It's Christmas Eve, but it doesn't feel like it is. It's brilliantly sunny and beautiful outside. The weather is that weird combination of sharp heat from the sun's rays and a coolness from a passing breeze. There's no snow on the ground. There isn't much tacky Christmas kitsch being sold. There aren't any fake Santas standing outside stores collecting donations for the Salvation Army. There aren't people bundled up in lovely layers of winter clothing, standing outside Rockefeller center on an endless line to go ice skating. Or to see the tree.
These aren't particularly meaningful symbols of the holiday, but can you really help it if these were the silly things attached to a certain day for all your life?
One Christmas Eve, my Mom, Dad and I had to go out for most of the day (I believe it was for a concert somewhere far from our house). That year, we hadn't put up the tree that was stored in our attic. I guess it was a combination of laziness and a general apathy that sets in with age. It's also kind of a pain in the ass to assemble, and sheds a lot of those fake pines, which makes the post-Christmas clean up a bit annoying. On top of that, we're not Christian, so we didn't feel the religious obligation. It had always been a socio-cultural festivity for us. Our Hindu-ness was always further reinforced by the random placement of pictures of Hindu Gods on the tree. I'm totally serious. Right next to the angel ornaments.
Anyhow, the three of us came back home in the evening, pretty tired and ready to crash. My brother had been home alone during the day. Probably because he didn't want to sit through an Indian classical concert or had some silly school project (I think he was in sixth grade at the time). We entered the house and started to call his name (as we usually did when he had been alone for a while), to make sure he was still in one piece and functioning. The lights were all off, which was a bit spooky and unusual because it was a winter evening, which meant that it got dark by four in the afternoon.
Soon after calling out for him, we hear some soft music emanating from the living room - it's a cheesy but nonetheless heartwarming recording of Christmas Carols. We follow it to the living room and in the middle of the darkness we find our tree, fully decorated and luminous. My brother is standing next to it meekly, with a shy half-smile on his face and says softly in his pre-puberty voice, "Surprise!"
Behind the tree is a poster he's made with family pictures on it. I'll be honest - it was far from being a work of art. It was just yellow poster-board with random pictures and captions in that characteristically bug-like (the letters look like little creepy crawlies) handwriting that is his. But at that time, at that moment, it was like our own Mona Lisa.
We turned on the lights and ran towards him to smother him with hugs. Who would've thought that he, who was at the time typically 12 year-old and typically boy, would have planned and executed something so sweet? It was an unusually straight-out-of-the-movies moment for my family.
Then the father speaks.
"You better clean it up and put it away tomorrow after all of this is over - that tree sheds like a bitch and needs to be packed back into the box like it came."
And we're back to reality. But the moment wasn't diminished, and for the rest of the evening we were all smiles.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, October 6, 2008
The 21st Century Musician
In yersterday's Times, there was this interesting article about a young New York musician named Caleb Burhans. Burhans is a jack-of-all trades artist. He sings professionally in church choirs, he plays multiple instruments (violin, viola, mandolin, percussion) and he composes. As a freelance musician in New York, particularly in the new-music (contemporary western classical, experimental) scene, he has found several niches. As the article relates, he can easily sing Bach on one hand and be part of a techno band on the other. The piece is revealing because it brings up the evolving question of specialization, which has traditionally been heavily emphasized in a musician's training and career. Is it a boon or a handicap? Does the modern day musician have to be multifaceted to sustain him/herself? Is it worth spreading your energies over several different areas of music to increase your likelihood of getting performances, recognition, more work? Or is it like the old addage, "Jack of all trades, master of none"?
Another interesting point made was that a generation that has grown up with so much more musical exposure will therefore have more diverse musical ideas. We like to compartmentalize our styles - rock and classical could never have similarities, and so on. But so much of the new-music repertoire draws from Baroque, jazz, electronica, some types of pop. These boundaries are increasingly porous. We can't pigeon-hole music anymore, and perhaps therefore, we cannot pigeon-hole musicians either?
Another interesting point made was that a generation that has grown up with so much more musical exposure will therefore have more diverse musical ideas. We like to compartmentalize our styles - rock and classical could never have similarities, and so on. But so much of the new-music repertoire draws from Baroque, jazz, electronica, some types of pop. These boundaries are increasingly porous. We can't pigeon-hole music anymore, and perhaps therefore, we cannot pigeon-hole musicians either?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Simple Adventures
Today I had the glorious experience of purchasing Stamp Paper. Stamp Paper, but why? you ask, because this is a terribly fascinating subject. Well, since I am a foreigner, even though I am of Indian descent, The Indian Government requires that I register my existence in an official manner. Apparently I can't just park myself here for more than six months without their approval, so one of the numerous tasks I have to complete involves using this Stamp Paper for several documents that account for my occupation of precious Bengalooru space.
So - it's just an official paper sold at various denominations, with the stamp of approval from a bank. Simple enough, I thought, I will just mosey my way down to the one bank that sells it in Malleswaram and purchase it. The bank opens at 10 am - I thought I was being awfully responsible by reaching promptly at 10, rather than waiting until two minutes before it closes, like I would usually do. I get there, and of course the line is endlessly snaking its way around the complex. Wonderful.
I see everyone holding a yellow slip, and astutely find myself one and fill out the necessary details. I get back on the line and wonder, why do SO many people need stamp paper today? And, why does only ONE bank in this densely populated locality sell stamp paper? And, why is the line moving at such an exponentially SLOW rate?
I get on the end of the line, daydreaming about the completely delish drink that Rev and I shared the previous night (white rum + litchi + guava = bliss), when I am abruptly startled by a random police officer flaunting around an unncessarily extra long double barrel rifle. Clearly, he does this to compensate for unnecessarily small body parts that need not be named. Seriously people, we are a line of innocent-stamp-paper-purchasing-creatures! I get very anxious around people with loaded weapons, because I do not trust their judgment or instincts. This officer was wagging his thing around to "quell" the miscreants who had parked illegally. Of course, other standers-in-line feigned concern to eavesdrop on the ensuing gelata.
Soon, I notice that the line behind me has extended, while I have moved a whole six inches forward. I want to listen to my IPod, but feel like that would draw uncomfortable attention to myself. And as I look around, I realize that it is too late - I have already become the subject of attention, as I am a lone female in a sea of testosterone. Yes, out of the sixty people who were on line at that point, I was the only woman. Again, it seems futile to ask the question why. It is something about India I fail to understand. How certain tasks are so absolutely gender divided - and apparently going to the bank is one that falls under male jursidiction.
Now, let me clarify. This scenario of being a lone woman amongst men - not always a bad thing. Except that these men were of the constant-crotch-fondling, synthetic-shirt-wearing, musty-Bangalore-body-odour-smelling, mucous-regurgitating variety. And for some reason, they find it very amusing that I am amongst them - they have juvenile smirks on their faces and are stupid enough to think that I am oblivious to their behavior.
Forty-five minutes later, the line is moving and I am close to the magical window where I pay up - hallelejuah! As I approach, I find some answers to my questions. Behind the window are two middle aged woman, very casually handwriting the information on each stamp paper application, with a disturbing lack of urgency. There could have been two people on the line as far as they were concerned. I pay up and then all hell breaks loose - the unusually organized line that had thus far contained us no longer exists. There is another window, where one of these middle aged aunties shouts out people's names to give them the final document. Yikes.
Because there is no line formation, everybody is crushed together. People are pushing, bodies of strangers are glued together in dangerously close proximity, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow. It is as if this frantic crowding will somehow ensure fast receipt of the Stamp Paper. And I am making a mental note to always bring Purell when I have to run such errands.
Finally, my name is called and I extricate myself from this can of sardines feeling very liberated! I'm off to the Police Commissioner's Office, but that story's for another post...
So - it's just an official paper sold at various denominations, with the stamp of approval from a bank. Simple enough, I thought, I will just mosey my way down to the one bank that sells it in Malleswaram and purchase it. The bank opens at 10 am - I thought I was being awfully responsible by reaching promptly at 10, rather than waiting until two minutes before it closes, like I would usually do. I get there, and of course the line is endlessly snaking its way around the complex. Wonderful.
I see everyone holding a yellow slip, and astutely find myself one and fill out the necessary details. I get back on the line and wonder, why do SO many people need stamp paper today? And, why does only ONE bank in this densely populated locality sell stamp paper? And, why is the line moving at such an exponentially SLOW rate?
I get on the end of the line, daydreaming about the completely delish drink that Rev and I shared the previous night (white rum + litchi + guava = bliss), when I am abruptly startled by a random police officer flaunting around an unncessarily extra long double barrel rifle. Clearly, he does this to compensate for unnecessarily small body parts that need not be named. Seriously people, we are a line of innocent-stamp-paper-purchasing-creatures! I get very anxious around people with loaded weapons, because I do not trust their judgment or instincts. This officer was wagging his thing around to "quell" the miscreants who had parked illegally. Of course, other standers-in-line feigned concern to eavesdrop on the ensuing gelata.
Soon, I notice that the line behind me has extended, while I have moved a whole six inches forward. I want to listen to my IPod, but feel like that would draw uncomfortable attention to myself. And as I look around, I realize that it is too late - I have already become the subject of attention, as I am a lone female in a sea of testosterone. Yes, out of the sixty people who were on line at that point, I was the only woman. Again, it seems futile to ask the question why. It is something about India I fail to understand. How certain tasks are so absolutely gender divided - and apparently going to the bank is one that falls under male jursidiction.
Now, let me clarify. This scenario of being a lone woman amongst men - not always a bad thing. Except that these men were of the constant-crotch-fondling, synthetic-shirt-wearing, musty-Bangalore-body-odour-smelling, mucous-regurgitating variety. And for some reason, they find it very amusing that I am amongst them - they have juvenile smirks on their faces and are stupid enough to think that I am oblivious to their behavior.
Forty-five minutes later, the line is moving and I am close to the magical window where I pay up - hallelejuah! As I approach, I find some answers to my questions. Behind the window are two middle aged woman, very casually handwriting the information on each stamp paper application, with a disturbing lack of urgency. There could have been two people on the line as far as they were concerned. I pay up and then all hell breaks loose - the unusually organized line that had thus far contained us no longer exists. There is another window, where one of these middle aged aunties shouts out people's names to give them the final document. Yikes.
Because there is no line formation, everybody is crushed together. People are pushing, bodies of strangers are glued together in dangerously close proximity, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow. It is as if this frantic crowding will somehow ensure fast receipt of the Stamp Paper. And I am making a mental note to always bring Purell when I have to run such errands.
Finally, my name is called and I extricate myself from this can of sardines feeling very liberated! I'm off to the Police Commissioner's Office, but that story's for another post...
Friday, July 4, 2008
Happy Birthday Stars and Stripes
It's strange to remember a classic national holiday you grew up with when you are in a different country. It's like nostalgically remembering a good friend with whom you've lost touch - memories full of associations that spin into an intricate web of moments, emotions, images, smells, textures, and you are transported.
I just realized that today is July 4th - as far as vintage American celebrating goes, this ranks at the top, tying closely with Thanksgiving. But the Fourth of July has the added euphoria of summer vacation, the only time when the weather permits enjoying the requisite and trademark Bar-B-Que and beer, vanilla smoothies, kids running through sprinklers to cool off, garish parades, and of course, fireworks by the waterfront.
Well - here I am, in a little place called Malleswaram, a swirling enclave of activity revolving around vegetable markets, temples, idli-dosa joints - in which I couldn't be further removed from the long weekend of hot dogs and fries. I think about how I barely remembered this occasion even after seeing the date on my calendar. How our surroundings play such a huge part in shaping actions that we think are actually ours. How I completely forget what time of the year it is in another part of the world that I used to inhabit, where summers are glorious, precious, and short, and there are four distinct seasons. How I now think about the rains and speak about the "cool" weather that has set in. How engulfed we become in the activities of our communities, by choice or not, and how this becomes a norm. And as we move around from one community to another, we adopt another norm, and the previous one becomes a faded but dear photograph in the album of our life.
I should take a moment to note that the Fourth of July, for me personally, holds no special historical significance. I would hardly call myself patriotic - although I love my country for what it has given me. These are definitely hard times to speak of the United States in any foreign country - it is quite possibly the worst and most shameful period in the country's history. But, what it evokes in me is really much simpler; it is a syrupy sentimentality that comes with growing up with certain holidays, and being subconsciously trained by society to celebrate them in a certain way, thereby becoming attached to the idea of what it should be. It is conditioning.
I found myself feeling the same way last year in New York during Diwali. After having spent a few Diwali's in India, I was quite wistful, coming home from work during that late fall darkness that sets in post-4 pm and spending a quiet evening with my parents eating dinner and going to bed. Just another regular day, where on the other side of the world, people were buzzing in a frenzy of fireworks, eating fried delicacies, getting new clothes, and getting oil head-massages from their grandmothers (well, maybe that’s just my family).
Nostalgia seems to be a confused walk down memory lane; an attempt to hold on to a filtered-down image because subtler shades of lost emotions cannot be recollected – they can only be experienced at that time. But at the end of the day, what is life if not a sequentially woven collection of such impressions?
I just realized that today is July 4th - as far as vintage American celebrating goes, this ranks at the top, tying closely with Thanksgiving. But the Fourth of July has the added euphoria of summer vacation, the only time when the weather permits enjoying the requisite and trademark Bar-B-Que and beer, vanilla smoothies, kids running through sprinklers to cool off, garish parades, and of course, fireworks by the waterfront.
Well - here I am, in a little place called Malleswaram, a swirling enclave of activity revolving around vegetable markets, temples, idli-dosa joints - in which I couldn't be further removed from the long weekend of hot dogs and fries. I think about how I barely remembered this occasion even after seeing the date on my calendar. How our surroundings play such a huge part in shaping actions that we think are actually ours. How I completely forget what time of the year it is in another part of the world that I used to inhabit, where summers are glorious, precious, and short, and there are four distinct seasons. How I now think about the rains and speak about the "cool" weather that has set in. How engulfed we become in the activities of our communities, by choice or not, and how this becomes a norm. And as we move around from one community to another, we adopt another norm, and the previous one becomes a faded but dear photograph in the album of our life.
I should take a moment to note that the Fourth of July, for me personally, holds no special historical significance. I would hardly call myself patriotic - although I love my country for what it has given me. These are definitely hard times to speak of the United States in any foreign country - it is quite possibly the worst and most shameful period in the country's history. But, what it evokes in me is really much simpler; it is a syrupy sentimentality that comes with growing up with certain holidays, and being subconsciously trained by society to celebrate them in a certain way, thereby becoming attached to the idea of what it should be. It is conditioning.
I found myself feeling the same way last year in New York during Diwali. After having spent a few Diwali's in India, I was quite wistful, coming home from work during that late fall darkness that sets in post-4 pm and spending a quiet evening with my parents eating dinner and going to bed. Just another regular day, where on the other side of the world, people were buzzing in a frenzy of fireworks, eating fried delicacies, getting new clothes, and getting oil head-massages from their grandmothers (well, maybe that’s just my family).
Nostalgia seems to be a confused walk down memory lane; an attempt to hold on to a filtered-down image because subtler shades of lost emotions cannot be recollected – they can only be experienced at that time. But at the end of the day, what is life if not a sequentially woven collection of such impressions?
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