Neon Golden

“A connoisseur of highs. That’s what I am calling myself.”

Ahel spoke like that.

She was a riddle herself. She liked her walks. A scarf carefully selected, moody jeans, a shirt and her older brother’s ass-kickers. She had grown into them. Probably from all the walks she did. If the sun was out, so was she. It was the summer and school was out. She liked the vacation as much her students did. Her modest kindergarten teacher’s salary meant that her travels were mostly to the cliffs or the forests nearby.

Mostly she would be gracious and impudent and charming. Always kind and patient with her kids. She still had a bit of growing up to do, she felt sometimes. In the meantime, she was happy to teach. And she had her walks. She didn’t like talking about her family much. Daman was as far as she could get. The booze was cheap. And she had shit to figure out.

“Oh c’mon! You can’t handle two drinks. And you have never even smoked a cigarette. Let alone anything else.”

Lena smirked.

She was new to the school. The second child was now three and she wanted to get back into teaching. Had always liked it. And spending entire days with the in-laws had gotten really old. And while she had first thought that coming to work and to more kids would be too much, she found that she still liked teaching kids. It was challenging and she figured it was good practice for her own kids as well. Rael agreed, bless him and had started pitching in too, like she never thought he would.

“You know I am saving myself.” Ahel started sniggering.

They were sitting in her couch. Lena came over most days in the afternoon. It was a habit they had gotten into. The in-laws were all too glad to have their precious grandchildren to themselves.

The tea was done.

Ahel brought out her tanpura. She had nearly broken her neck bringing it here, on buses and trains and nearly a mile on her back. It was the one thing that remained with her and the one thing she hadn’t been able to leave behind. And on certain nights, it still carried a faint smell of the almond oil that her mother used.

“Pahadi?”

Lena nodded, already closing her eyes, a half-smile.

“That would be appropriate I guess.”
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I had read about the Bechdel test. I think the story should serve its own purpose (and the author’s, naturally). I think awareness is good and it is essential as it probably shapes discussion around things that, well, need discussing. But all the same, all works have an agenda of their own and that shouldn’t have to be subsumed into external narratives and rules. If societal rules require that creative works need to conform to certain norms, then doesn’t it defeat the notion of creativity itself? But hey, here’s a story, for whatever its worth.

Another day nearly done. The summer days seem to tick faster. Me getting a little busier at work. What a surprise. I sometimes wonder about the purpose of it all. Choosing responsibilities when it’s not any choice at all. But that’s kind of paralyzing. And I think we are all agreed that actions are the way to go. Silent protests and dignified withdrawals don’t really work. So, might as well get into the shit, play your part, collect the cheque, fail the family, lose your mind. And that’s why I am here, around midnight, earbuds on, lights turned low, staring at a screen, willing the words to come.

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Couple of sappy songs with catchy tunes now (and now that the playlist exists, remind me to put them there as well).

1.    Notwist – Consequence. Because of the album name, obviously and because I think the lyrics are interesting (there are quantum mechanical references here too, no?).

2.    The Cinematic Orchestra - To Build a Home. Well I did tell you that I am in the mood for sappy songs today. And if you have read the things around here, you know that being sentimental is something I do all too well.

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I watched the Ghost in the Shell movies (the animes) and I was surprised to see how much the Matrix trilogy was influenced by it. A little innocence lost perhaps (I watched the first one, wide-eyed, in school) but then a little more appreciation gained. Checks and balances. Listen to the intro to the first movie (Kenji Kawai – Making of Cyborg). We are all tribal and Batõ is damn cool (I just realized they even lifted Morpheus’ glasses! Really?!!). Watch the movies if you can. I don’t know if I want to watch the new live action film now.

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The French elections are underway. And the Delhi elections. And the IPL. Guess which one I care the most about?

Sonnet (and 2 more lines)

The dark lady calls sometimes. A trivial summon, never ignored.

Mindless and cruel and crude and rude.

Primal calling, like carp to bait, tricked and gloried and cast aside.

Hating, hated, sweat in the sunlight.

Worshipping, thieving, innocence sought and lost.

Sent on a quest, like Quixano perhaps, but with the cunning, dumb greed of Sancho.

Seeking completion and fulfilment. Never found.

A mad pursuit, companionship given only to receive, despised and clutching.

Picking up speed in charge, colours flashing and false in blurry eyes, tears at the false sweetness of hope.

Purpose posted, always sought, never owned.

Desperate possession. To body, never the mind.

And having had, restless, itching and bored. To have more.

White as pearl. Bruises and curses, inhaled breath.

Falling slowly, feather through fog.

Reason forsaken and divine held. Short death and glorious bliss.

Hating, hated, tears in the moonlight.

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An attempt at something new – I hesitate to call it a poem. I haven’t read poems a lot and it’s not a medium that feels too natural to me. Some of it can probably be attributed to the one occasion I have been properly thrashed as a kid. I am kind of stubborn, and I had gotten into my head that a poetry recital wasn’t something I wanted to do. I ended up on the stage however and me being me, I did a silent recital for about 2 minutes, a very avant-garde performance, which was interrupted by a teacher hauling me off the stage. So that was it for me and poetry. Being a Bong, you don’t obviously succeed in avoiding it completely. I remember the hard-bound copy of Palgrave’s Golden Treasury (off-white and blue, which mom won in school and I now have my own copy, somewhere) and the thick Complete Shakespeare. I remember reading Kipling and Frost and Wordsworth and Coleridge, the school staples. There were the Hindi poets as well, Ramdhari Singh ‘Dinkar’, Shivmangal Singh ‘Suman’, Subhadra Kumari Chauhan and others – part of the CBSE curriculum. I have forgotten most, if not all of it – but seeing them written somewhere does bring back memories and a renewed appreciation of their art. And obviously, the great bearded one, Tagore, had the pride of place in any household.

Our education used to have a colonial overhang (don’t know if it still does) and I haven’t really read much poetry since leaving school. A bit of Dickinson, a dash of Whitman, a pinch of Eliot – these are American poets I have read a bit. I think they remain more accessible somehow. I have gasped at the vivid physicality of Neruda’s poems – the Latin American passion very evident even in translation (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair) and realized that you can’t really read it without having been in love first.  Then there’s Frank O’Hara (autobiographical and isolated in a way) and ee cummings (spare, precise and eccentric, verily like his name), poets I do read sometimes. I haven’t really read world poetry and I know there is quite a lot to discover. There’s more to poetry, even in the quite literal works, that lets you develop meaning and ascribe emotions that doesn’t really happen in prose. Guess I like the simpler stuff most days.

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We need to close out with songs. I kind of think of this portion as the end credits now.

1.      Mark Ronson ft. Boy George – Somebody to Love Me. Mark Ronson is a very good producer (albums with Adele, Amy Winehouse and Bruno Mars spring to mind) and his own work is quite good too. My love for synth-pop is well documented by now and this song is pretty much in my listening sweet spot. Putting up the tame video (the other one with Diane Kruger here).

2.     Pearl Jam – Yellow Ledbetter. A good old grunge rocker. They were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year. Chose this song because I always make up the lyrics (he just mumbles and growls through the song) and still play it all the time. And I absolutely love the idiosyncratic guitar plucking that happens towards the end (reminds me a bit of Hendrix). They don’t make music videos, so this is the best I could find.

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It used to be that it was difficult to be sure about the accuracy of events in the distant past. Now nobody knows whatever happened yesterday. Also the University Challenge final (46th series) is tonight.

Sonnet 129. 

Shallow Songs

It’s all in the context really. First you hear the beat and only then do you pay attention to the lyrics. It’s madness pretending to be music. Loud and quiet, terrible twos. Sometimes so soft, that you strain your ears trying to catch the barest intonation. Is it a window or a willow? Trying to make sense of inchoate sounds. Is it a man or a woman? Warbling syllables and sighing vowels, murmur and brush past each other. Delirious in dreams, words missed out and not missed. Saxophones and trombones, metallic and melancholy, leading to wonder and then fading a bit too soon.

I love words. I love reading. I love reading about reading and reading about books (and they are different things). It’s my most favourite thing in the world. But I am curiously drawn to songs that give me goosebumps and often I am not even hearing the words. Call it a drop, call it a hook, I am like a cat which has gotten its favourite treat. I will stick out my neck and allow you to pet me then. A bassline that carries the certainty of desire, a drum solo that answers to no one in its indulgence, virtuosity shown in creating something that’s sharp angularity and snappy chaos and doesn’t explain itself and is unashamedly unapologetic about it. It luxuriates and wallows, taking directions only in the moment it finds itself in, glorious and joyous, but only sometimes and sometimes driving deeper and darker, but even then, without purpose and predestination. I react to it without thinking, without hesitation as my limbic system processes pleasure and joy and gives me chills and makes me fearless. The frequency just matches somehow and yes, resonance results (I know).

We are such tactile creatures, seeking to capture moments and emotions and I don’t know how mere sounds can provide such stimulus in what it essentially an intangible and ephemeral medium. These songs evoke that feeling of extreme satisfaction. Keeping you sated, even as you place it on a loop, looking to wring the last bit pleasure from it, putting the volume on high and drowning out the disturbances and distractions. Closing your eyes, sometimes sighing from the pleasure of it and sometimes crying like your heart would break without really knowing why. There are songs that take you back to a moment in time, like when you came home almost running from school because you wanted another listen of that Savage Garden track to see if the goosebumps still happened and when you cared too much about the quality of sound for the first time (and frustrated that the parents bought a Philips machine when Sony had, obviously, the best sound).

So yes, there are these songs and thank God that they exist. Intensely personal and extremely surprisingly, not because of the lyrics. Sometimes you are even ashamed of liking them (and that’s all me) but despite everything, they exist on your playlist and they travel with you, device to device, growing up yet standing still, primal echoes in your head, tribal and monastic and shallow and deep.

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So a post about songs. I want to be perverse and not put in songs today. But that would be wrong. 

1. Massive Attack - Paradise Circus. From Heligoland. Mezzanine is their best album probably but this song has been stuck in my head for a few days now. Do hear Teardrop (hearing it for the first time is like nothing else).

2. Jeff Buckley and Liz Fraser - All Flowers in Time. A bootleg probably, this unreleased song is raw and unfinished and so very very sweet. A talent lost too soon, like Shannon Hoon maybe (but a bit more famous I guess).

3. Leonard Cohen - Suzanne. Just because.

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I used to quiz. So I want to point out that Liz Fraser sang on Teardrop and Buckley is probably best known for his cover of Hallelujah. Connections. And I want to suggest a book that seems appropriate tonight (Love is a Mixtape).