My stint with music

My stint with music

                       I am not a musician. But I can loudly say that I love music. And I appreciate it and enjoy it when it is to my liking. I also admire those professionals who could appeal to our musical sense and make us forget everything else. I cannot imagine a world without music. How dull it would be! Hats off to those who discovered the charm of it and those that invented myriad instruments and to those who experimented the lilt, melody and rhythm. I salute those experts who made it a science.

                      Many a time I have watched those musicians who blindly let their fingers slide through the strings with such ease and grace. In fact I too wanted to experiment with those. But somehow I couldn’t. I remember how my mother with her humble dreams had sent me at the age of nine to a convent where a seventy year old British nun was teaching the violin. Though the class was only for an hour and half it was an ordeal for me mainly because the instrument was almost my size and howsoever I positioned it, the nun’s expectation was not achieved. Moreover I couldn’t manage to bring out any sweet strain from it. The unearthly babel of the strings shocked everyone near me. And the nun would make a most unpleasant face that horrified me. My sincere plea to let me out of this bitter venture was unheeded. The only consolation that encouraged me to pursue this weekly pilgrimage was the snacks the convent hospitably provided me at the end of the session. Quite often I would dream about the savour of the delicacy while the nun was seriously instructing me about the nuances of the bow movement. However this experiment did not last longer than two months. Then I was able to conclude that I had no special musical flair.

                     

                      It was my friend C- who played an important role in awakening my taste for music. During my postgraduation we had plenty of time due to the working schedule of the college department. So my friend persuaded me to spend some time in learning Hindustani music. It was agreed that he would learn the sitar and I would pick up the tabla. But in spite of our genuine efforts we could not pursue it due to the frequent closure of the music school. Then I suddenly had an urge to learn the guitar which was acquired by my friend.  On the whole my musical trip was literally a hop between the sitar, guitar and keyboard. When I came home after my studies I was armed with used books and a sitar  What I missed in Agra, I tried to compensate at Nagercoil. I found out a Carnatic vocalist who came every afternoon home to sing for me. The musical notation was scripted down and I dutifully tried the same in my sitar. It was a queer fusion of Carnatic and Hindustani. Though my old teacher did not know anything about the sitar, he was sure enough to shake his head vehemently when a wrong note was depressed. When he ceased to come after a couple of months, my sitar found a convenient corner to rest by itself. After a few months a man who came home to bargain old furniture took a fancy to the sitar coated with a thick layer of dust. His offer price was much more than what I had paid for it and so I gladly parted with my sitar. And that was the end of the classical saga.

                      Now that I am retired and have not much to do anything, I try my hand in the guitar my friendly cousin had left with me. The instrument though meant mainly for rhythm was a melody thing for me. I experiment my favourite tunes in it and sometimes get mild approbation from my loved ones. I play it now and then because I still believe that I have some music in my gene. Moreover it washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.

Password syndrome

This password syndrome

                      In this technology driven era one has to have a sharp memory. If you cannot boast with it your life is going to be a misery. You must be armed with innumerable passwords if you want to withdraw your own money, if you must operate a computer, if you need to be connected to a network, if you have to pay online, in case you want to access your bank account, if one has to open a high tech office door, the list is endless. The other day I read about a very cautious mother who had instructed her nine year old school girl not to get into a vehicle unless the driver reveals the password. If things go on such a scale then I am afraid you have to have passwords for almost all day-to-day transactions. Unable to remember so many of such kind I made a wise decision to have only one all purpose password for everything. Somebody unearthed my smartness and then required a combination of digits and letters and special characters. Someone else wanted case specific passwords too. The burglars need not loot the entire house. All they need to take away is a small diary in which all these damned entries are carefully listed. In the morning you would be left homeless. Some smart bankers insist that you change these passwords as often as you can and thus make sure that you would soon be a pauper.

Morning Walk

Health and habit probably go hand in hand. Sometimes one tries to outsmart the other. Then we are forced to change our habit to maintain our health. Unwilling to change my habit and breathe some fresh air I restore my customary morning walk every morning here in Troy, an American nondescript town. The long walkway beside the road is always deserted. Only the speeding car drivers sometimes eye me curiously. The doors of all houses on my way are all securely closed with impenetrable curtains. Privacy, noise and life itself are locked in there. Humming my favourite songs I speed past houses, offices, clinics and shops. The pavement is very clean and flat. There are occasional cigarette stumps, a price label and some incomprehensible objects. They are very noticeable because of the absence of trash. A stranger coming opposite you sometimes chooses to offer a friendly smile and how-do-you-do. Reciprocating is fun because back home, even very familiar people don’t seem to recognize you. In fact I have habituated to meet many morning walkers during the span of ten years to the extent of recognizing their T-shirts, their complexion and style of their gait. I cannot but admire their dexterity in averting their eyes very naturally as they approach me. Probably I don’t look like one who could be befriended. Or maybe they want me to volunteer. Anyway I am taking back a lesson to be more friendly with strangers.

My second innings

My second innings in Detroit

                      July 14 happened to be an eventful day with Pearl’s wedding day coinciding with her son’s birthday. 2016 assumed more significance because Shaun celebrates his first birthday. It was an occasion to be remembered for long. Grandparents, granduncles, aunts, cousins, friends and neighbours made a beeline to 1989 Shepherd’s Drive with gifts, hugs and promises. The house like a big balloon expanded itself to accommodate everyone with almost some sort of private space to everyone. Unending chats went along with unceasing cookery. All sorts of Indian cuisine challenged the American snacks. Everyone contributed their own advice to everyone to make the dish tastier. No guests were special. None but babies were pampered and persuaded to help themselves with more. It required some effort and skill to keep the conversations going especially among men. To this horde of kith and kin,  a new man joined to make the occasion very official. In spite of his efforts to sound it casual,  his presence in black with a white round collar made all a little uneasy. Moreover his request for emulating the church choir made some of us jerky with unknown verse with familiar tunes. However, the mass at home got going with a high tech assembly of handsets and iPods assisting the congregation to maintain the required solemnity. Whatsoever you do, a home will hardly be a church notwithstanding the compulsive paraphernalia. 

Neither here nor there

You should know where you are. Otherwise you will quite often land yourself neither here nor there. A middle class educated citizen with reasonable awareness cannot help browsing through newspapers and flashy magazines and sometimes TV ads. The advertisers, the articles and photos and channel programmes gradually work their way into their mind and angle them into the trap. The victims think they deserve the luxury even if it bites into their hard earned deposits. The hawks polish their persuasion with sugar coated phrases that are just enough to ease the fall. The consequence is this philosophical ramblings. You don’t enjoy the fun without a qualm. But then you end up coughing up an unaffordable sum and silently justify your act. A poor man clearly defines his limit and takes utmost care not to cross it. A rich man never cares about the money and he is in search of means to spend it. But a middle class creature dreams about the possibilities and takes a dive. This is how I ended up owning all those things that I presently have. Are they useful to me? Well, they must be, otherwise I wouldn’t have ventured buying them. Still a nagging thought haunts me now and then. Where am I? Here or there?

The stranger

The stranger

                It was late afternoon when I knocked at the gate. There was no sign of life inside. The car shed was empty. What could have happened? Where could he have gone, my friend? When I visited him two weeks before, he was wearing an oxygen mask. His wife had led us to his dark room and alerted him about our presence. After repeated requests, he just opened his eyes and then without any signs of recognition, he went back to his disturbed sleep. Reassuring her, we retreaded our steps promising her to remember him in our prayers. Now the house wore a deserted look, untidy and very much vacant. Since there was none to help, I somehow found a doorbell at the bolted gate. Gently I depressed the switch. I couldn’t hear any faint sound of bell ringing in the house.  Three or four times I tried again with more insistence. The deadly silence confounded me. Was his condition worse, that he had been shifted to hospital again? Boldly I tried to open the gate stretching my hand as far as I could. No, it was hopeless. I mumbled something to myself about the oddity of the hour and drove back home. I did share this strange experience to a few friends and invited stranger responses.

 I got the news around three in the next afternoon. My friend had passed away exactly twelve hours ago. How strange! Probably the stranger had been lurking around the house when I was there yesterday. Or probably I led him there to wait for an appropriate time. I could sense his presence there in the deserted house. Like a thief he had waited there determined to make away with his loot. I had not known then that I would get back there after twenty four hours. Where did all these people come from? Where were they yesterday? The doors and the gate were very much ajar. Apart from some shrieks made by children, there was no sound. Only the dull hum escaping from the cooler in which my friend lay still, silent, calm and unperturbed by the many footsteps of those dear to him. He would have been so proud and happy to see all those lovely faces in his remote home which he had bought a few years ago. I spotted his wife, whispered that I had been there a day before. She sounded surprised. She reassured me that they were there at home when I kept knocking but she was unaware of that. May be the stranger made sure that his presence was more felt than mine. How stealthily he had crept in there and took him into his confidence! Had she also known his scheme? Had she helplessly acceded to his proposition? What else could she do? She might have recognized that resoluteness in his white eyes, the black stranger.

it was his day

It was his day

                I was carefully maneuvering a busy junction in my car when I was alerted by a passing motorcyclist that I had a flat tyre. Flabbergasted by the sudden announcement I successfully parked the heavy engine on a side the Providence had earmarked for me. The hot sun threatening to burn me alive and the late afternoon hunger that drives everyone mad were fuelling the mess I was in. Again, by sheer luck I spotted a puncture outfit very near the spot. What a joy it is to find someone you want at a time you badly need their presence! A cobbler when your slippers desert you, an auto man when the rain is pouring, a smiling, uniformed friend in a police station, an inviting acquaintance in a Government office -  the list is endless. Thanking the Almighty I peeped in. I saw a lean, shabbily dressed young man busy eating his lunch. On hearing my footsteps, he turned and looked at me questioningly. I told him the reason for my intrusive presence during his lunch hour, reassuring him with all good nature that he could attend to me after appeasing his hunger. Satisfied by my patience he went back to his business. There wasn’t a chair or a make shift seat to pamper myself. So there I stood with a  burning belly waiting for a man who was slowly, very slowly devouring the scanty meal. Somehow I did not realize that a meal could be so delectable even in the presence of a stranger. Though I found that the size of his lunch box and the time to finish it off were a mismatch, I took sides with the hungry, industrious labourer. Still, when I made some inadvertent grunts, he gently turned to look at me and then as if I wasn’t there, went back to taste every morsel that was possibly remaining in his tiny container. I told myself that the man might have unearthed some occasion to taste a good meal and that my urgency should not spoil his opportunity. After twenty minutes the man made some positive signs of winding up his fare. I waited with a painful smile cursing myself and my car for another five minutes. He took a lot of effort to clean his mouth, teeth, sweaty face, palms and his hands and feet. Then when I was about to lead him successfully to my disabled car, the worst happened. He told me with a glee that he would attend to me within a minute and just disappeared. Helplessly I looked for him hither and thither only to be pacified by an observant neighbor that the fellow had gone for a treat of betel leaf. Well, the job was done after thirty minutes. While I was driving back I thought about him and his willful patience. Why did he do that to me? Didn’t he deliberately keep me waiting for his service? My appearance probably had instigated him to take a social revenge on someone who enjoyed greater privileges in the society. That was his day to prove that he was the king and I was his dutiful attendant.