Wednesday, August 14, 2002

The Marche Slav burns my insides on a slow fire. Roasts the entrails till they are soft as marshmallows, easy target to every passerby’s two-penny ballad.
The first I heard this was as part of a music appreciation workshop. Just about figured out the pronunciation of a fugue and a Tchaikovsky, before Parag Trivedi threw this right in my unsuspecting, hard-as-nails countenance.

And I sat there, hurt, killed, wounded, bleeding.
Desperate, penniless, hopeless and dying.
Plodding, falling, screaming and stopping.
A Russian soldier marching home in defeat, the winter tugging at his bodily remains.

But then, this is all but a fitting background to what I figured is the love of my life.
Melancholia.
Yep, all 24 carats of it.
Drenched in unsung tears and soaking cold, that is how I like the image of life to appear.

I love Raga Todi and its komal swaras.
I adore Talat Mahmood and voices that lament over imminent disaster and ruin.
Heathcliff is mah guy and I love rooms with the curtains drawn.
I will create ‘hero with daaru’ frames.
And gift away my entire non-existent inheritance to Kabban Mirza.
My best dreams are of lost loves and Taj Mahals.

We all have our mechanisms to elevate this life to one less ordinary.
This is mine.