L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N

I wake up every morning dreaming about home. I see Mamma and Deuta and Aita, and even though the dreams don’t make sense at all, I wake up feeling sad. My heart feels like it is filled with lead, and I have to struggle to pick that heavy thing up and carry it with me as I get up from bed. And “that heavy thing”, like an adamant kid refusing to let go of its mother, clings on to me as I sleepwalk into the living room and plonk myself down on the couch; as I sit with the husband while he doles out some perfunctory affection to me, with his eyes constantly peeled to his laptop screen; as I get up and then sleepwalk into the kitchen and yawn myself a cup of tea and even as I dreamily glide about the kitchen hoping to find inspiration for breakfast. By then the cold seeps in slowly and stealthily, and before I know it, I am pulling my jacket tighter, holding the hot cup of tea a little closer to my face and earnestly trying to find a place where I can curl up into a tight ball and stay like that until all of winter has passed by and the sun is back up there where I can see it. It doesn’t help to think of our yard back home, and the lukewarm sun that felt like a mother’s touch on my back each morning. It doesn’t help to think of the occasional breakfast outdoors with Ma and Aita, talking about happy things and sad things over a pot of tea and sun-kissed breakfast platters. If anything, the heart starts aching a little bit as I stare at the busy city from the balcony, everything gray and gloomy, even the neon lights looking pale and faded as they twinkle dimly through the fog. And like the typical Bollywood movie that my life is, the heartache gets only worse as I kiss the husband goodbye for the day, and invite loneliness in through the very door he walks out of.

Sometimes, if I am lucky, I remember a happy song or stumble across one, and “that heavy thing” finally lets go of me before I end up a mopey mess. And then there are days like today, when homesickness wraps its tentacles around all around me, and it takes lot more than just a song. I walk about the house trying to find things to do. Pick up a shirt here, fold a towel there. Stare accusingly at the humming refrigerator for a few minutes and sometimes smack it angrily to stop it from being so loud. Tut-tut at the scattered DVDs and re-arrange the remotes lying on the table for the umpteenth time.

Before I know it, it is mid-morning, and I saunter back into the kitchen. When nothing else works, I turn to cooking. I open shelves, pull out drawers and stack the cans on the kitchen counter. And with a flash in the pan (literally), I am transformed from a homesick girl aching for home and a husband who would stay with her the whole day long, to a woman who is in her element, washing and chopping and cooking. As I chop my onions and grate my ginger, I am no longer in some different world. I am back home, in my mother’s kitchen, where onion and ginger in oil smells just the way it does here. It doesn’t matter if I am a thousand miles away from home; tomatoes go all soft and squishy on frying just the same. Potatoes boiled and mashed with salt and coriander taste just the same, specially with a dash of mustard oil. Lusi-aloo bhaji remain what they are no matter where I am: a classic. And when Ma gives me instructions on phone about how to cook fish with lai-xaak and I follow them to a T, it will taste just like Ma’s does. Unconditionally.

And even while I am cooking, the husband calls up to ask me about the weather in this home, and I tell him it is nice and warm and it smells very good. I remind him to have lunch and he reminds me to have mine and we hang up with a “See you”. I smile for a full five minutes like some idiot who’s suddenly reminded of some happy thing she had forgotten in a hurry: I will see him in the evening after all. Unlike the year before the wedding when it was solely the phone calls.

Being married to my best friend and keeping a good home. I guess I am starting to get the hang of it. Dealing with homesickness? Not so much, yet. But with a song here and a three course meal there, I think I will get by just fine.

P.S. Here’s the *on repeat* song for today.

The Saigon Story

The last week was quite the Diary Of A Wimpy Kid for me. Not that I am twelve. Nor am I wimpy. But Greg Heffley would have definitely envied me had he seen me over the last week.

But allow me to elaborate. The husband had to go to Saigon for official work, and I, the pampered housewife decided to tag along. And since we stayed in the guest house where the kitchen is a true no man’s land, I was pretty much left to my own devices with nothing to do. I mean nothing. Not even make the perfunctory cup of coffee in the morning for the husband. So I did what any clever wife on a break would do. Plonked myself down on the couch, put my feet up on the table, turned on the AC (it was effing hot and humid there, even in November) and sat my way through a movie marathon while eating my way through a heap of snacks I’d buy from the mart downstairs. And I would do this everyday. The husband, in Mom Heffley style, had suggested from time to time that I go out and explore the city, but ah, who wants to get all tanned and sweaty and tired when I could do all the exploring after dark, once the husband was home?

Oh but I did go out once. All by myself. To the blessed Bin Thanh market. And emptied my purse out there under the influence of wooing salesgirls. In my defense, they could actually speak English! And it was such a relief to be able to bargain in English! Well, I discovered Saigon is more used to, and hence more open to tourists. And hands down younger and more vibrant than Hanoi. Hanoi has an old city charm, and I imagine it to be place which doesn’t reveal its secrets to you that easily. You have to give it some time, and slowly, it will open itself to you. Not Saigon though. Saigon embraces you with open arms the moment you land here, and invites you, entices you, to enjoy thoroughly. While at Hanoi the streets are empty by nine, Saigon doesn’t sleep before eleven. If only there were no traffic jams bad enough to make you lose all enthusiasm because you actually forget where you were headed to all decked up, Saigon and I would have been best friends, me thinks.

But coming back to the exploring bit, we went to the Hard Rock Cafe there and then walked around the lanes in District 1, which is one of the most happening places in the city. Restaurants and five star hotels and shopping malls, they all are nestled close by each other in that area. We dined at an Indian restaurant, and the food was Indian enough for us, which is all that can be said about it. There are in fact quite a few Indian restaurants there, which is really a consequence of the fact that there are many Indians out there. Staying in Hanoi it was quite the pleasant change for me to see some faces from back home. Even though the few ladies that I talked to didn’t take me as an Indian in first glance. But well, what’s new in that, huh?

For the weekend we escaped to a place called Phan Thiet about four hours from Saigon by car. The husband and I, another Indian couple and a Vietnamese family; we all packed ourselves in a big van and reached the Pandanus Resort by the Mui Ne beach at around midnight on Friday. And even though I spent most of the journey playing sign language with the Vietnamese kids (two cute little girls) and the other half gaping at dragon fruit farms with lights glowing on each goddamn plant, the moment I was in the resort I was like a kid on a sugar high. The men folk shared a couple of drinks by the pool till two in the morning while the wives gave them company and laughed at the kids’ antics. Typical.

If I were to write about the resort this post will carry on forever because I could write pages of poetry in rhyme for that place. Flowers. Bluest pool ever. Coconut palms scattered over green grassy fields. Sea waves that made themselves heard all day long, and even more at night. Ponds and fisheries with pink and purple lotus floating on them. Live music in the reception area. More flowers. The B.E.A.U.T.I.F.U.L spa. And then some more flowers. The place was seriously a riot of colors. And as if that was not enough, I jet skied over those huge waves, tried way more seafood than my “khar-khuwa” stomach is used to (huge shrimps the size of crabs, oysters, roasted prawns), and then topped it off with locally brewed beer. I guess “bliss” has a whole new standard to live up to right now.

But like all good movies and better books, the holiday ended a little too soon. Not before adding a lot to my life, though. And I am not just talking about the extra kilos that I now flaunt (not!). Now that I am back in Hanoi, and it is nippy and gray all day long, all I do is close my eyes and think of that time when I was lying all by myself in a beach chair under a coconut palm, a drink with oranges and peach in my hands, the sea waves lulling me to sweet slumber and my eyes struggling between wanting to surrender and to take in all that was in front of me. Believe it or not, I am transported in a moment. And the cold isn’t that bad anymore.

Easy like a Sunday morning

Yes. I mean it like the Faith No More song. Because it is a Sunday. Even though it is not morning anymore. But what the hell, my curtains are drawn and there’s oriental music drifting in from someplace outside and I am all alone, and I could pretend it is any time of the day I want to.

When we first came here, I couldn’t really take all the noise from the drilling and welding from the nearby construction site, not to mention the massive crane with six humongous lights glaring at my face all night long whenever I made the novice blunder of not drawing the curtains before going off to sleep. I wished they would take a break and give me mine. Seriously! It doesn’t matter if it is three in the morning or ten at night. These people work *all* the time! Add to that the Bahn Cuon sellers who cycle around the locality with a recorded message blaring from their speakers searching for buyers way past midnight and I was ready to scream out loud and pull my hair. Whatever’s left of it, I mean. Most of it is gone, anyway, thanks to the water here. But well, now, I am all zen. Even though it is mostly because of forty-five minutes of foam bath and scented candles and relaxing music, everyday. I still toss and turn in bed each night wishing for silence or at least, more “night-like” sounds, but I have accepted all the noise and disturbance as a part of life out here. Just like I have started to accept everything else.

So what do I really know about this place after nearly three weeks? Not much, but enough to just get by. Plus, there’s always the blessed internet and my best friend, Google. Starting from where to get a haircut to where to find dumplings, I have obsessively scanned reviews and comments and replies to those reviews and comments. I had deliberately refrained from reading about Hanoi before coming here, hoping to form my own opinion without it being affected by anything or anyone else, and I am glad I did that. At least I got to find out most of the things on my own.

Like the fact that Hanoians love their karaoke. I think every sixth building has a karaoke bar in it. There are three bars in my street itself and I can see at least five more from my bedroom window. They also love their foot massages, by the way. Maybe more than karaoke if the number of massage parlors in my street is anything to go by. And they love to display everything in flashy neon lights. From signboards screaming out names of shops to string lights draped on trees, it is all very showy and festive. And I like how I can almost hear the streets sing “Look at me! Look at me!” to me. Wedding photography is a hot thing out here, like I already mentioned. It is not unusual to see brides in white flowing gowns and grooms in white suits giving dramatic poses in public locations while the photographer clicks away, jostling passersby if he has to. And oh, these people love their bikes. From teenagers to office goers to heavily pregnant women (honest!), they all prefer traveling in bikes than in cars. Even in my belly dancing class I must be the pampered housewife who takes a cab to and from the class while the other girls put on their smart helmets and take out their chic bikes and “vroooom” off. Which reminds me, yes I joined belly dancing class. And they play Bollywood songs during the warm-up sessions. Tiny packets of bliss these people keep sending my way, I tell you.

I think this place is starting to grow on me, you know. Each night when the husband and I go out for our post-dinner walk, I see people sitting on low stools on the pavement, enjoying their snacks and fruit juices and cut fruits, and I see friends chilling and chatting and laughing, and I feel a pang of homesickness. I am immediately drifted to my university campus, surrounded by all my favorite people, singing and cracking jokes and talking about everything under the sun. But then a crisp fresh scent floats to me in the pleasant autumn breeze and I am brought back to the streets turned orange due to the streetlights, and I realize the streets are finally starting to look familiar. And each time I open the door to our house, I finally feel I am home.

Which brings me back to where I started. It is easy, just like a Sunday morning. This whole falling in love with this new place and accepting the homesickness as a bittersweet accessory. Sometimes all it takes is a good song, a long foam bath, and siphoning off all the thoughts to an unnecessary blog post.

Picking up the threads

Two weeks. Fifteen days. And innumerable novel experiences of a novice homemaker. Some things I have been keeping track of (the daily expenses, for one) and some things I let pass by me without thinking much about (that I spent 750000 VND on just a facial out of spite). You know how it is.

So you see, while I had written about the first week in Hanoi, and how it was to start making a home out of a house, I had skipped that bit about how in a pathetic attempt to be a good wife, I once actually served just an apple for breakfast to the husband, because there was nothing else in the house for the two first days! While I had written about crocodile meat being sold in Big C, I had skipped that bit about how I had nightmares long after I had seen an actual crocodile head being chopped off and displayed for show on a slab of ice, and how peeling the skin off and “dressing” the meat is “exhibited” as a form of art for a mesmerised audience. Sometimes we all do things like that. Not peel off crocodile skin, of course. Skip things we don’t want to talk about, I mean.

But in the last two weeks I have seen things I had never seen before, done things I hadn’t done before, and realized a few things I had never thought I would.

So while back at home, I had cooked from time to time, it was more of a hobby, not a compulsion. And now that I am actually running a kitchen, I am amazingly at ease with the whole concept of cooking three times in a day. Okay, two times. Lunch includes shoving containers of leftover dinner into the microwave and having it all by myself since the husband’s away. Like my sister never fails to add whenever people ask me if I cook, I used to cook just fancy stuff. Not the humble everyday meals. And I sincerely can not put into words the feeling I have after cooking something the way I had seen my Ma cook it, and then realizing with pride that it smells and tastes just like hers did! I plan meals with as much zeal as I used to plan eating out with friends. I am just as happy when the husband loves something I had cooked as I used to be when somebody told me I looked good. For the record, now that it is just me and the husband, this is not something I hear very often. But meh, whatever. It’s been quite some time that I have realized the dude is more expressive when it comes to food than he is about me.

Moving on. This must be the first time in my life when I have tasted four different cuisines in ten days’ time. From authentic Vietnamese to Mexican to Thai to French. I gushed over the crab spring rolls and bahn cuons and the typical Vietnamese green mango salad with shrimps, I fell in love with the Thai green curry served with rice, and the chicken soup with coconut milk that had a distinct lemon grass flavor, and I actually became poetic over my bacon flowers served on a bed of lotus seeds and caramelized pork. Once we both figured out how to go about eating it, of course. I mean, we didn’t even know what to do with those chunks of roll that they kept serving one at a time on a soup spoon until our starter arrived. But ah, my stomach is the last thing I have to worry about now that I am here. Oh, and I am married, which means I can afford to be a little complacent, at least for a few days (wicked smile)

But enough has been said about the food. I should probably talk about the silent haggling that I witnessed, much to my amusement, just last week. So just near Hoan Kiem is a huge shoe market where you can get all the fake Nikes and Adidas and Pumas that you had dreamt of, and more. The husband wanted a pair of slippers to wear at home, and when he picked one, the saleswoman, an elderly lady, promptly picked up the calculator and typed out the price. The husband raised his eyebrows as fast as he could, and typed out his price. I merely laughed, the supportive wife that I am. The lady shook her head, took the calculator from him and typed out her price again. After fifteen minutes of taking turns on the calculator, they finally agreed on a price, and I was amazed once again by how people have found ways around the entire language barrier. But then again, body language is universal. A nod will always mean a yes, and a shake will always mean a no. A smile will only be a smile everywhere, and a frown will only be a frown.

Between people coming and talking to me in Vietnamese and learning a little bit of it myself, between realizing that out here there are still places where they shape eyebrows with a blade (yes, a blade!) and between marveling over the most fresh, the choicest fruits and vegetables money can buy, I’ve also had a few Hanoi moments of my own. Like that impulsive dance move in the middle of the street my husband surprised me with as we walked hand in hand by the Hoan Kiem lake. Like seeing that cute kid with a proud mohawk (the rest of his hair was shaved) holding his brothers hand in the lift. Like listening to a Vietnamese song in the radio and realizing I could hum along with it because I had heard it once before.

Life, for the last two weeks has been different, has been difficult. But most of all, has taught me what life is really about. Making the best of what is thrown at you, and learning to be happy with what you have. Signing off before the homesickness gets to me yet again. Tam biet!

The little things

I had always known that it is the little things that work for me, from being happy to being upset. Friends tell me I hold on to the tiny things I shouldn’t be holding on to, and that times when I should actually be upset over something, I don’t even think it is worth being upset over. Even back in the university, all it had taken for me to be happy was a long walk, a cup of coffee and some feel-happy song playing full blast on repeat.

I had never known just how little it takes to make me go all sunshine-y and summer-y until I came here.

No, honest! So while the first two days we spent running around getting stuff for the kitchen from Big C, on the third day we decided to take our chances on the Vincom Tower (or to put it officially Hanoi Vincom Center) which is a business center with six levels used for commercial purposes, including a supermarket spanning across a whole level. The other 17 levels are used by the embassy and other international organisations. Even as I entered the brightly lit, welcoming place, there was a smile plastered on my face. Finally a mall where I could actually take a breath without gulping in someone else’s. Escalators with steps! And not those clumsy step-less ones where I can’t ever maintain my balance. Brands I actually had heard of before! Le’s Mart with awesome music being played in the background! It took all of my self-restraint not to dance a jig right in the middle of the store. Such was my relief to get a change from noisy crowded Big C.

The husband and I methodically scanned each aisle and each shelf for stuff we needed. Sugar, salt, and ketchup (Heinz!). Cornflakes (Kelloggs, another name I knew!) and biscuits (Oreo, my dear friend you!). The exclamations at the end are en exact depiction of my reaction, just in case you were wondering. But my favorite buy of that day had to be the perfect saucepan with a glass lid for making tea, and a wooden spatula with the flattest end possible to flip my omelettes, and oh, an egg beater just like the one we have back home in Mamma’s kitchen. Funny how “just like the one we have back home” seems to be the yardstick for the “good” now that I am this far away from home. And did I mention the humongous wooden rolling pin that we got? I mean, which self-respecting wife doesn’t have one both for self-defense and sometimes offense, eh? That I used it to make map shaped “lusis” the other day is just something that comes along with it, I guess. And just when I thought my shopping couldn’t get any better, I saw these warm cuddly bedroom slippers that made me feel like I was gliding on a cloud, and I had to pick them up. The wooden floor is starting to get colder as the days pass by, you see. Oh, look at me gush over saucepans and spatulas and bedroom slippers!

But even now, as I look at the sunshine somehow peeking through the fog, I realize once again it is always about the small things. The picture perfect golden yellow omelette that slides from the pan to the plate without me having to fumble over it. The yellow and red roses I bought dirt cheap from the flower shop just three minutes from my place. The fragrant pink lilies which make me take a deep breath each time I pass them by in my living room. Discovering a KFC and an Al’Fresco’s (a chain of restaurants which serve the most amazing steak and chips) at walking distance from where we live during our late night post-dinner walk yesterday. Being able to give instructions to the taxi driver in Vietnamese, and actually managing to reach my destination correctly. Standing on the top of a foot bridge and watching the busy evening traffic melt into a sea of red and yellow lights.

I don’t know if this is how things will be, for days to come as well. But I am enjoying it while it lasts. Someday, I will start worrying about jobs and salary and savings and taxes. But for now, it will be just about the pots and pans and flowers and slippers.

Hullo Hanoi; Hullo Home

Come tomorrow, I will complete all of one week in Hanoi. A standing ovation would be welcome here. So far, all I have managed to figure out is that Ga is chicken and Bo is beef and Heo is pork, so I at least know the kind of meat I am buying from the super mart which sells crocodile meat as a Sunday delicacy. I know Mo is one, and Hai is two and Ba is three, and that’s all I have managed when it comes to numbers. Not that it helps. I know Cam On Ba is thank you, but I haven’t been able to pronounce it in a way that my maid can understand. And well, I know not to ever buy five whole kilos of rice at the first go because now we are stuck with five kilos of amazingly sticky rice that doesn’t quite go well with Indian curry.

Hmm.

The husband and I landed in Hanoi last Tuesday sometime in the afternoon. Oh, just in the passing, I should probably mention that I got married. And next month on the 7th we complete a month. Another standing ovation, please? But I digress. I was talking about how in the airport itself, I got the taste of how things happen in Hanoi. I am saving my opinion about Ho Chi Minh City until when I actually visit it so I won’t talk about how things happen in Vietnam. But while all I had to do in Singapore to clear immigration was wait in a line for all of three minutes before being asked to approach a desk, in Hanoi, I had to huddle with a group of other people waiting for something, anything to happen. Twenty minutes later, I somehow happen to see my passport being held up and my name being called out (funny thing, even in my country people couldn’t pronounce my name, out here my name should just be “Unpronounceable”) and I try push my way to the counter to get my visa-on-arrival done. And once I have the visa, I say byes to the acquaintances I had made even while standing in that not-a-queue.

Once we are in the taxi on the way to our new apartment, I had my eyes glued to the road, and my first thought was that had it not been for the Vietnamese on the billboards, I would have thought myself to be in Delhi. After glitzy Singapore and beautiful Indonesia, Hanoi was a bit of a let down at first sight, but well, three hours of air travel, one hour of airport struggle and another hour in a taxi, and we were finally home. For some strange reason, I was smiling when I got off the taxi. I didn’t care that I was two thousand miles away from home. I didn’t care that all I had to hold on to was my brand new husband right next to me, and I didn’t care that I didn’t understand a single thing on the sign boards around me. This was to be my home. My first ever. And our house agent waiting for us with a basket of flowers on the table and chilled water in the refrigerator just made me smile a little more. It was love at first sight with the house. And what sealed it was the wooden floors and my very own bath tub.

Although normally it takes me about three days to recover from three hours of flying, all I could think of at that point of time was “I need stuff to put in this house!” and so, without waiting to change or even freshen up, off we went to the mart nearby, Big C. Big C is quite the Hanoi equivalent of our very own Big Bazaar. It is just as crowded, just as chaotic and just as loud. If someone had told me the shopping spree would continue for three whole days maybe I would have waited to take a breather before diving in head first. But well, you gotta do what you gotta do.

First came the pots and pans, although I took four days to find the perfect pretty ones. Our aim on the very first day was the “survival kit” and novices that we both are, we left out crucial stuff while we picked up trivial ones. So although we bought the pan to fry eggs, we didn’t find salt to cook it with. Although we had the strainer for tea, we couldn’t actually find the tea. I realized the importance of label graphics the moment I realized that they were all I could count on since all the labels were in Vietnamese.Two hours of running around trying to decipher labels and we were finally ready to give up for the day.

The next day being Diwali, I wanted to set up my prayer room. Yes, you heard right. My. Prayer. Room. Which has a Chinese style wooden temple and our “Kirtan Ghuxa” and “Goonamala” wrapped up in a “gamusa”, and the book of Borgeet on it. I actually found tamul-paan (betel nut and betel leaf) to offer on my “thapona” along with a bronze Singaporean dollar on an actual “kaahor bota”. You call it fusion, I call it management with limited resources. I even made a rangoli on our wooden floor, and lit up “diya”s and lights we had brought from India. We had a Vietnamese family over for dinner, and all in all, the first Diwali went pretty much the way I had imagined it would be.

It is with immense pride that I say that I now have a full fledged up and running kitchen, and I can whisk up almost anything from humble everyday meals to fancy gourmet ones. Just spare me the rice though. The husband and I will work it out in maybe another week’s time, and then I can serve you rice with pride. Until then, it has to be frozen roti pratas or over cooked and under cooked (at the same time, mind you) rice. And over dinner, we can talk about the amazingly cold weather and wedding photography (quite a hot thing out here, let me tell you) by the Hoan Kiem lake. Or we could just skip the dinner bit and go have coffee in the Highlands Coffee by the Opera House and stare at the backside of the Hilton. Or I could just sit right here and listen to my bamboo wind chimes and miss my people back in India some more.

Sigh.

New stories in Project Burhi Aai’r Xadhu

After a gap of almost three months, I have finally been able to add more files to my collection of Burhi Aair Xadhu in my grandmother’s voice. What did I do in all this time, you ask me? I got my MCA degree (yes, Sir I did), found out my headphones stopped working, bought a new pair of headphones, found out my microphone port stopped working (grrrr), installed the recording software in my mother’s laptop, and waited for my Aita to recover from prolonged viral fever. The sequence of events are not necessarily in correct order, though.

Anywho.

With just two weeks left for me to leave this country I have to wrap up things as fast as I can. Wish me luck. And share the good news! The stories can be found in my profile in esnips. Just in case you’d forgotten.

Ciao for now!

The on-repeat playlist : this week

So yeah. I suddenly have a vague recollection of promising to post my favorite songs every week in this very blog. But ah, for once I’d like to have a bad memory and say, “What? I don’t remember promising something like that!”

Meh. Sometimes I am selfish and love to keep all the good music I have found all to myself. Sometimes I am a little too lazy to post stuff that I am actually dying to share with all the people. So enough is enough, I thought. Here’s getting straight to business. Here’s one of my choicest and (I’d like to think) most diverse playlist that I can’t seem to get enough of, for the last week. Or maybe two. I forget.

I’ll start with the one song I have been listening on repeat the whole day. Actually since yesterday.

So I first got to know about Mozella after watching a Castle episode for the umpteenth time. Must be in one of the episodes in Season 2 that the song “Can’t Stop” plays in the background. I guess I had missed the song in my first viewing. But well, as is my habit, I found out the song, liked it, and straightaway searched for Mozella in Grooveshark. And suddenly this song got to me. Like hit me with a truck or something. “Uh-Uh” is from Mozella’s album Belle Isle, and although all the songs are really good, this one, with its backing vocals is specially catchy. More so because it is about a woman who steadfastly rebuffs her guy’s pleas for forgiveness, and doesn’t relent to all his pleas. Man I wish I were like her!

Before this, I was listening to Ingrid Michaelson. And particularly this song.

My sister was the one to introduce me to Ingrid Michaelson. She had first posted a link of her song “The Way I Am” and I fell in love with the song from first listen, but in the long run, my favor tilted towards “You And I”. I have always been a fan of quirky lyrics, and even though Ingrid Michaelson reminds me sometimes of Regina Spektor and sometimes of Elizabeth and The Catapult, I like the fact that her songs are happier, and lighter, and you are bound to smile once you have heard the songs. Definitely one of my happy songs. Plus I absolutely love the ukulele!

Now, this next song by Edward Sharpe ad The Magnetic Zeros, I hunted for. I mean, I found it on my purposeful hunt for new music on the Popular tab in Grooveshark. I should by now just pledge allegiance to that site, really.

So what do I love about this song? Umm, just about everything. Starting from the whistling, to the perky beat and to the fact that this is a love song like one I hadn’t heard before. I mean, really, it doesn’t get any better than “Home, let me come home, Home is wherever I’m with you”. Plus it has got this old feel to it that appeals to the sucker for classics in me.

Before that I went through a total Alexi Murdoch phase. I can’t count the number of times I had to pause the movie “Away We Go” to google the lyrics and find out what song was playing in the background (I never have the patience to wait till the end credits roll) only to realize it is an Alexi Murdoch song. My favorite so far is this.

I am always about interesting beginnings, and this is as amazing as it gets, I tell you. Even “All of My Days” is a good song, but well, Blue Mind has this something I can’t put my finger on that appeals to me. This is for the rainy nights when I want to just lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

I went through an ambient music phase in between, and it started with Azzo. The track is called Jonathan and I hunted it down after hearing it in a video. Worst part with instrumentals is that it doesn’t have lyrics I can google… But well, find it I did!

Jonathan by Azzo

The starting is a little shrill so it might kind of get to your nerves but believe me it gets better. I played this song for one whole night and I can safely say I quite got used to the high-pitched intro by the eleventh time. It was only after this piece that I started finding out what was ambient music, and discovered Aphex Twin. Phase didn’t last long. Only this piece did.

Moving back further, I also spent one whole day listening to Lil Wayne’s “How to Love”.

This isn’t what I normally expect from Lil Wayne so maybe it was more of surprise that worked for this song. It is slow, and sad and touches me in a way I can’t explain. Maybe it is the minor chords that do it for me. This song actually makes me stop doing whatever it is I am doing, and just keep staring at my laptop screen vaguely. Whatever it is, it did change my opinion about Lil Wayne, just like “Anything” changed my opinion about Jay-Z.

Saving the best for the last, this song I discovered only after watching The Social Network. Blasphemy, I know, both discovering a Beatles song through a movie, AND watching a good movie a year and a half post its release, but well, sometimes, you need to save things for later so you can savor them better!

I got hooked to the intro, big time. The Beatles had always used unusual elements and had experimented with a lot of different things, but this was something I hadn’t heard before. Prompted me to download the entire discography, I tell you. And bam! The Beatles were back in my life yet again.

So much for now… I have also been listening to some Kina Grannis, and David Byrne and RnB compilations but I keep going back to these songs over and over again.

Give the songs one listen at least.. and do let me know. I have been known to play Genius to my friends so I’d love to make more personalized playlists! Ciao for now!

I want to believe

Prelude: The seed of this post was sown almost a year ago when I saw the famous X-file poster a friend of mine had put up as his display picture in Gtalk. Well, this is what I am talking about.

But aliens and spaceships and X-files were not the first thing to come to my mind at all. Infact, it wasn’t until I actually Googled the phrase that I got to know about the origins of the poster. What stuck on my mind were those four words.

I want to believe.

Right.

I want to believe in fairy tale romances. Stuff straight out of Snow White and Cinderella and Rapunzel. I want to believe in the quintessential handsome Prince Charming riding on his white horse and taking his Princess off to the land of the happily ever after. I want to believe that good always happens to the good and that in the end evil is always vanquished. And that humiliated and hurt, evil doesn’t raise its proverbial ugly head again. I want to believe in happy endings. Always.

I want to believe that someday, life will go back to how it was meant to be. Slow and easy. And I want to believe that when that day comes and when people actually stop to smell the roses, the roses will smell sweeter than ever. I want to believe that someday people will again start caring what happens in the house next door, and neighbors will start lending and borrowing sugar again. I want to believe that someday, kids will learn their ABCs where they are supposed to. In school. And that they will not have to rote stuff and sit for tests and prove that they already know everything before they can even join a school and actually start learning. I want to believe simplicity will be back in fashion.

I want to believe that balancing everything is easy. That a person can juggle his career and his family equally efficiently, and earn lots of money and have lots of time, all at the same time. I want to believe in babies being brought up and pampered by super moms who also zealously nurture their job. I want to believe in a life minus compromises and priorities. In a life where everything is important and nothing is too important.

I want to believe that someday MTV will go back to being just about music. That reality shows will stop being phony and staged and that Indian soaps will stop revolving around extremely improbable family drama. I want to believe that comedy will not just be restricted to stand-up shows and be more like the “Idhar Udhar” and the “Yeh Jo Hain Zindagi” and the “Wagle Ki Duniya“. I so, so want to believe that someday, the characters in Hindi serials will not just be clubbed into angels and devils, and will have shades of grey like all of us do. And that they will definitely stop sleeping in their finest silks decked up in all of their gold. And will at least care to open their shoes before jumping into bed (ah, the filmed horror!).

I want to believe that news channels will stop being about hyperventilating screaming reporters emphasizing and sometimes enhancing an already fragile situation, and be more about calm and hopeful yet realistic assessments. I mean, we really don’t need to be more terrified than we already are, do we? I want to believe someday I will turn on the TV without the so-called “truth” being yelled at my ears at high decibels and glaring at me in brisk flashing sequences. I want to believe television will be about information and entertainment and not meaningless publicity and drama riots.

I want to believe in Harry Potter and his enchanting world in Hogwarts where everything becomes alright with the swish of a wand. I want to believe in flying dragons and magical rings and I want to believe that they are strewn all around us waiting for that right moment to reveal themselves. And I want to believe that the right moment is now. I want to believe in the stories of Gods descending on earth in different “avatars” to save the mortals from the devils’ wrath, and I want to believe that this “Kalyug” of global warming and rising prices and corruption is actually the beginning of an end and that “Satyayug” is just around the corner. I want to believe in my grandmother’s tales of the cycles of eras and I want to believe that the right after the worst is over, the best times will begin. I want to believe that fiction and mythology are tales based on reality, and that what we read is what is true.

I want to believe in undying love. In Coke which doesn’t melt bones and teeth. In matches made in heaven. In artificial sweeteners which actually don’t have sucrose in them. In gadgets that never need an upgrade. In a perfectly innocent childhood. In playtime being about throwing ball in the backyard. In diets that don’t leave you unsatisfied and hungrier than ever. In free lunches. In rolling stones sometimes gathering moss after all. In deals with no asterisks and no fine prints. In a life with no regrets. In friendship with no conditions.

I want to believe in life itself. That even if it takes us places we don’t want to go to, or teaches us lessons we don’t want to, in the end, it knows what is best for us.

So much for random nonsense. Oh, and I want to believe this random nonsense made some sense as well.

The 15th August Post

My earliest memory of the Independence Day is waking up to the sound of 21 cannon fires, and sleepily walking to the TV to hear the Prime Minister’s speech. I knew it was the Prime Minister because Dad told me so. The only thing that was special was the TV being turned on that early in the morning. True, Independence Day celebrations lacked the spark and colors of the Republic Day parade, and even the Prime Minister’s speech went over my head, but at least for once Mom would make an exception and we would get to have breakfast in front of the TV. Gradually Independence Day became embossed in my memory as a holiday laced with fear (thanks ULFA, for nothing) that I couldn’t wait to see the end of. The irony of the whole thing was that the day after Independence Day is my birthday, and all I would pray during the 15th was to remain alive to celebrate adding another year to my life. If terrorizing was what the banned outfit had intended to do, I guess they had done a pretty good job, since they managed to induce fear for life into a ten year old. I wouldn’t let any of the family members go outside that day, and my Mom says she could actually see relief in my eyes once the dreaded evening would be over. So thanks to the fact that I studied in a missionary school, and to the ULFA for declaring Assam Bandhs each year without fail, I grew up to be twenty without having witnessed a real flag hoisting on Independence Day. If that was not enough, the ban on the National Flag until then also meant that the only time I got close to one was when I had to draw it for Social Studies lessons.

You can’t really blame me for not quite getting the “spirit” of celebrating our Independence when the only thing I learnt since I was a kid was to be scared of this day. I would ask Dad, “What’s there to be so happy about the 15th August anyway? Doesn’t it always bring in blasts and curfews and chaos and fear with it?” And Dad would tell me stories of his school days when Independence Day meant major celebrations in school, and how they would spend sleepless nights in anticipation of the day. I would later hear similar stories from friends who studied in Kendriya Vidyalayas, and always feel a pang of jealousy because I could never get that bit about Independence Day being fun… something to be happy about… something to look forward to.

And then, one brutal 15th August, 11 kids in Dhemaji died in a bomb blast, and I wept for them and their families and tried to find an answer to the nagging “Why?”. I remember an event in the Latasil Field in Guwahati, where painters from all over came to pay tribute to those eleven kids, and as I walked by all alone, the only thing I had wanted to do was scream and shout even though I knew no one would hear me. I cursed the fateful Independence Day. I cursed them ruthless killers. I cursed humanity and I cursed myself for being a silent spectator. For being helpless. I turned a cynic. I lost faith as I realized, if the cost of wanting to celebrate Independence Day was your very life, then maybe it wasn’t worth it after all.

Then Rang De Basanti happened. And soon after, the protest by medical students against reservations happened. I would like to think the latter was inspired by the former. Because both made me sit up and take note. True, RDB was just a movie, but it made me think yet again. And realize that if I truly believed in a cause passionately, maybe even I wouldn’t stop to think about the consequences, as long as I stood up for what I believed in. And a year after that, when I heard the National Anthem being played right before a movie in a PVR, and I got goosebumps and weird choking feeling inside me while hearing it, I realized something else. That patriotism doesn’t need to be about celebrating Independence Day with gusto once a year, or maybe painting my face and cheering for my cricket team as it plays against our arch enemy. It is not something that you have to show off. It is not about posting status updates and changing your profile picture once a year and yelling out a happy independence day, and forgetting about it for the rest of the year. You are a patriot, as long as you know that you care.

And I do. I love my country. And it makes me sad that I am such an insignificant minuscule part of it, and the only thing I can do as a citizen is to give my vote religiously (still haven’t got around to paying taxes, jobless that I am) and abide by the laws. Even though ethical politics is slowly becoming a myth and timely justice a thing of the past. I still care enough to have hope inspite of everything. Someday, my country will be free. From fear. And that day, we will all come out on the streets and celebrate all day long. As one.