This Is It

I saw this film today, with minimal expectations. I just needed some fresh air (well, not so much fresh as different from the air at my house), and impulsively decided to go to the matinee show. There were two of us in the entire theater.

I did a little bit of reading up on the movie before going, but not in-depth. I thought it was a documentary on MJ's life. It turned out to be a documentation of his final show, "This Is It," which would have been touring the world. Efforts were taken to document the making and preparation for the show - very behind the scenes.

I love behind the scenes type of footage (of people with talent, not brainless celebs), because I'm always curious to know what kind of work aesthetic these musicians have, what their approach to rehearsing is, how they interact with the other musicians or dancers. It reveals so much about a person.

I had goosebumps from the first scene, the moment the music started. Even though it was just a rehearsal, the energy was so electric and everybody was so involved with what they were doing. A choreographer in the movie said to the dancers, "The dancers are an extension of Michael." They were - it was like they were all limbs in this huge machine that was MJ.

The production itself was larger than life. Each song was a separate mini-film unto itself. It was so reflective of the consummate performer that MJ was, because he took on the persona required for each of his songs, leaving his super star identity to come only second to that. And he shifted with such ease between such different universes - the eerie grotesqueness of "Thriller" to the innocent, playfulness of "ABC, Easy as 123." As a vocalist, dancer, actor - he gave himself completely to derive the maximum emotion and effect out of each moment he was performing. He was such a master of theatrics and timing - his choice for dramatic pauses, musically and in the narrative, always added a punch that would make the audience go even more crazy. I did not realize this about him until I saw this film, and I was so touched.

He was shown as a perfectionist - demanding and relentless, without being clouded by ego. He encouraged and enjoyed the work of his fellow musicians - who were all in total awe of him.

I'm glad the film didn't go into any biographical background, because all MJ should be remembered for is his massive contribution to pop music. Unfortunately, controversy over his image and his personal life overshadowed all of his other accomplishments in the latter part of his life. It's a loss if that's all you can see in a person of such tremendous talent. This isn't it for MJ, because his legacy will continue to live forever.

Where have you gone my New York?

I am trying to soak New York in like a tourist. As though I have never been here before. With fresh eyes and alert ears and a perky nose that is allured by the smell of freshly baked peanut butter cookies and almond hamentasch. I had a lovely weekend last week that started on Friday night with a drinks-and-dinner reunion with my friends. I was so blissful and satisfied by the experience it freaked me out. To allow myself to feel happy. To be so happy that I could burst. It started with some wine and a snackies at a highly corporate bar attached to Grand Central, but we were too in our own world to be bothered by all the suits. Condensed re-caps of an entire year were exchanged, engagement rings oggled over, and at the end of it all it was like we picked up just where we left off.

We followed it up with a Mexican meal in our old college neighborhood, which was surreal. It was like the backdrop for a flashback in a movie featuring the same characters in the same kind of moments, except now they were a little older, and hopefully a little wiser. Just like college, we turned the occasion into a faux-birthday - thereby allowing us to indulge in free strawberry mousse cake and the delightful feeling of a Mexican waiter pouring pineapple flavored tequilla down our throats. Good times.

After a bit of this debauchery, I went to spend the night at my little brother's apartment. Even though I'm five years older than him, I'm starting to feel like the little sister. He lives in a posh sky scraping Manhattan building on the 19th floor, with a beautiful view that includes the Statue of Liberty. Although his style of living still has wonderful collegiate traces - his fridge only had a huge box of leftover pizza and his microwave housed a plate of food that was unregonizably solidified - I knew he had grown up a lot in the last year. He has a tough job, for which he leaves when it is dark in the morning and returns when it is dark at night. We lazed around his apartment, enjoyed his flat screen TV and all its on-demand features and whatnot before crashing out.

The next morning we were characteristically indecisive about where to go for brunch, and finally decided to go to Union Square and just walk around until we found something. I already knew a few restaurants that I liked in the area, but as we were walking around, we kept finding that so many had shut down and were plastered with "For Rent: Prime Retail" signs. And those restaurants that were still running were not even open (on a Saturday afternoon!) - the chairs were stacked on the tables and a feeling of gloom and reality was setting in. The recession has clearly taken its toll - and it's just the beginning. I know New York city and the country as a whole are resilient, but I have never seen it like this before. Not even after 9/11. I can't wait to see it back to its bubbling, pulsating, self.

and here we go again...

I love technology, most of the time. I love it right now, for instance, as I sit in the Bangalore (sorry, Bengalooru) Airport using their free Wifi to check my mail on my laptop (which hasn't happened in a few weeks). Sometimes it's overwhelming, that constant connectedness. I like quiet time - time when I can't be reached, time when I don't feel obligated to contact someone else, time to be with my thoughts. But right now, I like that I can be in this airport and almost forget that I am here.

Time and space completely perplex me. This morning, I was in Jayanagar 4th Block. Tomorrow afternoon, I will be with my Dad (yeah!) driving home on the Taconic Parkway to my home in our longtime baby blue Toyota Camry. It's not deep or unusual - people travel all the time. But when I sit back and think about it, I go through this whole "What the fuck?" moment. What does it all mean?? Nothing of course. It just means that we have airplanes.

It's ridiculous how humans are. The moment we have something, we want something else. The moment I left New York, I dreamed of exotic cheeses that I would miss and sinful pastries. And Mexican food. The moment I got to the airport today, I had this "anxiety craving" for things I wouldn't get for a couple of months. Alu buns. Samosas. Kachoris. So I promptly ordered a pav bhaji and salt lassi as though it were my last supper.

The more I get used to a bi-continental lifestyle, the more I feel grateful that I have several places to call my home. And by home, I mean places where I feel so incredibly welcome and at ease. Cities where I feel total control in getting around, knowing where to get what. The other day somebody in Bangalore asked me for directions and I gave them with confidence, like a local. Another day, I walked through a dense crowd of people just to buy a few samosas - normally I would have been deterred by the sight of the people. But I totally busted through (while talking on my cell phone, like a true Indian!) and ordered in Kannada and even had a small conversation. These little encounters are like mini triumphs for me and make me feel like this really is another home of mine too.

And now, off to my other home, wtih its bountiful clean air and snowstorms and my wonderful new President.

Moments of Inspiration

A lovely musical and dance improvsation by Pt Ajoy Chakraborty and Pt Birju Maharaj.

2008

I am quite happy to be out of the two thousand and eighth year. Really, it was long, tiring, and it had its share of disappointments and mini obstacles. Yes, that's what life is like, but sometimes you just want a small sign that things are going to get better. And it had loss. Profound, never-experienced-before, and nothing-will-ever-be-the-same-again kind of loss that will forever taint any future recollections of what the year was like.

It's still difficult to write about it. To use that word. The d-word. There's something very harsh and crude about it. At least when you use it to talk about someone you knew, not some distant murder victim in the news or a historical figure. I will think of any way to avoid saying it. All the euphemisms. He has passed. He is no longer with us. In Tamil we say, roughly translated, that he has surrendered to God's paradise. None of these has that punched-in-the-gut kind of feeling that comes from uttering the d-word.

Anyway, it has been a paradox. The simultaneous feelings of emptiness and tremendous heaviness. The attempt to "move on" and yet tenaciously hold on to every memory. Recreating moments in fine detail - the timber of voice, the gait, the laughter, the quirky mannerisms. It is full of contradictions, this whole cycle of life.

2009 - what do you have in store?

Toto, I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore...

I came back from the Punjab this past weekend. And it was a trip that was like stepping into an alternate universe for a weekend. So many times I wonder about the lives of other people - strangers walking on the road, eating in restaurants, taking the bus, and the many in the places that I don't see on a daily basis. What do they do? What are their lives like? I would love to be somebody else for a day. Step into their shoes. Eat the food they eat. Worry about their worries. Enjoy their simple pleasures.

This trip allowed me to do some of these things for a very brief, fleeting moment. But still, it was an eye-opening, intriguing and at times mysterious experience. And very re-affirming about the inherent good nature of all human beings (that I am sometimes skeptical about).

I first attended the Harivallabh Music Festival in Jallandhar. It is one of the cornerstones of the major Hindustani music festivals - it has been held for over a hundred years, and hosts local Punjabi artists as well as the big stalwarts. I was disappointed but not surprised by the total disregard for sticking to a schedule, at least the pretense of being organized. Perhaps it was because it was the last day, but there were so many self-congratulatory speeches by the organizers, who were all misty-eyed and pedantic about the future of Hindustani music. If we are sitting in the biting cold weather at your festival, then we are not the people you should be lecturing (hello!!). Alas, after many such speeches and the presentation of numerous tacky plaques, the requisite shawls, and endless photography, the music finally commenced. I had come to hear Pandit Ajoy Chakraborty, who sang raag Abhogi, followed by Darbari Kannada and two lighter items. I'm not going into a musical analysis here because this is more about the overall experience, so I'm going to skip over the concert to the post-concert festivities.

Listeners camped out at the Harivallabh Music Festival

By the time we left the festival it was around 2 am, I think. It was getting colder but not unbearable (my threshold for the cold is better than I thought) - and just when I thought we were off to crash, to be tightly snuggled in the warmth of our stale-smelling hotel blankets, I learn that we are off to have dinner. A full-fledged Punjabi meal at 2 in the morning. We arrive at our hosts' flat, and they tell us about the cow they own that supplies all the milk and milk derived products (which they use in abundance). Still wearing my hat, scarf, sweater (with 2 layers underneath), I devour an amazing home cooked meal with straight-from-the-cow's-udder (well, not quite) ghee, paneer, and thick creamy yogurt. Among the many side dishes include kadi, aloo gobi, dal, mattar paneer. The woman preparing this sumptuous meal is pleasantly smiling at us at this unearthly hour as she single-handedly makes all the food and serves us with the utmost graciousness. We head home at around 3:30 and call it a night.

The next day, we are on to the "headquarters" of the Namdhari community, Bhaini Sahib. The Namdharis are a particularly orthodox sect of Sikhs, who believe that their community's Guruji is the ultimate authority on religious beliefs, not the Guru Granth which is the holy text for Sikhs. They follow an austere lifestyle - they are strict vegetarians, they wear only white, they drink and cook with only water that has been collected through rainfall (in wells).

Bhaini Sahib is a self contained community sustained by their own endeavors (such as farming) and their devotees through the world. Those who live on the premises all have designated responsibilities - some farm, some teach in the school, some are the resident musicians, some take care of their Satguruji. The whole place functions like a well-oiled machine.

Hospitable is an inadeuqate, almost trivial, word to describe the Namdhari temperament. If they could walk, blink, or breathe for you, they would. They are at the complete service of their guests. At their houses, they would have plentiful assortments of freshly prepared delicacies and sweets (even if we had just gorged ourselves with food), which we were not allowed to refuse. After finishing a meal, they would come around to each person with slightly warmed water (the tap water was frigid) for washing hands.

Pandit Ajoy Chakraborty again performed a special and particularly shant concert for the Satguruji. Everything proceeded as per the Satguruji's wishes - if he wanted to the concert to continue, it would be indicated to the artists. (On a total side note, but something that cannot go unmentioned, the Satguruji also had a special person seated next to him with a spittoon to collect his excess mucous and saliva when he was coughing :)

Artists with the Namdhari Satuguruji

The morning we left, there were so many people who came to the train station to escort us. At four in the morning, they arrived at our guest house full of smiles and flasks of hot chai. They drove us through the fog, full of spirited conversation and an innocent and untouched enthusiasm that I rarely see in adults.

At a touristy mock-Punjabi village retaurant in Jallandhar.

Another So-Called Christmas

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.