And like most Indians, I love my music. I say like most Indians because I've finally moved out of the country and very ironically, identify more as an Indian now than ever before. This is my only identity at the moment - a passport. And it's a little strange a piece of paper (or a small booklet, as in this case) should mean so much to someone.
Okay back to music - I've always believed you don't have to be great, or even good, at something in order to love it. I was a bang average football player, but Chelsea FC has been with me and rescued me during the darkest periods of my life. I still remember May 20, 2012 like it was yesterday. I managed to royally mess up my CA exams, and headed straight to a football pub in Madras to watch Chelsea take on Bayern Munich at the Allianz Arena in Munich. What happened after that was mostly magical, and like much of my life, pretty dramatic. Chelsea won a game they should never have won. I passed exams I should never have passed. Pretty dramatic. But I digress.
I'm a horrible singer and will always be cursed to be one. I'm so bad my kindergarten teacher sent a note to my dad asking him to take me out of the optional music class all kids had to attend. The optional music class became the mandatory drawing class after that. I was a pathetic singer, and only got worse with age. But music has always played a pretty important part in my life. I've had a very good ear for music, and could listen to anything from MS' Baja Govindam to Zeppelin to Blaze shouting at the top of his voice in the excuse of rap in Slumdog Millionaire. Music, for me, will always be associated with places and memories. And I thought I wouldn't be doing it justice if I didn't pen my love for music down.
Vishnu Sahasranamam for me, along with MS' Suprabhatam, would always signify home. I woke up to either of these two songs everyday at home, and I remember my mom turning up the old tape recorded, letting it run the cassette out of breath completely, and then changing the sides for the Suprabhatam. The smell of filter coffee, thatha bringing flowers home for the everyday pooja, paati chiding him for being late, thatha admonishing paati with a shrug and slowing down everything he did on purpose - I owe all of this to Ms Subbalakshmi. She could bring back memories I didn't know I could. It's been years since thatha passed, and everytime I hear the Suprabhatam, I half expect him to walk into the house wearing his bright white 'veshti' and a towel on his shoulder. Grandparents are always special. Like Backman says in his novella, And Every Morning The Walk Home Gets Longer and Longer, the reason grandparents spoil their grandchildren is to indirectly apologise to their own children for messing up so much of their childhood. And did my thatha spoil us! (Note to self - I need to call my paati.)
Another song, or a band that brings up a ton of memories is The Beatles. We came back from the Middle East for my higher education and it was a pretty lonely period for me. We were struggling financially at home, and I bore the brunt of most of it because my sister was still too young to understand what was happening. My only solace during those periods were The Beatles. And George Harrison in particular. I'd cycle/ walk an insane number of km everyday to school and back because getting a van or auto was expensive, and we could save that money. My sister took the auto because she was too young to walk. Mr Harrison kept me company most times. I listened to his guitar weep as I walked the distance down. It was also a learning of sorts for me as The Beatles were the first English Band I actually listened to. I Youtubed most of their songs, downloaded pirated music, put their lyrics as status on this new website everyone was on called Orkut. Put them as my DP later on when everyone deleted Orkut and moved to another new website called Facebook. I had more friends breaking my heart than lovers, and 'With a Little Help From My Friends' was my everyday anthem. I loved In My Life more than Hey Jude, and who knew Ringo Starr could sing! Before you could say Ringo John Paul & George, I had downloaded everything the Beatles sang (including bloopers like the one from their Strawberry Fields recording) and put them on my MP3 player.
AR Rahman's Dil Se reminds me of our school trip to Goa, where I shunned most of my friends and stuck to listening to music. I wish I had spent more time with friends then. Everytime I listen to Ae Ajnabi, I imagine I'm back in that train, in the sleeper compartment, sitting up listening to Rahman and thinking, wow this man has the whole range! Who'd have known he'd end up winning the Oscars years later for a bang average album. Ilayaraja was the better composer for me. Rahman, the better human being. Strangely enough, I didn't hear a lot of Ilayaraja till I started articleship at a firm in Kodambakkam. A junior introduced me to the maestro, and I haven't stopped listening to the man till today. He has an ego the size of a mountain but nobody can deny his talent. We would sing Raja Raja Cholan (I'd only sing the paragraph that repeated after every stanza) and Thendral Vandhu together at the top of our voices to everyone's agony. My junior was the better singer and better person. Ironically, much like Ilayaraja, my ego got in the way of our beautiful friendship and we stopped talking shortly after. I would still continue to listen to Ilayaraja and silently thank my junior everytime for introducing me to the greatest composer in Indian cinema.
The often covered You're My Sunshine got me through one too many heartbreaks, and Dhanushs singing always brought a smile to my face as I remember singing aloud with my best friend from school. We would sing to every Dhanush song from Why This Kolaveri to Voda Voda Dhooram Korayala. I didn't burn that bridge yet, and we are still friends till today. Even though we are miles apart.
Sona Mahapatras Ambarsarya is special for many a reason, introducing me to someone who could yet become a huge part of my life. Rahat Fateh Ali Khan and his infinitely more talented uncle remind me of dirty Kormangala streets that I used to walk down after teaching in the morning, wondering if the bus to my office in Domlur would be on time. On the contrary, Astrid Gilbert and The Girl from Ipanema reminds me with much sadness about the streets of Toronto, and the pristine clean St Georges Street in particular, and the huge University of Toronto campus. The music from '96 would invoke memories from Prague and my first solo trip to Europe.
As I grew older, and not wiser, I moved from the MP3 player to a flip phone, a brick phone, a couple of droids and finally to the One Plus I have today. But the music I listened to hasn't changed as much. I would be nothing if not for all the music in my phone. Whether as a pirated song downloaded from a shady site that would download porn if you clicked the wrong ad, to a paid Amazon Music subscription, it has contributed immensely to who I became as a person. I wouldn't have discovered some brilliant bands if not for my sister, who introduced me to Coldplay. Recently, I was introduced to Billy Joel by a cousin. I'm still discovering great music, and I don't think one genre can ever claim dominance over the other. Cash, The Beatles, Ilayaraja, Bossa Nova and Gilbert, they've all been equally special and I would forever be grateful.
Nice blog...good to read
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