A shot in the arm

One of the best things about maintaining a big tape collection is the thrill of revisiting or rediscovering an album you've neglected for a long time. The other day, I was feeling quite listless having just moved into the new apartment when I suddenly fished out this Best of Junoon compilation out of a pile of tapes in a suitcase waiting to be unpacked. This was probably my first listen in three years (and certainly my first 'serious' listen) of the entire tracklist, and by the end it had sucked all the worthlessness out of my day. The tape seemed to scream and crackle into my eardrums of its own volition, perhaps out of those years of neglect.

As is my regular habit, I spent a couple of minutes glancing at the album cover and ridiculously thin sleeve and my mind immediately flashed back to 2004, when I purchased the tape in a nondescript corner of Brigade Road for 65 bucks. Being an EMI release, this was marketed in India by Virgin Records, a fucked-up company I have a major grudge against. Ever since they took over music licenses from their dependable predecessors HMV and Milestone, they have successfully marginalised listeners of audio cassettes (to the point of flogging tapes to a quick death in the market), by overpricing, compromising on their quality, leaving out lyrics booklets and sleeves, and also by simply refusing to release albums in the format. I've been hard hit ever since. Despite there still being a sizable number of cassette buyers in India (admittedly mostly for Hindi film music), it enraged me that the industry was trying to drive our kind to extinction. Anyway, enough ranting. Back to the album sleeve, lyrics to some songs were considerately included, with their English translations an added bonus. There's only so much Urdu I can fully comprehend.

The cuts on this compilation, in keeping with Junoon's reputation for creating images of beauty and despair with their strife-torn homeland as a backdrop, are sheer diamonds in the rough. Somehow the combination of Urdu verse, Sufi sensibilities, tablas and tastefully injected guitar riffs adds up to a sort of street-level authenticity which Indian counterparts rarely accomplish. 'Garaj Baras', contributed by Ali Azmat to the soundtrack of Pooja Bhatt's Paap, has an a Rolling Stones-like intensity to it. 'Meri Awaz Suno', probably the best known song off Azadi after Sayonee, is the typical cry-for-help that characterises Junoon's more resigned songs, as they lament the situation back home. 'Kyon Pareshan hai tu' is brilliantly resonant. 'Pappu yaar', one of two Punjabi songs on the album, opens up the formula a bit by adding elements of funk.

'Best of' albums are usually far from the finished article. I straightaway wondered about the exclusion of three tracks which would have made the set feel more complete. The Punjabi ode 'Bulleya', which pre-dates Rabbi Shergill, 'Jazba e Junoon', their anthem for the 1996 World Cup (and an abject lesson to Indian songwriters on how to get behind your team), and the Political satire 'Ehtesaab'. The last one was the song that got Junoon banned in Pakistan for the video, and I remember being fascinated upon reading about in 2000, when my rebel phase had well and truly kicked in. While the song is simplistic, the video is pretty clever and biting.

(After looking up the album online, I discovered that the actual compilation, presumably on CD, does have Bulleya and a few more songs on it, seemingly confirming my suspicions about the music industry's blatant attitude towards the cassette. Ah, life's a Virgin. Fuck it.)

Repeated listens bring nostalgia attacks with them. 1998 was the year Sayonee was in heavy rotation on MTV and Channel V, and Junoon were suddenly established as superstars, and the toast of various music award ceremonies. The song itself is a masterpiece, and for me invokes a sort of optimism-pessimism feel (even though the song and the video are both pretty despairing); a feel achieved and bettered only by Sultans of Swing. The influx of Pakistani singers and Sufi rhythms into Bollywood music can be traced back to these foundations in 1998, and while Indian-artists-versus-their-Pakistani-counterparts is the next logical talking point, it'll have to be left for later discussion.

The compilation may not be perfect, but it served its purpose. Which was to cry out to me "If you think this is good, HOW DO YOU THINK THE MAIN ALBUMS SOUND?". I'll definitely get around to acquiring most of Junoon's output. I'm also looking forward to hearing Ali Azmat's solo stuff, and will be glad if someone would be willing to share the same.

Rediff on Bahadur's funeral

Rediff in many ways is a sign of the decade. They started out as an excellent Indian portal, full of high quality writing and a solid webmail service. These days they seem to put out mostly sensationalist tripe, but occasionally there is some good stuff to be read on the site. This article makes a good point.

I didn't know of the Field Marshal's death, or the fact that he had been based in Wellington until I chanced upon the article a couple of days ago. It's nice to learn of the public reaction and I hope the media acted suitably as well. Apart from that, the article says it all and there's not much to add. But a glance at the comments section was quite telling. It features the inevitable crass mudslinging between two camps that seems to characterise any feedback on articles related to politics, cricket, films or the weather. In this case, the bone seems to be between supporters of the Congress and the BJP (read:'secular' and 'communal'), and they use the article to try to highlight the apathy of the opposition while absolving their leaders of any blame. Reading the comments proves to be disappointing not only because the readers appear to ignore the point of the article, but also as it shows the privileged class in poor light. We urbanites (and I use the term in the assumption that all of the estimated 60 million Indian Internet users are English-knowing city dwellers)seem unable to evolve beyond name-calling and a clannish us vs them mentality. But then, as a 52 percent voter turnout in Bangalore showed, we are probably indifferent to the real cause, and more concerned with satisfying our own pet propaganda.

Picture Imperfect

I've made a few seemingly inconsequential vows in my lifetime, with or without reason. Never to own an I-Pod, which still stands. Never to set foot in Bangalore Central, which I broke during my last visit to the city. And never to put up any images on this blog, for what I never knew. The last one is about to be broken, because this comic is right on the button:



I guess this puts my ranting about the insomnia problem in perspective, which is not a bad thing at all.

This of a hot Southern evening....

Tomorrow I'll be shifting house.

Just when I thought I'd come to terms with American lingo, it turns out you don't shift, you move. So yeah, I stand corrected, I'm moving to a new apartment.

A new place is kind of like a new pair of slippers. Uncomfortable in the beginning, but soon enough you fit in and life goes on. Until it's time to hunt for a new one. I like living in the past, but this place has definitely run its course. The furniture provided to us right at the beginning has become useless, the sofa has long become a breeding ground for bedbugs, and the bursts of tap (sorry, faucet) water upstairs has been reduced to a trickle. And of course, Splinter had been a regular visitor over the spring. We kept him at bay by placing big bottles against the kitchen cupboards and cutting out his food supply. But he still comes out at night, almost as an unseen roomie. The casings on the lamp lights have come off as well, so I expect they'll slap a heavy fine on us. But then we'd do well to get back even a small fraction of the deposit from them, so maybe we're even.

I didn't have any great friends in this place, but there were these people I would encounter while strolling barefoot through the premises, walkman in hand. Most of them had a smile ready, some would stop for conversation. They made my evenings. The Filipino who's been around, the punk who had a strange habit of leaving his beachball to bob about in the pool, the Japanese girl who seemed nocturnal, the jamming trio who took a fancy to Bob Dylan songs, the IITan who invited me in for tea, and the chap who compiles his thesis outdoors on his laptop. Maybe I could have got to know them better. Maybe I didn't feel like worming my way into new places.

The new apartment doesn't look all that promising. There's not much around, just wide open fields; this one was closer to the university. There aren't any places to grab a bite in the immediate vicinity. Maybe the crowd there will compensate. The manager seems a bit cold and rude, but that's how they all are apparently. It's their job to be as detached as possible from the tenants. Thesis boy has this theory that you only find women in such positions of power; a man would probably invite you in for a beer and ask you the score.

I'm almost apathetic to this change of apartment, but when it happens I won't know what I'm hoping to find, or what I'm leaving behind. Better to keep it that way.

Return to two cities: Madras

(Continued from the previous post)

In the middle of the vacation was a three day visit to Madras. Considering my first ever post was about my previous trip to the city, it feels appropriate to give a nod to the return-visit on this post. Now, few places divide opinion like Madras. I have this typically middling attitude towards the city; a nice place, but I'll take Bangalore over it any day. This is a bit ungrateful on my part, because back in the day when Bangalore was a sleepy town, Madras was the closest we were to a big city. And it provided me all the entertainment Bangalore couldn't over the summer holidays. Endless spaces where you could play cricket, video libraries which boasted tapes of the 1975 ashes and the 1994 survivor series, libraries from where I read my comics, and of course the Nungambakkam Landmark - the best bookshop ever. Even better than Premier.

Madras is generally everything Bangalore isn't (which is not intended either as a compliment or criticism), but this time the city did its best to seduce me. The roads, cleanliness, shops and overall efficiency gave me the feeling of a big but not bursting city completely at ease with itself in this funny decade. Part of the trip was spent at Mahabalipuram and the Crocodile Bank (which I didn't enjoy to the full because it was way too hot, the reptiles decided submerging was the best policy). Back in the city, I did eventually return to Landmark - and this time it was the one in Spencer Plaza, which I hadn't visited till date. This branch thankfully keeps up the standards of the Nungabakkam one, including a highly knowledgeable staff which the Bangalore Landmark sorely lacks. What blew me away however, was the plaza itself. I'm not a malls person, but if you must visit one Indian mall Spencer's would be it. I can't put my finger on it, but the ambiance which felt like a cross between forum and Dubai plaza actually worked for me. Add to this the eye candy all around and it was a great place to be at.

I met up with my cousin for a drink that evening. Getting a drink in Madras is still not the simple matter it is in Bangalore, for ever since Amma imposed complete government control over the sale of liquor, options are limited to shady wine shops and big hotels, and a pub can only be granted a license if attached to a hotel. We headed to the Maris, a purely veggie hotel that's been around for ages. If the thought of having no meat to go along with the beer was a dampener, I wasn't very happy with my first impression of the pub/bar either. It was dingy as hell, and undoubtedly a 100% male preserve, which seemed to reinforce the 'permit room' picture I had in mind. However, the place won me over by doing the basics right: Blissfully powerful air-con, ice cold beer (a detail certain Bangalore pubs often neglect - the ice cold bit, I mean) and no loud music (Bangalore pubs, take note again), just the IPL on a big screen. The crowd was pretty decent too - average joes but no drunken louts, happy to relax after a presumably hard day's work. The simplicity of it all kind of summed up Madras for me, although I was only too happy to get back to Bangalore. And of course, nothing could beat the sheer novelty of being being served rasam-vadai and sundal with the beer!

The vacation ended too soon, and I can only wonder what the two cities will be like next time around. Dickens' London and Paris is a different world in a different era, so I'll have to twist his opening line as I steal it for an ending: it isn't the best of times, it isn't the worst of times.

Return to two cities: Bangalore

The decade hasn't been all that kind to Bangalore. Through a combination of apathetic governance, overpopulation, burgeoning traffic problems and certain inadequacies, the city seems to have become a sort of punching bag for the rest of the state and country. Outsiders reportedly don't feel as welcome as before. Even Bangalore's forgiving climate isn't what it used to be. And of course, the Royal Challengers weren't exactly the epitome of sporting prowess last season (If you think the last one was irrelevant, the most common question I get from Desis these days in Austin is 'Why are Bangalore so crap?').

Bangalore redeems itself by being a very...hmm...redeeming sort of place. The day I landed for the short vacation was the first time I became conscious of my US-returnee blood. The dust and pollution got to me, and it felt really strange because on my visit last year I never felt anything of the sort. After all the waiting, I was also taken aback to discover the volume of traffic on Wheeler road (refer previous post). I recovered quickly, for in spite all the limitations and changes, Bangalore still provides the same dependable delights. For example, a typical morning would center around kickass chutney and coffee, my dad's obsession with getting the perfect shot of the cuckoos on the tree next door, and helping my mom at her office (with a free ride to MG Road an added bonus). The afternoon would usually involve critical acquisitions around the MG/Brigade road area, such as a pair of jeans that actually fitted me, or an old battered Magnasound Cassette from one of the two shops-that-actually-sell-these-things. The evenings were generally about food and friends.

For me, two Bangalore institutions epitomise the nature of the city in the face of change like no other: Lakeview Milk Bar, which was rudely sent packing from MG's last year, has made a seamless shift to St.Mark's Road and continues the drive in service and brilliant sundaes (Preacher's note: Corner House fans,forget everything else and have the triple sundae here. Even now at Rs.60, I still rate it the best pound-for-pound sundae going around). And Premier Bookstore, which was supposed to have met with a rude ending of its own, soldiers on in the same place with the same messy but fascinating piles. As I made my discounted purchase, I asked Shanbhag about the lease problem and how long he could expect to remain there. He smiled and muttered something with a casual shrug. Whatever it was, I completely agreed. It was a stupid question.

(continued in the Madras post)

Where the streets have no traffic

It'd be easy to say that I'm headed all the way to Bangalore for a paltry two-week vacation purely for a small round of hometown indulgences - eating/drinking, loafing, visiting old bookstores and cassette shops - in addition to visiting family. The real reason I'm going is to relive the experience of crossing the main road outside my apartment.

I define 'home' as a place where you can cross the street without ever having to look left or right. You step outside, without so much as a quick glance at the incoming traffic, and next thing you know you're transported to the other side as if the traffic never existed. You might as well be blind (for those few seconds, anyway). It's this feeling of invincibility I get every time I hop over to Thom's Bakery and stores on Wheeler Road, for a round of provisions or a quick snack and it's the homecomer's ultimate high. The one thing here that makes me conscious I'm an outsider is the fact that not only do I have to remember "left-then-right" all over again while crossing, the speed of the converging traffic is much less predictable too.

Of course, I'm alive to the possibility that the traffic menace from the rest of the city may have spilled onto virginal Wheeler Road, as Change usually conspires to crush my happiness. That, however, doesn't mean my expectations are dampened, and I look forward to finding out what else might have changed and whether I can deal with it. Just before my last visit, at home they actually considered keeping mineral water and toilet paper ready for me. I'm happy to say that TP is not yet a necessity, but a reassurance that my stomach's immunity system hasn't been spoilt by another year of American water would be most welcome.