Monday, June 9, 2008

Repeated song syndrome....

"Music is zenith", so says the Orkut profile of a dear friend of mine. I could not have agreed more. I would go to the extent of admitting that they are as animate as our own selves. Is it not the shoulders u cry on when u heart is full and absolutely choked??? Is it not the embrace u snuggle up to when ecstasy strikes you big and hard??? From the days of DD and its immensely popular and eagerly awaited bi-weekly Chitrahar and weekly Rangoli, it’s been a long journey to the days of MTV and B4U music. And not to mention the ubiquitous youTube and MetaCafe. It’s been a mushroom growth for music industry. Change is good. But then not all things change.

And one thing that has stood the test of time has been my love-hate relationship with music. Love, I it, with all my heart, but hatred it has always brought for me. I of course love music for all it has to offer, but there is one more strange reason I love it for. I simply never ever could come close to learning any musical instrument, how so ever hard I have tried. And let me shamelessly admit that I m too bad a singer even for bathrooms. There are two types of bad singers. One who think they are the Gulzars and Javed Akhtars in their own right and put all the fanciful words they can think about every time they open their mouth. Thankfully they tend to get the tune right. The second category has those people who render different tunes with the same lyrics everytime they start crooning. Meet Mr Rahman! That is how masterful they are with creating new tunes. There is something worse still, those who are bad at both. And I m the proud member of the last. In a nutshell, I m a hopeless singer. And I genuinely regret that. Next life and I would want to be born as Shreya Ghosal. I simply adore her. I do not know how many times “suna suna lamha lamha” has taken me to endless joyrides in its own magical world.

What might surprise u, it unfailing surprises me every time, is the fact that I tend to develop fancy for those songs all the more which I cannot sing a word of. It is rather common to ask someone their favorite song. When faced with this question, tone-deafs like me tend to mutter some incoherent words in some out of the world tune. Reading a prose would have sounded better. It's a predicament in its own embarrasing way. The audience claps merrrily. Happy at the realisation that there is someon who is worse off than him/her.
On a serious note it is a gift of expression I have been left bereft of. Just imagine the helplessness of a guy who has heard a song tens of thousands of times and not a word of it he can sing. But I have found smarter ways to ward off such predicaments. Make an Adnan or a Reshammiya song your favourite one.

The kind of music I develop taste for is another thing I have always been ridiculed for. I tend to develop particular liking for songs others would just give passing ears and never care to waste energy wanting an encore. Not that I hate this, and still not that I wish to change that, but if only friends could understand that. But I wish things stopped here. I have this habit of listening to any particular song of my choice in an infinite loop. Whether i do it intentionally or it just happens with me is something I have never been able for figure out, but that is incosequential here. But that habit of mine has not gone well some of my friends and has flared many a nerve. At least, definitely, of one colleague of mine. Right from my college days I have been taken to task for this habit of mine. Even by my close friends who had likings pretty similar to mine. But I never seem to be giving up this habit. Nor do I plan to. In fact I believe I have some solid reason not to relinquish this habit of mine.

It is impossible for me to work without songs playing in the background and at the same time songs can be a huge distraction when you need to concentrate hard. So that is when the tried and test repeated song syndrome lends a helping hand. No grey cells get exercised in teasing out the meaning of a song heard a thousand times. Its meaning and lyrics are clearly registered in your heart and mind. No extra grey cells get exercised to interpret its meaning. At the same time it, by virtue of being your favourite song, soothes your disturbed psyche. My college friends hardly found any substance in my arguments, just because they were my college friends.And why would they let go of a chance to push me against the wall. Not that they had no other issues to pull my leg, but then an extra one was always welcome. But I believe the highly erudite bloggers would find some salt in my arguments.


Sunday, June 8, 2008

The New Princess of Roland Garros...



Many a fairy-tales have been staged on the Phillipe Chatrier court. Some relegated to a corner of history books, others imprinted indelibly on innumerable hearts. History was once again waiting to be re-written, one way or the other, for at its door steps stood two immensely talented tennis-pros, both in their early twenties, competing for their first Grand Slam title. A befitting finale it may not have been. Nevertheless, it was definitely one for the heart.

What would you say about a girl who looks stunningly beautiful in her bright pink outfit?

That she is exceptional in her shot making with that near perfect forehand cross court. That she plays that impeccable double handed backhand down the line, leaving her opponent breathless. That, she at 6’1”, stands taller with her sheer grit and attitude. That she goes for her winners whether it is a break point she is facing or a match point she is going for. That she has that child-like innocence that belies her temperament beyond her age. That she has that impish tint about her grey eyes that keeps you glued to the screen for hours. That she has this compelling simplicity to write home about. That she is the new queen of Roland Garros. That she’s been the princess of many a hearts before Roland Garros crowned her the QUEEN.

That, she wins you over with that cute, heart rendering smile which brightens up her face every time she comes up with winners. That she amazes you with the sameness of expression that remains constant on her visage, be she in whatever stage of the game. That she genuinely feels sorry for her opponent if a shot of hers grazes the net-chord and spills right over, when many others prefer pumping their chest on similar occasions. That she neither throws starry tantrums on unforced errors nor does she speak a mouthful at incredible winners. That she has her own graceful way of egging herself on and pumping her fist. That she leaves u gaping with the sheer femininity of the manner in which she goes about doing her job. That, she is honest to the extent that she ruled a ball in favor of her opponent when the chair umpire had ruled against the ball landing in service court. And that too in a grand slam final. She lost that final but won my unconditional and unflinching support, for ever. That I have remained loyal in my support for her is a mere testimony to her abilities rather than of my standing on my words.