Monday, September 20, 2004
BOMBAY RAINS ( REIGNS )
Watched the match yesterday, almost believed India could pull it off—was of course pleased to see that they did not. Lost it from Ball One—leaving out Kumble for Gavaskar Jr. was daft—ineluctable now that playing seven “batsmen” defies logic and gravity. What I fancy about playing a specialist keeper is that it renders possible the choice of dropping Dravid on form if necessary—something that one cannot contemplate now. Am rooting for an England-Windies final now, suspect otherwise.
Journeyed all the way to Khar –for the uninitiated , “Juna” means “old” , as in the award-winning “ The Juna Man and the Sea”. A wet day, managed to get drenched thrice, humidity at its peak, hot under the collar. Covered an area where my good friend Chaitanya lives—no wonder as the place is teeming with mendacious Gujjus, who in turn are teeming with dough. Extremely street-smart and wordly-wise. Santa Cruz also appears to be a decent hangout. Bumper-to-bumper traffic on the return leg, a BEST bus had veered off the edge and was lying at an ungainly angle of 30 degrees—I suggested a puncture, my auto driver’s grim conjecture was that it was an accident .
Bombay in the rains is dense, ridden with potholes and sweaty—still one of its more inviting seasons. Am yet to sight any of the many-splendoured worms that rise like the Phoenix in other Indian towns only in the monsoons. The city also overdoses on bhutta then. In fact, with reference to one earlier post on songs in the rain, hardly any are filmed in Bombay—except drunken sequences, or after 11 at night ( can belong to the first category yet ). Maybe that’s because Bombay doesn’t give you space, on the streets, on pavements, in shops, in supermalls, in trains, in theatres. Jaayen to jaayen kahaan. ( The only song that comes to mind that actually captures some elements of life in Bombay monsoons is Saawan barse tarse dil—Dahek-Sadhana Sargam, Hariharan, albeit from a warped romantic angle )
A CHORUS FOR US
There is this curious phenomenon that has now occurred to me a few times , and hence I am convinced that it is more than a statistic or an exception, but the rule itself. There are a great many songs that I find foul, tasteless, a-lyrical, and devoid of any sort of melody. Into this list would fall “ Mein to raaste se ja raha tha “, “ Ek do teen “, “ piya piya “ and many others, I’m convinced that the music directors would have composed them with something in mind, it’s just that I did not/do not get it. Now these songs cause me untold misery, earaches and aural agony, whenever played. But-now listen to this-when they are played back-to-back collectively, after a while , I find myself considerably less tense and more relaxed, I cease to mind them at all, and only after I leave the place do I remember my earlier exasperation. ( Almost as if Singular Bad bows to Collective Good )
I find this remarkable and cannot explain it.
The first time I realized this was at the sprawling Siemens canteen ( during my Engineering Project )where they insisted that decibel levels were an integral feature of music appreciation ( what say Hirak ? ), and the latest was today at the omnipresent Ganesh pandal during my sojourn.
On trying to ratiocinate, the only criteria that I could think of were—these have to be Hindi, and my physical propinquity must be impossible.
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Watched the match yesterday, almost believed India could pull it off—was of course pleased to see that they did not. Lost it from Ball One—leaving out Kumble for Gavaskar Jr. was daft—ineluctable now that playing seven “batsmen” defies logic and gravity. What I fancy about playing a specialist keeper is that it renders possible the choice of dropping Dravid on form if necessary—something that one cannot contemplate now. Am rooting for an England-Windies final now, suspect otherwise.
Journeyed all the way to Khar –for the uninitiated , “Juna” means “old” , as in the award-winning “ The Juna Man and the Sea”. A wet day, managed to get drenched thrice, humidity at its peak, hot under the collar. Covered an area where my good friend Chaitanya lives—no wonder as the place is teeming with mendacious Gujjus, who in turn are teeming with dough. Extremely street-smart and wordly-wise. Santa Cruz also appears to be a decent hangout. Bumper-to-bumper traffic on the return leg, a BEST bus had veered off the edge and was lying at an ungainly angle of 30 degrees—I suggested a puncture, my auto driver’s grim conjecture was that it was an accident .
Bombay in the rains is dense, ridden with potholes and sweaty—still one of its more inviting seasons. Am yet to sight any of the many-splendoured worms that rise like the Phoenix in other Indian towns only in the monsoons. The city also overdoses on bhutta then. In fact, with reference to one earlier post on songs in the rain, hardly any are filmed in Bombay—except drunken sequences, or after 11 at night ( can belong to the first category yet ). Maybe that’s because Bombay doesn’t give you space, on the streets, on pavements, in shops, in supermalls, in trains, in theatres. Jaayen to jaayen kahaan. ( The only song that comes to mind that actually captures some elements of life in Bombay monsoons is Saawan barse tarse dil—Dahek-Sadhana Sargam, Hariharan, albeit from a warped romantic angle )
A CHORUS FOR US
There is this curious phenomenon that has now occurred to me a few times , and hence I am convinced that it is more than a statistic or an exception, but the rule itself. There are a great many songs that I find foul, tasteless, a-lyrical, and devoid of any sort of melody. Into this list would fall “ Mein to raaste se ja raha tha “, “ Ek do teen “, “ piya piya “ and many others, I’m convinced that the music directors would have composed them with something in mind, it’s just that I did not/do not get it. Now these songs cause me untold misery, earaches and aural agony, whenever played. But-now listen to this-when they are played back-to-back collectively, after a while , I find myself considerably less tense and more relaxed, I cease to mind them at all, and only after I leave the place do I remember my earlier exasperation. ( Almost as if Singular Bad bows to Collective Good )
I find this remarkable and cannot explain it.
The first time I realized this was at the sprawling Siemens canteen ( during my Engineering Project )where they insisted that decibel levels were an integral feature of music appreciation ( what say Hirak ? ), and the latest was today at the omnipresent Ganesh pandal during my sojourn.
On trying to ratiocinate, the only criteria that I could think of were—these have to be Hindi, and my physical propinquity must be impossible.
