Need I Explain?

Excuse the profanity. They aren’t mine.

What IS mine, is the condition,

That of a confused writer!

The Music That Maketh Me!

Some days, I hallucinate about the Roman Catholic churches, which sung the Gregorian chants for mass.

The church would almost always have ceilings that touch the skies and more often than not, the ceilings would be adorned in frescos…the fall Of Man, Judgment Day, The Rise of Son of God…

The tiny streams of light coming in through colored glass pictures - which took many glassmakers the major part of their lives to craft - would create the feeling of being in a garden made of glasses.

The men, and the women, would sit in stony quietness on the two neatly laid out rows of benches made of black teak wood. The silence of man talking to god would as always, be deafening.

And then, high above them, from invisible vantage points near the roof, the opening notes would play down. It would start as a tiny note of the grand piano. Then there would be the quivering voice of the tenor. The shiver in his voice would then be complemented by the deep strong voice of the bassists. The sopranos would take their cue and music would begin its life journey. The sounds of a thousand throats under the frescoed ceiling would then join the singing from above. Man and man, women and women, would come together to sing for the lord.

The power of music would never fail to drain out all worldly differences. There would no longer be white, black, brown, old, young, freckled or supple skin. There would not be the poor, the rich, the once poor and now rich or any other permutations of life’s situations.

There would only be music that transforms one’s senses. Transformation from mere mortals, to the one standing in front of god, gazing at his greatness, feeling small at the strength of it all….

Once in a while, when I am insane enough to travel into the night with just the silence of Whito by my side, my hands would search for the CD I marked ‘Gregorian chants’. With Whito his silent self, and the Latin chants washing all over me, I would make my connection with God. I would hold my private conversation with Him, with His favourite music setting the background.

Me, and the world, have no one to thank but a group of monks who lived centuries a go in penury, for the greatness of god. They believed that god’s name was beautiful and so had to be his music.

Unknown monks of the generations past, I thank thee for bringing me the most beautiful sounds in my life.

Ave!

It (D)Rained!

There was a time not too long a go when the first drops of rain on fresh baked earth sent me into moments of nirvana. The heat would suddenly dissipate and in its place would come the sweet smell of parched earth, which suddenly founds its lifeblood. And then, inevitably, the croaks of a hundred frogs would follow.

I had my most beautiful rain experiences in God’s own country, at my very own backyard. There always was a set pattern. The skies would darken; my pet dogs would get restless; the air would cool down; the first hint of wetness would creep into the wind; and then, god would cry down.

…Or as my some of my friends used to say, god would take his shower.

It was a long time back that I fell for rain and she, was my first lover. I could sense its mood swings, its silent rage. I could see the soft smile, I could feel the gentle grace. It was always my soothing calm and more than anything, she was mine.

During the Asian Games, it rained in Qatar like never before. It lasted weeks together, but there never was any warmth. There was no smell of parched earth, there was not a croak to be heard. All around me, the pale earth got paler, and slimier. The Arabs went wild with joy and burned tyres on the pavement in an act of joy.

Sometime then, somewhere deep inside, rain died for me. For it to come back alive, I need to be surrounded by the greens, the chirpings of the birds, the restlessness of my dogs, the yellow leaves that skelter down, the croaks of the frogs, the salty wind that course through the hair…

In short… Home!

 

The Winter Of ’06

The Games Of Your Life is over, leaving in its wake a big void, which many may find difficult to bridge.

The Games, was for me, an opportunity, which I think, I used wisely.
The Games, was for me, a threat, which looked like it would destroy me.
The Games, was for me, time spent (or not) with the family.

15 days since the start of the Games, I became a battle hardened veteran.

I saw bloodless war, healthy rivalry, passion, sadness, tears – of both sadness and joy, sports fanaticism, empty stadiums, extra-full roads, never before seen rains and cold, the church and many things else.

I saw and learned, from what they call and I follow, The Games Of your Life.

(That momentous night was captured by Shahjahan - a colleague, dear friend, and ace lensman. Thanks for letting me use the pic, Bro!)

I Christen You… “Don Whito Corleone!”

The apple of my eye, accumulated realization of a thousand dreams. What I would take my life forward in, what god gave me after putting me through the learning ropes, what I christened…

Don Whito Corleone!

Old Christmas Tree…

Its 50 days to Christmas. For the first time in half that number of years, I will celebrate it away from home.

Christmas, 53 years ago, was the time when a second reason to celebrate the day was introduced to this world. Though my father says that he lacks a day to call his own, we say that no one but the whole world celebrates with him.

Christmas, 23 years ago, is the first memory I have of the rickety train journey, from a then small town of Cochin, to an even smaller town called Thiruvalla. Grandparents keeping their eyes peeled to see their second generation always counted as a blessing for me.

Christmas, seven years ago, was the time I fell in love with music, and the church choir. It was the time I knew, that my deep bass voice could be used in singing notes.

Christmas, a year ago, was ten days before I knew about my dad’s heart surgery. For the second time in three weeks, I boarded the plane for just the third time in my life. Frozen with fear, I landed at Chennai. But thank god, the New Year was born a happy child.

Christmas, now and for ever, will be a major reason I would continue to miss home, and my parents, and all that I hold near and dear. It would be the season that gave me the most to remember.

Present day, 3000 miles away from home, Christmas will be my private pain, as much as it is my public joy.

 

My Gentle Breeze...

I have no qualms in admitting that often, I am a scared child.

But what a scared child also knows, is how to become not a scared child anymore. Whenever I am, I close my eyes, letting my mind wander to a red house set amidst the greenest green. My mind rocks to the gentle wind that makes the littlest noise passing through the yellow leaves that pave the path. My eyes will search for the ancient gramophone, with enough youth still in it to turn me one more soulful ballad.

Then with the light breeze drying the tears on my cheeks, I think about the ‘Gentle Breeze’ in my life, my local guardian angel, my Nazeem uncle.

Much before I saw him, I had his picture in my minds eye, painted on by stories my father told me about. When we met, not surprisingly, the picture was more accurate than not. He smiled. He was thin. His eyes shined. He spoke with a rhythm to his voice, waving his fingers, conducting the phantom opera.

When I went away from home for my first long spell of solitude in a military hostel, I was not alone. I had him a loud call away. He was my local guardian angel. What he was, was also my school’s favourite neighborhood singer. I still remember me, sitting enthralled in the auditorium, listening to life, in beautiful musical notes.

Misfortune never bothered him. He faced them with a song on his lips. When it took away his music from his lips, he fought back by gently tapping his left fingers, in tune with the music in his heart. He never gave up, and he taught me his life.

Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel his heart beat, in tune to the musical notes inside. Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel his gentle defiance, at fate which played a game of dice. Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel the strength of determination emanating from the body, made frail by the forces bigger than man.

If he is half the person I know he is, he will be home to greet me with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips. After all, he was the person who taught me that a ‘Gentle Breeze’ can also mean M.S Nazeem…

 

A Haka Birthday To Me!

Haka birthday to youuu…

Haka birthday to youuu…

Haka birthday, dear Ajoooo…

Haka birthday to youuuu…

Quarter century done and over with.

A small step for me, a giant step for me too!!!

 

A Short Goodbye...

I am leaving my life in a blog behind for a little little while,

To not run away from real world realities, I need to rest, and rally around meself.

Recuperation might be just a day away, again, it may be a year…

Leaving behind a lot unsaid, I go,

to return, on another day…

peace be with you, people,

Shalom…go in peace and Godspeed!