life Insurance is now mandatory or your children suffer!!!

Only last evening, to add to the latest list of possibly tragic casualties, a rather plump woman had her ear nicked- literally- when the side view mirror of the car one was driving hit her (she was appreciably short; still not a strong enough eason to get a "kaan ke niiche"). The horrifying thrill of being behind the wheel gets accentuated when mortals wander too close or too fast. Complete apparent loss of control(the car is in [expletive] gear) is the emotion that comes to the fore and last evening was no different. "Stay Calm", Yeah right!; worthless advice- some poor soul is gonna see the light soon and stay calm is the best thing anyone can come up with. Why not try something like "TURN [EXPLETIVE] LEFT YOU MORON, CAN'T YOU SEE YOU'RE VEERING TO THE RIGHT TOO MUCH???!@!&*&#^*&#". Then again it depends who you have in the advice chair. Some fascinating scenarios (One has personally never been in the midst of any of the following, but the reaction would be no different; if fate ever is kind enough) have been concocted below:

1) The smartest kid in college:
Smart Guy: We're all gonna die.
One: Shut up!
SG: What was anyone playing with when they gave you the car?
One: I said shut the [expletive] up!
SG:{horrified expression} You just used a bad word!!
One: Nappy pants....
SG: I wan't out now
One: Fine, jump to your death then
{In the meanwhile, two pedestrians have almost been shown the door and a cyclist is having a tough time coming to terms with his possible recent paralysis}

2) A leading dermatosurgeon
Doc: Do you know you have blackheads on your nose? My clinic offers excellent treatment
One: Dumbass, the end is near- say your prayers!
Doc: Post traumatic scars can often be as damaging as the injury itself. Why not consider Lucid Cream- complete skin solutions.
One: Which part of 'you're gonna be wiped off the face of the earth' don't you understand???
Doc: Don't fight it. Acceptance is the first step
{Both the occupants of the motorised vehicle have, well, they've gone over- overboard that is; through the windshield!!. What's up, Doc??}

3) Avnish(*)
A: Enthu, tula kay vattay, exactly kay trajectory asel tya kutryachi. I mean exactly how high should he be hit so that he'll land in the lap of the dame at the end of the lane.
One: Dunno man.. Tu sang
A: Ajun thoda straighten kar. Then floor her (the car I mean) and just before impact turn on the wipers!
One: Righto captain.
{Showing complete lack of sense that is supposed to be so common among those of the human race, the car actually accelerates down a narrow country lane- all for the benifit of science. The guiding philospophy- a greater good is being pursued and the dame was overweight anyway}
*=>Avnish : Sorry about your explicit mention but often when gears are changed, one wonders whether its all that mechanically viable in the current scheme of things! [:P]}

So the final statistics seem to appear somewhat like this:

• The odds that in walking for 1 km on Pune roads you will break a bone in your body= 15:1
• The odds that what you break keeps you in bed(not the lucky laid type)= 5:1
• The odds that the above case may be inflicted upon you with my addition to traffic= 50:1
• The net change in your fortune= almost none

Its all as safe as it was before this post- if you consider a continual fight for survival as safe. Godspeed!

The I P L Song

With the Kings on top and Royals close behind
It seemed like sun would set as everyday
But there came a topple as the seam sang a tune
Theres more to the IPL than the willow's way
A ton rained on Mumbai Gilly giggle Gilly ho
And the Chargers could only adore
Yet it bodes that after all those drinks
The Challengers are hung over as before
With a slap on the map and a minus eleven cap
Theres no love lost among brothers
Riders of the Knight stranded in daylight
Punjab played on the problems of others
Daredevils play their their stunts soon it'll be a month
Of when Baa was displaced from her slot
At 158 Mc Cullum would have been proud
The K truly has officially lost its plot
Move over golden ball move over before a fall
Time wounds all heels, yeah even yours
They'll sing of a green with a pitch in between
And small childern will count six and fours
A snobbish British passtime will reign supreme
Yankees will cheer for a popcorn and beer
The only thing better than Kidman in the shower
Is a ball thats swept of the boundary clear!

G.M.R.Treat

The Giant Meterwave Radio Telescope at Khodad just outside of Narayangaon is one of those things that remind you of how smart mankind really is. Thirty monstrous dishes stand over 25 kilometers as they map the most intricate details of the Universe covering a cosmic expanse measuring millions of light years across. Neither the heat nor the dust storm blowing across the arid landscape managed to deterr the twenty odd students of our Astro Club from surveying all the details of the Antennas and control rooms.

As humour continued to ooze from the heat affected and academically tortured souls, the miracles of science had given way to a classic spoof of an advertisement on TV. The complete form is given below:

But the visit was also special because of a marvellous photo-op just before packing up. A small lotus bed lies just beyond the entrance. And it was here that nature was at her quiet best.

Photo Concept: Abba; Execution : One

A small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse

With the semester finally ridding itself of various levels of ugly vermin, the time had come once again to look heavenwards for yet another session of mingling with the bigger players. Patient research and complete lack of any source of self occupation had driven PK and his mates years ago into roaming barren country lanes for photonal solace. Finally, after some effort it seems they managed to locate at a distance of 40 kms from the city the perfect spot for astronomical exploits.

The maddening seclusion of this place really hits one when the sun dips down and the all consuming darkness remains true to its name. On a virtually moonless night (1/3rd phase- rising late at 0400) the soft shadows on the dusty earth were testament of what promised to be a fulfilling session of star gazing. For the shadows were inspired to existence by not the usual hazy blips in the night sky but sharp and majestic balls of hot gases that roared away an incomprehensible distance away. Tales of travel through the unknown occasionally flitted in and out as Betelgeuse set early in the evening setting up the stage for a magical night.

But the awestruck, the bored, the BTDT, the sleepy all looked forward to that late night shot of masala chai to keep spirits and eyelids high. So an attempt was made to light a fire. In the ensuing 45 minutes the few of us assigned this historic task realised why we need whirlwind geniuses every fifty years- because even after having gone through two assignments in Infinite Series as fuel (we hoped the frustration in the pages would feed the hungry fire more but were saddened to know that elements don't hold grudges when one really needs them to) the common man had learnt to make fire but not control it.

"... and news brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the galaxy around the clock," squawked a voice, "and we'll be saying a big hello to all intelligent life forms everywhere... and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys"

And so three brave soldiers tried their hand (at a safe distance) to conquer and control that beasty rage and the volley of suggestions/ instructions to fill the cool night air were somewhat like this:

One: Arre yaar, ye kaise kaam dete hain hame.. Chai banao.. Useless [expletive]s. Chal main thoda lakdi dhoond lata hoon.
Sith: The trick is to keep the fire going... Just wait till the wood takes heat and then watch it burn.
Guru Diplomat: hmmm....[thoughtful amused look]
One: Here... now where's that lighter.. Ah yes.. Here goes
[Crackling sounds are heard in the background. The unmistakable smell of burning paper fills the air]
Sith: Shit! paper burns really fast!
Guru: Thoda vo dry grass try karte hain
Sith: Excellent.. We'll feed it like one of those coal furnaces.
[An envelope of smoke has now, well- enveloped the entire school courtyard where the mission is taking place- soft sounds of coughing from the hut nearby puncture the pristine silence of the night]
One: Vo kuch to oxygen ka problem rahega... More paper
[The last few lines of Assignment II are reduced to embers. Twenty minutes have passed and the water is showing no signs of agitation]
One: Apun kya karte.. [cough.. splutter..choke.. tears from eyes] aur thoda ladki marke dekhte hain]
Guru: You're going about this all wrong...[huffs and puffs and brings the straw to red hot state]
[entry of GPA gollum.. news from the paddock.. the concoction must be hot and palpable in ten minutes time]
Guru: Abhi dekho...main ye jalata hoon.. sab ekdum mast ho jayega.. [three pieces of traditional dried dung cakes are now fed into the frenzy.. the smoke and the plot both thicken]
Sith: Whats happening is that were not able to maintain fire temperature... [dips finger in water to test situation] 60 degrees... we have very little time.. it seems we'll have to feed the folks lukewarm tea
One: Are vo pani ke surface pe kala kala kya hai?
Guru: Straw paper and baki cheezon ka jala hua usme ud gaya hai..
Sith: No worries [grabs a sieve.. fishes out the debris] In this kinda temperatue no bacteria can survive.
Guru:[Nodding in agreement]
One:[Expression unclear]
Sith:[Elated at his own revelation]
One: They're here... I can see them coming.
Sith: Quick.. grab the premix and pour it in.. Before its too late.
[Estimated water temperature after an hour of exercise commencement- 80 degrees]
Guru: Main mix karta.. tu glass leke aa
[Sith obeys obediently]
One: Saala, chai ka rang aa gaya... kuch smell bhi aa raha hai..
Sith:[Visibly releived and glowing] I told you this would work
Guru: Itna udd mat.. We have not tasted it yet
One: Haan
Sith:[Mixed expression of anxiety and excitement] It'll be brilliant, I'm telling you
[By this time what remains below the vessel is a mound of ash and embers. There is confusion to the onlookers whether its the surface of the tea that is giving off heat or the smoke in all is glory. We're obviously pushing for the former case]
Sith:OY COME ON.. Chai is ready

And in this fashion potential poisoning was avoided and no deaths have been reported till this time. Opinions regarding the actual thing have been omitted from this post for the sheer number of [expletive]s used in the conversation that followed. A perfect end!!!

Fairytales- Cranial Mineral Depletion

The room swims in and out of focus. Influences/ stimulii have not come in any form. All it took was wood pulp printed double side in all its glory to deal a severe blow- post traumatic stress coupled with acute withdrawal sydrome have ensured that one now attempts to sheepishly grin at jokes cracked by anchors on TV news channels. Life doesn't get better than this. Maybe it does. Maybe not. One is unsure of how to put it.

Now boasting of visible traces of facial exoskeletal growth, the nagging feeling of growing up seeped away late this afternoon after a comprehensive pounding in the entangled world of telecommunications (Definition of AM: When we modulate amplitude, it is called AM). With such churlish attempts to pass time failing miserably, one's mind drifted to a fairytale world of adventure, intrigue and magic- of drama, hot babes and land deals gone bust. It didn't take a train trip, it didn't take a dream, all it needed was some good old timing diagrams and the transition was complete.

This world consists in all (for the sake of narration, of course) three hundred seventy two and a half characters, not all similar taken in random order and then sorted into groups according to instantaneous hormonal changes (as measured on the Playboy graph- standard scaling applies). Constant parallels can be found to characters based in other similar creative (Bah!) attempts (exclamation not to be mistaken with BAJ) like a computer game called Hercules, a stack of paper called the LOTR trilogy, a .pdf known simply as Arthur Dent and a talking great dane.(One wishes to thank all these sources but that would make it obvious beyond doubt that one really has very little to work with, so lets just skip this last bracketed comment/hint at life)

The Promising Saga That Hasn't Even Taken Off Yet (Volume I- draft)

As the yellowing patches of the ceiling had finally begun to peel, I felt the time had come. Cowardice is for those who could not see face to face with the truth. Ah, the joy that bullshit you don't mean brings with it. Nothing had changed in over three years- the same complaints, followed by resignation to the fate of things. Fate. That was a dangerous word. It had often awoken rash impulses. Such impulses will need to be curbed, I thought. The perils that disorganised living brought with it were many, but none as frustrating at the time as the inability to scheme. A deeper burning conscience(conscience was it?) would not allow anything beyond the first stage. The bigger picture was clear. Tomorrow was an important day. Keep it simple. Keep it straight. Breathtakingly simple was the new ingenious. Ingenious had left with the white haired guy people kept talking about.

Roughly seven hundred and odd feet away, a street dog roamed the alley with happy contempt. Yeh apna ilaqa hai. Sniffing away at the disgraced garbage bin had yielded nothing tonight. Even by its standards. Greener pastures must be found. The dog quickly corrected itself. I need some [expletive] meat. What went unnoticed by our four legged hero was the fact that the alley was not purely his. Fate (yup, here also) had better plans for the claustrophobic walls. Their caving in approximately an hour later would also lead to some interesting revelations.

~One would like to leave it here for the time being- victory is still not one's completely. With lower level coding and hurried scribbling still on the cards for a few days, it would be best not to leave such things purely to fate. More when the saga continues~

Paadva PahaaT

This morning, one got the opportunity to attend a Indian Classical Music Concert "chaitr paalavii navii" that featured four of the stalwarts in this field. The mehaphil was held together by Pt. Shivkumar Sharma (Santoor), his son Rahul Sharma (Santoor), Pt. Anindo Chatterji (Tabla) and Pt. Bhavani Shankar (Pakhwaj). In many ways, this was a very significant and special concert. One had the good fortune of listening to Pt. Shivji's brand of Santoor mastery once again (the first occasion being Sawai Gandharva '06). It was also the first time one saw father-son together in concert. Talking of father-son acts, one would finally get to listen to Pt. Chatterji, after the Pune crowds as well as Ustad Amjad Ali Khan sang praises of his teenage son's command over the tabla- this was Sawai '06 again. Finally, Pt. Bhavani Shankar on the pakhwaj- an instrument that had intrigued one quite often- it made its presence felt in a very subtle kind of way.

Unlike most Classical Music Concerts (at least in the North), this was an early morning (read as 6:00 am) affair. Who is gonna leave their beds on Padwa morning to attend a Santoor double whammy- seating will be a breeze. But not to be deterred by such trivialities, Pune crowds once again thronged to the venue and one was greeted by a line of five hundred odd folks- most awake- but only just. It would take the best of another hour for things to get under way. It was worth the wait.

The maestro (=Pt. SS) appraised the audience of the first of the morning's renditions- राग बसंत मुखारी essentially a morning raga. The two santoors would emulate the Dhrupad style. It is on such occasions when one can truly appreciate how close instrumental can get to the vocal form- one was reminded of a performance on similar lines (Sawai '07-The Gundhecha Brothers "shiv shiv shiv...."). The pakhwaj took centrestage as the ustads interwove the raag through Roopak Taal. The combination, it radiated power, but softly. The surprising thing about the rendition was how well the pakhwaj could really carry through a piece- one had often felt it would prove too frail or subdued. The tabla eventually joined in as the real mood was set.

यह विदेशी आर्टिस्ट, इनका मानना है की हिन्दुस्तानी संगीत बहुत ही धीमे चलता है, इसमे कोई excitement की भावना नही है..... ऐसी बात नही है। हम चाहे तोह इस प्रकार से सुर सजा सकते हैं, पर असली मजा धीरे धीरे उस राग को बंदिश मे सजाने मे होता है..... भैरवी राग मे... दादरा बजायेंगे ..धृत गति तीन ताल मे अनिन्दो जी इसका समापन करेंगे।

What Pt. SS basically meant when he said this the audience would fathom around half an hour later as the maestros inched closer towards the crescendo- one's favorite part of the piece being played. It is at this pinnacle that every bit of music is flowing outward from the instrument and one can continuously ogle and cheer as previously unknown sentiments arise purely from the draw for that music, from the haunt of that music.

All in all, just a great way to spend a Sunday morning (that would otherwise involve slug like behaviour); for the first time in the last couple of weeks, one felt all those late hours spent completing (mundane copying) finally served their purpose.

Boomerang

One believes that there's no real way to kick off blogging. It should be as absurdly abrupt as getting up at 4 in the morning and actually wanting to complete (no compulsions or pressure) a physics journal (tis pathetic; one shall never forget that fateful dawn).

"There is no baser folly than the infatuation that looks upon the transient as if it were everlasting." - திருக்குறள் (The Thiru KuRal- Verse 311)

Call it Murphy's Law, call it serendipity (ouch- it hurts when it cost one a point for not knowing how well the Britishers managed to corrupt स्वर्णदीप) but the ability of what goes around to come back around often leaven one vexed. Less than two weeks ago one bragged of how the second ambush of the continual onslaught seemed a lot more placid as compared to the one around six months back. Shoving yet another lesson in impermanence in one's face, the mere four hours of sleep every night have proven that one was mistaken in a big way.

Coming to the title of this label, it is inspired from a chapter in Touching My Father's Soul. The innocent brilliance and honest narration of this book have really enthralled one- and one often reads certain portions again. It was after this book that one's respect grew for the Buddhist culture. The deep rooted faith, simplicity and sentiment of complete surrender appealed to one the most. One believes, if one is to stay afloat through this onslaught- such divine intervention will be the only ray of hope.