Still groggy from sleep, the morning cuppa precariously perched at the side of my disheveled bed, I tried making sense of the black print of the newspaper, smelling of fresh ink and crisp to the touch. Another day had begun. Just another day like many that pass unobtrusively into night, and finally vanish into oblivion. The day turned out, however, to be special after all.
It was World Music Day!
Now here was something that surely rubbed off the last of sleep, still hovering on my droopy eyelids. Did I catch it right? Was it Music day? And did they really assign a day to honour it? What would we have next? World Dance day? Poetry day? Drama day? Logic day? I turned up my nose at the petty news-making gimmick of contemporary journalism. They would sniff out trivial issues like this while there were a thousand other relevant matters that demanded immediate attention....like the depleting tiger population in reserve forests, rehabilitation of uprooted hawkers, juvenile violence, India’s pending nuclear deal with the US, so on and so forth. And here was the paper, with an entire page devoted to celebrating this peculiar day! I stuffed the paper under a pillow and made for the living room. On my way to the sofa, I switched the radio on, a habit I had acquired since time immemorial.
Not pleased with the music they played, I put on The Carpenters, my all time favourite. By the time Karen Carpenter was crooning “yesterday once more”, I was settled with comfort, toes curled under folded knees. I hugged myself in sheer contentment, humming the familiar refrain in perfect unison with the record. After a while, satisfied with the surfeit of the singing duo, I switched over to Jagjit Singh, the ghazal mogul, mellifluously churning out urdu lyrics penned by Nida Fazli. The melody stirred some chord deep within and I shifted my indolent self to the third floor balcony of my apartment which overlooks a plush lawn and a blue pool. The songs almost took on lives of their own. They became disembodied angels of solace, brushing my cheeks, stroking my hair as they encircled me.
“Hurry up! You are getting late!” Piercing my soulful harmony came my mother’s strident clamour. My daydreaming over, my spell broken, I stood before her. The clock on the wall said I was indeed headed for trouble with yet another red mark against my name in the attendance register. I had to rush. With the headset plugged to my mobile phone, I busied myself in the necessary chores. I made my breakfast, ironed out my starched salwar suit, packed my lunch, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and tidied my room. The latest Bangla band was pleading, “orom takio na, ami kebla hoye jai” (Don’t look at me like that, I feel foolish) to an invisible coy mistress. When I couldn’t plug the earphones into ears anymore, a feat which didn’t go well with bathing, I switched on my CD player again. And this time the volume had to be strong enough to penetrate my bathroom door and the hiss of the shower.
Moments later I was ready to leave for office. I caught a sigh of relief from my mother and the not-too-discreet haste in her bidding me a hurried bye. I knew she would turn off the music the moment the door shut behind me. I leapt into my car and my driver with the practised rhythm of a coded robot, reached for the button on the car stereo. He knew my favourite station. He didn’t even give me a second look when I began tapping my feet. I was late, as usual.
Depositing my bag on my work desk, I planted myself on my blue chair, a place which would hold me for the next eight hours. When my computer blinked into life, I brought my earphones out of the drawer and became impervious to all external noise. James Blunt sang “You’re beautiful”, and I smiled at the recollection of the video. The day passed uneventfully. It was time to unplug the head pieces and make for home.
Exhausted, I reclined on the backseat and sought sanctuary again in music. Once home, and my dinner done, I was more than eager to hit the bed. Something under my pillow made a rustling noise and I pulled out the morning paper. I squinted at the crumpled mess and couldn’t remember who had put it there. I was ready to shout for an explanation, when the culprit looked at me from the reflection on the wardrobe mirror.
It all came back to me, my disgust with the fuss over World Music Day, my horror at the levity of present day journos who overlooked graver concerns and my stashing the paper away in a bid to represent my revolt. My reflection had a funny look on its face. After spending my waking hours with only music as a refuge, it felt ridiculous not to respect the day dedicated for it. In the bustling city, in the midst of a maddening survival, in the din of traffic horns, in the cacophony of people bawling at each other, in the dry routine of everyday existence, music did sustain us. From rap to rock, ghazals to geets, country to choir, blues to ballads, folk to classical, pop to hip-hop, it was all there in our lives. From lulling the babies to sleep at night to charging the mothers with energy in the mornings, it was unmistakably a part of life. How could I not see it?
My fatigue disappeared. I propped myself up on one elbow, smoothened the paper out and began reading.
Now here was something that surely rubbed off the last of sleep, still hovering on my droopy eyelids. Did I catch it right? Was it Music day? And did they really assign a day to honour it? What would we have next? World Dance day? Poetry day? Drama day? Logic day? I turned up my nose at the petty news-making gimmick of contemporary journalism. They would sniff out trivial issues like this while there were a thousand other relevant matters that demanded immediate attention....like the depleting tiger population in reserve forests, rehabilitation of uprooted hawkers, juvenile violence, India’s pending nuclear deal with the US, so on and so forth. And here was the paper, with an entire page devoted to celebrating this peculiar day! I stuffed the paper under a pillow and made for the living room. On my way to the sofa, I switched the radio on, a habit I had acquired since time immemorial.
Not pleased with the music they played, I put on The Carpenters, my all time favourite. By the time Karen Carpenter was crooning “yesterday once more”, I was settled with comfort, toes curled under folded knees. I hugged myself in sheer contentment, humming the familiar refrain in perfect unison with the record. After a while, satisfied with the surfeit of the singing duo, I switched over to Jagjit Singh, the ghazal mogul, mellifluously churning out urdu lyrics penned by Nida Fazli. The melody stirred some chord deep within and I shifted my indolent self to the third floor balcony of my apartment which overlooks a plush lawn and a blue pool. The songs almost took on lives of their own. They became disembodied angels of solace, brushing my cheeks, stroking my hair as they encircled me.
“Hurry up! You are getting late!” Piercing my soulful harmony came my mother’s strident clamour. My daydreaming over, my spell broken, I stood before her. The clock on the wall said I was indeed headed for trouble with yet another red mark against my name in the attendance register. I had to rush. With the headset plugged to my mobile phone, I busied myself in the necessary chores. I made my breakfast, ironed out my starched salwar suit, packed my lunch, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and tidied my room. The latest Bangla band was pleading, “orom takio na, ami kebla hoye jai” (Don’t look at me like that, I feel foolish) to an invisible coy mistress. When I couldn’t plug the earphones into ears anymore, a feat which didn’t go well with bathing, I switched on my CD player again. And this time the volume had to be strong enough to penetrate my bathroom door and the hiss of the shower.
Moments later I was ready to leave for office. I caught a sigh of relief from my mother and the not-too-discreet haste in her bidding me a hurried bye. I knew she would turn off the music the moment the door shut behind me. I leapt into my car and my driver with the practised rhythm of a coded robot, reached for the button on the car stereo. He knew my favourite station. He didn’t even give me a second look when I began tapping my feet. I was late, as usual.
Depositing my bag on my work desk, I planted myself on my blue chair, a place which would hold me for the next eight hours. When my computer blinked into life, I brought my earphones out of the drawer and became impervious to all external noise. James Blunt sang “You’re beautiful”, and I smiled at the recollection of the video. The day passed uneventfully. It was time to unplug the head pieces and make for home.
Exhausted, I reclined on the backseat and sought sanctuary again in music. Once home, and my dinner done, I was more than eager to hit the bed. Something under my pillow made a rustling noise and I pulled out the morning paper. I squinted at the crumpled mess and couldn’t remember who had put it there. I was ready to shout for an explanation, when the culprit looked at me from the reflection on the wardrobe mirror.
It all came back to me, my disgust with the fuss over World Music Day, my horror at the levity of present day journos who overlooked graver concerns and my stashing the paper away in a bid to represent my revolt. My reflection had a funny look on its face. After spending my waking hours with only music as a refuge, it felt ridiculous not to respect the day dedicated for it. In the bustling city, in the midst of a maddening survival, in the din of traffic horns, in the cacophony of people bawling at each other, in the dry routine of everyday existence, music did sustain us. From rap to rock, ghazals to geets, country to choir, blues to ballads, folk to classical, pop to hip-hop, it was all there in our lives. From lulling the babies to sleep at night to charging the mothers with energy in the mornings, it was unmistakably a part of life. How could I not see it?
My fatigue disappeared. I propped myself up on one elbow, smoothened the paper out and began reading.
delightful. loved few nuances of ur writing like "computer blinked to life"
ReplyDeleteThanks Anirban :-)
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