"Come near me..."

Few people realise that you could fear the familiar. The places and spaces you've been to before might have memories that claw at you. We stand by the door because of trepidation, unsure of our ability to walk beyond...

Anyhow, here is one trance-like walk:

"We've been here before, don't fear me

Don't stand by the door, come near me

We've been here before, don't fear me

Don't stand by the door, come near me"

Hello...hellow

I finally say hello to Hello. Stray wisps had come flying suggesting that I try and follow the trail where music gets drowned in the deluge of drama.

I like drama.

Hello leaves me unmoved. Can you hear me? Yes, I say it leaves me unmoved, and words of loss usually move me immensely. In fact, words move me as much as silences do when both seek to communicate.

So here I am, with Adele on my stomach. My breathing synchronised with her whispers and whimpers. I am lying down in bed. A Sunday afternoon in December feeling the late winter upon me.

I like the sound of hello, any hello. It is the beginning, even of the end.

Why does this Hello not work, then? Why is this Hello like the stretching of elastic, and not the thread that links? Why does it seem that the mundane is overwrought with the weight of ennui — to say that I've tried, I've tried, I've tried...

Running out of time? Hello! We do not know how much time is there to be able to measure its running out.

What does "hello from the outside" mean when it is the heart that breaks or is broken? There is no outside then. Not even when we break our own heart. It happens. Can you hear me? No? That's the outside. When you can't hear the sound of another's self-destruction.

"Did you ever make it out of that town where nothing ever happened..."

Is she hoping he has or delighting that he hasn't? Is it that nothing ever happened or something never did? Does another's stillness bother us when we are escaping from the noise or when we remember noises fondly?

Hello...could have been a deep sigh. Instead, it is a phone connection with too much static. Or, is she speaking from a phone that's dead, crying to herself about herself?

Is the hello just a question mark hanging in the air?

Sunday ka Funda

Time flies, we say, as another dawn, another dusk arrive and leave. There is birth. And rebirth. Yes, rebirth. The soil is fertile. It creates.

Then, there are needs, wishes, desires. Each one takes away something from us even before it has given us anything. Indeed:

"Hazaaaron khwaahishein aisi ke har khwaahish pe dum nikle..."

Sunday ka Funda

"I've laid in a ghetto flat
Cold and numb
I heard the rats tell the bedbugs
To give the roaches some
Everybody wanna know
Why I'm singing the blues
Yes, I've been around a long time
People, I've paid my dues"

(From: "Why I Sing The Blues")

There is always a reason why we do things, and sometimes the reasons become the things we shall always do.

I cannot claim to know much about the Blues, but the genre is rooted in pain, a pain that reaches out. The sweat and tears gush forth in the voice.

This cannot claim to be a tribute to B.B.King, for I know little about him on my own. He had said that playing the blues was "like having to be black twice", and instantly one understands. One understands how art will be judged by who the artiste is when he says that the blues was like a "problem child" only because you are concerned about how it will be perceived by the world. In that itself is an indictment of such perceptions that see the colour of the singer, and not the shades of the song.

However, a true artiste would mesh with his art. For B.B.King, “The blues was bleeding the same blood as me.”

Sunday ka Funda

Sometimes, soundtracks make you cry. Sometimes, simple words do. Sometimes, your thoughts find mirror images. From one of my favourite movies.

Yu Shu Lien: The Green Destiny Sword. You're giving it to Sir Te.
Li Mu Bai: I am. He has always been our greatest protector.
Yu Shu Lien: I don't understand. How can you part with it? It's been with you a long time.
Li Mu Bai: Too many men have died at its edge. It may look pure..., but only because blood washes so easily from its blade.

Sunday ka Funda

"There are things known and things unknown and in between are the doors."

This quote is attributed to Jim Morrison, but Aldous Huxley had also said the same, adding "of perception" to doors.

My interest is in the unknown. There are many fears and misgivings that so prevent us from exploring outside our comfort zone that we miss out on what could become a part of us. Sometimes, for me, just posting on my 'Sunday ka Funda' helps me step out of the closed doors, of the world of familiarity, and just soak in the alien. It often does not feel as strange as what I've known does.

This song has been with me for a while now. I do not understand the words. They have ceased to be Arabic; the singers are not Egyptian anymore. It is now only about sounds that produce an ache and a smile, and I don't even know if that is what they are meant to do.

Euphony

Music is in footsteps eager to reach you, the bell ring, the sound of whispers in ear, of knuckles unknuckling lazily, the swish of clothes, of laughter, and the name being called out. Again and again.

Music is windows rattling, wind knocking, thunder, rain, the splashing in pools of muddy water, the gurgle of drains, of gumboots plodding, the towel drying wet hair.

Music is opera, the gut-wrenching cry of unspeakable sadness, of stories that never die about people who always do.

Music is the church choir, stiff collars scraping necks, throats belting out hymns in sync, the uniformity of consent, of community, of togetherness.

Music is the huge temple bell rung just once to announce arrival and once more to depart, an offering to an idol created by the cadence of hands.

Music is the azaan, the call of the muezzin, especially at dusk, intoned like the sun cooling off, like air trapped in the hollow of cheeks that breaks free and escapes into the sky.

Music is the symphony of an orchestra where hands seem to quiver. Of the soloist at a pop concert who has to match voice with attitude, timbre.

Music is the turning of the pages of a book, of scratching out words with a pen, of sketching on rice paper, of the fan blowing into face, of lips puckering to blow away the strands of hair.

Music is distant traffic at night, of the phone on silent and a call with a name so familiar you divert it to voice mail so that you can listen to the sigh.

--

© Farzana Versey

Sunday ka Funda

Look around. The same story everywhere. In different forms. Different victims. Different perpetrators. Is it us? Nothing more to say...a powerful visual and the lyrics from Cranberries' 'Zombies' reflects what is:

"Another head hangs lowly,
Child is slowly taken.
And the violence caused such silence.
Who are we mistaken?

But you see, it's not me, it's not my family.
In your head, in your head they are fighting,
With their tanks and their bombs,
And their bombs and their guns.
In your head, in your head, they are crying...

In your head, in your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie"

"My life is rolling on..."

They weren't really the mop-tops, the rubber lips, another brick in the wall; they didn't just call to say hello or get into orgasmic ecstasy over love to love you baby. And yet, 40 years later music lovers are celebrating the start of their journey.

I had written my reminiscences, mainly about Donna Summer, here. ABBA was mentioned, yet it is most of their songs I recall. I mucked up the lyrics, but they filled up pauses in my sentences. Or even explained what I was too shy to state...”Mother said I began to sing long before I could talk...”...or a note of hope... “Chiquitita, you and I cry/But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you”... or just to express angst...“Where is the spring and the summer/That once was yours and mine?”... And of course “gimme, gimme, gimme” for things one did not even want.

The best fun was the “ahan” after ‘Voulez-vous’. Such permutations were discovered!

Then there was ‘Chiquitita’... “Now I see you've broken a feather/I hope we can patch it up together...”

And, to end, these words that do not end:

“Even if we had to lose, there’s no regret. If I had to do the same again, I would my friend...”

Sunday ka Funda

"No, you can't lose a broken heart..."

You can. There are takers for shards...to recycle, perhaps, to want to bleed, to find some sheen in those pieces. But, more importantly, this is for those of us who do not think things out, who are upfront, and who finally do ourselves in...


"Take a walk
Think it over
While strolling neath the moon
Don't say things in December
You'll regret in June

Weigh your remarks
Before you speak
Or you may be sorry soon,
Don't be erratic
Be diplomatic
To keep your heart's in tune

Cruel harsh words
Often spoken
Will upset your applecart
So don't lose your head...
Cus, you can't lose a broken heart..."

▶ Billie Holiday - You Can't Lose a Broken Heart (HD) Officiel Seniors Musik 

Sunday ka Funda

Initially it was only curiosity to watch a group of Americans reminiscent of Woodstock singing Sufi qawwali. As I kept listening, it struck me that it was not merely about breaking the music and culture barrier. It was about being free from the very thought of walls.

The qawwali is an acquired taste, and takes huge amounts of patience. The good thing is that like classical music and dance, if you 'tune in' then you don't need technical knowledge. I must emphasise, and I am being a tad bit defensive, that 'Allah' here could be seen as a superior power, even a superior self.



This poem by Kahlil Gibran is an extension of what I was attempting to say at the beginning:

Have I spoken this day of aught else?
Is not religion all deeds and all reflection,
And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hands hew the stone or tend the loom?
Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations?
Who can spread his hours before him, saying, "This for God and this for myself; This for my soul, and this other for my body?"
All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self.
He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked.
The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin.
And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage.
The freest song comes not through bars and wires.
And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open but also to shut, has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn.

Sunday ka Funda

"We could live for a thousand years
But if I hurt you
I'd make wine from your tears..."

Find these words interesting. Sounds a bit cruel on the face of it, but I am thinking of old wine, the longevity of tears that will be held precious even after a thousand years.

And just for the moment too...this:

Sunday ka Funda

"Everyone who enjoys thinks that the principal thing to the tree is the fruit, but in point of fact the principal thing to it is the seed. — Herein lies the difference between them that create and them that enjoy."

— Friedrich Nietzsche

While the seed is crucial, it would be foolish to believe anyone, I mean anyone, would want to enjoy seeds. Besides, those who sow seeds are not doing so only to create. They too wish to enjoy the fruits.

This could apply not just to real seeds, trees, fruits, but to any aspect of life. For me, especially, it is about creativity. An idea that remains an idea can suffocate. I need an outlet.

It is possible to also enjoy another's creation without necessarily knowing or wondering about the seed that gave it birth.

This afternoon for two hours I was enraptured with music that was in some ways alien, and in some familiar. Kenya is the land my Nani came from. I think about her every single day. Listening to this song just took me closer to her history. Another seed.

This is not the season for it, but 'Kothbiro' means "the rain is coming"...

Sunday ka Funda

I think about the sea often. But, it struck me that when eyes are described in Hindi or Urdu poetry, there is a reference to them as possessing the depth of the river: "Jheel si gehri aankhein". How deep are rivers?

Do they too cause little storms? Or, is their tranquility enough to shake us up, wake us up...to dream a daydream?

Listen!

Return to light...

Lights greeted him upon his return after a 14-year exile. If we do not see the symbolism of epics and mythology, then what use are they?

Diwali surely is not only about a well-lit Ayodhya welcoming Lord Rama.

The light conveys coming out of darkness, of the warmth from diyas, of flames dancing in the wind, conveying evanescence. And the oil and the wick that stay in the background to light up things and are then burned out themselves.

Yet, light is never far away.

It is said that some raagas are so potent they can create and destroy. Legend has it that when Tansen used to sing in the emperor's court, the room would be filled with light. I think the power of such light is within us.

"Curving back within myself I create again & again."
- Bhagvad Gita

A Happy Diwali!

Sunday ka Funda

This is not an obituary. Manna Dey has appeared on these pages in several forms, and twice to emphasise how it took him to reach the age of 90 for the government and the film industry to confer any recognition.

In a recent editorial in The Times of India, the headline called him the Amadeus of India. Not only is there no connection, but even in a tribute we need to compare one who gave so much to Indian music.

I know almost all his major songs, and am partial to his semi-classical songs. I have earlier mentioned that I felt "Pyaar hua iqraar hua" was the triumph of music directors Shanker-Jaikishen and not so much Manna da. I still think so. I have returned to his peppy numbers or the songs from 'Chori Chori' that he sang for Raj Kapoor because Mukesh was apparently not available. He was the second choice, although he was a trained, and in many ways, more accomplished singer.

This is, therefore, about the nature of what we call 'playback singing'. Raj Kapoor often said that Mukesh was his soul, and he did a stupendous job of it. Manna Dey had joked that he was always given songs that were picturised on beggars and boatmen.

Part of it is that despite his classical base, his low notes were brilliant. Unlike Talat Mehmood, there was no quiver in his voice, but there was a quiet, excellently expressed in his tribute to the Mohammad Rafi number in 'Pyaasa': Yeh kooche, yeh neelam ghar... It is unfair to include this here, but it reveals two facets of a song, as well as immense bonding in what could have been rivalry.*

For today, because I have been listening to this in a loop, I choose 'Phir koi phool khila, chaahat na kaho usko...". The scene from 'Anubhav' is a humdrum existence of a married couple where a bud flowering is not seen as some grand love, as the lyrics suggest.

And then there are these lines:

man ka samundar pyaasa hua, kyon kisi se maange dua
laharon ka laga jo mela, toofan na kaho usko

Essentially, why pray to anyone as the mind's sea thirsts and just because waves pile up it does not forebode a storm...

This is less detachment and more the beauty of now.



Manna Dey. A life, a sea.

Kebabs don't grow on trees

Children are cruel. And those whose school tiffins would be filled with all kinds of meat would snigger close to the time of Bakri Eid. We never got quite around to saying Eid-al-Azha, or however it is spelled and pronounced in other places. The bakri immediately brought images of goats, and then the allusion to qasais, butchers who were mainly from the Muslim community. (Christians do have their own, though.)

It is easy to blame certain political parties today, but the attitude predates their prominence. It is no different from producing waste, and then looking down upon those who collect it and clean up your space. With meat, there is the added factor of 'sinful' consumption, never mind that animal sacrifice is fairly common in other faiths, too.

I won't repeat that I believe the spirit of sacrifice is more important than the qurbani, of sacrificing a goat on this day, to commemorate an event. But, then, for devotees all symbols need reiteration.

It could be through such sacrifice or other rituals. One hopes that irrespective of the level of faith, or its existence at all, we all learn to give a little of ourselves to something.

Eid Mubarak!

---

Reminds me of one year when I was in Dubai. Arabs celebrate rather quietly, except perhaps at the malls. I went to Festival City, and they had a performance. I expected some Middle-East type of music. Instead, it was a melange of artistes from different parts of the world, and the violinist was an Arab, as were a few others.

For those few hours, it was the religion of sur and taal.

---

Here is another such moment.

Sunday ka Funda

"Say goodbye to the oldies, but goodies, because the good old days weren't always good and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems,"

— Billy Joel

Good for optimism.

I am not leaving anything nor is anything that matters to me leaving. Not yet. But listening to this, I am choked...

Farewell: Apocalyptica

Sunday ka Funda

"Through the crowd, patchwork souls
Move closer
Closer

And when you fall
Down in between them all
Here you are whole
Not broken"

— Skye

Sunday ka Funda

"Nothing ever goes away until it teaches us what we need to know."

— Pema Chodron

There are some words with religious connotations that go way beyond a particular faith. They become exclamations, pauses; they hold a meaning specific only to an individual. "Good heavens", "Hey Bhagwan", "Ya Allah", "Jesus" can hardly be confined to theology, especially if you hear them ever so often in casual conversation.

I was at a store the other day and the salesperson, upon being ticked off, immediately, and it appeared unthinkingly, let out a "Hai Allah". I did not know her faith, but I am aware of a couple of Hindu friends who use the term, just as Bhagwan, Jesus are used to pepper conversation. They have become like punctuation marks.

The resonance of "Om" is real. It might seem like autosuggestion, but when you meditate the hum in the pit of the stomach that finally reaches the temples can be heady.

My relationship with "Bismillah" is different. I don't use it often, and when I do it indicates a beginning. From the religious perspective it is uttered before every surah. The letters 786 denote the numeric value. I recall how, nervous before an exam way back in school, a relative told me to scrawl the letters on the answer sheet before starting. I tsk-tskd. On reaching the hall and faced with the ominous blank paper, I used my finger to draw out the letters. I do not remember what subject it was and the outcome, but this small act has stayed in memory. Because it became mine. A personal take. And a secret.

These days songs use such words, and they neither glorify nor demean them. They merely link the chain of events, from one to another. That's what life is about. The new. Afresh. Bismillah: