Thursday, October 7, 2010

Today is a day for writing.

What is an enigma? A mystery, a conundrum. Something that baffles or is beyond understanding. Something that is not tangible and yet feels like it's around me, connecting with my skin. Music is enigmatic. I don't mean a particular genre or style. I mean music in its all-encompassing sense. Be it the sound of birds chirping, the trickle of a brook or the crunch of dried, dead leaves on the forest floor, or a guitarist at his peak, the roar of a worshipping audience, the chant of a tribe or the echo of ghosts. Music is what you think it is. How you feel it should be. What moves you, what makes or breaks you. Much like art. But then music is  art. And art is music.

What is the point of music; what's its purpose? I remember when I was in college, our marketing professor shattered my existence by stating that music had no purpose at all, in the greater scheme of things. Sure, it's entertainment, pleasing the ears etc. But does it feed? Does it clothe? No. It is a combination of sounds tactfully put together to make a particular kind of sound, which possibly due to sheep mentality is pleasing to everyone's ears and therefore is passable as something one wants to encounter on a regular basis. Hmph. Looks like someone didn't get any last night, I fumed to myself.

Getting back to my question, what is the point of music? Why does it exist? Why did the cavemen bang two sticks together find the sound to be pleasing? What was so special that over the centuries the sound has evolved into and formed overwhelming operas, thunderous melodies, sensuous sonatas and elemental orchestras? Well, there must have been something. Then I could refute my shallow marketing professor's claim by asking what the point of our existence is.
The real question is: must there be a point?

[Listening to Silent Warrior - Enigma on loop]

The song I'm listening to now creates a powerful stir of emotion. I could dissect the track by the usage of various instruments and sounds. But instead I would like to describe it on the whole. The song is about the wiping of the American Indian race by the white man. How the white man came in the name of God and wiped out a whole civilisation. A whole history. I visualise a huge bonfire. In the dead of night. Honey and nut coloured skin burns red. Beads of sweat bounce of the dancing bodies, that writhe and twist around the bonfire, entranced. A cry escapes their lips, that echoes through the tall trees and flies heavenwards. A cascade of mud-coloured magic descends upon the riverbank. They have no words, just sounds that come from their souls and connect like a bolt of lightening with the higher energies of the universe. They blend with the sounds of nature, swim through the elements like free and weightless tadpoles. As they dance, long, matted black hair flying wildly about, arms swinging loosely, muscles taking their own course, legs discovering new ground with every step. Freedom. Discovery. Sensation. Release. These words define their oneirism. Nothing is choreographed or rehearsed. Their song is the sound of the soul. Their dance is the beat of their hearts. They enjoyed this trance since time began and would remain entranced till the end of time.

Song changed. Train of thought broken. Who came up with the phrase 'train of thought'? Which station can one catch the Train of Thought? Where do you get off? How much should one pack for such a trip? Do we all die when it breaks?

*goes to loo to meditate*

Sliver of a Home

A colourful puzzle of a house that'll be
Where the air is warm and the breeze is free
And the sand is a tickle and tease
Under a canopy of leafy trees

Where the sun is ours and the moon too
Where the sea is peace and comfort, a radiant blue
And the crackle of a fire plays percussion
to a dance of fireflies under the starlit sky

Where hammocks lie carelessly, swaying in the wind
And the smell of waves from lands afar
Carries stories and bottled messages.
Where the elements mix and match.

The sound of a stream, the chatter of pebbles
the tinkle of wind chimes, the whisper of a beaded curtain
the aroma of green tea and coffee
of cuisines exotic and desserts divine.

Where there is a me, there is a you and an 'us'.
Where you is I and I is you and there's no fuss.
Where we play and run wild
Where we find our inner child
Where we scream as much as we want, laugh, cry or sing too.

Where you're in me, and I'm in you.


Wednesday, October 6, 2010


Imagine a pin that finds it way ever so slyly to the core of you, to the innermost, most vulnerable part of you, the softest most tender corner of your soul that is unnoticeable to the naked eye, that you protect so fiercely but once in a blue moon forget to watch (the night guard possibly dozes off for a millisecond).

Imagine, in the dark, silent nothingness of that night, that pin quietly creeps to that protected part of you like a stealthy snake, when your guard is down, and waits for you to exhale in secure relief...


It pokes it just a little bit to gauge the texture and thickness of you. You stir just a little bit in your calm slumber, dismissing the minuscule bite as that of bug. You brush the irritation off and slumber away in your land of dreams.

Then it pierces with lightening speed.

It sinks straight into you and moves with unimaginable force such that you don't even have time to react and by the time you DO react that too in numbing shock, it is so deep inside you you cannot move, think, feel, speak, hear, cry, laugh or scream. You are stunned and statued in unbearable pain and the slightest movement - even the passage of a thought - will only make it worse. And while it pierces, your body quakes with the subsequent ripples of electricity it sends out to every end, your heart beating like bass drums at a parade. Did I mention the pin is infinite?

And when you think you cannot bear it a minute longer, that you have finally breathed your last, mouth wide open in unfathomable tension hoping to let out even a moan, if not a scream, it asks you to think again and releases itself from you, leaving you in a crumpled heap on the floor, bleeding dark crimson from your core, your parched lips quivering in shame, shock, shattered dreams and overwhelming disbelief. You try to breathe.

Then it pierces again. And you thought it was over.