It’s
complicated
That’s how
I would always think of how I felt about the phenomenon called Roger Federer
The otherworldly
talent was obvious. I may be short-sighted, but I’ve never been blind. The
languid grace was other-worldly. The knowledgeable and the n00bs, all were united
in their verdict that tennis was being changed before our eyes, that we had
never seen the likes of such, perhaps we never would. I stubbornly stood my
ground. A childish refusal to look beyond Sampras, the hero of formative years,
followed by an exaggerated adulation of Djokovic on account of ‘discovering’ him
well ahead of the curve clouded my judgement. I even wrote what I thought were
articulate and impassioned pieces on how Sampras > Federer. Now I read them
and agree that we were all idiots once.
It eventually
took the 2017 win in the Australian over his great nemesis for me to accept,
what I should have a long time ago, what a part of me probably always knew but
refused to concede. We had never seen the likes of such, perhaps we never will.
Life is supposed to teach you to be open to overcoming long-held convictions;
Federer did the job so much better. In a sport where 30 had long been
considered an age ripe for retirement, here was one closer to 40 with a will to
win as indomitable as ever, who refused to yield to the vicissitudes of time, who
had finally exorcised the ghosts of that moment 8 years ago that had seemingly rendered
him incapable of speech, and who in doing so, was forging the path to
immortality before our very eyes. Had he ever even been mortal?
Elite sport, when lucky, is blessed with 2 kinds of exponents. There are the gifted geniuses, like
Federer or Messi, who seem to have been born to play their sport. Who reduce it
to its most elemental and effortless form. Your brain tells you that there was
blood, toil, tears and sweat that went into what you see; you want to believe
that this was just poetry written in a flash of inspiration. And there are the super
athletes: the Nadals, Djokovics and Ronaldos, who push at all the mortal boundaries
in their quest for the superhuman. The blood, toil, tears and sweat are there
for all to see. The decree of God vs the will of Man: was there ever a drama
more eternal. God created the sky; man conquered the moon. Yet we marvel at
man, we worship God.
To say that
Federer’s impact went beyond tennis or even sport is an understatement. I would
argue that over the last 2 decades, Federer has become something like a
universal language, a part of collective consciousness. Want to describe wonder:
it is an impossible inch perfect Federer backhand. Elation? “When Federer
wins, a part of me wins” as a dear friend once said. Relief after achieving
something stupendous? His tears on winning a grand slam. Even the business
world has embraced these Federerisms. A famous analysis to emphasize the
importance of ‘where to play’ vs ‘how to win’ done by a former employer used
Federer with a badminton racquet to drive home the message. I could go on. We
all could. Mandarin, English, Hindi, Spanish, French, Arabic- different lists
place them in different orders when it comes to the most widely spoken language;
they all speak Federer.
So yes, it
was complicated when it all began.
Nothing
could be simpler now.
From an
inquisitive Indian to a superlative Swiss; from a west London commoner to a Wimbledon
Royal; from a left-handed badminton amateur to a right-handed tennis legend.
From a boy who cried when he lost to a man who cries when he wins; from a
father of twins to a father of twins: thank you Roger.
You transcended
tennis, epitomized elegance, lyricized life and wowed the world. We had never
seen the likes of you, perhaps we never will.
Let mortals
have their G.O.A.T. You are a gift of God.
Rishabh Pant doesn’t understand what playing for a draw
means. He is the epitome of the IPL batsman shoe-horned into the long format.
Shot into stardom on the basis of his exploits in the shortest format, all he
needed were a few T20 like domestic performances and
he found himself in the Indian test team. It is 2018 and day 5 at the Oval. He
has added over 200 runs with KL Rahul to keep the dreams of an unlikely win
alive. Rahul falls with over a 100 still to win. Jadeja joins Pant with Ishant
waiting in the wings. Rishabh Pant though, only knows how to play one way and
he soon perishes as well. He has made a counter-attacking 100 but there is
criticism over his lack of ‘game-awareness’ or ‘maturity’.
Over 2 years have passed. Pant has made another overseas 100
in the meantime. That one in Australia. That one ironically in a draw. However,
the concept of saving a test still does not exist for him. Why should it. In
recent memory, one is hard-pressed to find a test which India ‘saved’. Laxman’s
exploits in Ahmedabad are the only ones that vaguely come to mind. Before that,
it is probably the Youtube highlights of that
17 year old walking back at Old Trafford, well before Rishabh Pant was born. He
joins Che Pujara in Sydney and within minutes, a win goes from impossible to
improbable to ‘if Pant continues like this’. While Pujara continues to wear
down the opposition, Pant’s strokeplay keeps the scoreboard ticking. Minutes
before the new ball is due, Lyon gets him, on what else but an edge off an
aggressive shot. This time there is muted criticism. India has learned to
accept him and his methods.
The yin to his yang, Che Pujara soon falls as well. The win
had become impossible with Pant’s dismissal. Now a draw is improbable as well.
Vihari is hobbling. Ashwin has probably taken more wickets than he has made
runs over his last few matches. Jaddu could have been the saviour but his thumb
is broken. In any case, we are playing without Kohli, Ishant and Shami and have
lost Umesh along the way. Two weeks ago, the stars aligned to give us
Melbournepur once again. For most fans, that was enough. It was like beating
Pakistan in the world cup in the 90s. Anything now is immaterial. We have not
forgotten that this Australian team has Steve Smith and David Warner back. The
former, despite his lean run in the first 2 tests, had out Bradmaned the Don in
England; the latter hit 3 centuries in the last home summer including a triple.
Young Marnus from 2018 is fast forging the Legend of Labuschagne. Mitch Starc devours
tails for breakfast when he is not crushing thumbs with his bouncers. Oh and
there is small matter of the top ranked bowler in Pat Cummins. No no, it is ok
to lose to a team like this, especially when we are under-resourced. Everyone
will understand. We have fought valiantly. There will be honour. The script
reads well.
Except someone forgot to deliver it to Vihari and Ashwin. So
for 256 deliveries they just bat. This was no AB and Faf performing a
blockathon for the ages. We are talking about a batsman whose place is under
question, who averages in the early thirties, who has a solitary ton to his
name and who few outside the subcontinent will have heard of. Partnering him is
a master of his art, who has in the miracle of Melborune, finally managed to
exorcise the ghosts of Jo-burg and Southampton. The art though is off-spin and
while more than useful, will not serve him at this hour. Logic, cricketing
wisdom, expert opinions- all ceased to matter 2 weeks ago but surely that was a
black swan event. The torn hamstring and back spasms should not even be part of
the discussion. However, lightning does strike twice. In the space of 2 weeks.
India somehow someway are still level. The victory, and we should call it this,
is pyrrhic though. Both of these warriors will play no further part in the
series decider. Neither will Jadeja. Nor Bumrah. Never mind. A billion people
are rejoicing. Irrespective of the result, this series has been won in our
hearts. Perhaps the only one complaining is Rishabh Pant. You see, he never
really understood what playing for a draw meant.
And now we are in the Gabbatoir. Where Tim Paine wanted
Ashwin to be. The Indian bowling unit reads 5 bodies: 2 debutants and 4 tests
between them. Within 2 days, it will become 4 or at best 4.5 bodies. Two of
those younglings have been optimistically selected as ‘all-rounders’. As if
anyone can replace Sir. However, we don’t really care. Let the lads have fun.
India have lost 6 wickets while still 180 behind and the earlier proclaimed
all-rounders are at the crease. Maybe the strains of Sydney have started to
tell or it is just the runs that often flow when there is no pressure. Maybe we
should credit the IPL after all for instilling this fearless approach. Either
way, this half of the bowling unit more than does its bit with the bat to keep
the lead down to 33. And also turns up the next day to take 10 wickets. So that
is 4.5 bodies, 2 debutants and a combined experience of 4 tests taking 20
wickets against a home side at a ground where said home side has been unbeaten
for what 50 years. Logic, cricketing wisdom, expert opinions- yes you told us
they all ceased to matter. What do we call this then? Let’s borrow from our
neighbours- could this be their famed haal?
Except that we do everything so much better than them so we haal over a month instead of a day. Yes,
that’s what this is now.
So we are at the final day of this final test of this series
that film producers have already started bidding rights for. Rohit is soon
accounted for. By who else but Pat Cummins. Gill though, having shown glimpses
of his class across Melbourne and Sydney, has decided to become the next
batting superstar that the nation so eagerly awaits. He cuts Cummins, he lofts
Lyon, he hammers Hazlewood. Starc he carts for 15 off 3 balls. In an alternate world
of tabloids, Sara and Suhana are linked with him. Cruelly, like Pant in Sydney,
he too is denied a deserving 100. Again, it is Nathan Lyon who strikes, now 2
short of the 400 test wickets which he must have thought he would have had by
now. Rahane plays a cameo and departs and in walks Rishabh Pant. The equation reads:
162 runs needed off say 32 overs. 7 wickets in hand. The pitch never did much.
The new ball is some 20 overs away still. The series is 1-1. It should now stay
that way. Danger has been averted for the most part. The trophy will be
retained.
Except 1-1 would mean a draw today. And Rishabh Pant, as we
have already learnt, doesn’t understand what playing for a draw means.
So it is déjà vu as the flamboyant southpaw joins the Rock
of Saurashtra once again. Pujara is now the battle-hardened veteran, the consummate
survivor. He has taken what 10 body blows already, including a couple on the
head. His pain when hit on the finger has made spectators wince and cry out for
him. Hazlewood’s ‘did you see that’ is met with the icy middle distance stare.
Hazlewood will soon be ground to dust. Only Cummins still shows signs of life.
The unstoppable force keeps going at the immovable object. Finally, with the
nuclear warhead that is the new ball, Cummins gets his man. The equation now:
100 off 18 overs. Once Mayank departs, it will read: 63 off say 11 overs. 5
wickets in hand. Washington and Rishabh now at the crease. 21 and 23 years
young respectively. In a team that is full of winners, these 2 are already
heroes on the back of their recent exploits. Surely it is time to shut shop and
prepare for handshakes.
Rohit Sharma is watching from the dressing room. He is 33.
Virat Kohli may be watching from India whenever he’s not changing diapers. He
is 32. The writer incidentally, is also 33. For a long time, Kohli and Rohit
have been thought of as the young India. Except today, they probably feel very
old watching these carefree talents in the middle. Had any of this old guard
been batting, this last chapter would probably never have been written. Yes it
is a nothing to lose situation but now there is just the tail to come. And
after the last month, surely surely we’ll take 1-1 rather than risk a ‘respectable’
series defeat.
There is a fine line between fearless and foolhardy, between
risk-seeking and reckless, between innovative and idiotic and between dreaming
and being deluded. Through the course of the next 10 overs, Pant and Washington
cross these lines repeatedly till they become a mishmash of glory-seeking
blurs. Washington gets out to <gasp> a reverse sweep. In a test match I
tell you. With 10 to win and the tail to come in. We are at a poker table now. Pant
sees this and raises him to ‘I won’t just win this; I’ll win this with a six.
Like Dhoni’. Hazlewood calls it and almost wins except the river bails out Pant.
Thakur provides some late drama but finally and deservedly, Pant gets the
winning runs. There will be no hundred this time. However, there will be a win.
And Pant will take it. He still doesn’t know what playing for a draw means, you
see.
Logic, cricketing wisdom, expert opinions- should we still
talk about them? Call it haal, call
it destiny, call it what you will. But make sure you treasure it and on both
cricketing and non-cricketing days in the future when all seems glum, remember
that this happened. While the world struggled with winter and a virus, with
pain and the pandemic, there was a cricketing summer in the land of Oz. Lightning
did strike thrice. And in some measure, you got to witness it.
***
Unlike the other 2 era defining miracles of Kolkata and the
Natwest final, I can’t confess to have witnessed the final magical moments live
myself. Brisbane being both geographically and from a time-zone standpoint, in
the other corner of the world, had meant that I grudgingly called it a day
short of 5 am once tea was taken. A draw I felt, was imminent, and would be a
remarkable feat in itself. However, even though I got to know the result hours
later, as I watched the highlights of the closing moments, emotion welled up
inside of me completely unannounced. Perhaps it was the outcome of all those
late nights, of midnight coffees and bleary-eyed whatsapp conversations. Of
cursing one set of PCs (partisan commentators) and marvelling at another PC (Pat
Cummins). Or the outcome of having witnessed the journey of a squad that had
left in its wake a freakish collapse, a fractured arm, a dislocated thumb, a
torn hamstring, a sore back, a strained abdomen and this may all just be
Pujara. A journey that told of poignant stories of life’s milestones: a
talisman foregone so he could take his first steps towards fatherhood; a son
who fulfilled his father’s dream but couldn’t be at his deathbed; and yet
another father still waiting to cross the seven seas for the first sight of his
newborn.
Maybe it was that. But as this new father watched the
Brissie band of brothers set out for their victory lap, like a billion fathers,
mothers, brothers and sisters around the world, he gave in to the pride and joy
that these sons of team India had brought to him. Perhaps it was the victory
lap that did it. After all, 10 years ago even God had teared into the tricolour
during the victory lap on that magical Wankhade night. And all the time he
wondered and wished in equal measure: how to explain to his gambolling 10 month
old twins what joys this five day game can bring; and that one day, another set
of heroes, in white or in blue, will conjure a miracle for them as well. The
wait has been close to 20 years in tests. But it was so worth it in the end.
***
Let’s go with haal.
Inshallah boys played well.
It was a dark and stormy night. Actually no.
The night was, if anything, particularly starry. The waves were gently lapping
against the perfect crescent-shaped Palolem beach, emanating the silvery
moonshine that many a pair of hearts that beat as one long for. The beach
itself was dotted by an eclectic mix- nirvana seekers from Israel and Eastern
Europe, corporates unwinding after a long day or week, undergraduates just
excited to be there, shack owners and workers looking on in that bemused
indifferent manner that is unique to shacks in Goa. Self was oblivious to all
of this- copious amounts of the poison of choice had been had and the moon,
when glancing lovingly at this gift to mankind, would have observed one Lefty
happily ensconced on an unoccupied deck chair in a deserted corner, sleeping
away as the revelries wore on. Hours before, Sumedh had called to let us know
that he’d made it to IIM-B, and we’d ensured celebrations did the achievement
justice. A couple of hours later, as the sun was still contemplating how to say
’ssup to the world, I opened my eyes to find a canine on top of me. Apparently,
the deserted deck-chair was its regular sleeping spot and fortunately, this
particular best friend of man had decided to be accommodating instead of
marking its territory. It was that sort of night.
***
The poori-sabzi at Plantain Leaf was a treat
for ravenous souls. Also a welcome break from the daily dose of seafood we’d
happily been partaking for the last couple of days. It was somewhere between my
15th and 20th poori that Gogo rang- Joka it was to be.
Some minutes, excited phone-calls and several pooris later, Sumedh called. The
Dry Campus had done the inevitable and extended the admission offer to him. On
the way back from Fort Aguada that day, Sajal got to know that his LBS waitlist
had been converted. Paths ahead had firmly been charted. The Dominos and Baskin
Robbins on the Fort Aguada road will forever remain the final notes of the
perfect swansong that Goa provided. It was that sort of trip.
***
Infantaria had been recommended for its cheap
beer and frequent promotional offers that made it even cheaper. An ideal place
to celebrate employment offers and more importantly, to celebrate the memorable
experience that Joka had been. Except that human beings will continue to remain
irrational and order rum based cocktails in a place known for cheap beer. As
was wont at the time, the bill exceeded the cash that our collective selves had
and the responsible BigD was dispatched to the nearby ATM to cough up the
balance. The night ended with hard-nosed newly deemed managers allowing
themselves enough emotion to make inebriated speeches on how everyone loved
everyone. And the house remained firmly divided on the important subject of
whether or not Neha Dhupia had visited Brito’s the night before, or whether
Flambay’s was indeed the best restaurant in Goa. It was that sort of
discussion.
***
No one could have anticipated how special the
years at A-202 would be. In one of my more ambitious moods, I had planned to pen
another of my ‘those were the days’ posts when DebD handed over the keys to the
apartment. That didn’t materialize, but a trip to Goa during those years did.
The years of living the carefree campus life, with the important distinction of
having enough money in your pocket to do whatever you wanted. Looking back, Goa
was perhaps the only trip that all 6 of us managed. Guess it just had to be
Goa. A quick two-day break, 2 cottages at Palolem, sumptuous lunches at Margaon
and broken side-view mirrors en route to the airport. It was that sort of weekend.
***
Curly’s was happening. So happening we couldn’t
get a table and had to sit on the mattresses outside. My eyes had decided to
play spoilsport that very weekend and a nasty headache persisted. The resort at
Miramar had been a find. We’d initially planned more exotic locations to escape
to before Sajal was solemnized into the dark side but things could finally not
work out. The trip was too short, too unplanned and too unspectacular; however,
it will forever remain a footnote on the chapter that I could call my best
friend’s wedding. You could take someone out of Goa but not Goa out of someone.
It was that sort of realization.
***
In less than 24 hours from now, I’ll find
myself in the familiar environs of my favourite holiday destination once again.
The trip- retreat in this case, couldn’t be more different from the previous
ones- a unique blend of the professional and personal worlds. Faces that made
the earlier avatar of the retreat so memorable will be conspicuous by absence,
another stark reminder of how loneliness is an unwelcome companion to the firm journeyman.
As I pack my bags tonight and glance through Yo Yo videos in a last-ditch
attempt to try and pick up some dance steps, the prospect of going back to that corner of India will trigger sepia-tinted memory
jaunts. There are many moments to be added yet, to the Goa-labelled Pensieve in
my life. We decided long ago that Goa much more than a trip, vacation or
journey. It will be that sort of pilgrimage.
I'd honestly thought you were supposed to wear floaters when donning a kurta and a Nehru jacket. Apparently, closed shoes are the norm.
*******
Caffeine is the kind of place in Hauz Khas village that is the pride and joy of those who frequent it. There's barely space for 20, and you usually find yourself sharing a table (or two) with a set of complete strangers. There are a couple of young 'uns playing the kind of music that gets you in a trance- the kind of trance that makes you hobnob affectionately with the hitherto strangers you were sharing a table with, and after a pint or two, makes you bff's. It was a brilliant idea to have Caffeine perform at Sector 44. Perhaps too brilliant. No one told them where to draw the line. Some songs are better left unplayed.
*******
Broadly (and I mean very broadly) there are 4 kinds of whiskeys- single malts, blended, bourbon and Irish. The first 2 would probably account for ~90% of global whiskey consumption. I've realised that while I may claim to be a single malt aficionado, when it comes to gulping with the best of them, there's something about JD and coke. The spirit of the farmhouse was missing- a man needed a best friend.
*******
Weddings are traditionally family affairs. Sometimes however, you don't feel out of place not sharing a surname with the 6-odd people who're sitting on the dining table when everyone else has left. Memorable visits to all Hangover destinations might have something to do with it. Or perhaps it's the independent bond (however tenuous) that you share with each of the co-survivors, irrespective of the groom, that makes you feel you belong.
*******
Broadly (and I mean very broadly) there are 4 kinds of whiskeys- single malts, blended, bourbon and Irish.Where the hell are you supposed to classify RC and RS then?
*******
It's incredibly sweet when people ask you why you've turned up alone for a pre-wedding function. It's a million times more embarrassing when Caffeine plays Raabata, couples start dancing, and your thoughts stray to someone other than the beautiful girl you met not less than 3 months ago. There were so many songs that would have been played during those stolen nights at the Farmhouse...
*******
Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar retired from test cricket as 2013 drew to a close. People who considered themselves adults shed more than a tear. Yours truly might have been one of them- there was a definite realisation that childhood had come to an end. Lives changed that day. One life realised that a greater change had probably dawned a couple of hours ago. Tears shed were insignificant compared to when 2013 drew to a close. Nothing more or less than a rounding-off error.
*******
Tutun tutun. Talent*. Ohhhhh and Aaaaaah. Paradox. Seemingly non-sequitur.
You really couldn’t have called it love at first sight. For the better
part of my wonder years, Maths and I didn’t get along. There was a mutual
respect for each other I’m sure- difficult for it not to have been, given one
hailed from a family where everyone from the earlier generation seemed to have
had a nasty hobby of getting 100% in any and every Maths paper they sat for.
Where most kids are recounted tales of truant uncles and their misdemeanors,
Lefty’s lot peppered his bedtime stories with tales of that
Chacha ending his paper an hour before schedule and maxing it or that other Chacha looking at the question paper, blinking
and his answer sheet suddenly metamorphing into a Euclid treatise (ok maybe I’m
stretching it slightly). The annual ritual of getting a report card, therefore,
would usually be followed by solitary question- what was the Maths score?
Needless to say, I almost always disappointed. One particular incident stands
out- when I aced pretty much every paper, even the formidable Sanskrit, only to
get a 70-odd in Maths. It was like the other subjects didn’t even count.
There are defining moments and defining people in everyone’s lives. I
find it fittingly symbolic, that mine pretty much coincided with my teenage.
Just about a month before I turned 13, a gentleman called GP Sahay walked into
my life and the rest as some would say, was history. The folks had given me an
ultimatum- improve your Maths scores or private tuitions. Self grappled for all
of two days, got yet another 70-odd score and the summer holidays announced the
onset of the man who would dictate how my life would eventually turn out. Mr
Sahay was not a slave-driver, he was just an exceedingly simple man who
expected that what he asked be done. And he asked for some 100 numerical
problems to be solved every week. The association lasted just about a year- a
year of some 10 notebooks being filled with algebra, geometry, ratios and
trigonometry, a year of scores jumping from the mediocre 70s to the scarcely
believable high 90s and a year of a teenager discovering the most unromantic
first love imaginable. By the time our move to the national capital was
announced, a new world had opened in front of my eyes.
It now seemed only a matter of time when I too would go down in my
family’s unofficial hall of fame as having attained Centum, that perfect score
in an examination of some consequence in the sole subject that mattered. I wish
it were that simple. Forget the full 100-mark exams, even the minor unit tests
seemed intent on denying me my holy grail. Amity had this system of 4 unit
tests for every subject in a year, plus two term examinations. I couldn’t crack
a single one in my 4 years of high-school. I remember at least two 29.5/30s and
at least one 98.5+ score but never the shat pratishat.
Teased, tricked, tortured- I persevered to no end but it was just not meant to
be. CBSE and I never got along. I wrote my Xth and XIIth boards believing (and
a part of me still does) that I’d finally cracked the code but the published
scores always suggested otherwise and the pleas for a re-evaluation would
always return the same verdict.
The two years of preparing for the entrances ignited the kind of ardour
I would scarcely have thought possible. There were new challenges at every step-
complexities to be championed, nuances to be navigated, subtleties to be
savoured. A band of brothers was formed to make the quest all the more
enjoyable, or perhaps just to help survive it. There were days of mentally
grappling with a problem, only for it to gloriously culminate in one eureka
moment, often in the middle of the night. The analytical bent of mind
cultivated through years of courtship helped make sense of those other
adversaries as well- Physics the Plenipotentiary and Chemistry the Cunning. Maxing
any exam here was of course a distant dream, yet it seems cruelly ironic that Maths
was eventually the one where I just about scraped through.
College came and went with the complete lack of any academic endeavor
whatsoever. The less said about performances in Maths-related papers, the
better. I thought I’d got a fresh lease of life and one final opportunity when
I entered B-school- that last lap of most academic lives. There was Statistics-
a reasonably close cousin of my lady love. The mid-sem paper seemed so simple.
And it was multiple-choice or binary marking- always my forte. The stage seemed
set. This surely had to be it. Self ticked-off the boxes and filled in the
blanks with aplomb, checked and double-checked every answer, triangulated most
with any other method possible and even managed to hand in the paper a tad
before the scheduled time just to finish things off with panache. 20 minutes of
glorious hope followed, after which a chance remark by one of the others
indicated that one question had been bungled. Yet again. So near and yet so
far.
Yes, you couldn’t call it love at first sight. But unrequited love
might painfully fit the bill.
I’m sitting at
the Bagdogra airport as I write this, on the brink of ending a memorable
week-long vacation at Sikkim and North Bengal (Poschimbongo?). This was a mega
family trip- 11 of us driving through the breath-taking hills and sheer valleys
of Darjeeling and Gangtok. The distribution was simple- aged relatives in one
SUV, hep youngsters in another. The latter had come equipped with all kinds of
electronic contraptions to ensure a steady flow of musical numbers. At Rahil’s
repeated requests, the songs Monta re and Manmarziyaan from Lootera found themselves being played
multiple times, including a couple of renditions by the soon to be college boy himself.
As a result, these two songs are now synonymous with the trip in my mind- the
opening chords immediately bring to mind pictures of lush green tea-estates,
serene lakes nestled between cloud-kissed hill-tops and the solitary cactus
garden thrown in for good measure.
As I mentally
sang kaagaz ke do pankh liye for the
umpteenth time, my mind did one of those once frequent thought-provoking jaunts
that end up finding their way onto the orange backdrop of this soon to be
dormant blog. Memories, I realised, have a number of signposts, each evocative
in its own unique way. Photographs, of course, have a way of tugging
heartstrings like few other things. Small unheard-of towns have this tendency
to light up faces of the select few who have forged eternal bonds with them. Gajar ka halwa and aloo ke paranthe
are the evergreen copyright of the Bollywood Maa, yet to progress to Mutton
Biryani or bread pizzas like her real life counterpart. Similarly, the journey
of life can well be one long playlist, with us shuffling from one tune to
another. And it’s a worthwhile thought experiment to try to reproduce your own
playlist and see what memory is attached to which melody, which chord is a
collective recollection and which sound is a sole smile-bringer.
My own
playlist will always have Jungle jungle pata chala
hai as a reminder of idylic childhood Sundays. Mere
khwaabon me jo aaye will always be preceded by shuru karo antaakshari, lekar Hari ka naam- the memory usually also accompanied by load-shedding and punctuated by
tic-tic ones. Didi tera dewar deewana and Ek pal ka jeena will be throwbacks to that still-practiced
nuanced form of child-abuse euphemistically known as New Year dance programmes.
Chingaari koi bhadke
will eternally be the beloved Nani’s soulful humming, a memory cruelly not
shared by adulthood. I’ve a feeling I’ve mentioned this before, but Paayega jo lakshya hai tera will be reminiscent of the drive
from Amity to the FIIJTEE coaching centre after writing the JEE screening exam,
an in a larger sense, reminiscent of the two years of slogging away with the IE
Irodovs and ML Khannas of this world.
Numb and Aadat stand cheek by jowl as custodians
of the tapestry of first year of college memories, to culminate in the
eminently groove-able Let the music play
as the fest gets underway. The bottle of RS will be incomplete without Sumedh’s
insistence on playing Superchor or
Sajal’s discovery of the Darbari mix. The heartbreak of leaving college will
somehow be inextricably linked to American Pie
and Leaving on a Jet Plane. Come B-school
and the memories will be incomplete without Iktara or a
combination of Alif Allah chambay di booti and Nahi re nahi on an infinite loop on PJ’s speakers.
The playlist
acquires an international setting with time. Let it be
is an entire pub in Singapore, chorusing away over mugs of San Miguel. The
Euro-trip is incomplete without Fireflies being
played on Victor’s laptop, waking up an ever-asleep Lefty snug in his sleeping
bag. The first-ever seen flakes of snow, illuminated by the streetlamp in
Louvian-la-Neuve, were all the more ethereal because they were falling down
gracefully to the tunes of Sweet child of mine.
Mujhe to teri lat lag gayi is a
beautiful girl waltzing away without a care in the world on a starry night in Thailand,
or possibly a mirage caused by one glass too many of the choice of poison. The
picture-prefect roads of far-off Tasmania are best viewed in a sedan driven at
well over 150 kph with Abhijit insisting on playing Daaru desi
again. Zambia and Mexico both share the paradoxical meaning of life discovered with
a little bit of help from Mary Jane and friends as Ik bagal
and Raat ke musafir play discretely on in
the background.
And then of
course, there is always Pyaar humein kis mod pe le
aaya…
My flight is
almost at Delhi now, bringing to an end both the mega family trip and this
particular thought excursion. The melody is far from over obviously. New notes
will find their way into the playlist of life, set against lands new and old,
sung by people who give meaning to the music. Just like looking at old
photographs is a treasured family pastime, this playlist too will find its own
unique way into becoming a musical Pensieve that lights up dreary November
evenings. The greatest joy however, will always be that particular song
unexpectedly played on FM, when navigating the ever-worsening Capital traffic,
replacing the curse imminent on ones lips with a nostalgic smile. The uncouth
idiots of this world will, for however short an instant, cease to exist as one dives
into the musical Pensieve and relives that stolen moment. A tune, a thrill, a
tear- what more does a man want, before the idiot behind him honks to gesture
that the light is now green and like the bitter-sweet symphony
that’s life, he too must move on.
