Rahat ki Raat

Miracles happen, even today. A few of the miracle-men are still around us. Just when you lament the absence of the past in the present, the miracle man carries its legacy and runs past you. Into the future. He is sent to help time keep its promise to the future. He is sent to ensure that the past, through the ages, remains glorious. I know of one - his faculties are unassuming yet legendary; his persona transparent yet unsolved. His trivialities are enigmatic, his lucidity inexplicable.

When he sings, you cannot but believe that it's humanly impossible to sing like that. And if you happen to see him right afterwards, you find him impossibly human. I was fortunate enough to have this second perspective of Ustad Rahat Fateh Ali Khan this weekend.



Having already performed in two sold-out concerts in the area at the beginning of his US-Canada tour, the organizers had to fit in another one on the eve of his departure to appease the unrelenting callers requesting for another show in New York. This was a sold out event as well, and had many repeat attendees. As he always does, the Ustad thrilled with his electrifying singing of traditional and popular fare. Starting with two magical kalaam of Hazrat Amir Khusroo - Mann Kunto Maula and Chhap Tilak Sab Chhini - he re-iterated the spirit of borderless spirituality sometime later when he said he feels happy whenever there is an Indo-Pak collaboration. 'This is how we should live, as brothers,' he said and waited for the audience to stop cheering before he could start on with his next song.

"Harmonium aur mera voice mein thoda aur volume dijiye," he said once. I had a feeling it was going to be Aaj Din Chadheya and indeed it was. If one didn't hear him sing that song the way he did that night, one would never get an idea as to what it really was. When he said, 'Jeeti rahe Sultanat teri, jeeti rahe aashiqui meri,' there was no doubt as to what love he was talking about. You could feel the same when he started off with O Re Piya. The context in the film, the words, the message - all of these get blurred when he sings live. You just realize the trance creep into you and feel thankful of the experience. He was unbelievably outstanding in Halka Halka Suroor, Chhap Tilak and Aankhiyan Udeek Diya - among the traditional songs.

I managed to somehow go backstage during the interval, about two hours into the show. He was talking to a friend and smiled and nodded towards me before I could say anything. It is eerie, as to how almost all his songs have at least a couple of lines in them that I identify with my own feelings and thoughts. It is uncanny how I feel he sings my mind at those places but in front of him, I could barely tell him a fraction of all I wanted to say. A few incoherent sentences later, I asked him if he could sign his photo for me and I didn't mean to disturb him. 'Haq hai aap ka,' he said, before noting that the photo was from 1998. He smiled when I told him he had performed with Eddie Vedder in the same year. I also told him I love going back to the video where he privately sings Gham Hai Ya Khushi Hai Tu - in 1994. He put an arm on my shoulder and said, 'Bahot shukriya aap ka, aap itna pyaar se sunte ho.' And this is how the conversation went for the next ten minutes, and then I got my coveted photo with him.

"It's that you for real in Facebook", I asked. "No," he said. I said I felt as much, because there was no updates or any replies to my messages. "Is he doing anything bogus,' he asked back. I said no. It was time to resume the show and I requested him to sing Mann Bawra Tujhe Dhoondta. 'Bahot achha gaana hai, zaroor sunayenge,' he smiled at me, and added - 'Aap thoda stage ke saamne aa jaana main bhool gaya to.'

I must confess here that, after the intermission I could not listen to him as attentively as I do. I was still trying to believe I really met him and talked to him. His genuine humility made it feel all the more serene, and I could not keep my mind off those ten minutes with him. I forgot to draw his attention and he forgot to sing my song. And when I met him again after the concert, he saw me and came rushing towards me. 'I am very sorry', he said, and kept repeating it. I told him I considered myself fortunate to have talked to him in person and hear him sing in front of me, but he said it one more time before getting into the car. It was great to see him talk contently to the organizers about the success of last 30 days, and laughing and joking with his childhood friend who he was meeting after 10 years.

I have to talk separately about the rendition of Ye Jo Halka Halka Suroor Hai that night. He surpassed himself in those thirty minutes of passionate singing, which was even more incredible because he had very little vocal support in his group. He just took the fabulous qawwali to an even higher plane. The intensity of the song was such that I thought, this is in no way Halka. The intoxication was undiluted and took you high instantaneously. Four days later, still feeling dazed and feeling blessed, I realize he was talking about this lasting, mild intoxication that's sure to last a lifetime.

Here's wishing the best of everything to the undoubted best of our times.

Refuge

One by one along the descent of time
A past undone, for a present sublime
A trust won, then the evident crime -
The pain and then, to the next refuge.

They all speak the same words sweet
You get weak and the words repeat
Twist and tweak, inch towards deceit -
The pain and then, to the next refuge.

The best of races, the spotless breed
The sacred places of a useless need
Fake embraces and the endless greed -
The pain and then, to the next refuge.

Smiling coexistence of an assorted mix
The fabled tolerance, flouted ethics
Practiced pretense, and inherited tricks -
The pain and then, to the next refuge.

Inseparable ties that bind the unknown
Truth in lies, you find, you're shown
Suppressed sighs - the grind, all alone
The pain and then, to the next refuge.

Now I'm blind in your charm unseen
In you confined, on your arm, I'd lean
You're kind, I know, no harm you mean
But please don't be my next refuge.

Days of Dreams

A horizon where it's ever-sunset
I love the hues of crimson-spill
Sprinkled stars, I'd not forget
Around the moon, atop the hill
Drawing us in silver clouds, I
Bring them close, and up we rise
No one stops, or asks me why
When I dream, with open eyes.

A field spread out, like your arms
A breeze, of your breath, is made
The cloudy eyes, all their charms -
In the sleepy cool of a maple-shade
A cradling branch, a redbird sings
It chirps for you, never again flies
I just see these same, few things
When I dream, with open eyes.

Hoga Masiha Saamne Tere

"Every time I am about to sing, I feel these words are meant for me," he said. And the aalap that followed gave the song, and hence the words, away. You know he is just being modest - as true artists be. For, anyone with a working ear would have never agreed. Not when the words are 'Sur na saje, kya gaoon main?' And never when he is Manna De.

The singing icon was in Hyderabad this weekend as a part of the week-long celebration of Bimal Roy's cinema on the occasion of his centenary. Manna Da - a prominent voice in his films - was being felicitated on this occasion. "I'm not far behind, I am ninety," he said, looking dapper in a crisp suit and the trademark cap. The fortunate audience clapped. "I think I will sing in my own centenary as well." The audience roared this time, and the claps refused to stop. Meanwhile, he was still in that first song from Basant Bahar - at 'Sangeet mann ko pankh lagaye'. My mind was indeed flying, high on the wings of this unexpected encounter. I still could not believe I was standing in front of him as he walked out of the elevator - just a few minutes back. Not sure if I'd get another chance, I asked for an autograph. He looked at the sketch on the paper (the same one as above) and smiled. "Later", he said, and shook my hand. My evening was made - I have lived to shake hands with Manna De.

He sang 14 songs at a stretch - something I have not seen anyone else doing. They were -

Sur Na Saje from Basant Bahaar
Madhushala (it was great to hear him mention Jaidev as 'a genius')
Dharti Kahe Pukar Ke from Do Bigha Zameen
Zindagi, Kaisi Hai Paheli from Anand
Jhanak Jhanak Tori Baaje Paayalia from Mere Huzoor
Ay Meri Zohra-jabeen from Waqt
Ye Raat Bheegi Bheegi from Chori Chori
Sochke Ye Gagan Jhoome from Jyoti
Dil Ki Girah Khol Do from Raat Aur Din
Aaja Sanam from Chori Chori
Coffee House Er Sei Adda Ta (to placate the crowd that kept shouting 'Bangla, Bangla')
Laga Chunari Mein Daag from Dil Hi To Hai
Kasme Vaade Pyaar Wafaa from Upkaar
Ay Mere Pyaare Watan from Kabuliwala

"He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in the year…" the announcement paused and the announcer flipped through her script. "Does it matter?" came from the awardee, in that one second. "Aap log Madhushala sunna chahenge?" a few minutes later it was the time to test the audience. "Are you playing that dholak? I cannot hear it," the musicians were also kept on a tight leash. Throughout the evening, he came across more as the living patriarch of film music than another 90-year old man from the glory days. He did not, however, tell anything to his co-singer when she started her part in Ye Raat Bheegi Bheegi probably a full octave lower than the original song. It was as if he had Usha Uthup, instead of Lata Mangeshkar, for company. A few in the audience groaned - Manna Da just looked at her askance. And when the lady did the same in that magical aalap in Dil ki girah khol do, he did it himself for the remainder of the song. No nonagenarian, not even Manna De, can replicate Laga Chunri Mein Daag. But the grand old man gave it a try and tested his breath. He did not give up until he was satisfied - and the audience nodded in disbelief. I was waiting for the first Antara when he started Ay Mere Pyaare Watan. And when he sang that Aaye in Tere Daaman Se Jo Aaye Unn Hawaaon Ko Salaam, it had that same silken effect as the original.

"Are you really ninety?" I asked him after he signed on the portrait I had printed out. "How is it possible to sing like that?" He smiled.

I could not take a chance- and went up to him on the stage even while the vote of thanks was on. I am glad I did, for, I had a precious 5-minute conversation with the legend. "Keep this garland if you want to," he said, and I just managed to say thanks. From not knowing about the concert to kneeling by his side on the stage and getting his blessings in a few hours, I was indeed a bit too overwhelmed for a proper and more polite exchange of words. Whoever named him Manna was surely a clairvoyant punster - and I was over the moon to have my share of the blessing.

Duo, in Disguise

OP Nayyar's music came stamped with his own, distinct class - the freshest brew of melody and rhythm, and probably the most innovative choice and use of instruments. Though the superficial listener might just associate him to the hoof-beats, the more ardent listener would smile contently whenever those Sarangi, Santoor, Sitar or even the Harmonium would cast a spell in those magical pre-ludes/interludes. And, discounting his occasional use of the other singers, there is no doubt about his choice of THE male voice for his songs. I guess Rafi Sahab not only sounded the freshest when singing for OPN, but also elicited an unmatched painful-romanticism (I do not know how else to describe the feeling in Aanchal mein sajaa lena kaliyan, Deewana Hua Baadal or Hai Duniya Usiki). In fact, one can go, and has gone, no ends to talk about these songs.

For this post, however, let us take one of those songs which do not carry that stamp. A song that - if you did not have prior knowledge of its details - would never make you think that Rafi Sahab is with OPN in the recording room. The duo in disguise, so to say.

Here goes this stunning disguised composition from the Balraj Sahni-Nutan starrer Sone Ki Chidiya.

Maut kabhi bhi mil sakti hai
Lekin jeevan kal na milega
Marnewale soch samajh le
Phir tujhko ye pal na milega

Raat bhar ka hai mehmaan andhera
Kiske roke ruka hai savera

Raat jitni hi sangiin hogi
Subah utni hi rangiin hogi
Gham na kar gar hai baadal ghanera
Kiske roke ruka hai savera

Lab pe shikwa na laa ashq pii le
Jis tarhe bhi ho kuchh der jee le
Ab ukhadne ko hai gham ka dera

Aa koi milke tadbeer soche
Sukh ke sapnon ki taabir soche
Jo tera hai wohi gham hai mera
Kiske roke ruka hai savera

The video of this song is available here, and it gets more pertinent if we have a look at the situation in the film.

A song of such profundity, had to be created and sung adequately as well. The moment Rafi Sahab's voice rings in the opening lines, the song attains a level that tells us that it can only become more thought-provoking from there. In the film, there is a duet version of this song with Asha Ji and a part of that song is added towards the end of this video.

It is worthwhile to notice the striking difference in Rafi Sahab's singing in the two versions, even if it is the same song. The duet version is sung during times of hope, while this solo version is at a time of abject despair. Even though it is the same philosophy, the duet version professes it while this version brings it to practice. This subtle difference is understood and executed (yes, one more time) by Rafi Sahab in his own inimitable way. The texture of the voice changes as the hope gets trapped in the quagmire of pathos. The prophecy, however, remains unchanged. For, giving up is - somehow - never an option. Words cannot completely express what the voice does. Hear it yourself, listen to the same line sung at 1:07 minutes and then again at 4:53 minutes. I call him the Sublime Sorcerer for countless tricks like this that only he could unleash, with that innocent smile undiminished.

Incorrigible

Here is a list of seven quick things I wish I could change, in me -

• Strike up a good conversation with someone I just met. (Also, spare the ones close to me of my incessant rants.)
  
  
• Go to bed at an earthly hour - for the rest of my life.
  
  
• Don't exactly wish to wake up early in the morning - alarms are there just for stopping. (Those who are learning, still snooze them.) At the minimum, I wish I could feel the need to answer the phone when the boss is on the line. (As an aside, the most authentic excuses come to mind in those few seconds of seeing the call, contemplation and silencing the call.)
  
  
• Pre-determine the last spoon, and stick to the decision, when I am sitting with my ice cream tub.
  
  
• Feel the need to put some people in their respective places, what if just mildly.
  
  
• Complete the construction of that half-built bridge connecting my wishes and action. (Reminds me of what I said once - "If wishes were horses, mine would be the biggest stable in this world.") This is a lot to ask for, given the circumstances. At least, I wish I don't set off in those treks anymore :D
  
  
• Spare some thoughts for things certified 'important' - for they are useful, no doubt.
  
  

Now that I have this list in writing, and have gone through it once as well, I do not think these are impossible to achieve. Nothing - they say - is impossible. I'm a seasoned planner and I have estimated that these seven things will definitely work out, maybe, in the seven forthcoming births.

Unsolved Mysteries

The mind of the poet is a minefield - of the creative kind. There are wannabe poets who want to write (if you browse through the archives of this blog, you would surely know one :D). And then, there are poets who came down straight from the endlessness of the sky, wrapped in gloss and tied with a red ribbon. I do not want to name any of them - the list will be unending even with my limited exposure. Each time I discover a new one in that class, I just feel too much contented and happy. For the fact that such people exist, whose minds sparkle with thoughts off the beaten track. We can never get into what goes on inside, but are still fortunate to marvel at what approximates on paper. You know such a person through simple lines put in such a way that eludes all sort of commonplace connections - for a poem is not just rhyming lines. Just imagining myself trying to write something depicting a similar emotion; and all I am left with is an amazement that has no answer, as to what can make a mind think like that.

A rambling post after a long hiatus - but I just had to write this short note after I heard Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan singing:

Teri ummeed tera intezar jab se hai
Na shab ko din se shikayat, na din ko shab se hai

Busy at work

"You still have a cool image," the words came and hit like thunder. After sitting still for a few moments, I typed in the customary 'hahahahhahaa' but it did not do justice to the way I was laughing. It was just like another day, and this friend and I were discussing how we (he after trying and I after not trying) could not raise our 'levels' in all these years and have stayed at the same state of worthlessless. It's great fun, laughing about your incompetencies and celebrating the hopelessness. But he changed it all today, adding this highly undesired line at a time when we were so much in the groove, citing one example of callousness after another.

"No, I am serious, you have some coolness about you."

"I have a word for it - unsmart." I love the rolling-on-the-floor smileys and used them in abundance, to catch up with my laughter.

"No, really, you are calm, composed and confident."

"Too good, carry on. I am liking it." Knowing he was not going to stop, I thought of egging him on for more. After all, if I tried to forget his intentions, it made for some good reading.

"You have something intense about you as well."

"Don't stop, go on..." At this point, my colleague came and peeped in. She smiled her way to her seat in sometime.

"I am in the mood today, so keep listening. Tomorrow, I won't tell you all this."

"Sure, you go ahead. I will tell good things about you once you are done." Then I reminded him of someone who met me for the first time, and vented her frustration by telling another friend that it is impossible to talk to me.

"But that was just the first time, because you are usually quiet. But you have a 'totality' about you." We usually use the word 'total' to represent the biggest goof-ups. He had to use some other word to even think he could make me take him seriously.

"Hahhahaahhahaa.. Now enough. I cannot take it anymore."

"Am I joking here?"

"Who wants to know? It's making me laugh my heart out. Thanks."

"No good telling you anything."

"No no, it felt good. But you also should know, you are our hero."

I knew there would not be an answer. If I laughed like mad, I was smiling broad now, to give him back a bigger dose of his own bitter medicine. Not bothering about the lack of answer, I went on with "Something like a dynamic idol", "the level we can only aspire to reach some day, knowing we cannot get there". I knew this cannot go on one-sided for long. So had to buzz him for his non-response. "You there?"

"I was serious. Am not liking this today."

How could I make him believe that even I was as serious as he was. And the conversation wavered to the familiar courses of making fun of friends, acquaintances, unknowns and, most importantly, ourselves.

Having said all that, the chats that I have with him makes me feel light at work. Here is a snapshot of how it goes most of the times.

Of stirred souls and soothed minds

It does not usually happen – consecutive posts on the same topic. But it’s been sometime and I did not write anything here. Then, this Saturday, I went for the Rahat Fateh Ali Khan concert in New York. Not writing about the experience would be like Neil Armstrong coming back to earth, shrugging at the people around him and getting back to work. Here is an approximate account of one of the most surreal musical experiences I have had.

If you have read the previous post, you know how much I love this singer – his voice, his absolute command over his skills, his humility and genuineness. I waited in anticipation till he smiled his way to his harmonium, acknowledging the rampant cheer in the auditorium. Not even a minute to settle down and announce that he would be starting off with a famous qawwali of his Ustad. He never, not even once during the three hours he was on the stage, mentioned of his Uncle, just Ustad-e-Mohtaram Khan Sahab. By the time he finished the heavenly rendition of Allah Hu, he left no doubt on what was to come. The time just passed in his impeccable singing, incredible voice, amazing coordination with his troupe and, of course, the divine intervention. It’s nothing but the divinity that separates singers like Rahat from others. What he sang for three hours over small sips of water and a five-minute break was something out of this world. It does not come with training alone.

He sang qawwalis, Punjabi geets and all his popular songs from Bollywood movies. The qawwalis included Allah Hu, Tumhein Dillagi Bhool Jaani Padegi, Maikhana, Halka Halka Suroor, Afreen, Mast Qalander, Tum Ek Gorakh-Dhanda Ho and Koi Jaane koi na jaane. The Punjabi geets included Mera Piya Ghar Aaya, Ni Main Jaana Jogi De Naal, Aankhiyan Udeek Diya, Kisay Da Yaar Na Vichde. He sang all his famous Bollywood numbers – wrapping them effortlessly with his style and presenting something new from what he hear in the records. I particularly liked Main Jahaan Rahoon (for the way he sings the first two lines and effect of the chorus for the Kehne ko sath apne part), Naina (what a song and what singing!) and Bolna Halke Halke (you have to be me to feel what I feel in this one). Ore Piya, Jag sunaa sunaa laage and Mann ki Lagan (just loved the way he ended the song in this live version) were superlative to say the least. He embellished the numbers with some incredible taans and aalaaps. His fingers glided over his harmonium with so much ease that the complex notes seemed to be coming from somewhere else. And each time he took his hands off the harmonium and set off on those sargams, a bigger treat was for the taking. The hands measuring out the notes, the head swaying sideways, the eyes closing as the scales went higher and the hint of a smile as if to acknowledge the perfection of the output – this is the picture of the concert that has stayed on. Another thing was when he missed the words for a brief moment, remembered it soon enough as to not lose the line and then went on to sing the next lines in the now deliberately off-beat manner that turned out to be more beautiful than what he intended to sing. Who thought this brilliant piece of improvisation stemmed out from a mistake?

He was happy with the crowd – that swayed and raved and appreciated the maestro in action. Request-chits came flowing in; people came to the dais to get a close up shot or record a clip or just to dance. All songs ended with a rapturous applause and he started off with the next one as people still clapped. The atmosphere was full of life and one could ignore the pretty lady in pink who came up and posed with her elbow on the stage as her partner clicked on, concentrating hard to get that perfect background. But can you possibly ignore the ingenuity of the person who thought of making I love you I love you I love you from Allah Hu Allah Hu Allah Hu.

I kept the title of my earlier post on Rahat as ‘Rising Sun’ – the successor to the institution called Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan who had just started making his mark. When I went for his concert, I had to tilt my head up much more I do to see a rising sun. The sun has already risen and is at its brightest best.

Rising Sun

Music can be relieving. We all know this, but there are some times when we realise this and believe in this more than ever. There is one kind of music that soothes you as it plays. You relax, it relaxes. End of worries. There is this other kind. It does not play along. You are made to plunge in and swim. The tune, words and arrangement become the temperature, depth and current of the water. One way to add more to the experience is to consider the singing. Try listening to the effort put in by the singer, either directed or through improvisations, and the appreciation could increase considerably. This is true for music across all the ages. It is rarer, but definitely not absent, in modern music.

We started with relief. And there is relief indeed, literally, when you listen to the synonymous singer - Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. A present day heir to one of the richest musical families, he has not buckled under the pressure of responsibility. He has, in fact, added some more to it - seamlessly adding his flair to light singing in modern film songs. The compact training and base stands guard, the softness plays in front. You can just watch the duel in amazement. Putting his songs on play does a lot of good to me at times when things are not what I want them to be. It also proves to me that art and artists can never fade from this world, it is only the trends that decide what we get everywhere. Here's saluting a real treasure of our times with traits that I look for in my favourite artists - humility, softness, devotion. And they can sing live and create the same magic without the technology blanket of the recording studio. And my favourite artists smile as they sing.

Attaching two live snippets from two of my favourites from him. Sheer magic - takes time to believe someone can sing like this.

Mann ki lagan



Naina

Glorified Tears

You need not be tearful when talking about tears. Poetry - the traditional and old-fashioned type is what I like - has this uncanny ability to turn the most depressing emotions sweet. This song from Naya Kanoon is one such example; it keeps talking about the tears without a mention of the crying. Hasrat Jaipuri shows us why lyricists of the golden era were poets as well. Madan Mohan keeps his musicians off this track to give the total attention to the lyrics. They had to resort to - no surprises here - Rafi Sahab to deliver the goods.

Here goes the words -

Unhe qissa-e-gham jo likhne ko baithe

To dekhe kalam ki rawaani mein aansoon

Ye anmol taare, ye ulfat ke moti

Unhe humne bheje nishaani mein aansoon...

Unhe hum kahaani sunane na paye

Unhe daag dil ke dikhane na paye

Ye aansoon hamare bade kaam aaye

Zubaan ban gaye be-zubaani mein aansoon...

Na samjho ke aansoon hai gham ki kahaani

Ye aansoon hai ulfat ki pehli nishaani

Muqaddar ke qaatib ka kitna karam hai 

Ke likkhe hai meri kahaani mein aansoon...

Zamane mein taqdeer sab ki judaa hai

Tujhe kuchh mila hai, mujhe kuchh mila hai

Udhar hai teri zindagi mein khushiyan

Idhar hai meri zindagi mein aansoon...

Unhein qissa-e-gham jo likhne ko baithe

To dekhe kalam ki rawaani mein aansoon.

Still marvelling at - zubaan ban gaye be-zubaani mein aansoon!

West-side Story

Completed seven days in San Jose today. Even though the work, workplace and colleagues are pretty cool here, there is something amiss that calls for this post. Here are seven reasons why I did not quite like it here till now -

• Would you want to move out of a place where you have just had the best of times with the best of friends? Feel at home, loads of fun, weekend trips, dinners, movies - almost every day? I, for sure, won't. This could be reasons 1 through 7 - but let us have the other ones as well.
  
  
• You check in to your hotel - a pretty neat one at that. And a notice waves at you - "This facility contains chemicals that are known to cause cancer and birth defects... " Not a nice thing.
  
  
• People who do not talk much with everyone like to see others talk. What then, if there is hardly anyone around you?
  
  
• Not the right place if you do not drive a car or plan to buy one. The public transit is not quite there. Reminds me of path trains, subways, trains, NYC Taxi, water taxi... 
  
  
• It takes a lot of time aligning yourself to spend time by yourself till late in the nights everyday. After getting there, you possibly do not want to do the same during the day as well.
  
  
• Can you possibly reign in your system so as to feel hungry before 9:30 PM every day? More so if you are not cooking at home? You can possibly go out - but that would just be to take a walk.
  
  
• When the total package is incomplete, you tend to quesiton your intentions. Makes you feel you are so away from home just for the money.

Signs

"Do you believe in signs?" I was not prepared for this question from my friend. All of a sudden, when we were talking about something entirely different on chat. Still not sure what the question actually meant, I had to resort to a terse reply, "Not really." In a moment, she explained the relevance of the topic - she has been reading Paulo Coelho of late. A kind of rediscovery of the author of one of her, and mine as well, favourite books. The Alchemist is indeed the best example of how one can write sense in the simplest of ways. A novel-sized fable if you will. Anyways, without any more diversion, let me talk about the things she said next.

When life on this earth started, there were just a few souls, but as time moved on, the souls increased.. the explanation given in the book, is that when the soul moves on, it splits into two, a male and a female. And then they split into two, so on and so forth. The soul always splits into a male and a female. Have you ever thought about why we say soulmates? This is the reason. A soul always becomes one again, if people are able to find their soulmates.

Though I could not quite say that I believed in this theory, I had to admit that this explanation was indeed nice and simple. Pretty neat too. I found too many assumptions in this theory and did not quite get the concept of a male soul and a female soul. A soul, if there is one, cannot have a gender. It is just the essence of life in the body. A body without a soul is dead. A soul without a body is potential. A soul-mate, for me, is a super-set of all partners - whose compatibility transcends the limits of the body and the mind.

As I thought of all these things, it struck me that there is always many ways to look at the same thing. My thinking was based on the way I think, the things I have realized till now. Anyone else might have a different realization of the same thing. And when you start realizing things, truth and untruth no longer matter. To talk about a commonplace example (that is what you can expect from me), if you are not satisfied with work, whether the work actually offers possibilities or not does not matter. You stay stuck at your realization. Likewise. It is perfectly alright if someone relates to things that are not obvious. And when that happens, one can relate to signs, destiny or the supernatural.

I believe that even a thousand opinions can exist without interference. Without getting into the merits of each individual opinion, one can choose not to overlap with any of them while forming one's own. You possibly cannot ignore when Paulo C writes. But you are absolutely free to smile at the triviality of this post.

Ghulam Ali Can't Dance

It was just yesterday that my mother told me that I am very fortunate to have friends like the ones I do. I had no reason to differ; she had none not to realize this. Not every mother can see her son off and - before she can even come to terms with the geography separating them - in no time hear him beaming on the phone, "I am perfectly fine. Staying with a friend, eating at another friend's place." The momentary pause at this point is just to gather the names of everything the friend cooked for dinner, the warmth shown by her and her husband and the good times with other very good friends. Now, when the night is contemplating handing over the keys to the sun, I look at the four people sleeping about in the house. It reminds me of similar settings in Hyderabad and Calcutta - and the times I have felt a happiness growing inside. I re-assert the observation that I started the post with.

All good things are actually better, but you have to look beyond the surface. Many people have friends and there are instances of friendship that has moved on to folklore. What makes my case even more curious is the fact that all this love and care is for someone who is just a little better than the furniture in the room as far as interactions are concerned. Put an occasional smile to the chair at the corner - that's me. This amount of cordiality for someone who is a permanent fixture in the Liabilities column of any journal is indeed rare.

Each time we are together, more so when everyone is having a great time, my friends realize the ineffectiveness of my participation. After all, what can you get from someone who listens to music that from the stone age, whose speech is as limited to that of the neolithic man as well? Someone who cannot sing a line or dance a step? And on each such time I, on my side, realize the futility of any suppressed wish that says - "When will this guy change?" If my incorrigibility was made of gold, it would have been 24 carats.

Hello - 9 inches to the left

Mine has been an incessant attempt at keeping on writing whether anyone reads or not. It felt great, then, when someone chanced upon this blog yesterday and said it was nice. He had an immediate question - 'Why no post on A?" He was justified in saying that. After all, this person had sent too many chills down our spines at one time. And he has indeed left with us an unending treasure trove of laughter, to the extent where just the mention of his name brings to mind his myriad antics, and plunges us in waves of unadulterated laughter.

To get the context, we need to rewind to the early years of this century. Eight years ago, even I used to be enthusiastic - embroidering dreams on ambitions all day. It was in such a setting that my brother introduced me to the two people I mentioned in the last paragraph - the initiator and the protagonist of this post. In no time, a legal document pronounced us 'Partners' in a firm. 'A', he told, was a programming exponent with superb 'contacts' and an undying hunger for entrepreneurship. The other partner, let's call him 'B', was into graphic design which is so essential for what we were going to do. Fancy websites, to be precise. Being still in college, I came without any specialization. Three of us (3 is a number that both 'B' and I detest now), thus, started a journey on a not-so-auspicious day. The name of this association was also ironical. We called it Destination Future. 'A' was cool, he called it DF.

Anyways, in a couple of months, we could indeed complete a couple of nice websites solely on the basis of some neat user interface. Then we got some more. The clients were happy, some cash started flowing and I picked up some HTML and JavaScript. At the end of the first year, we ended with a positive in the balance sheet. After college and on weekends, we would assemble in the 'office' and 'B' and I would arrive at the correct design and alignment of the webpages after numerous iterations. Our man, however, did little in these things. He said he could hardly wait for the programming work to come, smiling to show his betel-stained teeth; with an eye on an equal share even on the refreshments that came.

Days passed and soon things fell into perspective. The attitude was, afterall, just a failed attempt to hide the ineptitude. Writing programmes was like asking for the Ganges in Rajasthan - he could not even write a few correct lines in an email. Upon close observation, we realised that the time he spent at the computer was on chats, games and emails to nondescript ladies in, as far as, Australia. Emails that lied through their teeth. 'Too hectic a schedule, am working 20 hours a day.' 'I lost my laptop since I did not lock my car. All my data is gone!' 'Microsoft, IBM - all are running on losses, we will also need some time to pick up.' One would have thought he already had his photo on the cover of The Times - they were waiting for him to date the issue.

It made us restive and angry. Each time he showed his teeth, we gritted ours. It was imperative that in such a setting, Destination Future had all but a future. Time passed watching him arrive late everyday, leave early offering the lamest of excuses, shoot arrows at balloons before they could rise up the length of the computer monitor, write 1000-line emails (sorry not progams) and take numerous phone calls. Talking of phone calls, I must tell you about his peculiar habit of saying many hello's whenever he got a call, bending 9 inches to his left for each greeting. Often, when the caller finally greeted him, his ear would almost touch his knee. He would keep talking in that position.

In some time, we canceled the agreement and decided to move on. Having gained tremendous confidence in his PR skills that now matches his design skills, B carries on with a setup of his own to this day. Having failed at a similar attempt with a few of my friends in college as well, I decided to take on the oft-treaded path of employment. Having done nothing, 'A' decided to continue doing nothing. It is impossible to write everything about him in this post. 'B' and I still have a great time bringing him up in our conversations and laughing out loud. We still start laughing everytime we are together or on chat - when anyone gets a phone call, someone says programming or some incident creeps out from the dungeons in the mind. I don't know of anyone else who makes us laugh more than him.

There he came and said he was a nerd
But little did we know
In our pastures we just let loose
A rampant cow from the herd.

New Work

Getting up early, walks down the river side, sitting idle on a bench amidst an equally carefree (but not as lazy) wind, hurrying for trains that arrive to the minute of the schedule, 2 sides and 2 meats for 5.55... I am back to Newport. A setting sun still dazzling on the Manhattan skyscrappers reflect the good times I had before. The expansive serenity of the surroundings promise uneneding possibilities.

Brush With Greatness

“Tell us about any incident that you would never forget, Mubarak Ji? Something that brings a smile to your face or brings tears to your eyes…”

“Andhere Chha Rahe Honge, Ke Bijli Kaundh Jayegi, I had just sung till this line from the song Kabhi Tanhaiyon Mein Yun from the film Hamari Yaad Aayegi when” - she paused for a moment to look at the anticipation in the faces in front of her – “the lights went off!” We laugh out loud; she smiles. “Gaane ka aisa asar kisine kabhi dekha nahi hoga,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. Mubarak Begum chose something amusing over the myriad melancholic things that keep bothering her.

During the three days that I got to spend with her, there were talks about the difficult times and the uncertain future. But there was no resignation in those talks – only a glaring resolve. An acceptance of reality, an amnesia of an absolved past. She agreed for every interview I arranged, without even asking her. “No personal questions, no controversial questions.” She seemed not to be an interviewer’s delight. When asked about how her passion for singing evolved she says, “I never wanted to sing, I was forced to sing by my father.” She is not very happy either about the long walk at and even longer drive from the Shamshabad Airport. You ask her the questions, she gives you her answers. No frills.

But if you persist you are treated to chunks of delightful incidents. When asked about her reaction to getting things easily these days and the big money involved in even smaller shows, she does not tell you anything about it. Instead, she breaks off to a story. “There were times when I would sing and wait for the payment. Sometimes, it was never made. It used to be around 150 rupees per song that time. I remember once I was very upset at not being paid. And even when we came out and sat in the taxi, I was grumbling about it to my father. Hearing me, the driver turned and asked me how long I had been singing? ‘A few years,’ I said. ‘Even then you are thinking about money?’ he asked me over his shoulders.”

“Work started to cease for me after 1965,” she puts it matter-of-factly. Further questions are not answered. So are questions about her past. The stern façade quickly comes off in tears as you ask her about her parents. “However old I get, how can I accept that they are not there with me?”

“Take me to her now,” she demanded when told that Jamuna, the beautiful actress who lipped her most popular song from Humrahi, stayed in Hyderabad. And as the two ladies embraced sometime later and kept talking, one could not say for sure if it was really 46 years that had separated them. As I asked Jamuna Ji if she could come for the concert the same evening, she said, “Of course I will come.” And as she talked on the mike in the concert, she narrated how Mubarak Begum gave her the ‘shock of her life’ that morning. One could feel the genuineness of her feelings, the depth of the emotions rocking her. It was no wonder that Begum, on her part, declared that never before did she sing ‘Mujhko Apne Gale Laga Lo’ with the same emotions as this day. No surprises again, when she did an encore for her heroine, who hummed happily with moist eyes in the first row.

She was to sing about three songs that evening. Without even a proper rehearsal, she was cynical of the performance. But as everyone collectively broke out into a deafening applause as she entered, one could sense that this audience would not be satiated for less. She went on to sing 7 songs amidst undying applause. The audience was not particularly expecting her to sing ‘Devta Tum Ho Mera Sahara’ – a classic 1953 duet with Rafi Sahab by Jamal Sen from Daera. She sang the whole song from memory, even the lines by her revered co-singer. One yearned for the excellent use of the chorus in the song, but was nonetheless left in awe. Scores of people came with her to the waiting car. For the only time during her stay, I saw a glow of joy in her face. It did not matter that she did not leave the place with a heavy purse, the warm embrace of her loving ‘heroine’ and the resonant applause of her fans more than made up for it.

People took notice. “When is she coming back?” “Meet me sometime; we will plan something big next time together.” “Does she practice daily even now? How come her voice has not lost the kashish?” Smiling, I could just hope that this initiative augurs well for one of the most neglected singers. A singer whose fledgling career dipped to the ground in her youth, but still promises to attain newer heights to overhaul the mammoth obstacles that block her way.

And as I put on Kabhi Tanhaiyon Mein Yun Hamari Yaad Aayegi yet another time, I try, in vain, to recollect another song that is as haunting. When I finally give up, her jest rings in my mind again, albeit in a different context – “Gaane ka aisa asar kisine kabhi dekha nahi hoga.”

3 days at home

Roti-Dimer Kosha, Baingan Bharta, Pulao, Machher Matha diye lau, Mochar Ghanto, Doi-Machh, Chicken Biryani, Paneer Butter Masala, Kosha Mangsho, Parota, Keema'r Ghugni, Musur Dal, Phulkopir Tarkari, Chicken Sandwich, Rajbhog, Rosogolla, Kalojam, Lyangcha, Chamcham, Shon-papri, Mishti Doi, Ice cream, Himsagar Aam, Lyangda Aam.

Not mentioning the quantities. :D

An Incurable Addiction

It's strange how even the quintessential healer, time, cannot heal some 'ailments'. One positive example is the way you feel for someone or something that you genuinely love. Sports has been one such love for me. While in school, it was an integral part of my life. I remember playing daily, without exception - cricket, football, table tennis, carrom and a host of other not-so-famous games that we played during and after school. One such invention was what we called Terrace Tennis. A court was drawn out on our terrace and a string was tied at about 4 feet to serve as the net. A table tennis ball (the local, hard and heavy variety) was sent across it with hard-cover 6-inch copies following the same rules of lawn tennis but no shot, including serves, was allowed to be played overhead. This last stipulation put a check to the number of times we had to run downstairs to fetch a ball. Visitors, the elderly ones, used to get alarmed seeing us running on the terrace at such fervent pace. More because, half of the terrace did not have a boundary. We were allowed to choose our names and it is no surprise that I was the Agassi on that court. In fact I did a bit better than him, staying the number 1 player as long as the game was played. :)

Such an involvement was ably supplemented by an equally strong interest in the happenings in the global scene. There was not much on TV those days, but we would lap up the weekly sports roundup shows and the big events. And, even to this day, I start reading a newspaper from the last page. We would get The SportStar and I used to read every page - though the most interesting part was to collect the centre-spreads that came free. I still have them at home, more than 300 posters of myriad sportsmen and women. My joys would cross the line whenever there was a Viv Richards, Andre Agassi or Gabriela Sabatini for the taking. Sadly, somehow I missed out on all the Marco van Basten ones and do not have one of him. These four were, and still are, my sporting idols.

No wonder, then, that I do not have to look up for names like Nigel Mansell, Jan-Ove Waldner or Leroy Burrel to know what they did.

But things changed, for the worse, after school. I stopped playing any games and even the craze for the happenings in the world of sports slightly decreased. This was aided by the retirements of Viv, van Basten and Sabatini around the same time. Thankfully, Agassi stayed on to re-write an essay in agelessness. I developed special likings towards many new players, but the passion for these top-4 borders on devotion and is much greater than my liking for Brian Lara, Thierry Henry or Dennis Bergkamp.

It would be an unending saga, if I am to write extensively about my madness for sports. And though I have grown apart from it to a large extent, the thrill of watching a defining moment in any game is unrivaled. There was a time when I would know all names in the starting XI for each team in the Football World Cup or the European Cup. Now I have to look out for the few I know in each team. I did not watch a single football match in the last 2 years, since the 2006 World Cup. Yet, when the Germany-Poland match at Euro 2008 kicked off the day before yesterday, the rush of excitement was the same. A packed house of colourful fans singing for their teams, the players not able to, and not wanting to as well, rest for even a moment for a full 90 minutes, the passionate attraction towards the ball at any cost - what a sight!

So here I am - suffering from the fever called IPL till recently - back to my bigger love football the moment Michael Ballack and his men lined up for their national Anthem at the start of the match. And no prizes for guessing who I would be supporting. The unique distinction of winning the European Cup as a player and a coach awaits Marco van Basten if the Dutch invasion runs till the end under his coaching.

Go Orange, Go Marco!

Approved absence

Today, one of my friends asked me about the lack of activity in this space for the last few weeks. 'Don't be so idle', I was told. I just said that I will write something soon. What I left unsaid was that there was an absolute absence of activities for such a long time overall that it was imperative that it would reflect here as well. So much so that I hate those learned men now - the ones that have left us with so many crafty adages. 'An idle mind is a devil's workshop,' one of them said. Not only did he cut deep with the word 'devil', he sliced it open by bringing that dreaded 'work' even in the bliss that we call idleness.

Idleness - we say - is just a way of life. You can view it the way you want to. And call you what you want. What you call Zero-Kelvin we love to call Absolute Zero. That's how we look at it. That's how we love it. You think it is doing nothing; we believe it is not doing anything. But it is the same thing. You take a break from work; we take a break and work.

Why ponder over a glass half-empty or half-full? Drink only if someone brings it to you.

P.S. - Ok, the use of 'We' all through this post was an unproved assumption that at least one person like me exists.