Of Walkmans and Bulky Players

I do not have an iPod. I have a Walkman, a DVD/CD player and an old cassette player. The Walkman is 30 now. I resisted it, as I have resisted several new innovations. I like the comfort of things I am used to – smells, sounds, images. It is as though wrinkles tell so many tales and I like hearing the stories of a time gone by.

When the Walkman walked into my world it was already an established entity. It relieved people of the tedium of heavy music systems. It made music mobile. In buses, in the streets, at the jogger’s park, by the promenade, everyone was swaying to music. Sometimes, if it was played too loud, one could hear strains, as though their ears were blasting sounds that were getting trapped. It became a young hip thing to do.

Music for me had meant something else. Days when we sat listening to the radio and old Hindi film song cassettes in those large players. I loved the cassette. If the reel came off we tried using our little finger or a pencil to turn it back. There was concern that it might not work.


I recall once putting in a blank one and recording a song, a ghazal…Qateel Shifai’s “Pareishan raat saari hai sitaron tum tau so jao” (The night is worried/At least the stars must sleep) made famous by Jagjit-Chitra. This became my claim to family fame.

I often took this player to the bathroom, since I had long baths. It sat on the window sill and I would stop mid-soap or mid-water or mid-whatever just to soak in the voice, the instrument playing…I had always been interested in classical and semi-classical so the idea of raga malhar dedicated to rain seemed like such a potent idea, so much sensual potential…


Someone or the other would bang on the door and ask me to hurry. The day passed and at night before retiring to sleep I’d take that player to bed, hug it close to me and again listen to music. A cousin had gifted me some real nice ones by Frank Sinatra, Boney M, ABBA. I often shut my eyes to “Strangers in the night” or “Fernando”.

The CD looked like a flying saucer to me. I did not know how to hold it, there was nothing to unspool. It looked like the records of old, but I had not much exposure to those records, except at Chor Bazaar, the old market area where real and fake antiques mingle to create an atmosphere of the new trying to be old, a reverse Botox.

I used the Walkman only when I was on the treadmill. No fast-paced music. I must be the rare one who managed to increase my speed and heart rate listening to Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, the classical music maestro, or the soft strains of Mohammed Rafi’s silken voice or Tracy Chapman singing “Sorry, I'm sorry, all that you can say”. Oh, this one really got me going, thinking of all those I could hit with this number. She was da woman and I was sweating it out, with the workout and the anger building up. “If I had a hammer…”

Beyond that, I did not like music right in my ears…ears are for whispers. I like the sounds to seem as though they are coming from someplace else. How else will I reach out and go towards it unless it beckons me?

My brother in Islam?

"You wrote a long article on Jackson but no mention of his being our brother in Islam.Are you denying it?Are you not wanting to understand Islam when people are coming to it?What use analyzing when he is gone to Allah." The tone of the note was deadpan.

Today, a friend sent me a message asking if he would be buried. When I chided him in response, he retorted, "Aap kafir?" (Are you an infidel?)

I'd say my friend was merely curious and it was banter. But, what about that note? Why is his conversion of any consequence in death? If he did convert due to his convictions, then his belief was valid when he was alive. Allah would have mattered to him if he felt the need when he was here. There is absolutely no reason for people to make claims on him only because he chose a certain faith. Let us not forget that in some societies where this faith is followed as a political credo music, even if it is played in devout ecstacy, is considered blasphemous. These double standards do not do much for religion or for music.

The other query not posed to me but insinuated about the media is that everyone was jumping in to have their say. Are we mere voyeurs? I have blamed the media often and some of the stuff being churned out is silly, like Indian newspapers discussing about the political ramifications of his Mumbai concert in 1996. Or putting up tasteless old jokes. However, there have been some interesting opinions and as I was telling someone for me understanding pop culture is about exploring social mores.

I got another interesting letter where the person contradicted me saying that women did swoon over him. My response is that unlike Elvis, the Beatles, Sinatra in his prime or even Mick Jagger, Jackson outside the stage arena did not have that effect. And it was a good thing, as good as his rejection of American pie-ism.
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My mother introduced me to Michael Jackson. One day when I returned home late, I could hear sounds from the telly. It wasn’t sounds I was accustomed to. Sounds of a weepy woman in a soap, sounds of some wonderful old Hindi movie song, sounds of the phone ringing, sounds of waiting…my mother was waiting. I rang the doorbell and walked into the room. The TV was on and a man was singing even as he moved.

I knew it was Michael Jackson, but I did not know my mother would be watching him, listening to him. English was not the primary language of communication at home. Our music was Indian semi classical, old Hindi film songs, some folk, some Sufi.

Yet, Ammi often switched on MTV. When I asked her why, she said it was a relief from all the same news, news about deaths, about destruction or telly serials where everyone was either dying or living deaths. She enjoyed what this guy did. So I grabbed my dinner plate and started watching him. Transfixed.

I did not know his religion but I could see he worshipped music.

A coloured war

At a time when we are inundated with war-like situations and images flash at us in almost synchronised form and seem colour-coordinated to match the backdrop, we have become lobotomised creatures. If at all we react it is because our systems and sensibilities are affected, not due to any revulsion at the happenings.

Think of old war movies and photographs. They were subtly stark and dark. I have watched many of them and recall barbed wire fences, men in berets, bunkers, the mess, the singing and tapping of wooden tables, the parting of lovers, the standing in queues for rations, the loss, the death…all so black and white, yet layered with the greys of profound meaning.

Recently I was sent a link to Der Spiegel’s collection of the only pictures of World War I that were shot in colour by two seasoned photographers - the German Hans Hildenbrand and the Frenchman Jules Gervais-Courtellemont.

The report states:

Although color photography has existed since at least 1879, it didn't become popular until many decades later. The overwhelming majority of photos taken during World War I were black and white, lending the conflict a stark aesthetic which dominates our visual memory of the war.

History, whether recorded or not, is always repeated. It was this picture of devastation that sprang out at me from the gallery.

Why? A mere structure, a church destroyed, is the centre-piece. It is mere structures that crumble – brick by brick and emotion by emotion. We invest a lot in them and they have become the cause of many a dispute in our so-called modern age.

Besides, I read that the pictures of people - soldiers and civilians - were ‘posed’ due to technical constraints. I understand that, but however much planned wars are and whatever strategy is adopted, the impulse is a moment of thoughtlessness. And when I say war, it is the wars we fight each day with people who we are forced to call enemies.

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For the full gallery, go here.

Zakir Naik and my white kameez

There were big ads in the newspapers, hoardings on billboards. A bearded scrawny man was to give a lecture on Islam and something or the other. I was in Chennai and had nothing to do that evening. I was also interested in the something or the other.

None of the people I asked to join me was keen; finally, a strapping Iranian teen agreed to take me along.

There was one problem. Clothes. I had nothing ‘decent’ to wear. There was no way I was going shopping for this man. Finally, rummaging through the suitcase, at the bottom of it I found one white salwaar kameez and lace dupatta. I think I had been told before I left Mumbai that there may be some function where one might dress up a bit. Ah well, I decided this was the occasion.

My young friend arrived. I went out and he started his motorcycle. I was overjoyed and instead of sitting ladylike, I climbed astride as I would on a horse. We reached the venue and he screeched to a halt. Several mouths opened, eyes went wide. I adjusted my dupatta, which I had wrapped round my waist and tried as demurely as possible to ‘unbike’ myself. If I lifted my right leg, there were people; on the left there were people. So I slid backwards and did something which might make an acrobat proud. Y went to park and as I waited a group of women with scarves and veils approached me to “please come inside, sister”. A gentleman wanted details. “Sister, here, write down address”.

When Y returned, they asked us to go through separate entrances – ladies and gents, like we were queuing up for the loo. I said I wanted to sit with my friend. They looked at me, shocked. Y was a teenager but he was tall and well-built; he even had a stubble.

Seeing that I was determined, they let me sit with him; they were more concerned about the other men and if they’d be uncomfortable. I turned to those in that particular section and asked if they were okay with me. They nodded their heads.

Then Zakir Naik came on stage and there was loud applause. He sat with a few people, including some “foreign dignitaries”. He is a fiery speaker and said some utterly stupid things. The Q & A began and Y had told me to keep quiet and not ask anything. However, as a practising Shia he got very angry and got up to ask some question. Dr. Naik gave some chicken soup for the soul reply.

We left soon after because Y was angry. He made a lot of noise starting the bike. We headed to where I was invited. And this young man who was cross about the Shia faith being insulted guzzled up three large pints of beer in 30 minutes! And I, the religious ignoramus, was thinking about all those words nursing a neembu-paani…okay, a Breezer.

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Anyhow, why am I thinking of Zakir Naik today?

Apparently he has got into trouble. I was secretly thrilled.

A year ago he had said that Allah’s blessings be upon Yazid, the killer of Prophet Mohammed’s grandson Imam Hussein. This time he told a TV channel that Allah alone should be approached for help and not even the Prophet.

Instead of relenting, he stated, “I stand by what I said. And I didn’t commit any sacrilege. The majority of Muslims across the world believe that Allah is the almighty and help should be sought only from him.”

I do not wish to get into a religious twist, but the role of the Messenger in Islam is too sacred. Yet, it is a fact that there are segments that are persecuted because they are branded cults because they believe in one thing and not another. Whatever be his motivation, he is expressing a point of view. Muslims should be happy that in some ways he is unifying them.

It is surprising that Sunnis are against him for this. And so are the Shias.

A Lucknow-based mufti issued a fatwa against him for allegedly supporting Osama bin Laden. Said Naik:

“I never supported Osama. I have always been saying that all those who kill innocents are terrorists. So if the USA kills innocents, it doesn’t have the right to call Osama a terrorist unless it owns up its own crime.”

Again, can we quarrel with this?

I am beginning to think that the white salwaar-kameez was not wasted on him…

Marriott, Islamabad - memories in the mayhem

I was hesitant to call. She is a foreigner living in Islamabad. The first thing she asked was, “You remember Marriott?”

“Of course, I do.”

“It is burning. I left the city in the afternoon…will return later.”

I never stayed there. The people I spoke to almost always mentioned that it was a place which was more watched than many others. I did not want to ruin my stay. As it turned out, you get watched anyway.

There used to be a smile in her voice whenever we talked about the Marriott because I would tell her about the meetings I had there. She was particularly amused when I had hopped into a jeep with a guy from the Tablighi Jamaat.

I remember that parking lot so well and how everyone looked at his jeep with wonder; he had recreated it to look old and battered. What an irony that had it been parked there on September 20, it would not stand out. It would be as stripped off colour as any others destroyed in the blasts.

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Saturday’s bomb blast reports have already mentioned how a suicide bomber rammed into the gate and blew up 1000 kg explosives that have killed about 60 people and injured many, many others.

However, I find some statements in Dawn to be more than reports.

The Marriot Hotel has been popular among the foreigners visiting Islamabad and had been previously targeted by terrorists.

Pakistan, like India, has gone through too many of these ‘incidents’. And terrorists always look for hot spots. Whenever I visited there were always many more locals in the restaurants than foreigners. Unless there was some event; then people from news channels would invariably position themselves at the hotel. It is the only five-star property that is centrally-located.

The attack came a few hours after the newly elected president Asif Ali Zardari made his first address to the joint session of the parliaments amid tight security. The president said in his address that he would not allow Pakistan’s territory to use for terrorist activities.

Every politician says it and terrorists know they will say it. They do not wait for such sound bytes. Incidentally, Zardari’s appeal to curtail presidential powers is a huge gimmick. Even if it is carried out – or ‘revisited’, as he said – it will send out the signal that he is not after power. What he really means is that he does not want to take too much responsibility. Not at this juncture when the country has to deal with strife in the Northern areas as well as the parking of American troops.

The Marriott Hotel is located near government buildings, including President House, Parliament building, Prime Minister House, and right opposite to the Sindh House and judicial colony.

If suicide bombers want to attack these hallowed institutions they can aim their explosives there. There should be no implication that this is a blow to democracy, for sure. It is not. There were blasts during Musharraf’s regime, too.

At that time some people had implied that it was staged.

Let us wait for the verdict now.

And to see what plans the United States of America has for Pakistan.

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Another time, another memory

Whenever I think of the coffee shop there, Nadia, one meeting will always make me wonder about how quirkiness can lead to amazing insights.

I had wanted to probe his mind and I suspect he was doing the same. We shared a curiosity about everything. As we sipped tea and conversation flowed, one would not have imagined this was only our second meeting. He told me about his life – complex, layered.

We had got so comfortable that I suggested an experiment – there was a long-stemmed rose at the centre of the table. I told him that we should write something impromptu about it. Mine was a poem; his was an interesting theory on physics.

This was not an Indian and a Pakistani, just two people sharing their views about a rose that could have grown and thrived and withered anywhere.

Aashiyaan jal gaya – Habib Wali Mohamed

Recall a funny episode related to this song. We were driving to a village, not too far from Mumbai. I was working on a short film. The cameraman ditched, so I was also going to shoot. I was driving with the people who were involved with the project. Met them for the first time. One of them started talking about Urdu poetry; he thought I was one of those angrez ki aulad. He said he wrote poetry. And he started quoting,

“Ae naseem-e-seh’r tujhko unki qasam
Unse jaakar na kehna mera haal-e-gham”

I did not know how to react. He really thought I would not know? Habib Wali Mohamed was so much a part of our everyday life. I had to politely smile because if I said anything he would come across as foolish…and his colleague was there. Yet, I couldn’t let him get away with it. So I quoted from “Kab mera nasheman ahle chaman”. Yes, I was being wicked!

Aashiyaan jal gaya – Habib Wali Mohamed

A memory and Munni Begum

Umm..ummm…ummm..aaa….aaa….thodasa muskurake nigaahein milaiye…mujhko meri hayaat ka maqsad bataaiye...

“Munni Begum hai na?” I could hear S maamu say.

Ammi came into the room. It was me. Even when I was an adolescent, I had a full-bodied voice. Those young days, as I have said so often, were filled with eclectic music. My uncle mistaking me for Munni Begum was a huge kick. I am aware that most people rate her lower than Iqbal Bano or Mallika Pukhraj, but she was a singer and she sang the songs I liked…and it made me different. No high-pitched trill. I did not want to be a nightingale; I wanted to be a vulture with its kill, the heavy sound of breathing as it heralded life and death in one breath.

A few years later an older acquaintance told me about the similarity again. He said I laughed like her. “Where did you hear her laugh?” I asked.

“I did not…when she sings certain ghazals, it seems like laughter.”

No one makes such comparisons anymore, alas. But Munni Begum is memory, mazaak, mehek…

If I become objective, then I find tremendous madhoshi, the sufi meets seductress:

niyyat-e-shauq bhar na jaa'ye kaheen - Munni Begum

yahi armaan lekar aaj apne ghar se ham nikale

Am sure Naushad saab had no such desires when he left this world – to see his beloved Carter road named after him. But it is now Sangeet Samrat Naushad Ali Marg. Indeed, a well-deserved posthumous honour. This is not the first time it has happened and not the last, therefore we will have to stop cribbing about the changing of road names. If there is one thing about this one, it is that it is not a political act.

My little memories have been penned here, but today I am thinking about the film Babul and Dilip Kumar at the piano and Munnawar Sultana joining him intoning Shakeel Badayuni’s words. Talat Mehmood of the quiver in the voice and Shamshad Begum with that nasal tone singing in low notes sounding like she always did – frisky and feverish. I liked the contrast in the two sounds.

Milte hi aankhein dil hua deewana kisi ka
Afsaana mera ban gaya afsaana kisi ka

I have often talked about subsuming in love…this is one more example when two stories merge and become one.

The same applies to Man Tadpat Hari darshan ko aaj(Baiju Bawra)

Here it is oneness with god, a god-figure, a unifying force, even the higher self that seeks a path (guru)…

This song is in Raag Malkauns, an evening raag supposed to possess supernatural powers. I have watched Baiju Bawra four times, and even in black and white the sense of dusk, dust settling, sun setting is so palpable. I choke just listening to the alaap… “Hari om, hariiiiiii…om”…imagine starting at the pit of the stomach and stretching every syllable in the body of the words…am eternally grateful to a childhood that was filled with these sounds…

I will be repeating what has been stated several times, if this is seen as a bhajan (a devotional song sung for Lord Krishna), then it is almost entirely a Muslim creation…

Music: Naushad; Lyrics: Shakeel Badayuni; Singer: Mohammed Rafi

These things are immaterial in the larger scheme. Just as Shanker-Shambhu took singing at dargahs and in praise of Allah and the paighambars to great heights, devotion is about belief in oneself to become better.

“sun more vyaakul man ki baat”

A mind that is constantly in search will always find.

Why open Antony & Cleopatra’s tomb?

Rome:Archaeologists are set to test the theory about whether or not Cleopatra and her lover Mark Antony are buried together by opening their 2,000-year-old tomb later this year. The remains of Cleopatra and Antony are said to be inside a temple called Tabusiris Magna, which lies 30km from the port city of Alexandria in northern Egypt.

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I would prefer they did not conduct any such tests. I like my fiction. I like the story of power, of love, of destruction, of defeat, of deceit…and then a greater love…

Cleopatra: If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

Mark Antony: There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.

Cleopatra: I'll set a bourn how far to be beloved.

Mark Antony: Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

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Quotes: From Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra.

Image: From the film Cleopatra starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, and Rex Harrison as Julius Caesar.