Rebel Symphony No. 26 in E Major

“Born in Argentina, fought in Cuba, became a revolutionary in Guatemala, died fighting for the oppressed in Bolivia…” The very thought paints a picture of perfect liberation and emancipation of the conscious mind, intoxicated by a quixotic notion like that of a free-fall from a cliff while still being attached to a cause deep-rooted in your heart. The whole idea of gathering dry foliage; starting a fire with the deepest and most selfless of intents; nurturing it till it engulfs the whole forest; and eventually marching on to new grounds while passing the torch to the worthy fascinates and drives me each day.

Ernesto Guevara and the likes are metaphors for a deeper concept that continues to sweep away young, rebellious, non-conformist minds across the globe. Call it the lack of an established nomenclature for this phenomenon, or my ignorance of it; I am forced to coin a terminology for this. I would call it- being a Contract Revolutionary. I am discounting the likes of other great revolutionaries such as Simon Bolivar, or even Nelson Mandela who fought for a wide variety of causes and a wider class of people and nations, but stayed back in power for a long term development and unification of people. Here I only refer to the ones whose origins are very apolitical and more to do with matters close to their hearts. They are all around us, within us, amongst us, challenging the conventional, picking their heart over head, and moving on.

A compassionate mind is promptly drawn to any act that irradiates injustice, loss of human dignity or attempts of dehumanizing fellow souls in its very essence. Be it the oppressive regime of a dictatorship, the plight of farmers and the landless, denial of basic health and hygiene for the dignified living of a commoner, or even prejudices at work environment –all of these act as tiny pollens that germinate into rebels who choose either to strategically solve the issue and plan long term or into the ones who play the spontaneous, impulsive contractors. While the former may eventually turn into a conservative or a revisionary or even a reactionary; the latter remains an uncompromising revolutionary till the very end.

The likes of contract revolutionaries are driven by the very cause and the stir it causes in their souls. Never is power sought after or pursued, since it never was about attaining power or supremacy or proving a point. It always is a purely emotional decision taken by an unshackled heart that envisions the world to be a place of unchained existence, liberated thoughts and basic human rights. There’s a cause that hits your conscience and makes your heart bleed (the origin of which might be several thousand miles away). You put all your conviction and your very existence on the line, face your deepest fears head on, overcome the issue, move on and find the next cause. You don’t wait to rest under the shadow of the tree you would have planted. You walk on.  

Communism and socialism were mere tools that certain revolutionaries (only the apolitical, non-power hungry ones here) would have used at different points of history to fight for a cause. Countless stories of revolutionaries joining popular uprisings in a foreign country to bring down an unjust system, or start relief work for a country hit by a natural disaster, or set up health posts in poverty and epidemic stricken nations, leaving the comforts of a stable life behind is commonplace. In a more routine context, I see the likes of contract revolutionaries using tools such as music, social media, poetry, or even their freedom of speech in a closed meeting room to express the voice of liberated minds.

The phrase “move on” gives a rather escapist, adventurous and impractical tone to this whole notion. But when your entire belief system cries out loud, you would rather act and move on, than act deaf…

The Quilt Story

I had almost forgotten the soft, creaking noise of a bamboo hand fan. Back in the north-east characterized by frequent power cuts, it used to be the only source of liberation and respite in the pitiless summer several years ago. This afternoon, the hand-fan turns out to be the only entity breaking an eerie silence. It’s ironical that I find something as modest as my childhood in the most cosmopolitan cities ever!

Singapore it is and I am in a claustrophobic, 8-bed, windowless, back-packers lodge. Suffocation is imminent, even as my scruffily dressed roommates are barred from smoking inside the room. Every few minutes someone returns from the shower with a gush of cologne and soap that adds to the asphyxia in the dark room. For company, I have mosquito nets, matchbox-size lockers, John Grisham, soon-to-explode godzilla sized backpacks and 6 foreigners mostly from central Europe. Discussions are intermittent, most starting with a spark and fading off with cultural or perhaps circadian disconnects. The feeling is of effortless ease seeing species of my own kind disconnected in many ways, yet linked through the several lonely miles traversed by each. From the congested Favelas in Brazil to the dusty roads in Indonesia, I see these species at every corner of human inhabitation. You are not alone – is a comforting feeling.

“Fold the bed-sheet and keep at reception…” –the owner of the lodge barges into the room. A Chinese by birth, he was plump with his large belly bulging out of his vest drenched in sweat. To me, he resembled the Laughing Buddha (sans the “laughing” part of course). It was well past noon as the alarm clock indicated the guests, their time to vacate. There was an empty yet calm look in the eyes of the one moving out of the dorm. He perhaps envisioned the route to the next destination, the several sleepy villages on the way, the hardships of nature, the countless smiling faces, the sign-language discussions with natives substituting GPRS, or perhaps the lonely stretch ahead.

All good-byes with strangers are flamboyant to the eyes and are ritually finished off real quick. Backpacker Rob waves at all his companions of the dorm and is now on his way out with the only belongings he needs to give back to the world – a white bed-sheet and a quarter of an inch thick, striped quilt. One night back at the 11^th floor, as I lazed on my thick foam mattress, with the large French window opening into the city’s magnificent skyline, the luxuries of an urban life were just a phone call away. From the business hotel to a backpacker’s lodge – the transition was overnight. The exercise was to see the mirage of life up close. Wake up one morning to find you have lost it all. The code of life seems to be binary – either hold on to the amusements it has to offer or tread the green mile as a habitual nomad.

The humid afternoon was taking its toll. I walked out of the room for some fresh air crossing the reception. The quilt and the bed-sheet lying right next to the owner’s throne. As I stepped out of the lodge into the street full of Chinese food stalls, I looked back through the corner of my eyes. Buddha had laughed…

When it rained...

How blissful is solitude depends on the circadian rhythm of the universe. Whether it rained today, whether the dark night was star-studded, if there was mist in the air when you walked out this morning – all of it matters. The black coffee as usual lived up to its Coffee Day norms. I was a seasoned customer now (literally) – been used to the curious stares of young couples wondering why I sat all alone flipping the pages of a book in a prime dating location. And the subtle cold stares of the staff pondering when I’d clear the table.

“Everyone has a Tibet of the mind, a notion of a pure, distant land, a place of personal escape, the heart of lightness. For some, it may be glimpsed through music, or fasting, or drugs, or prayer, or excessive exercise, or perfect love….” read the book. The timing of the book in my life was perfect. I had just embraced Buddhism – a late manifestation of my true self. My unremitting practice of detachment for several years now was well documented in bits and pieces. A great many mortals would have been on the receiving end of this drill.

Your choices in life make what you are. Whether you while away your time staring deep into someone’s eyes while it rains…or you keep to yourself reading non-fiction; contriving an imaginary world around you is your choice. Either of the choices are strictly a work of fiction mind you. My fiction was jolted by the coffee bill suddenly placed on my table - a polite way of the staff asking me to fish off.

The rattling noise of the second-hand car engine was customary. As I took a U-turn through the fresh puddles of rain-water, I could see little kids with those intoxicated smile on their bright faces. My car with an Andhra registration wasn’t supposed to be driven in Bangalore without paying a hefty road tax. Returning home was a sane “choice”. The kids waved at me with exuberant expressions. Divided by borders, united by Hope…aren’t we.

Its a Tuesday Night....

Drenched in the luminous golden downpour with the slowly blurring vision like that of the window pane on a monsoon morning, I see things slow down. There’s more silk in the voice I hear, more poignancy in the 22 strings. The bamboo emanating mournful melodies had brought tears before, but never made me weep. Even as my reactions slow down further, the fingers that pluck those strings in an effortless manner drag my soul out infusing it with a pain like never before. The blender deserves to be full of pride; he just brought me closer to god in a long time.

Blessed are the ones with music in their souls and melody in their voice. The melody that defies all logic building a road straight from the abode of mortals to the doors of the mightiest. The artists, who had begun with an urge to have a glimpse of him, now start conversing with god. I see their eye-balls pop out in astonishment and close yet again as the exchange gets more animated. I yell and shriek… “My voice never resonated to scale the heights where you reside, perhaps my screams will”.

The vision gets hazy still as Sufi trance is replaced by an outlandish fusion of Jazz and Carnatic. Unfair are your ways. Why give me the desire and take away the talent? Like a lust in my body and then make me mute. Why give me the will to fly and then leave me with a half-wing that I flutter with all my effort to fall flat on the ground. Antonio Salieri’s ghost speaking aloud in my voice!!

The voice that cannot hold on to a note for long, as the chain of breath breaks, killing the beautiful possibilities of connection with the One. The hands that were once training meticulously to create melody are now vehemently held by unseen yet powerful arms…rendering them motionless. My thirst only intensifies as I swill onto the last drop of golden amber. Why isn’t genius attainable without the help of the divine? Why at all did you create genius? The impulsive side of mine now grows out of the one sided conversation, only to focus on the music.

P.S. Never buy cheap whiskey.

My umpTEENth Blog

Taking my socks off in the balcony of the fifth floor, I was taken aback by the sudden noise of a loud slap. It was the third floor of the opposite apartment and what I saw transported me close to a decade-and-a-half back. A time warp had abruptly opened its doors as I saw this boy in his early teens (I assumed thirteen) being thrashed and given an earful by a lady who certainly looked like his mother. The boy who was visibly startled by the sudden public humiliation at the hands of his own folks would have no respite though. His father joined in and the poor fellow now resembled a thief caught amidst an unforgiving mob. Little sister had foreseen the storm coming and disappeared in a flash. A dull summer evening meant show-time for the housewives and kids residing in the adjacent buildings. The boy desperately tried putting his case forward in Telugu which I interpreted as “Me and my wife will avenge this insult one day”

I too had spent close to seven years in the Alcatraz prison. No matter what your crime is, the sentence is fixed at seven years of rigorous imprisonment. All these years, no matter what time of the day it is, you’d always be hungry. Hair growing on your face and stranger places still would make you look uglier. Not only would you stop looking into the mirror, you’d know that it’s your face that is to be blamed for the lack of mercy from the warden. No matter how hard you’d try, your voice wouldn’t be pleasant or soothing. A strange baritone emanating from a petite thirteen year old body would raise suspicions and result in more thrashing. You’d look at the taller inmates and envy them. “I am sure they are spared of all the beatings. They’re tall. They look like men” – you’d wonder. Jars of Horlicks and Complan would do no magic trick as you’d spend all of it in carrying the bags full of bricks and stones to and fro each day.

Like in any jail, being a prisoner means you’d have no identity of your own. Hair would be cut short and neatly combed with a clear LOC (read partition) in between having no disputes. Being an ugly duckling, you’d be ashamed in front of the opposite sex of the same age. Strangely though, they’d look gorgeous and blossoming out showing no signs of prison-sickness. However your lack of confidence would mean you’d be reading the floor mostly, and hence missing out on the beauty that should have been so desperately appreciated. Each day the wardens would parade you in front of their friends who’d invariably ask you the same question each time. “What do you intend to do once free?” “The day I am free, you better watch out!!” you’d think, but you wouldn’t have an answer. Because each morning you’d wake up with a different dream – a cricketer one day, a software engineer the second, a musician some day and an adventurer again. But more practically, each morning you’d also wake up with the prayers “god no pimples today.”

The crowd meanwhile had dispersed at the culmination of the climax scene. Poor dark boy with a thin layer of moustache had wiped his tears. Perhaps a man had just been born out of the ashes. Perhaps he had made a note of every single onlooker who had laughed at his misfortune today. Too late for my explanations…

Being a clown...

The dark smoke from the colorful candles gushed into my nostrils as I plucked the E-string of the guitar for one last time. Cake smeared on her face as everyone clapped in joy. Happy birthday indeed it was as I saw the newly-weds smile, exchanging the loveliest of split-second glances. And midnight it was, but I sweated profusely. More couples in love meant more dedications and mushy numbers. This meant I’d strum the strings of a half-known, half stranger instrument while sweat trickled down my forehead further down to my cheeks. I’d cover up the end of each of my imperfect melody with a witty comment, or a lousy mimicry of an idiosyncratic actor, making the happy-high crowd chortle. The last beer can would then be crushed, lights put off as I’d pack my guitar cracking one final joke walking out. End of the party.

Next day the clown performs yet again at the post-lunch-pre-nap session at work. Some get the jokes and laugh, while some laugh as there is nothing better to do. It’s the beginning of the week, but the party for the next weekend is already fixed. “You and your guitar are cordially invited. No stag entry” reads the verbal invitation. Crowd disperses to the respective workstations as the clown strolls towards the washroom. “Let’s get the face paint and the red cherry off the nose now.”

A good sense of humour is a certain entry pass to all parties in town. Most jokes work out if the crowd is intelligent, some fall flat but could be ignored or lost in the commotion. But guitar is a serious art isn’t it? “Didn’t you play the same song last time?” and “Why don’t you play what you can?” are the most common words of appreciation. But then as the mercury rises, and empty Budweiser cans stack up, “Play the high pitch…can’t you”, “I will sing”, and “I know a professional guitarist” are more frequently heard. The clown takes it all with a warm toothless smile, for his is a small performance in the greater circus called life.

It’s midnight again and a long walk back home. I switch on the lights as I directly face the mirror, the guitar still tied to my back. I look at the face paint and the guitar…”Which is a tougher art??” Yawn…

Gothic Perfection

“It’s a harmonious arrangement, a sense of completeness, a measure of excellence. It has to be a sunshine-yellow or an amber orange” - the white swan said about perfection. “It’s pitch black.” The black swan fluttered its wings violently, displaying its dictate. The two swans of course were the reflections of my imagination, perhaps steady partners of the subconscious me. The TV remote almost slipped out of my wet palms. It was early May and the noise of the rotating fan hanging from the ceiling seemed to provide nothing more than psychological cooling. Television channels had run out of juice ever since the cricket world cup was won.

Did every perfectionist in every sphere of acquired talent be it visual, or performing arts, sports or any other skill have a dark side to him? I had slowly strolled into the common garden for the residents of the gated community, not remembering if the door had been locked. The seven year old who went on to become a world famous percussionist would dip his tender palms in ice cold water for long stretches during early winter mornings before his routene Riyaaz. The literary genius would lead a painful, desolate life, understanding the sensibilities and compassion of his character, weeping late hours. The neurosurgeon who made his presence felt right from page 3 to the list of the most influential people, had his long drawn stint with the nocturnal dwellers of the mortuary. The deaf composer of numerous symphonies spent thousands of night in the dark room by the flickering lantern, gathering musical notes from the silence within. Yes, the pursuit of perfection had come at a dark, gory price.

The light breeze on my face and the giggles of little children playing twilight games diverted my attention from the grim theme. A little brawl halted the rather playful evening. In the game of hide and seek, we all cheat a little don’t we? So were the contours of the lives of all perfectionists defined by foulplays? Did the host of the colossal gaming event chop off the hands and feet of non-performers and make the rest rehearse, practice and train for years to put up the most brilliant spectacle ever on earth? Did the master sportsman ever fiddle with the selection of another upcoming talent, who also happened to be his best friend? Did the artist romance compulsively with every other person of the opposite sex to give an illustrious look to the canvas of his life?

The little outstretched arms of my watch displayed 7 PM. Twilight had just been engulfed by the obscure shade. Darkness calling aloud…