Another Aizawl Diary: Sunday - Tuesday: Part 2

SUNDAY
Seilen Haokip is the spokesperson for the Kuki National Organisation. The Kuki are a minority tribe in this region dominated by the Meitei, Mizo and Naga tribes. All three tribes geographically exist in the region of present day Manipur, northern Myanmar, north eastern Bangladesh, Mizoram and Nagaland. The Kuki occupy most of the mountainous lands of Manipur, which is almost 90% of the state, and the balance in the plains is taken up by the Meitei, the political masters of the state.

Historically, the Kuki have been maligned, betrayed, and generally sinned against. It began from British times and continued by India. It is only of late that the central government has negotiated an understanding with the KNO, and this should soon reach public awareness. Seilen, an articulate academician, is a Kuki himself, and I can see the fervour in his eyes. He is troubled by many things he has learned and has to deal with. Yet, he speaks for many of us when he says they want a comprehensive understanding of their situation and that peace and amity can only be achieved within the framework of the Constitution of India. Their stated objective is statehood and not secessionism. They want to be given the right to administer themselves. We already have examples of similar political demands in Jharkhand and Uttaranchal, though the latter is more administrative rather than political.

There are plenty of separatist, militant organisations in this region with the UNLF, a Meitei group, and the NSCIM, a Naga group, most radical in their demands. The Kuki also have their own, but these groups demands are from the government of Myanmar. The KNO are not considering any others than those Kuki who are already legally resident in India, mostly in Manipur.

I learned a little bit more about India once more. There's so much of these areas that we are blissfully uninformed about. I recall a call from a friend in Calcutta on my first day here who expressed genuine surprise that I had chosen this particular destination for my vacation. His parting words to me were to be careful I didn't get caught in a presumed crossfire between militants and security forces. Many in mainland India believe the north eastern lands to be constantly in a state of strife with no peace or security at all. My only question to them is how do they think most of the citizens of these areas survive quite happily and successfully day to day? We have serious strife and turmoil in the mainland as well, never forget. And these issues are about identity too. Identity relating to community, belief systems, and the constantly burning issue of the rich-poor divide.

What's different here? Probably the media and vested interests making more of the separatist and secessionist demands of the extremists than is actually warranted. And not adequately acknowledging peaceful and reasonable movements like the KNO who want to work within the Indian polity. This is more significant and important, despite the aura and fascination that extreme activism holds for some sections of the youth.

Seilen must return to the family. It's his son's fourth month today and understandably wants to be home with them after our long chat. I put him in touch on the phone with my dear friend and senior journalist, Paranjoy. They plan to meet in Delhi next week to see what can be done for the right and proper media coverage.
*******

Jane and Zo have a castle in the skies. Literally. I can see their house from the balcony of my hotel room. It perches at the edge of a hill just below the Aizawl Theological College at Durtlang. (Dur means cloudy and Tlang means hill in Mizo, by the way). Its location offers a wide-angle view of Aizawl city sprawled across seven hills. Absolutely amazing, and when viewed at night as I did, very charming too.

A long staircase goes straight down to the roof of their house from the private carport. Zo calls it his “Stairway to Heaven”, an obvious reference to the Led Zeppelin anthem of our musical yesteryears. It's the first time I'm entering a house top down. Well, second time, when you count last year's visit.

They are a well-informed, urbane, and delightful couple with two very well brought up sons. It was a pleasure meeting them the first time, and it is equally a pleasure this time. Over whisky and dalmoth bought at a BSF canteen, we exchanged notes and talked of this, that, and the other. Jane's home cooked Mizo meal was worth all the many helpings I took. Bai – a most wondrous dish that is like a soup flavoured with pork pickle, the Mizo chilli, and cubed portions of the stem of a cousin of the banana tree! There was also a tasty beef curry, dal made with local saag, a fish curry, boiled and salted river snails, boiled squash, and a green salad which featured the roots of the onion plant, and of course sticky, reddish Mizo rice. Too much!

Jane joked that maybe Ravi needed to get married to a Mizo girl so that I could have more such meals. Ravi called the suggestion, “Food for thought”. I think he sounded serious.

MONDAY
I start receiving Bijoya greetings through SMS from Calcutta early in the morning. The Pujas have passed me by and I didn't even miss it!

Ravi comes over to the hotel and we spend a lazy morning chatting, listening to music and demolishing a healthy portion of a bottle of whisky. The hotel kitchen today has also cooked Bai and we ask for it. This is different from what we had last night. It is more like a thick soup made with the leaves of the kochu plant. It has a smoky flavour and is absolutely delicious with the Mizo rice. Later we walk down to the bazar and I buy a kilo of Mizo rice to take back with me. I have this fascination of buying the local rice from wherever I visit and it is the best souvenir I can think of. Also bought latkhora – the flavoursome juice of a lemon that is widely available here. It goes well with vodka!

TUESDAY
The last day here but I don't feel sad. I know I'll return. It's not goodbye, but see you soon. The Bengali has a nice way of saying it when they part company, “Ashi - I'll be back”. A sense of continuity is important for the human spirit. The last two days here in Aizawl have had picture perfect weather. The air sparkles with the sunshine of incoming winter through the moisture of the rain that still seems to be hanging around. It is bracing and invigorating. We down a quick one for the road and set out downhill to Lengpui.

At a small village bazar near the airport I decide to buy some local produce. The papayas look healthy. There are fresh bamboo shoots and ginger on the stalk. There's ginger flowers, the latkhora and its juice in reused bottles, herbs of various kinds, the dried and sliced peel of the latkhora which can be used for flavouring dal and curries, even tiny river crabs in small palm-leaf containers.

Airports anywhere are the same in their boring drudgery of security rituals. We've got more than a hour before the flight arrives from Imphal. Coffee, cigarettes outside in the car park, and hi-hello to people who Ravi knows helps pass the time. And then, in a short while I'm airborne and winging my way back to Calcutta. We fly way up high over Bangladesh, knowing that from the height we are at. Can't make out much, what looks like a wide winding river which at one point forms an oxbow lake. Airline food is always bad.
******
Calcutta is in the process of dismantlement. As I drive back from the airport, Puja pandals everywhere are being stripped down to their bamboo frameworks. This seems to be the eternal state that the city is in. A process of disrepair, a breaking down, and then quick-fix repairs to last a season at the most.

Yes, there is great art in the Pujas, but why is it so temporal? Is this a reflection of the Bengali psyche? Where we can only create beauty for a moment because we know it cannot last? Or is it that we do not attempt to create something that will stand the test of time? Are we shallow beings eventually? All the Bengalis, and the only ones who have left lasting impressions are pictures in a history book, just names of roads and institutions.

The solidity of the mountains and its peoples is a source of strength and inspiration for me. It renews my faith in the simple goodness that unspoilt nature offers you. This is why I must always go back to the mountains.

And Mizoram will always be a preferred destination.
___________

For more of my pictures of Aizawl, click on the picture below.

Mizoram Oct2007

Another Aizawl Diary: Thursday - Saturday: Part 1

THURSDAY
I have once again run away from the mass hysteria of Calcutta during the Pujas. And for the second time running, opted to be instead in Mizoram, Aizawl more precisely. Apart from having my good friend Ravi here, I have become quite fond of this place and its people. Plus of course the chance, and the second one this year, to be up in the mountains.Okay, the mountains of Mizoram are not the Himalayas or even close to it, but they are mountains, and it's where I always prefer to be for some quiet time. It's why I'm here. Quiet time. Well, I have brought some work with me, but I already know I'm unlikely to complete it. Maybe I don't intend to?

The monsoon never wants to let go. It wanes, and just when you begin to look forward to the dry, slightly cold spell that we deign to call a winter in Calcutta which will surely follow the monsoon season, the rain returns with a vengeful fury. That's how I took off from Calcutta. In blinding rain. And then we popped through the clouds to stunning sunlight. But we rode over thick, roiling clouds for the good part of an hour all the way to Imphal.

Taking off from Imphal for Lengpui airport of Mizoram was uneventful since it wasn't raining there. But just as we approached Lengpui, the captain announced that we may have to abandon landing there as visibility was bad and the instrumentation down at air traffic control had some technical problems. The aircraft cabin groaned in unison and there was nothing to be done. But land we did. And that was such a good feeling. I really hate flying in planes. I don't have a fear of flying. I just don't care for it.

(But some time in my life I need to experience a ride on a hot-air balloon. And some paragliding.)

Here I must make mention of a couple of notable incidents that occurred prior to my departure to Lengpui in Calcutta airport. The first was at the Indian Airlines, now Air India, counter. I had a discounted ticket and the Economy fare counters were brimming with passengers, most of whom were re-confirming cancelled flights from the day before. A baggage handler came up and asked me my flight details and then took me to the Golden Edge, the frequent flyer counter, which already had a passenger checking in before me. The lady at the counter seeing me wait redirected me to the empty Executive Class desk. I was checked in without any hassle. Not only that, the baggage handler at this counter wrote out my cabin baggage tag with my name and destination in beautiful calligraphic handwriting!

The second incident was at departures security. I had a matchbox and cigarette lighter in my hand baggage and no one removed them. So much for anti-terrorist measures!

Ravi of course greeted me on my landing and took care of my Inner Line Permit formalities. I have no idea why the government carries on with this. The ILP is mandatory for any non-Mizo. You fill in a couple of forms with the usual trivia about yourself, cough up a hundred and a half, and you are permitted to stay there for 15 days, or 7 days, or whatever. No verification of any sort is done by the police personnel stationed at the airport for this purpose. I'm not sure if foreigners or non-Indian passport holders are treated differently.
**********
The Chaltlang Tourist Lodge of the Mizoram government remains in the same state of partial disrepair as I left it the last time last year. I've even been given the same room overlooking the graveyard, with the balcony facing the eastern hills. Ravi and I stand there giving ourselves a Manali buzz and I spot that beautiful house up on the hill opposite my room where I had been a guest for a couple of hours during my last visit.

I enquire with Ravi about my warm hosts from that evening and he immediately calls up Jane who's driving back from work. She tells me Zo, Zothan, her husband is at the Tourist Lodge at that very moment making reservations for an upcoming seminar. Ravi gets hold of him and we sit and have a few drinks from one of the bottles I have brought in from Calcutta in my room. Jane and Zo are both doctors independently in charge of a couple of important units of the Mizoram government's health department. He has to go, and leaves us with an open invite to his house one of these days before I return.

FRIDAY
The next day Ravi and I catch up for lunch after his work. We walk quite a bit and I take in the sights and smells from Chanmari to the Burra Bazar area to Treasury Square and Secretariat, the main government areas, and finally to the 23 Assam Rifles HQ in Khatla. Probably 4 kilometres.The Indian lunch at the Ritz Hotel was more than a disappointment. It was a disaster. Both the dishes looked and tasted the same despite having different names and meats. And the less I talk of the taste, the less of phantom indigestion will I suffer. Anyway...

Around the corner from the hotel we come across a blind lady singing a Mizo song karaoke style. She has a PA setup run on a scooter battery and she does have a nice voice. I feel generous. But we walk a bit and see another blind man with a similar setup. A few paces later there's a third blind karaoke singer. My generosity has its limits.

We briefly go to a couple of offices to meet people Ravi has work with. He knows a lot of folks in this town. We also meet up with Ronnie, my cousin's brother in-law who owns 'Hustler', a gift shop in Burra Bazar, and we plan to down a few together one of these evenings. The Burra Bazar has a different look, feel and smell than its eponymous cousin in Calcutta. Aizawl's BB is crowded but surprisingly clean. Its nice to walk past small shops, many with entire families manning them, rather than vaguely glide past plastic-and-steel 'outlets' in shopping malls. A shopping mall has come up here – Millennium Centre – but it did not seem to be one. It had the look and air of an office building where all the employees were absconding to watch a cricket match on TV at the neighbourhood electronics shop window.

We drop in on Jane in her office. She gives us black tea and biscuits and some pleasant conversation. We then walk on to the Assam Rifles HQ to meet with another pal of Ravi's, Major Aman Puri.
*********
The Army and civilian worlds exist in parallel. And ne'er the twain shall meet. Except when you need booze in this one of three Indian states that have prohibition. Alcohol is one of the staples of Army life, and its perennial availability in military canteens is the meeting point for civilians who have the privilege of accessing that fertile source of intoxicating spirits. Purposeful? Could be.

The Army has its own agenda as to its large, and more than obvious presence here. It is unnerving and not quite everything it is cut out to be. But I shall reserve further comment. Let's just say I wish it wasn't so overbearing.

Aman himself is an astute, articulate young officer destined to go places. Both he and his wife come from a couple of generations of military backgrounds, so he's a natural defence personnel. He's clear that there is antagonism among Mizos for non-Mizos and the military. He deals with it by being high-handed when requests for the military alcohol quota come in. He wins his Pyrrhic victory and everyone's happy.

(An afterword: there is partial prohibition in Manipur, I'm not clear how. It is commonly known that the supply of illicit liquor is run by one of the hardcore groups supporting the state government from the outside to finance their operations. Prohibition in Mizoram and Nagaland is Church driven and influenced. And we all know why they have it in Gujarat, Gandhi's land. Ha, ha.)
*********
At this time of the year, the monsoon season, clouds are a wispy, overwhelming presence. You wake up to bright sunshine and look forward to a clear day, when without notice, the sun is wiped out by thick cumulo-nimbus monsters. You see them approaching up the valley seemingly at snail's pace, and then in a couple of blinks, they are floating mistily around the hotel and my room. A smell precedes them, and then pervades the immediate environment.

It is not an unpleasant odour. It is like smoke coming off the burning embers of some light wood. It is also damp, leaving moisture on my skin. At one point, with enough gathered, a suffocating sensation overcomes me.
For an hour or so, the clouds waft about, and then depart lazily up the mountain sides to congregate on the tops, giving the city a loose turban of dirty white. Rain is an inevitable feature and it brings a chill to the weather. Even when the sun is let free of its prison of vaporous fleece to shine down on us soaked creatures, the chill factor remains. You know now winter will begin to trudge its heavy way into your life in the next couple of weeks.

SATURDAY
Beraw Tlang is up another mountain that lies opposite Aizawl. It is a picturesque place and the right location for a tourist lodge. Ravi and I get there when it is raining but that soon stops. We sit out on the open terrace and I imagine the wonderful potential and possibilities for a place like this.

The approach to tourism here is one of relaxed basics. The goods on offer are simple enough to give pleasant memories but somehow I think more value can be added. Mizoram is a place for nature tourism. Thankfully, it has no religious spots because that brings with it quite a different breed of tourists who are demanding, careless of local sentiments, and uncaring for all but their selfish creature comforts while they make the journey to commune with their gods.

Mizoram's natural beauty is the grace reflected in its peoples. Strange I don't see many birds here. Of the feathered variety, that is. The women of Mizoram though, have an Oriental beauty that is delightful. No matter how overtly Western their way of presentation, strong elements of their own culture and traditions adorn their dress sense, their mannerisms, and their outlook.
********
Tourism is as much about the land as it is of her people. Ravi, perhaps because of the position he is in and also because he is a very amiable guy, knows many interesting people. I have never usually been disappointed with the people he has introduced me to. I've already mentioned Zo and Jane, and will say more about them a little later. Then the last time I visited there was the ex-Chief Minister, the charismatic Mr Lalthanhawla, who unfortunately is away in Delhi for medical reasons, so I miss meeting him this time.

This time I met Makuka, one of 7 brothers and a sister and their respective families who all live together in what they call a “colony”. It's a large, joint family property, a tribal thing, and I absolutely love the concept. The nuclearisation of family life in the cities has its own problems even as you cite the advantages. Such “colony” life is a stronghold against urbanisation in many ways.

Makuka is a musician first and foremost and a man after my own heart. He gave up a fairly prosperous business as a contractor to do his own thing some years ago. Which is music. He has trained himself to be a better drummer through correspondence material for 10 long years and continues to do so waiting for the right moment to do a public performance, even though he was already a reputed drummer in the music scene of the North East. Right now he represents music equipment manufacturers like Yamaha, Behringer and so on, selling, installing and training the buyers in their uses.

His son, Boom, is a guitar player with his own band, Boomarang.
They are now considered one of the top rock bands in this part of the country, and have gone on to win some fame and fortune in mainland India as well. While I'm not too crazy about the sort of music they play, at least they're composing their own stuff, and considering the background he comes from, Boom will eventually turn out to be a big name one day.

We talked of many things: music, politics, religion. The adda of Calcutta's Pujas was taking place in faraway Mizoram as well! We agreed that music competitions on TV shows were sad and of no real musical consequence. If such great singers are being generated every year, where is the scope for these competition winners to progress in their musical careers, find their own niche, and not have to depend entirely on the vagaries of a blatantly commercial recording and distribution industry that is only keen on Number One pop hits?

Makuka was just back from a bereavement in the family in Belgaum down in Karnataka. He was thoroughly moved by the way he was treated there and he was emotional. We discussed what being Indian meant for us. I propounded my own theory of secularism which I say is the implicit acknowledgement of separate communities, and hence the divisions that exist within the fabric of our nation. What secularism for India should actually mean is the existence of peace and understanding among all communities and peoples, regardless of their faith and culture. This can be unique only to India with our rich variety and diversity that becomes interwoven with a tacit Indianness. One of Makuka's brothers, David, is a Congress MLA. It looks like the essence of the true Congress spirit exists in places like Mizoram rather than in mainland India where it has been severely eroded.

Makuka is also very Christian in his lifestyle. No, he is not a Bible thumper. He just lives the life and doesn't need to advertise it. Praise and worship for him is through music and sincerely keeping the faith. He and his family have adopted the child of an ex-prisoner and is educating and caring for his well-being. They have taken in a woman of slight mental retardation who works as a domestic help in his house along with another woman who was a prostitute. They are not servants. They are part of the family, and I am introduced to them accordingly.

...continued Sunday - Tuesday:Part 2

Mizoram Oct2007

Pratchettisms

They are witticisms, puns, often sage and home-spun wisdom cloaked in humour or satire, but they are all an impressive use of the English language which leaves you gasping for more. They are what I like to call “pratchettisms”.

If you have never heard or read Terry Pratchett – the creator of Discworld – well, all I can suggest is that you go on over to your nearest book store or library and get hold of any one of the 100-odd books written by him, and prepare to be massively entertained. For those who know him, I can imagine you grin as you recollect the recent Pratchett you have read.

A word to the wise for the uninitiated: this is a ripe broth of British humour slow-cooked over a fire of satire that Americans are incapable of perpetrating, and published Indian writers in English sorely lack in attempt. If you have ever enjoyed PG Wodehouse, Spike Milligan, JP Donleavy, Nick Hornby, Joe Orton, the late, great Punch magazine and its many writers and cartoonists, all of whom are a sprinkling in the star field of British writing that uses humour and satire as the medium of expression, so to speak, then you will absolutely love Terry Pratchett.

Another wise word: Pratchett is addictive. You may find yourself out-of-pocket quite soon!

So what follows is my growing collection of Pratchettisms. It is no particular order. It is not necessarily complete, and it is my interpretation. If you wish, you're welcome to add to this list, or create your very own.

Pratchettissimo.
----
From MOVING PICTURES

• “You don't keep mines”, said one of the dwarfs. “Mines keep you. You take the treasure out. You don't put it in. That's fundamental to the whole mine business.”
• Analogies bubbled to the surface like soggy croutons.
• The whole of life is just like watching a click, he thought. Only it's as though you always get in ten minutes after the big picture has started, and no one will tell you the plot, so you have to work it all out of yourself from the clues. And you never, never get a chance to stay in your seat for a second chance.

(I started this listing while close to the end of Moving Pictures but had a deadline to return the book to the library, so I never did manage to make this a complete list. I will some day!)

From SOUL MUSIC

• Certain things have to happen before other things. Gods play games with the fates of man. But first they have to get all the pieces on the board, and look all over the place for the dice. It is said that whomsoever the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad. In fact, whomsoever the gods wish to destroy, they first hand the equivalent of a stick with a fizzing fuse and Acme Dynamite Company written on the side. It's more interesting, and it doesn't take long.
• It was a strange laugh, totally mirthless and vaguely birdlike. It was very much like its owner, who was what you would get if you extracted fossilized genetic material from something in amber and then gave it a suit.
• The hippo of recollection stirred in the muddy waters of the mind. They looked at one another in incomprehension, two minds driving the wrong way up a narrow street and waiting for the other man to reverse first.
• ...[He] himself had the musical talent of a blocked nostril.
• [He] did not have too many brain cells, and they often had to wave to attract one another's attention,...
• ...I know you to be a man who seeks to understand the universe. Here's an important rule: never give a monkey the key to the banana plantation.
• ...you had to allow his wandering mind to get into the same vicinity as his tongue.
• Something that had been knocking on [her] attention for the past ten minutes finally used it's boots.

And that's just from TWO of his innumerable books!

Cock-a-Doodle-do!

There's something called a Global Mobile Project which, in their words: "...is a filmmaking challenge. Bring together eight international filmmakers to tell a story in under three minutes on the theme of food. Give them complete freedom to interpret the theme within their own cultural context as broadly or narrowly as they wish."

Well, one of the film makers - Amlan - is someone I know briefly and he's from Calcutta. What is of more interest to me here is that Bertie has done the music and song for the film, "Cock-a-Doodle-do". It's the first time he's done something like this, and he says it was a great learning experience. Check it out here, it's streaming video. I liked it. And if you do register on the site, don't forget to rate the film highly!

The development of content for mobile phones is a growing industry and with India poised as probably the largest consumer of the cellular waves, it's not going to be a surprise that Indians will soon enough probably dominate this scene. Well, one can hope so...! We have too many talented people.

The other films are also quite nice to watch. So check them out.

Dreamtime

Can I please? Can I please quote: "To sleep, perchance to dream..." Yaaaay! I said it!

I've usually managed to slime out of all the tagging that Pretty Eyes with the Sunny disposition sends my way. Every time I get tagged I feel sort of embarrassed, shy. It's like when I was in school, and at the periodic school socials, I had the advantage of dancing with Nafisa Ali, who also happened to be my sister's classmate. There were these hungry eyes which would follow me all over the dance floor for the mandatory first dance. Then before the song could properly end, those hungry eyes would suddenly sprout arms and legs, and a body with a gruff voice would harshly whisper in my ear, "You're tagged pal!" For some strange reason I would really feel shy that I was dancing with Nafisa, and would quickly, apologetically, disengage. Only to go back to my place beside the dance floor and notice the other hundreds of hungry eyes, some I'm glad to say in retrospect, looking enviously at me.

That was no dream, but it sure feels like one in the re-telling of it.

So now you also know why I've decided to stay tagged by Sunny. But Sunny, I'm not taking this forward okay?

I enjoy dreams. Having them, discussing them, loosely interpreting them... but somehow I can't seem to remember them. When I wake up most days, I'm not even sure I dreamt! Still and all, here's my take on dreams.

I remember dreams in adolescence. I would be walking, or running, and would keep falling into holes and deep pits. When, standard issue - I'd wake up. I read somewhere that this sort of dream is common to most people and signifies insecurity. I don't know what they say about not remembering dreams at all. Sunny, consider your palm crossed with my silver... tongue! (Did that sound right? ;D)

I'm very fascinated by the 'Dreamtime' of the native Australians. "Aboriginal myths tell of the legendary totemic beings who wandered across the country in the Dreamtime . . . singing the world into existence" - Bruce Chatwin.

"Singing the world into existence." How fantastic! That's a dream of mine. No, not singing the world into existence, but being that much more involved in music than I currently am. I dream of being a musician, very skilfully and competently able to play my favourite kind of music on a variety of instruments.

Do I also dream the mundane, common, garden-variety dreams, like Peter O'Toole singing The Man of La Mancha theme song "The Impossible Dream'? Or Martin Luther King's kind of dream? Of course I do! I would describe them to you if I could only remember them...

Like you can see my dreams, or my unknown dreams, seem to centre on music. The Dream of The Blue Turtles by Sting, one of my most favourite musicians, is also one of my most favourite music albums.

And ultimately, all I can say is that I don't know much about dreams, and am not very particular about knowing them either. It's just that we all dream, and we need to keep doing so. Dreams give us hope and aspiration.

And just as a by the way, did you notice music and dreams are somehow connected?

My Generation

My Generation. The name of the hit song by the British band The Who from sometime in the 60s. Never did like the song that much, but am not averse to using it as the title for this posting of mine.

In my estimation 'My Generation', apart from the fact that it sounds cliched like hell, are the folks born between the mid 50s and the early 60s. Like me. We were not Salman Rushdie's 'Midnight's Children', born a decade before. We were not historical in that sense even if we were born in historical times. But then again, which times are not historical? History is everyone's interpretation, version, of their times. This is mine.

We were raised and parented by a generation born before Independence who were torn between the attractions of the era they were born in and the new, uncertain, yet promising era of when they were becoming increasingly aware of a changing world around them. And perhaps not being able to come to terms with it. We - my generation - grew up in their shadow. Greatly influenced by their thoughts and deeds, and still wantonly rebellious of it because of the times we were growing up in.

My generation was growing up at a time when the world was trying to forget the 2nd World War. But not quite well enough. It's called Post-Modernism these days. We grew up when the USA decided to wage wars on other peoples because of the conviction of their rulers that America was the natural ruler of the world. (Not that they don't so still.)

We grew up at a time when Communism, especially the versions espoused by the Latin Americans like Che and Castro, Ho Chi Minh of Vietnam, Mao in China, not forgetting our home-grown Naxalite movement, influenced so much of our lives, directly and indirectly, more so if you happened to be in Bengal's Calcutta at the time.

We grew up at a time when quite a large section of us were pleasantly surprised by the responses and reactions of some Western thinkers, writers, musicians and artists to the way their governments were handling the inevitable relinquishing and devolvement of western (read: White) supremacy. But not quite. (Perhaps not ever?)

My generation's times too were full of expectancy, naivete and confusion in newly independent India. Our own multiple cultures and sub-cultures were on edge and in varying stages of mutual discovery at that time. Western impaction and a burgeoning Indianness clashed within our sensibilities. I believe at that time, globally, a similar situation prevailed. So much was being learned and discussed, discovered and disseminated, reviewed and re-envisioned all over the world that within the perceptible chaos kernels of similitude evolved.

There were some of my generation who took sides one way or another. Like those who preferred Western thinking and lifestyles to abandon the confusing but evolving Indianness and emigrated. Others caught up in being more Indian, in causes and issues, becoming what we liked to term 'inverted snobs'. And multitudes like me, an ignored minority nevertheless, not swayed by either one or the other, opting to live in a conscious state of indetermination, of no immediate identity, subconsciously in a sphere of no ambition, of no particular political or ethnic leaning, paying heed only to our instincts and impulses, our often self-conscious desires and ideation. We wanted to be rebels without causes, even hippies, anti-establishmentarian. A lot of us achieved this. Most didn't, and didn't want to.

And those who didn't want to are those who are the decision makers and influencers of opinion today. They are those who are trying to re-live and rebuild our parents' dreams and hopes, whatever that is worth. They are the ones, who while currently making significant changes mainly in the economic and political arenas, have not yet been entirely successful in evaluating and determining social change. And so are doomed to repeat the errors of the previous generation. Maybe generations.

I qualified a paragraph ago, (a deliberate distinction), that there were some who didn't want to, and some who didn't succeed in attempting to achieve a state of rebelliousness. Even without a cause it has been a preferred condition for me (although I personally didn't achieve it), but I wonder at others of 'my generation' who have since discarded, even disowned such thinking.

All this raving has come about from the anniversary occasion dated today - September 13 - the Founder's Day of our school. I have no nostalgia for the school other than I made friends for life who continue to think the way I do, or just empathise with the way I think. Yes, the school has contributed immensely to our upbringing and education but it has not been as significant as others see it, despite the many years we spent there. If for some reason their lives have not been more interesting beyond schooldays then I see them as losers in life. Dead before their times.

My generation, in our heydays, believed itself liberal, changemakers, contrary, and convinced. Today I see them as never really having learned from history despite their education and learning. Today I accuse them of being culpable in raising an elite educated, but unlearned next generation. A generation raised to be extraordinarily selfish and demanding. A new generation seeking facile solutions in a superficial globalisation that is more colonial and fiscally motivated than it has ever been. A generation absorbed in the novelty of technological innovation that seeks to destroy cultural sensitivity and replace it with a boring sameness of plastic, virtual reality.

But of course there are exceptions. It is grand that we are human after all; thinking, egoistic animals. And so 'my generation' is divisive; in some way keeping to our early commonality of learning and upbringing. In some way fulfilling the expectations we shared. And with this we have progressed in ways not positively identifiable currently, yet influencing changes to come.

I have hope. I am not completely disillusioned or depressed. There is a path of chaotic change that can, must, and will be traversed. A path that will break the boundaries of tradition and norms. There will be a way that will cross barriers of distinction and ignore established ideology.

'My Generation' will live on in some. And may that tribe increase.

ZAWINUL - R.I.P

Joe Zawinul has died. Only 4 hours ago in his homeland of Austria. When a musician I love passes away, it's like a piece of me also goes.

For those who were adventurous with their music listening in the 70s and 80s in India, and had moved beyond The Beatles, rock'n'roll, Southern rock et al, jazz was the sound you were getting to know.

Zawinul, Pastorius, Acuna, Shorter, Badrena: Weather Report

Weather Report was certainly a band you would have heard. I know I did. Their 1974 album - Mysterious Traveller was the first recording I ever heard of theirs, and they barged into my heart and my spirit was inflamed. They became, and have remained, one of my favourite bands of all time, regardless of the genre they were reputed to represent. With the likes of Wayne Shorter on sax and the incomparable Jaco Pastorius on bass, as well as Alex Acuna nd Manolo Badrena on drums and percussion, it was no wonder that downbeat magazine of that era called WR the best jazz band in the world. On their break-up in the late 80s, I was saddened, as much as I was sad when The Beatles broke up. And then with the vagaries of international music distribution, such as it was in this country, especially for new and modern jazz, I lost touch with Zawinul as a solo artist and didn't even know he had a band called Zawinul Syndicate. Until the mid-90s when New Delhi, my home then, hosted an EC Jazzfest.

The European Community Jazz Fest was held at Pragati Maidan in the Hamsadhwani open air amphitheatre and featured some wonderful musicians from the continent, including some I was hearing for the first time like Britain's Django Bates and his incredible piece - Food for Plankton. The last day featured the greatest - who else? Joe Zawinul and the Zawinul Syndicate!

The previous two or three days of that Fest is overshadowed by my memory of ZS. Here was my musical icon playing live for me, surrounded by his keyboards, and of course his mind-blowing band. Because of the friends I had in the press who had access to the best seats in the house, and a backstage pass for after the show, I was so thrilled to be in the presence of greatness that I was struck dumb! For me that was a concert to die for. Towards the end when Zakir Hussain came on for some impromptu jamming, I was breathless. His tabla trading beats and rhythm with Manolo Badrena's Latin percussion and Zawinul's keyboard licks were like musical heaven on earth, a fitting finale that I, and all the audience didn't want.

I know I sound like a fluffy teenager as I re-read what I've written, but it's what I felt and even now, that feeling though quite dissipated, is still somewhere in me, in my head and my heart. In my soul.

I've just finished listening to Zawinul on Miles' album In A Silent Way, and now I'm going to listen to my entire Weather Report collection, as I wait to download a double CD called Brown Street from 2006 which is Zawinul Syndicate recorded live in Vienna. I'm downloading this from a torrent site and I am eternally grateful to all the powers-that-be for the invention of this facility to do so.

Weather Report in performance in 1978

What made Zawinul an icon in the music world? He wasn't so just for me, but for all music fans who love jazz, and not what my good friend David Mac calls plink-plonk! Zawinul introduced the sound of the electric piano and subsequently the synthesizer into jazz while playing with Miles Davis. But he went beyond jazz, or should I say he epitomised what jazz began to mean to many of us from other cultures. It was no longer the domain of the Americans. It became "world music" as we term it today. The line-ups of Weather Report, and later Zawinul Syndicate itself are indicative: American, European, Latin American, African, Indian, other Asians. He brought back to jazz (perhaps not single-handedly) what it was always meant to be - a melange, a melding, a melting pot of musics and sounds from all over the world, which when played together by like-minded musicians assumed an identity of its own, becoming a living, breathing thing we can only call... JAZZ. In that sense "world music" is a misnomer. Jazz was it before we began to split hairs.

So in honour of Zawinul, and others who have gone before him, and the yet-others who are still around doing their musical bit to bring the world truly together with peace and love through melody and harmony, this posting is my small contribution to the cause they espouse.

What Makes You Happy?

Alfred E Neuman's smile made me happy when I was young... and still does!

David McMahon wrote in the linked blog asking us to write about what makes us happy. To start with, having known Dave since age 6 or thereabouts is quite a happy feeling! And strangely enough, I don't have him on my Blogger blogroll even though he is linked on my Yahoo 360. So I'm making amends now...

Quite a lot of things make me happy. Just being happy tops the list. I mean, haven't you sometimes felt happy for no reason at all? But here's my happy list:

2. When my daughter tells me about her day. (Actually my daughter makes me happy any way!)
3. People who smile at me, especially children and strangers.
4. Listening to my kind of music when I'm down and blue... and even when I'm not.
5. When friends tell me they love my optimism...even when I'm not.
6. The woman I love... and for several other reasons that are too intimate to get into now!
7. Remembering snippets of the past - the happy past.
8. Imagining, (or should it be foreseeing?), a happy future!
9. Just happy to have had the parents I did.
10. Sunrises... sunsets... especially in the mountains.
11. Thinking about what makes me happy... just happy to be alive and still kicking!

60 and running...still!

Ten years to go to hit 60 years. But this is my 60th post. No, I'm not trying to make an issue of it, just been thinking of it and thought I may as well write stuff down, blog it you know?

Random thoughts bring me to friends. Who are friends? How do they fit into my scheme of things, my life? One gets all these rotten emails telling me to forward it to other friends I have, including the one who sent it to me, failing which I shall not have the luck and/or fortune that is predicted in those emails. The folks who send me such mails are really way down in my list of friends. They are people I can do without. They are the people I can cadge a drink or meal off every few years or so, laugh about the silliness we may have experienced together some time in the past and then move on.

I can see friends, the really good ones, including those I've never met, but are in touch with on the mail, are the ones who want to genuinely share with me. They want to share my joys and sorrows, my mundane news or my important things, and do it all without judgement. I'm lucky to have such friends. Because that's the way I share with them as well.

Being friends seems to be a political thing to me these days. Somehow there's an ulterior motive to "being friends" with someone. I have friends, not many, just a few, with whom I can spend hours very comfortably, and not have more than ten sentences of conversation with them. There are others who claim friendship, and it's only later that I realise they have used me for some gain from which I never benefited. Which of course includes this real friendship that I'm talking about. Like there's this "friend" who got me to do a voice-over for a film he was making on his own money. Yet the instant he got himself a big sponsor, a Japanese television company no less, he began to avoid me, and now I hear he's finished editing it and still no word from him.

Or take the other guy who needed me to work with him on an advertising-cum-marketing deal. In fact after our first meeting with the client, he even went so far as to tell me that the client expressed interest in giving him the business because of my off-the-cuff presentation and my knowledge of computers and the internet and how all that fitted in with the client's requirement. After many such meetings, discussions and brainstorming sessions, I asked him whether it would be possible to get some money for the time I'd spent on this, (not the entire money he was willing to give me once he got paid by the client), but just a bit so that I would not feel frustrated or demotivated. Since then he's not even bothered to call me, someone who would earlier speak to me almost 3 or 4 times a day. I hear he's got the business now but somehow I haven't fitted into his scheme of things.

But it's okay. All these years have given me an insight into the human psyche which I'm consciously aware of, and yet, even though I fall for sob stories quite sure of their inevitable result, I still go ahead and do it. If for no money, at least to keep my mind stimulated, and to keep motivating myself that I have the wherewithal to continue in the direction I have given myself.

So friends... who are they really? I know I have some, and I'm happy with them.

For Those Who Were Not There...

Front page of Calcutta's The Telegraph Metro supplement on 30 July 2007.

This is for those who were not there... or maybe were there and read some other newspaper. And you can see some of their photos here.

Here's another review of the show which was published in the HT City edition of Hindustan Times 31 July 2007. (I added this on 1 August 2007).

I'm hoping that the audio CD recording of the 28th July concert of Bertie and Pink Noise will be available by this month end. Those who still don't have a copy of the Bertie Mel & Fuzz show of 12th April contact me for the DVD. What you see below is an excellent cover designed by Rahul Ganguly for the DVD. Thanks, Rahul!

Midnight Thoughts

Clouds race into dark night's oblivion behind me. Overhead, they are wisps of fluff breaking off a huge mass ahead of me, a formless entity that threatens to bring storm and rain, even fire and brimstone.

She brushes her long, long, black hair at the window, looking into a mirror that I can't see placed right next to it. Her white nightgown covers her modestly, but in the street lamp's glow filling the window behind her, the shape of her naked body beneath the cotton is all too evident. I find the stirring in my loins has taken a holiday. Even the young, impudent, pert breast that is outlined in the strange play of light and shade as she stands at her window, perfectly aware of my presence on the terrace next to the building she lives in, does nothing for me.

Other than of course writing these thoughts at midnight. Or 6 minutes to it. As I watch her. The thrill, I think, is in the voyeuristic pleasure rather than its outcome.

Most men are obsessed with their libido at all ages. And I mean all ages. Even when one is a child unknowing of penile erections and its associated consequences, one still considers one's libido in a most immature, though fascinated way. If one was to explain in detail, one might stray into the forbidden territory of child pornography, so one shall abstain. Even if they are my own nonage experiences.

Libido and death. Procreation and destruction. Today I heard of another close to my age who has died, someone I had known briefly but well, and stayed in touch with his news through common friends over the years. Tonight I sit on a breezy terrace in a monsoon soaked city and pen lines on my libido, or the lack of it. Temporary, I also hope. Today too, someone talked of those who talked of sex and those who didn't. The ones who didn't, he said, were getting it. This he said with reference to our age, us half-centurions and nearabouts. Do we talk of sex as much as we do it, or do we just talk anyway?

Well past midnight I'm drinking Goa's feni sent with love by a friend through another who had visited. It's an acquired taste I'm told. Well, I seem to have had no problems acquiring it!

Why am I writing all this? Its not that its a diary of any importance. I have a computer, I am literate, I probably have too much time on my hands, and my mind is a ceaseless traveller. Random thoughts inspired by a combination of feni and Himachal's green gold can form into presumptuous literature in the dark under these circumstances.

Today we discussed the concept of “the creative explorer” - jargon if there ever was one. Yet beneath jargon there is truth. A conscious, and therefore curious acceptance of an acknowledged reality couched in the language of those who misuse it. Somehow the discussion of such esoterica is work for me these days. A far cry from my earlier days of hardcore marketing: meeting targets, achieving revenue collections, creating product/brand acceptance and consciousness, and being a pissed off piss-off to all and sundry. All at the same time.

Creative explorer is a term that encompasses the client we are working with, their brand, their brand's target clientèle, the way our client should work with the brand, the way we should, and the way we all – client, agency, client's customers - want the positioning of what the brand represents in our collective and individual consciousness. Not all of it can ever be in tune but it's possible to find common ground. At least we hope so if we want to earn some money.

All of this is so mundane, so trite, and yet given such priority because revenues are all important. Ho hum! Fee, fie, fo, fum, money do go and money must come. Or else all is undone. Rum pum pum! Truth, and the bitterness of it all. Could be a song, yes?

Bertie and Pink Noise: Postponed

This is just a small notice to inform all who may have been interested, that Bertie & Pink Noise will be performing as below:

Saturday 28th July 2007 - 8.30 pm onwards

@The Princeton Club, Anwar Shah Road, Calcutta

See you there!

By the way, DVDs of the Bertie Mel & Fuzz concert of 12th April will also be available for sale then.

Bertie & Pink Noise

Bertie da Silva again. With Pink Noise.

Live in Calcutta at The Princeton Club.
n the 21st of July at 8.30 pm. (one month to the day after World Music Day.)

Lots of new music, a new sound, and some good times are promised.
(They'll take care of the good music, you take care of the other good stuff!)

Pink Noise is Gyan Singh on bass, Amyt Dutt on guitar, Jivraj 'Jiver' Singh on drums and Jayashree on vocals. Those with musical connections to Calcutta - performer or listener - will have heard of PN and its avatar (or is it the other way around?) Skinny Alley. You would have even heard them in concert. PN is an alternative jazz band. That's the closest I'll go to defining their music, at the risk of upsetting them. Skinny Alley is an alternative rock band with a slightly different line-up.


This time though, both PN and Bertie together are working on some of Bertie's new songs and some of his already heard ones from the BM&F concert at the Princeton in April. I was at one of their rehearsals recently and I can tell you they're sounding good! Ok, don't take my word for it. Just come for the show on the 21st and hear them for yourself. In the meanwhile have a look at some of the pics I took that evening at their practice session.


Reminder: 21st July 2007 8.30 pm. The Princeton Club in Calcutta. Bertie with Pink Noise.

*****
PS:
DVDs of the BM&F concert of 12th April will be available for sale on that day at The Princeton. And you can mail me at pslghose@gmail.com to book your copies of the DVD.

*****
PPS:
Anjan Dutt - musician, film maker, actor out of Calcutta made a movie called Bow Barracks Forever. In it he acknowledges not just the debt many of us Calcuttans owe the Anglo-Indian community, he also explores this debt musically. He and his makeshift band - Bow Street Blues - have been doing live concerts of the music from the movie as well as other songs which were hits of that era. I loved the concert at Someplace Else and I also took some pics while enjoying myself. So you should go here for a glimpse of that concert.

The live performance of music by such alternative, niche bands and musicians is always a wonderful experience. It's because they put their heart and soul into it that you find yourself having a better time than you thought you would. (Something that commercially oriented, mass-market musicians are incapable of). And then when you want a CD of their music it's usually unavailable. The marketing of such music has always been of concern not just to the artists themselves, but also to their promoters (who are never the record companies) and to their fans. This has historically led to bands who hate the corporatisation of music to allow fans to tape/record their live performances illegitimately. The Grateful Dead were prime examples, as are others like Dave Mathews, Phish, String Cheese Incident and so on.

Here's a nice article about how someone like Prince, or the Artist Formerly Known As Prince, is also keen to beat the system. My respect for this musician is never-ending! Apart from the fact that I really love his music.

World Myuzik Day, Hey, Hey!

21st June - Summer Solstice - World Music Day, a French invention!

What? Music? Myuzik? (and other variations...)

And so I went to listen to a band on the day after WMD - (Weapons of Mass Destruction). Their name was Urban Reflections,. Yessir, you got that right, Urban-fucking-Reflections! They reflected what I don't know. Music? Myuzik? They were WMD (as in definition given in brackets above) is all I can say.

They destroyed whatever musical sensibilities I had. They also had the nerve to do stuff by Bill Withers, Roberta Flack, even Doobie-friggin-Brothers, and make it all sound like bad rock music played on an unreleased album which Joe Satriani/Jon Bon Jovi/Steve Vai will never make. I mean it takes a lot of guts to make soul and funk music sound like bullshit electric guitar-rock coupled with power drumming that goes nowhere.

Who are these musicians (and a host of others like them)? Have they actually paid any musical dues? Or are they the scions of indulgent Bengali families who feel that if their ward plays music it should be financed regardless and without question as it is the appropriate Bengali thing to do? They have no funk in them and yet they want to do that backbeat. They have no blues in them and yet they want to be seen doing 12-bar variations. They have well-fed, rotund Bengali paunches on them and look like mama's milk is still dribbling from the corners of their mouths. They only want to impress with their electronic gadgetry and leave their audience stunned with their skills. Skill, not talent, skill. O lord, give me a break!

If anything, I am most critical of such musicians. They have innate talent, but lack exposure, and yet make up for it by overconfidence. They re the kind who release an album because its the done thing, not because they have music on offer. They have myuzik on offer really. Sometimes their solos sound like muzak...

This is a rant about the so-called modern, contemporary bands in Calcutta. But if you look carefully it's about bands all over India. But because Calcutta is the erstwhile, and still-while capital of culture in this country, I write of this city. And if you want my rant on Bengali Rock - (which too does not exist) - go here!

Happy Music Day folks! I hope you get the music you deserve just like the government you elected. (Just in case you do happen to live in a country which has reasonably free and fair elections.)

Friends on Top

Sometimes you need to pay public respect to folks who inspire / motivate / enthrall and/or are just friends one feels good to have.

HFT - High Fuckin' Time - is a band of friends I'm pretty proud to claim. Arjun Sen on guitar and Lew Hilt on bass (in pix above) along with Sam Shullai on drums are a trio who refuse to label or slot the music they play. With almost a combined century of experience shared between these three outstanding musicians, you know for a fact that they have paid their dues and more! If you want to hear some of their music go to their MySpace page and listen. Listen, do you hear? Not hear, listen!

By the way, here's what Jeff Beck has to say about HFT: "I love that sound you’ve got going there, real good quality tunes pleased to see some people staying faithful to music. Keep it up." And if you're asking who Jeff Beck is, where have you been getting your music from anyway? MTV?

The other good friend who I need to shout out about here is Paranjoy Guha Thakurta, Thak as many of us call him. He is a senior journalist, an astute political and economic commentator, and a best-selling co-author (with Shankar Raghuraman), with years in print, radio and television. He has recently produced and directed a documentary film in 5 parts of half an hour each on the Jharia coal mines of Dhanbad - Hot As Hell - in partnership with PSBT - Public Service Broadcasting Trust, which had its premiere on May 31st at New Delhi's India Habitat Centre. You would do well to pick up a copy of the DVD. Write to Paranjoy at: paranjoy@gmail.com or paranjoy@yahoo.com

Here's an extract from the synopsis of the film:

The documentary film series seeks to explain why underground fires – literally and metaphorically – are raging for so many years in and around the township of Jharia in Dhanbad district in the eastern Indian state of Jharkhand. At a literal level, tens of thousands of residents of the town are living on top of a veritable inferno. At a metaphorical level, there are powerful mafia organizations that rule over this region and exploit the underprivileged – by mining illegally, supervising organized pilferage, running extortion rackets and bagging lucrative contracts.

Jharia, is one of India’s oldest coal mining areas and a major dot on the global map for fossil fuels. The area produces the most valuable coal available in India, known as coking coal or metallurgical coal that is used for making steel. Till 1971, coal mining operations in the region were privately controlled. Thereafter, coal mining was nationalized. Despite nationalization, the economic conditions of those living in the area have not improved significantly. Jharia is one of the most polluted parts of India, if not the world. Coal mining itself results in environmental degradation; underground fires have compounded the damage."

Pictures worth more words than I'd care to speak

Sometimes I get writer's block. Actually, not sometimes, almost all the time, which of course makes blogging a problem.

And then I discovered the joy of a digital camera and after that these words I'm writing now will be the last for a long time! (Or till I want to make my unread comments available on the web.)

Till then, you may want to check out my "phlog" - my photo blog at Picasa which is going to be quite regular from now on. Kindly to click on this obviously hyperlinked blue phrase and be transported to the Himalaya mountains, to Calcutta, or to some music concerts even!

To be Free

I think we need to protest about things we consider to be wrong, against narrow-minded politics, against various issues that go against the grain. Artistic freedom treads a thin edge and there are many within and without the arts community who appreciate and understand this. Go here to register your protest if you know what's going on: http://ifaforarts.wordpress.com/

On the other hand, artistic freedom and all other "categorised freedoms" must play second fiddle to the strong protest we should make against intolerance of any kind.

Not sure if I'm expressing it right, but nevertheless...

Bertie Mel & Fuzz: Redux

12th April 2007: 12 noon

I walk in and Bertie says he's feeling sleepy! Pre-show nerves I suppose. He wants to know if the sound is all organised. I assure him it has been, but a twinge of suspicion hits me. I'll call Moses the sound guy later and confirm. I call Mel to find he's just left his school so he's not going to be at Bertie's before 1 pm. And then Murphy's Law has to happen: if something can go wrong, it will. Potla, the guy who's recording the concert calls me to say that the PA system hasn't yet arrived, when it should have half an hour ago! I call Moses who assures me his guys left for Princeton a half-hour earlier.

This is Calcutta. You go with the flow. No point getting all worked up. Fuzz calls. He's desperately getting some last-minute shopping done and asks me to let him know when we leave Bertie's so that he can meet us on time for the sound check. Bertie offers me coffee, tea, Sprite and lunch in quick succession. Sensibly, I opt for lunch. He's quite a fab cook too. Rice, dal - thick and tasty the way I like it, mince curry spiced just right, and some vegetable pickle he made as well. Burp! We joke about opening 'Bertie's Food & Music' - "Ladies and gentlemen, the cook will now sing you a song!"

Bertie's getting restive now. He wants to load the guitars into the waiting hired cars. I suggest we wait for a call from Potla telling us that the PA's reached.

Bertie suggests I call Moses. I do, and find Moses has switched off! I smoke an after-lunch cigarette and call Mel. He says he's close by. We laugh. Mel's close by could be quite a few kilometres away. Arjun, Bertie's colleague, organises the loading in the cars. Mel arrives. He actually was close by!

Potla calls. The PA's arrived. We heave a collective sigh of relief. We will only be 2 hours late with the sound check! Finally we depart at about 2 pm. I let Fuzz know. This is one-way turnaround time for traffic in the city and as usual, its organised chaos! Taking a slightly roundabout route via Park Circus we go over the Gariahat flyover and are at Princeton by 2.30. Fuzz soon arrives and they set up, plug in, and get ready to check the sound.

The first few moments are always tense. If it's not something wrong with the cable, its the quality of sound, or a weird hum and crackle out of the speakers. Mel's guitar, which he loves because, as he says, "The touch is like makkhan", is playing up. The unwanted buzz is from his axe and it keeps losing its tuning. But then it all begins to come together. The necessary tweaks, adjustments, controls are made and they decide to do a full run-through as their sound check. I'm walking around all over the place looking for the 'sweet sound' point between the PA speakers. I find it. It's just in front of the bar!

We walk out to the lobby to find a storm brewing. As the firangs love to say: a sudden, tropical storm. Chotu Rawat, the man who manages Princeton wants us to start at 9 pm. His reasoning is that it's the middle of the week, a Thursday, plus the thundershower will obviously delay others. Bertie is happy with the thunderstorm. He's been wanting a maximum of 150 people and I tell him there is no guarantee for this. All indications point to a full-house, jam-packed to beyond capacity.

Family and close friends start trooping in. Then Bertie's students, current and ex-, dribble in before the deluge. Tubby Desai, with the band LUSH who are slated to play after BM&F, wants us to start and finally we do at 8.45pm. It's not a full-house but the place is teeming with people not willing to miss this one-night only comeback concert of Bertie, Mel & Fuzz.

***

Redux

The chemistry is still there. They sound so good. The small, unnoticeable things go awry but that's part of the game, and all said and done, the evening has been won! They open with a Bertie original 'Motor Car Blues', followed by Bertie's original 'Moonlight Lady" from '79. Mel does his gospel blues, 'Have You Been Loved'. They keep seguing into song after brilliantly played song. The crowd is going crazy. Gently. This isn't a rock concert. Its a music concert that's very different. Three guitars and voices that sound so full, never requiring percussion or keys at any level, and yet somehow rocks, funks, grooves and soothes simultaneously.

And that's what the younger generations don't comprehend. How does one play a guitar without gadgets, at least with the barest minimum like Mel does? Yet gets that clean, sweet, undistorted sound? How did Fuzz slap that bass without pushing a pedal? How did Bertie sing without electronic effects being added to his voice? Well, the answers to those questions are simple. They began to play music at a time when gadgets were almost non-existent. So that required they master the techniques without microprocessor help. Which meant hours and hours of finger-bleeding practice, sleepless nights till you got that right note, and the willingness to do music that needs skill and artistry rather than digitalised gadgetry. I think it's why the music from the 60s and 70s is still so greatly appreciated by all, and younger bands today keep covering songs from that era. It is why songs were considered poetry, and not lyrics.

I'm amazed at people coming up and thanking me for putting up the show. Strange. Shouldn't they thank the musicians for playing together again?

Jayshree of Skinny Alley/Pink Noise fame said "it was magic... as usual". "Great show, man!" was the copybook reaction though from the general janata. Yes, thank you. Now we can only hope it will happen again. Extraneous circumstances will seriously affect the possibility of another show like this.

Distances, both physical and not. Timings which don't clash. Regular income earnings which will. Sponsors who will express interest but will not pay. Life is fucked but why should musicians get screwed all the time? Fuck the pretend well-wishers! And the so-called music lovers who want free shows too. A bit of well-placed arrogance is always effective.

I'm glad I did the 1979 show with my own resources and I'm gladder I did this one similarly, without depending on external financial help. One complete, fulsome dickhead, who calls himself Mampi, and who does a supposedly "interesting" program of "world music" on a Bangla TV channel offered me free editing of the video shoot I arranged for this show, in exchange for televising my show on his show! And he would not pay. Free editing! What does he think? Everyone's a beggar like his Bengali self? Really, Bongs will never get past their supreme mediocrity. They can only dwell on their glorious past of Tagore, Bose and Ray. They don't realise that because those three (among others) went way past mediocre and petit bourgeois longings, they became innovators and pioneers in their fields, which were not merely due to their natural talents and skills.

Oh, by the way, did you know that Bertie, Mel and Fuzz are from the Anglo-Indian community? The community Calcuttans call "tesuwas" - a derogatory term for an intentionally marginalised section of people? The community that Indians in general look down upon? And what do non-Anglo-Indians do today?

The same thing that AIs did many years ago. They escape to foreign shores and climes for a better, more fulfilling life. So, one makes fun of, denigrates the few AIs still remaining in India. Ones who want to make the best of what they have on offer in this country. Which is a whole lot. Like a lot of us.

We Indians are some of the most racist, sexist people on the planet.

***

For photos of the concert, link here.