Is that a broom or your guitarist ?

Chances are, if you have been to a musical concert with your friends its been a heavy-metal/rock concert.If you've been with your parents ,its a ghazal do.If you've been with your wannabee NRI cousins its been some schmaltzy jazz concert.hello ? Isn't something missing here ? Where are the concerts for those of us who prefer singing,and not screaming, and shimmying and not head banging or moshing with sweaty strangers ? Where are the concerts for those of us who want to listen to the rhythm guitarist behind the vocals instead of the constant shrieking and drumming that makes you want to clutch your chest to make sure your heart doesn't leap out and escape. Where are the concerts that don't have bands called Spinal Tap or Pin drop violence or something equally violent like piercing flesh or bleeding tears playing ? Or artists who look like regular people with slightly crumpled shirts or trousers and with hair that does not defy gravity or hang tangled and sweaty to their shoulders.Mainly artists who look CLEAN (and I mean that in a variety of ways). Where are the music concerts for those who do not want to hear incoherent screaming against the system,parents,the slutty girlfriend or whoever "they" are and the lamentations of pain.Oh puhlllease. People need to realise that the pain you pretend to relate to doesn't exist ,cause pain when expressed is not loud ,its not always aggressive or powerful.Its sad and thoughtful.Its hesitant, over analysed and preferably has a sense of irony to it. You don't feel the pain they speak about and believe me they're not singing about their pain either. Their pain is locked away for no one to see like most peoples.Its all a farce.I'd like to say there are however the bands that do express and portray troubles with class and depth and give their songs a certain beauty so I wouldn't like to blanket-judge them all.

Getting back to my point ,where are all the artists that cover or play music similar to john Mayer,Eric Hutchinson,The Beatles, Aqualung,Jason mraz,lifehouse and the like ?? I wouldn't mind a couple of McFlys here and there either !!

Has all of this obsession with rock concerts given birth to a generation of posers . A bunch of people that put on their eyeliner and head-bang and come home to their mommies to be tucked into bed all the while humming Enrique iglesias ? Just because there is only one way to be in this country- a metal head.

Note: I'm in no way anti-rock, although my preferences do lean towards the more mellow. This post isn't meant to strip rock of its position as a favourite amongst concert goers.

Please know no "rockers" were harmed during the process of typing this post.

For a Song

I’ve been listening to Coldplay’s The Scientist ad nauseum these days, on my way to college. And the funny thing is I haven’t yet sickened of it. Blogging about an old, overdone song may seem like Christmas-induced verbiage but my intentions are straightforward: if like, will bore.

For some reason, I’ve rediscovered the beauty of The Scientist in the past week – its melancholy patterns, its lyricism and most of all, its sonic sweep over a particular image that erupts in my mind whenever I hear it. This odd visual is one that marries what I think is the minimalistic grandeur of the background with the clean, serious tonal trellis worked atop it – a young warrior of the ancient era is riding out to war, leaving his woman behind. Immediately after, the woman becomes a jean-clad, Chuck-heeled horse rider, pulling our man, still garbed in garments of yore, behind her on the saddle. This last is most in keeping with the ending of the song, when Chris Martin’s gentle quasi-yodelling guides us from the thought-provoking rhyme and rhythm of the second stanza into the end.

It seems to be the perfect union of old and new and a culmination of history and love, meditations on which the song always evokes in me. I especially like that one bit that goes: Questions of science/Of science and progress/Do not speak as loud as my heart. It just explains with such accessibility the whole poignancy of human evolution which we so often miss. I’m a pretty huge fan of Coldplay and this is one of my favourite songs of all time. Just thought I’d share.

Is that a lizard on your shoulder ?

There are a lot of things you must know before you enlist as an Arts student.Out here The 8 simple rules of being the teenage daughter are simply turned on their head and have a smiley face drawn on them .Infact, the more number of rules you break, the more nods of approval and secret passwords you receive. For me personally all the things that made me stand out in my two years as a science student allow me to fit in as an arts student. My general aversion to clothes that "fit" , my need to analyse everything to pieces,my hair in my face devoid of glittery beads or clips,my inability to talk shizzle and fo' or get down with 'it'.My suspicion that Paul Walker is actually the Ken doll brought to life to ruin the world with his plasticity, and basically my need for something besides a maths problem to challenge me. Its all slightly hard to comprehend and surreal at first.You wonder how long you've been oblivious of this alternate clique and whether you do have what it takes to be a part of it or if you're better of turning away and banishing all memory. I'll take a crack at explaining it to you. Be warned though that this information comes from a single , hardly adequate, point of view so anyone that disagrees can stick their head back into their shells and pretend they never heard me.

We're all slightly off our rockers , which according to us, makes us unwonted (which is a good thing here, you'll see..).Call us weird and we'll shrug, trying in vain to hide our glee.Tell us our music taste is wack and we'll play it louder and sing along for everyone to hear. Its a place you can be yourself , no one's expecting you to be a non-scientific clone which is what I love about it.Most of the arts peeps have the supreme and invaluable knowledge that this isn't a competition and that what they are is what makes them special and you couldn't ask for more than special right ? Being different isn't a bad thing when everyone is. It just makes you another colour in the box of crayons.

There are also those who get obsessed with standing out in the crowd and risk addmittance into an asylum due to their various attempts at it, each more alarming than the previous. Announcing that you used to talk about the meaning of life with your stuffed bear doesn't score you brownie points.I'd wish to not call them fakers cause of my little respect left for them. They understand the significance of not being like everyone else but they lose sight of the whole point of being themselves.I never understood all this talk of "being yourself" before I got here. To me being yourself was just a catchy line amongst teens meant to sound cool ,awe-inspiring and rebellious even..? But the folks I talk about don't look like they put any effort into being the way they are so it can't be that hard or admirable. It involves just being.

I hope someday I'll look back on all this and not be as scared shitless as I am today of all the change and differences. I'll looks at us as being the "children of the revolution" . *cue T- Rex*.Unlike their parents, the kids who said no to brand names and who weren't impressed by the "phoren" or the superficial anymore,who decided that intelligence doesn't come in different sizes of S, M and XXL but in different shades and patterns.That what goes on outside your neighbourhood does affect you.That perception isn't reality . I'm so proud of this neurotic , dangerously self-aware bunch of people that destroy the boxes they have been placed in and make themselves impossible to label. Wave the freak flag ! Wave it high !

Those Winter Nights

“A winter's day
In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow…”
I heard these words from the Simon and Garfunkel song and suddenly, the inspiration that had been eluding me lately made a comeback. Oh those winter nights… As December unfurls itself from its last year’s slumber, not so cold after all, (and there isn’t any snow either) but chilly all the same. All you want to do is tuck yourself into your warm blankets and imprison that safe feeling inside you forever…

That feeling of being able to give up everything, even a book or a good movie just to go by the window and stare (yes, just a simple and crass stare) outside. The sky is still the same inky blue, with bright white specks glittering every now and then around a waxen moon. Going and sitting on the swing in the balcony late at night, when everyone else is asleep and breathe the cold, fresh air. And the silence. To watch the dark shadows of the hills and the trees that stretch above, almost into the light, almost giving away their strange secrets. To strain your ears till you can listen to all the distant sounds far, far away. Till you can almost listen to the whistle of a faraway train as it takes off (always takes off and never arrives in your mind) and as the wheels slowly, periodically start moving, resulting into that eternal, clock-like ticking of train wheels gliding on the partly silver and partly rusty-red rails…

Going out on winter nights for dinner and then walking to an ice-cream shop, knowing that it’s going to give you a cold and you will wake up the next morning with a bad throat, but eating it all the same. Ah that guilty pleasure… The taste of the frozen, whitened, hard surface on your tongue as it slowly melts and gives away. Those red and green Christmas lights and decorations put up on trees to welcome Christmas, although most of them haven’t been taken off since Diwali. And the feel of the wool on you skin, smoothening the goose bumps as you race home on your bike, longing for the warmth it will bring.

Waking up early in the morning, sheltered and warm in your soft bed. Never wanting to wake up and drift through the mists and labyrinths of reality but to drift always in the warm safety of a clear, cold December.

Conspiracy Theory or Groundbreaking Exposé?

With uneasy times reigning over the country and good citizenship being increasingly equated with being an agent of paranoia, I have taken it upon myself to put forth suspicion and alert my fellow Fergussonians and Puneites to a danger on FC Road.

Once upon a time, (right now actually), there was a diner opposite Fergusson College. It was called Savera. The people who frequented it were called Saveterans (they are now anyway). And it’s where all good Fergussonians retired to in times of crisis and ennui. Interestingly, it also seemed to be the place where the majority of Fergussonians were likely to go after retirement from whatever gainful employment they could finagle after graduation (snigger). But that’s neither here nor there. What I am about to reveal about this diner is shocking, incendiary and sure to keep you away ever after.

This blogger, after much deliberation, thought and of course irrefutable evidence has come to the conclusion that this is no ordinary eatery but a front for all manner of sinister activities which may or may not include guerrilla warriors, terrorist troops and most scarily of all, rogue gastronomes from Vaishali. It is always easy to spot this last species because of the condescension that drips, nay, cascades from them while ordering, a supercilious quirk of the eyebrow here, a wrinkling of the nose upon seeing the food there etc. etc. But I digress. While the Vaishali vendetta looms in the background everyday anyway (are they in fact spies who have come to steal recipes or lure Saveterans over to the dark side?), we mustn’t let that blind us to the very real possibility of bombs being manufactured in the kitchen and the waiters secretly being trained in the art of gun kata. Before you think this is some horrendous mash-up of Fight Club and Equilibrium (I’d mail the treatment to (R)Idley Scott , you suckers), consider the facts of the case.

Have you ever seen the speed at which those chairs outside get stacked up? It’s unnerving...one minute they’re there and the next minute, nothing. Only ninjas can be so quick (remember what they said about Kung Fu fighting? It’s fast as lightning!). This also applies to their niftiness when it comes to taking orders, bringing food and generally whizzing about the place. They’re never in one place long enough, like that Taz from Looney Toons. How?

For some reason, the staff looks perennially distracted and tired in the morning. Why? What have they been doing all night that drains them of so much energy. Oh, gutter out. What else have they been doing all night? If you think I’m lying, observe them around 7 a.m. They’ll be red-eyed, groggy, yawning. The restaurant ‘closes’ by 11 p.m. and they’d probably go home just to hit the sack. So, the only plausible explanation seems to be they don’t go home at all. They remain there, practising their insanely arcane ancient martial art. Unassuming restaurant by day, samurai commune by night.

How come they’re all dressed alike? It’s to prevent identification. OK, I know, it’s an Udipi. They have uniforms. Yada yada. But c’mon, the buttons almost disappear into their chins...what are they hiding in there? My guess is that at the slightest hint of danger, they’ll rip open those shirts and reveal a whole range of high-tech weaponry stitched into the shirt flaps. Bring a water gun that looks like a real gun the next time you go.

Then there’s the kitchen. Of course, it seems as if you’re free to breeze in and out through the double doors whenever you like, but really, who’re we kidding. If you ever peep in, you can never actually see much, except for smoke. There are weird steel counters and stoves...or so they would have you believe. If you don’t believe me, ask for a tour of the kitchen. You shall be refused. If there’s nothing fishy going on there, why all the secrecy? What have they got to hide? Unless, those contraptions they’re trying to pass off as kitchen appliances are in fact...*dramatic music* weapons of mass digestio...I mean, destruction.

And finally, as a concluding salvo, something from personal experience: once, a guy walked in wearing a Che Guevara shirt (that infamous fashion ubiquity will be discussed in another post). Shyaam Anna, the head waiter, asked me who he was. When I told him he was a Latin American revolutionary, the man’s face literally beamed. He asked me to get him his biography. Why? I mean I heart Shyaam Anna but really, since when are mild-mannered supervisors of respectable eating houses so enthralled by violent men with Spanish accents?

I’ve saved the most compelling argument for the end. The benign gentleman who mans the counter looks like a Kannadiga Mr. Miyagi. End. Of. Discussion.

I sincerely hope that I have done my duty insofar as apprising my fellow citizens and students of the situation we have on our hands. Especially the FC crowd. Trust no one. This is in no way a ploy to keep everyone away so that my friends and I can have the run of the place. Totally not a ploy.