Saturday evening. It’s raining again in Bangalore. I used to joke when I moved here three years ago that the moment you think about stepping out on a weekend, it begins to rain in Bangalore. Mercifully, however, the downpour is neither torrential nor incessant – more like a show of crackers that dazzles and delights for a few moments, and then disappears, just as suddenly as it appeared.
So when there was a brief lull – which can be but an interval or the final bow for the day, always maintaining that element of intrigue - I decided to go for a walk down 100 Feet Road. It had been a while since I had taken in the smell of wet earth and savor the freshness that seems to imbibe even the dullest of objects after it has rained, and I was suitably armed with my old floaters and a black umbrella.
It turned out to be a horribly rude nudge into reality.
I have stayed off Indiranagar 100 Feet Road since I came to Bangalore more than three years ago. I still remember falling in love with this stretch of concrete as I was driven down it in a rickety auto rickshaw on my way to inspect my second house. The vast expanse of the road, the wide cobbled pavements straight out of a European town, the gracious houses deferentially sitting behind the majestic trees that formed a leafy arch across the width of the road, the red jacarandas in full bloom - I was reminded of a story of an enchanted grove that I had read as a kid. I confess that the road played a big part in my saying yes to the house, and continuing to stay in its vicinity since then.
But the slow rotting of this beautiful city has predictably not failed to escape 100 Feet Road. Many of the houses have been sold off and converted into shops and restaurants, leading to drastic cutting of the graceful old trees that once lind its banks. The beautiful stone pavements – once one of the widest in the city – have also been dug up and destroyed due to the construction and a stated intention to widen the road (which, of course, has not been followed up with any action). The road itself is in a pitiable condition – potholed at several places, overloaded with vehicles and noise and people, deprived of the many hued flowers that lent to it a unique calm and serenity. Destroyed by a hungry marauder who, unable to understand or appreciate the beauty of a beautiful Van Gogh, viciously slashes and rips it apart.
And so a walk that started with pleasurable anticipation turned into an incessant dodging of slush on the pavements and navigating between angry traffic at places where there was no pavement. Within five minutes, I was forced onto one of the more peaceful by-lanes (relatively speaking) to escape the vicious anger of this once beautiful road.
They paved paradise, and put up a lot of shops.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Blackout
Come, let us go our own way, without remembrance of what passed and could have passed between us. Let us meet as were to perchance meet two strangers, without recognition or recollection, devoid of memory and possibility.
Friday, January 04, 2008
The Sound of Patterns
An old unpublished post (is that an oxmoron?) - Aug 2006
A few days ago, I attended a formal office conclave to celebrate the inauguration of our new facility in Costa Rica. It was an elegant affair – about twenty of us from the office, and after a brief speech by the Costa Rican President (the guest of honor), we were shepherded into the cafeteria-turned-into-ball-room for champagne and light snacks. I noticed a pair of musicians at one end of the room, and immediately headed for that corner.
Throughout the two hour affair, which saw a score men, and a few women, all dressed in somber black and grey, network and talk shop, the man on the guitar and the lady on the flute plucked their melodies – oblivious to their audience, their bodies gently swaying with the music like soft waves – now the flautist would smile and challenge the man with a melody, now the guitarist would respond admirably and throw back the gauntlet.
What I liked best about the pair was not the music they played, but they way they played the music. Although they had been called upon to perform for an audience (albeit an indifferent one in this case), the music that they played was first for themselves – for them to create and them to savor. The artiste’s enjoyment was primary; making the audience happy was secondary.
And I think that is how any beautiful creation should be – a pure, confident and forthright expression of your heart, unencumbered by doubts and disbelief….not targeted towards the lowest or the largest common denominator, but created solely for the pleasure of creation. Like Howard Roark’s architecture in Fountainhead.
Later in the evening, the guitarist’s place was taken by a lady with a harp! I have never seen a harp before – it looks like something you would weave pretty patterns with. Come to think of it, that’s what music does too – except that you need to hear the patterns.
A few days ago, I attended a formal office conclave to celebrate the inauguration of our new facility in Costa Rica. It was an elegant affair – about twenty of us from the office, and after a brief speech by the Costa Rican President (the guest of honor), we were shepherded into the cafeteria-turned-into-ball-room for champagne and light snacks. I noticed a pair of musicians at one end of the room, and immediately headed for that corner.
Throughout the two hour affair, which saw a score men, and a few women, all dressed in somber black and grey, network and talk shop, the man on the guitar and the lady on the flute plucked their melodies – oblivious to their audience, their bodies gently swaying with the music like soft waves – now the flautist would smile and challenge the man with a melody, now the guitarist would respond admirably and throw back the gauntlet.
What I liked best about the pair was not the music they played, but they way they played the music. Although they had been called upon to perform for an audience (albeit an indifferent one in this case), the music that they played was first for themselves – for them to create and them to savor. The artiste’s enjoyment was primary; making the audience happy was secondary.
And I think that is how any beautiful creation should be – a pure, confident and forthright expression of your heart, unencumbered by doubts and disbelief….not targeted towards the lowest or the largest common denominator, but created solely for the pleasure of creation. Like Howard Roark’s architecture in Fountainhead.
Later in the evening, the guitarist’s place was taken by a lady with a harp! I have never seen a harp before – it looks like something you would weave pretty patterns with. Come to think of it, that’s what music does too – except that you need to hear the patterns.
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