8 years on, I'm back in Poona. I have mixed reactions to the cityscape as it stands today. So much has changed, so much remains just the same. And then, the people. Malls and flyovers donot change the nature of those that they serve. That is a reassuring feeling.
I'd be waiting for its rains; its sheer beauty in those two or three months.
All those years back, all of this — the househunt, the running around, the money managing, the micro-detailing of stuff to set up a new home — was silently carried out by my mother. Six years since she passed away, I am neck deep in that process again. It feels calmer. There's a certain confidence working somehow, and I cannot seem to fathom it.
I'll probably set up home on top of a hill, rather distant from the bustle of the city. It's a choice I would make because above all things, I want a little peace. Possibly, just to listen to my own self thinking. I almost never had any time for that in the past few years. 
There isn't even any music on me, so to speak: whatever I have on the phone is all. And I have not been inclined to listen to much music since I moved. I am just reading: comfort childhood reads, actually. Corbett, Conan Doyle, a collection of Bangla ghost stories that I bought from the Book Fair this time.
Maybe you don't need those outward expressions to feel the music of your soul. I did my bit, and I will do more. I do know that. And that's a calm that is not easily stirred. I have stuff to do.

On a recent lazy Sunday, I met an old cohort who has refused to go down with the pressures of family life and is still as much the hippie in spirit as 15 years back. Travelling mega-manager that he is, he has set up home in Navi Mumbai and is very happy with his new Godin, a Vox amp and a sizeable record collection. I didn't exactly ask him, but I'm sure B enjoys post-work quiet times with the guitar and the ever-present rolled-up number.    
I missed my first ride aboard the Rajdhani Express because I sort of passed out at his place, back in 1995, while visiting my mum in Delhi. It was a scream because both my father and me got the train timing wrong — you know, the via Gaya, via Patna bit which was usually confusing especially back in the day, especially with that much intoxication in my system — and there was, well, quite a scene. I finally hitched up on the general bogies of the departing Delhi-Kalka mail and managed to reach Delhi just fine; albeit without a single pullover in November. I forgot, what the hell. 
The subsequent 10 days in Delhi are etched in memory as my first adult-life travel to a different city. It was fun; partly because my mother hadn't seen me since I joined college and thus had no clue of what I was doing (you know, playing drums in a band, smoking reefers etc etc). It made for a sociocultural disconnect that I somehow had great fun observing, even while I was a part of it. Then of course, there was the November weather and soaking in the varied bits of Delhi that I came to know: its ancient heritage, the very existence of an education campus like Jawaharlal Nehru University, the large expanse of everything. It was a trip. 

Brilliant work here by Urbanbarbarian:

http://www.comictwart.com/2011/01/alfred-hitchcock-by-urbanbarbarian.html

Sent me right back to my childhood. The Birds was my first Alfred Hitchcock film, and yes, I saw it on video cassette tape, hired out to be played on a tiny VCP by my father. My brother and me were mortified of large crows for a while thereafter.

Waste

Back and forth the same
be careful how you frame
your argument
your argument 

Sometimes it is such a waste

It is not all in black-and-white

Sometimes, grey unfolds in shades  

I am obviously writing inadvertent rhymes. Or the likes of it. Good reflection of my inner state of being with age on one side and a whole life on another.

GANDU

For those of you still not in the loop (and why I haven't had much time to blog):

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=129817037050114

Five Little Indians scored the music for the film (http://nh7.in/indiecision/2010/10/15/five-little-indians-score-film-soundtrack/)
Gandu debuted at the South Asian Film Festival 2010 sometime in October. There are a few reviews on the FB page. A couple of days back, we learned that it's been selected for the Slamdance Festival (http://www.indiewire.com/article/slamdance_unveils_2011_special_screenings_shorts_99_specials/). While the film has only had one special screening so far in town, maybe it will see light of day, being extreme as it is. Maybe not. It is an underground, indie film, after all. But it is getting its bit of mainstream attention as well (http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?268192)
The band has a few plans on the anvil. Shall keep ya'll updated. Watch this space :)

City of Lights

Chandernagore is a small, picturesque town an hour away by train from Calcutta. Known for its French settlement, the quiet suburb on the Hooghly riverside offers rare examples of architecture and has several sites of historical importance. In the context of the Durga Puja, though, the town is known for entirely different reasons: its tribe of light artisans.
As a young boy, this aspect of the Puja didn't really dawn upon me: I was more interested in looking at the pandal or the protima. Tripping out on these lights only started happening in my teen years.
I still remember 4am walks from a popular south Calcutta Puja hangout where I'd go drink stupid with my school friends and return home walking through the shimmy of these lights; their colours and patterns changing from one neighbourhood to
the next, but always keeping me company.
Something about the lights standing guard at lonesome pandals when everyone else has gone to sleep for the night still appeals to me.

Why do I have this day job?

Reading a few stories offhand from a newly-spawned daily run by a business house that deals in everything from real estate to cooking masala, I realised that it's been almost a decade that I have been part of this profession. With some very good writers. With some great reporters, sensitive photographers and brilliant artists. With some excellent critics and editors and outstanding designers. But mostly, with some less-than-mediocre "professionals" who are, again, very good at pandering to egos.
Given that, I am thankful that I do treat this as my day job, with my music being of prime importance — and not the other way around. I consider myself an average writer, less-than-average artist and just a beginner with the lens. I also know for a fact that diplomacy and sucking up to get things done is not part of my character, and they never will be; it's rather late to change that character shortcoming.
Why am I still in this profession, then?
Because I love to write. It really is that simple.