2011 began disastrously; a bête noir casting grave shadows on me. The days were like a top losing momentum, a mad gyre spinning wider and wider into a confused sky. And I the falconer was losing sight of her falcon. Till July came along, and gathered the wild, wobbling skirt of my top back to its axis.
Calcutta means a few things to me. It’s where I summered trying to learn French and the piano. It's also where I grew into a sombre child. And when I wasn't learning French or the piano I would lunch with my parents’ friends in the Bengal club. I could not refuse since I was their house guest. But how I wish I could. For in the evenings, they, a variety of geriatrics, would take me along with them to Tolly where I was inevitably assigned the task of entertaintment. 'Come, child, let us see how you’re getting on with your music lessons?' or 'Can you play The Blue Danube for us? I grew to dread those evenings, so much so that I still feel a wave of nausea and performance pressure when I pass by the hedges of the old club. In one of my evenings there, I overheard a woman enquire another about Ms Havisham's (my piano teacher) withdrawal from society. To which the other woman answered in classic Calcutta club gossip gesture, lowering tone and partially covering mouth, 'You don't know? Her husband found himself a young thing in Paris, and never returned.'
I’d sip my gold spot (and she her sherry) and listen, while thin beams of afternoon light, dust motes swirling in them like demisemiquavers, bore down on the wood of the piano. Through wreaths of smoke, she’d say to me in her hushed voice, ‘There is no greater feat than perfecting Chopin’s Nocturne in F major. It is a complete story in itself. (pause).One which opens on a serene night, as autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky rotted stage. A breeze ruffles a young girl’s petticoat as she waits by the shore for her lover to return on the glossy black waters. But there is a thunderstorm fast approaching, turning the sea choppy, and the sky suddenly cracks up with lightning, breaking loose with rain till the lighthouse withdraws into drizzly murk. She is blinded by it. (pause). (softer). When the storm eases up, day is breaking, the waves now roll and curl up around her toes. But he doesn’t come... (long pause). Genius isn't it. That you have a story in four pages of music.’
‘Music has such elegant certainity. It is comforting and uplifting, and sure of its self. Real life is a variable,’ she would ramble on.
~
~
It took a fly by night trip to Calcutta and another to Bombay, some old friends and some new ones, a hundred sangrias, hours of laughter, and the mighty rain to get my groove back. When I finally landed in Delhi, the sun was low, just about to sink behind the cityscape. I caught a glimpse of it as I exited the aircraft, and something in me stirred - the old feeling of nostalgia, the this-is-it life-in-all-its face-smacking-glory moment. My moments of epiphany are not one to write books about. They're tiny and fleeting in perspective but enormous for me. They pull me back to who I am and what I'm made of. But I digress.
Post epiphanic sunset, I had a feeling of being born anew (the actual reason being sleeping off the nasty hangover in the flight but I prefer the more heroic version of sunset, rain, and rebirth). Like the rain in Bombay had somehow washed away the inanities that taken taken hold of me in the first half of the year. As the bus trundled down to Arrivals, I looked around at my fellow passengers buried in their BBs and iPads, not one looking in the direction of my glorious sunset and I wondered why I couldn't be cut and dry like them, busying myself with matters of the everyday? Why did I have to leer at sunsets and go mad about the rain? Why did I have to end up a wretched romantic, and that too, the worst sort, the hopeful sort?
In the taxi, hellish Delhi winds roaring through my hair, I decided to take the bull by its horns, deconstruct this whole romantic bug that had found a host in me, get to the root of my hubris, etcetera etcetera. And the first thing that popped into my head was Calcutta and Ms Havisham.
In the taxi, hellish Delhi winds roaring through my hair, I decided to take the bull by its horns, deconstruct this whole romantic bug that had found a host in me, get to the root of my hubris, etcetera etcetera. And the first thing that popped into my head was Calcutta and Ms Havisham.
Calcutta means a few things to me. It’s where I summered trying to learn French and the piano. It's also where I grew into a sombre child. And when I wasn't learning French or the piano I would lunch with my parents’ friends in the Bengal club. I could not refuse since I was their house guest. But how I wish I could. For in the evenings, they, a variety of geriatrics, would take me along with them to Tolly where I was inevitably assigned the task of entertaintment. 'Come, child, let us see how you’re getting on with your music lessons?' or 'Can you play The Blue Danube for us? I grew to dread those evenings, so much so that I still feel a wave of nausea and performance pressure when I pass by the hedges of the old club. In one of my evenings there, I overheard a woman enquire another about Ms Havisham's (my piano teacher) withdrawal from society. To which the other woman answered in classic Calcutta club gossip gesture, lowering tone and partially covering mouth, 'You don't know? Her husband found himself a young thing in Paris, and never returned.'
My tutor, a veritable Ms Havisham if ever there was any, lived in a mad apartment in the crook of Ballygunge. Her house was like slipping into the rabbit hole; quiet and echoing, with mammoth ferns that scraped the ceilings and fans that hung low, mirrors covered every inch of the walls, and a party of raucous bunch of cheeky parakeets flapping in their swaying cages filled the air. And a minefield of cats (oh the innumerable cats!) everywhere - strewn across the carpets, padding about the corridors, stretching out on the sofas, perched on the piano, curled up by the windowsill - paying me absolutely no heed as I'd hopscotch my way past them.
Ms Havisham was a towering woman (or so it seemed then), who dressed in crisp cottons and occasionally in a riotous kaftan, hair pulled back in a tight bun that emphasized her large forehead and her strange Anglo-Indian muddy green eyes, who never smiled, and spoke in the quietest tone I have ever heard. It’s as if she was afraid that someone would hear her when she spoke. I was both intimidated and in awe of her steel. She, on the other hand, perhaps saw in me a hopeless project and took it upon herself with a cold fury to drill metro and timbre into my young blood.
The only thing I ever played in my time there was the scales. On and on and on like the Never Ending Story. As the metronome ticked the hours away, my fingers would tire and I would grow bored and falter. And with every mistake she would lose her patience and attention and would mutter, what I assume were curses, under her breath. Till finally, having had enough of her untalented pupil she would go and pour herself a glass of sherry and light a smoke.
In these moments, my eyes would stray to the stack of music books sitting on the upright. Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart, Bach. All making a mockery of my green skills. I would wonder when she’d let me play the greats. But those moments were fleeting because the instant she returned with refreshments, I had to put away my score and give her my undivided attention as she educated me about music and life.
Ms Havisham was a towering woman (or so it seemed then), who dressed in crisp cottons and occasionally in a riotous kaftan, hair pulled back in a tight bun that emphasized her large forehead and her strange Anglo-Indian muddy green eyes, who never smiled, and spoke in the quietest tone I have ever heard. It’s as if she was afraid that someone would hear her when she spoke. I was both intimidated and in awe of her steel. She, on the other hand, perhaps saw in me a hopeless project and took it upon herself with a cold fury to drill metro and timbre into my young blood.
The only thing I ever played in my time there was the scales. On and on and on like the Never Ending Story. As the metronome ticked the hours away, my fingers would tire and I would grow bored and falter. And with every mistake she would lose her patience and attention and would mutter, what I assume were curses, under her breath. Till finally, having had enough of her untalented pupil she would go and pour herself a glass of sherry and light a smoke.
In these moments, my eyes would stray to the stack of music books sitting on the upright. Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart, Bach. All making a mockery of my green skills. I would wonder when she’d let me play the greats. But those moments were fleeting because the instant she returned with refreshments, I had to put away my score and give her my undivided attention as she educated me about music and life.
I’d sip my gold spot (and she her sherry) and listen, while thin beams of afternoon light, dust motes swirling in them like demisemiquavers, bore down on the wood of the piano. Through wreaths of smoke, she’d say to me in her hushed voice, ‘There is no greater feat than perfecting Chopin’s Nocturne in F major. It is a complete story in itself. (pause).One which opens on a serene night, as autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky rotted stage. A breeze ruffles a young girl’s petticoat as she waits by the shore for her lover to return on the glossy black waters. But there is a thunderstorm fast approaching, turning the sea choppy, and the sky suddenly cracks up with lightning, breaking loose with rain till the lighthouse withdraws into drizzly murk. She is blinded by it. (pause). (softer). When the storm eases up, day is breaking, the waves now roll and curl up around her toes. But he doesn’t come... (long pause). Genius isn't it. That you have a story in four pages of music.’
To which I'd nod and say, ‘Yes ma’am.’
‘Music has such elegant certainity. It is comforting and uplifting, and sure of its self. Real life is a variable,’ she would ramble on.
 |
| Anne Bancroft as Ms Dinsmoor in Alfonso Cuaron's adaptation of Great Expectations |
And I'd nod and say 'yes ma’am' to that, my head alive with the imagery she had painted.
When I'd finally emerge from the quiet confines of her house into the exploding street outside, the world would seem like a cruel nightmare. I felt sad to leave her there amid her cats and mirrors. She instilled in me something tragic, that feeling of melancholy that I could never quite shake off.
Three years ago I ran into the geriatrics’ daughter and we got talking about old Calcutta and my lessons with Eva (Ms Havisham’s actual name), and she told me that she was teaching the piano in Paris. I could see her there - in an apartment near the Seine, flowerpots littering her balcony, a girl in a petticoat, waiting out the storm.
~
Next came a man called Bubbles.
He was everything Eva wasn’t. A roaring, garrulous bachelor in his fifties, with a joie de vivre that I’ve never come across again. An intrepid naturalist who would disappear on trails for months at length. And just when we got used to his absence we’d find him back in the club, drinking bloody marys, telling stories about man eaters and lamas, showing off his scars to a group of wide-eyed children. It was as if he’d never left in the first place.
He was everything Eva wasn’t. A roaring, garrulous bachelor in his fifties, with a joie de vivre that I’ve never come across again. An intrepid naturalist who would disappear on trails for months at length. And just when we got used to his absence we’d find him back in the club, drinking bloody marys, telling stories about man eaters and lamas, showing off his scars to a group of wide-eyed children. It was as if he’d never left in the first place.
One evening, at a dinner party hosted by my parents, Bubbles accidently walked into my room mistaking it for the guest room. I was there listening to Ella and Louis on my tape (keep in mind this was a time when children weren’t welcome at parties). He stepped in, apologized on seeing me there, and was about to leave when he stopped short.
‘There’s Amstrong playing here while we’re all being subjected to the loathsome funeral sounds of Pink Floyd. You should be hosting this party instead of your parents,’ he said and made strangling gestures.
He asked me if he could rifle through my music and I obliged, embarrassed at the same time about my meagre collection - an odd smattering of Dixie jazz and blues, some rock, and sheet music.
He asked me if he could rifle through my music and I obliged, embarrassed at the same time about my meagre collection - an odd smattering of Dixie jazz and blues, some rock, and sheet music.
‘Do you know that you have an old soul brooding in that teenager self of yours?' he said. 'I've never heard of another brat listening to jazz.’ And then he brought me out to the party and announced to everyone that he had found his soul mate and that he was taking me under his wing to educate me in the blues. My parents were thrilled because adolescence was catching up with me much faster than they'd wished for, and I was quickly turning into a little monster at home, pilfering my father's alcohol and ciggies, slamming doors, not talking to anyone, devouring books, and generally being a bastard.
 |
| The album Ella and Louis, 1956 |
I cannot describe the collection of music Bubbles had. It was a galaxy on its own, and for a whole summer I was its queen. He let me play the piano at his. Any way I wanted. No metronome keeping time, no muttering under the breath, and the best part, no practicing those horrid scales. I made mistakes, forgot everything that Eva taught me, mixed Chopin with Schumann, tickled his furry Sheepdog, who had found a spot for himself at the base of the piano, just where the pedals were, giggled at my transgressions, drank soda with lots of tinkling ice, glass after marvelous glass while listening to records all the while. Bubbles introduced me to an explosion of a world, one which was impromptu, filled with laughter and the sounds of the trumpet, trombone, sax, bass, and drums. He infused a lightness in my soul. In a way he was my first great love, as wrong as it sounds. I didn’t even remember saying goodbye to that summer. It went by much too quickly.
There was no escaping Meat Loaf if you grew up in the Nineties. He sealed my incurable romanticism with that one song, even though I wasn't much of a fan.
Go listen to it.
It's a big big song. One that almost sums up our little existence. It has it all - the frustration (and some nights you're breathing fire. and some nights you're carved in ice), the angst (some days it don’t come easy, and some days it don’t come hard, some days it don’t come at all and these are the days that never end), the promise (I’d run right into hell and back), the ambiguity (and I would do anything for love but I won’t do that), the simplicity (and no one else can save me now but you), its non-conformism (and maybe I’m crazy oh it’s crazy but it’s true), and the inevitable reality check (I know the territory, I've been around. it'll all turn to dust and will all fall down. sooner or later, you'll be screwing around). It's all fuckin there.
Go listen to it.
It's a big big song. One that almost sums up our little existence. It has it all - the frustration (and some nights you're breathing fire. and some nights you're carved in ice), the angst (some days it don’t come easy, and some days it don’t come hard, some days it don’t come at all and these are the days that never end), the promise (I’d run right into hell and back), the ambiguity (and I would do anything for love but I won’t do that), the simplicity (and no one else can save me now but you), its non-conformism (and maybe I’m crazy oh it’s crazy but it’s true), and the inevitable reality check (I know the territory, I've been around. it'll all turn to dust and will all fall down. sooner or later, you'll be screwing around). It's all fuckin there.
It’s a song my brother and his cronies don’t get. I played it on youtube the other day, and they were amused by the guy playing ‘dress up’ in the video, the 'awful' lead guitars, the 'puke inducing corniness' of the lyrics, and the inconclusiveness of the song. One even had the cheek to chirp: ‘Meatloaf…what kind of a name is that? Making me hungry ya. Let’s go grab a bite, man.’
Here I was showing them the origins of my romanticism and they suggest 'grabbing a bite'! Disheartened with the uselessness of the generation, I told brother and his cronies to take their petty twittered lives elsewhere.
Here I was showing them the origins of my romanticism and they suggest 'grabbing a bite'! Disheartened with the uselessness of the generation, I told brother and his cronies to take their petty twittered lives elsewhere.
I had forgotten all about Meat Loaf, the Nineties, and big romances till I met an American boy with green eyes that held the sea in them. He still had the Nineties in his hair; and the apathy, the wonder, the confusion about social niceties. But he had a twenty-first century iPod and a playlist that stumped me.
He was walking me home one evening when it began to rain like the great flood was coming. We hurried to the nearest bus stop to wait out the storm. I fidgeted with his iPod when the scroll list stopped at Meat Loaf. It had been a lifetime since I had listened to it. Green eyes, intuitive as heck, was on to my train of thought. We plugged in the earphones and in no time we were bellowing out the song in a fruitless attempt to drown out the rain. It instantly transported me back to pre over-the-counter torn jeans, pre cell phones, pre email, pre a lot of other complexities of contemporary life. All the way back. Right back to when we made GI Joe and Barbie fight or kiss, depending on what kind of a pervert we would later turn out to be.
afterword: Meat Loaf has a name. It's Michael Lee Aday.
~
Now for the big guns. The man who makes me fall in love over and over again. The man who refuses to let me turn into a cynic or an everyday joe. Woody Allen. I'm not going into this because for those of you who know me, know my unwavering faith in his genius. Instead I'll leave you with a clip from the film Manhattan where Issac Davis contemplates on what makes life worth living.
~
Apart from all the people who have left their mark on me, the one thing which has been constant, as corny and hopeless as it sounds, is the sky. Growing up in Assam, you grow used to a limitless, rolling, and thunderous sky. The sky there is an exhibitionist, a show off, an epic, lording over us mere mortals. It is humbling and sonorous as it quietens the restless spirit. And coupled with rain, it takes on divine connotations. My hubris. It is a vast and glorious love story, one that made me the immaculate and incurable romantic that I am today.
 |
| The sky back home |
Evening had settled in by the time the taxi pulled up in front of my house. It was good to be home. July had been an exceptional month. I climbed the steps and at my doorstep I find, cheekily waiting for me, a stack of bills.
Where are the epiphanies when you need them most?
Where are the epiphanies when you need them most?
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