Actually nobody around me is quite able to understand exactly why I am so excited about Coke Studio. Harumph. It is NOT a rave party destination. And yes, it could have been worded better.
Anyway, Coke studio translation: In a studio setting in Pakistan, musicians from various backgrounds (pop, soft rock, eastern classical) jam together live. This is then telecast. The entire exercise is sponsored by Coca Cola and hence the name. Brainchild of Rohail Hyatt, a former band member of Vital Signs, Coke studio was a big hit in its first season. It saw folksy strains, western rhythms, eastern alaaps (as the website mentions in solemn political correctness) all meshing together with mind-blowing results. You have to hear it to believe it. (www.cokestudio.com.pk). Now it’s back for a much-anticipated second season and yes, I am getting back to explaining why I am so excited.
Apart from the obvious reason of Atif Aslam jamming with classical musician Riaz Ali Khan this season (I CANNOT wait to see Atif in the studio) the other big reason is I just love to see my favourite singers sing.
And if you have ever seen great artistes performing in the studio (their very hearth so to speak), I don’t have to tell you what kind of an immensely sensual experience it is. I have very grainy memories of flautist Vijay Raghav Rao composing in our studio way back and all I remember today is a lot of people crowding around him admiringly after a recording, masala dosa packets lying around and a strangely serene smile leaking out of his rippled face. Come to think of it, I don’t even remember if this memory is true or garbled.
What I do remember clearly is watching a recording of Rafi singing in a studio. I even remember when it was telecast — just before ‘Filmfare Awards Live’ in 1992. Rafi has one of the most endearing smiles for a musician and astonishingly, this smile was constant throughout the 10 or so minutes of the recording they showed. Try and smile that genuine smile, (while singing a half-alaap perhaps) in Rafi’s vocal range!
Then there is or rather was the young Ravi Shankar. His mischievous eyes dart here and there, just like those magical hands and he has the grin of a filmstar who knows he is terribly good looking and audiences are lapping up his charm :) I am sure he felt like that as well. Balamurali Krishna was what you would call the Dravidian version of Ravi Shankar. He too darted around, not just with his eyes but with his entire well-dressed, well-fed self; looking up and down, left and right and everywhere else for inspiration/admiration.
Now that Coke studio is set to air, I am left wondering what today’s star singers/musicians would look like in the throes of performing pleasure. Does Yesudas do those fluttery quick hand movements in the studio as well? Does Amjad Ali Khan squeeze his entire face while playing, as always? Does Sonu Nigam close his eyes while singing those excruciatingly emotional lines? (Aside: For onlookers’ sake, let’s hope Kumar Sanu does close his when he ‘sings’.)
Why the hell is Coca Cola not thinking of a Coke studio in India?? How would it be if SPB jammed with, say, Amjad Ali Khan’s sons? Or Rakesh Chaurasia is paired with Kailash Kher? Mohit Chauhan with Yesudas? Brighter ideas anyone?
Have you ever found the right music for the right book? The two or three times I have, it has felt as if the notes crawled into the book and the words stretched out into music. After a while, I cannot think of one without thinking of the other. It's happening nowadays with this book I am reading -- Aatish Taseer's 'Stranger to history'...a journey through Islamic lands. And a journey I am holding hands and going along, thanks to Yamini who decided it was "my kind of book". And so every night, at 10.00 or so, I put on a combination of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Rahat, Kailash Kher, Fateh Ali Khan (of the Gwalior gharana), Ali Zafar, Ali Azmat and Atif Aslam, slowly, quietly, switch off most of the lights in the home, lean back on my blue cushions and go on this journey. I have stilled all my speed-reader instincts for this one. This is one journey that encompasses humanity, universalism, or the lack of it, empathy or the want of it and places that have swallowed yearning whole. Speeding along will not work here, will it?
Right now, we have crossed over to Iran from Mecca and a "sun-bleached Tehran" fell over me the whole of yesterday night in waves -- racy dreams of winding my way through my imagined streets of Iran (or was that Syria) calling out to my mom who was just, just a few feet in front of me but never was able to hear me.
I will remember these nights.
P.S: 'Equal Music' went very well with Beethoven symphonies; and snatches of 'A Suitable Boy' merged seamlessly with 'Zubeidaa'. And those are the ones I remember. I would love to hear about others.
You either love Delhi or hate it. Whatever I have seen of it till now is mostly unlovely but fascinating so I am yet undecided. My this time's visit was spectacularly unlovely despite being surrounded and smothered by certified beauty. There were only two patches of sunshine as I call them. Actually three patches. The first was the twinkling, long-lashed beautiful eyes of my little cousin. The second was her quiet brother's quieter love for music, only apparent if you care to glance at his mostly downturned eyes. The third was serendipity of the best kind. Sitting alone in Karnataka Bhavan and twiddling with the remote was getting to me when my hands automatically stopped at DD Bharti. There was, on the screen, Kishore Kumar in his element. Doordarshan was re-telecasting his concert, recorded oh, perhaps three decades ago. Kalyanji-Anandji were conducting the music and there was Kishore playing to the non-existent gallery -- before singing Kora Kagaz, he fished out a blank paper from somewhere; after singing Roop Tera Mastana, he stumbled, as if drunk on his own voice...
His thick spectacles and thicker smile; Kalyanji's obvious enjoyment and embarassment at his antics; the green-red-gray plasticky set; the we-are-happy-to-be-on-tv sincere orchestra...oh it was worth coming all the way. After the concert was over, I switched channels and was promptly back to 'Marjaani Marjaani'. Urgh.
As for the fashion show which actually took me there, well, read the next post! :)
Well, this is in Living but I thought it deserves to be here as well. So here we go.
Perfume attack
The air was drugged and there was no escaping it. Chanel No. 5 collided mightily with Elizabeth Ardens and more potently with Bruts and Hugo Bosses. Not to mention the odour assault of the mint-fresh and just-bought-in-Khan Market Gucci clutches and Bottega Veneta totes. The title sponsors’ generosity also further helped turn noses up (literally and otherwise). There were goody bags of shampoos, bath gels and soaps for everybody at every big ticket show. (Incidentally, some snooty socialites did not want to be seen carrying away such freebies and so they left them back at their seats much to the delight of back-benchers and the huge media contingent who grabbed it all.) Ah. How sweet smells the word free.
Page 3 surge
The build-up to ‘fashion’s rockstar’ Manish Arora’s show was terrific or terrible, depending on where you were standing. The Page 3 surge for the show was unbelievable…the show was as usual fashionably late, pardon the pun and so, PYTs with passes, TYMs (tall young men) with pierced noses and ears, alligator shoes and crotch-clutch pants, firangis (were they the elusive buyers?) clutching brochures and their designer stoles, journalists who had come out decked even better than the wannabe models and designers, skin show, high heels et al – were all breathlessly waiting to be let in by security guards who could not stop grinning eerily.
I was, incredibly, reminded of the last time I was stuck in a near-stampede in Tirupati. The stampede feel was similar except that I was surrounded by a nonchalant display of wealth and more nonchalant show of affectation. A well known designer with a six-inch needle in his ear who was standing on my right refused to let go of his partner’s hand (who incidentally, was standing on my left, so I leave my position to your imagination). He gave me one nasty why-are-you-coming-between-us look and whined ‘jaan, mere haath mat chodo’ to his six-foot high strapping, heavily-bearded partner whose reply unfortunately I could not hear.
Jungle out there
The biggest section of the audience comprised the media, which is saying something considering that fashion weeks are supposed to be serious affairs, held to garner business rather than eyeballs. The front rows of course were always reserved for the big media houses whose representatives hobnobbed with the glitterati, giggled and gossiped more than catching what was happening on the ramp. The photographers were like a pack of wolves, hungrily jostling each other, shouting at the models and pushing and shoving hapless “print media types” to be the first ones to enter the venue. The backbenchers barely knew what was happening. Sample this conversation between a newbie journo in a black cocktai dress and a PR halfway through designer Zubair Kirmani’s show:
Frazzled journo: Hey, who is this? Who is this?
Equally frazzled PR: What? What? What?
More frazzled journo: Whose show is this? Hey please, please don’t forget to give me the press release. I will get the press release right?
Somewhat relieved PR: Oh. The release will come only after two hours. Collect it from the media centre.
Now desperate journo: But darling, I have nothing to write! And I have to cover this designer. Who is it? Just tell me what colours and cuts have been used.
Bored PR: (Looks in the general direction of the ramp) Umm… I think he is using a lot of bright colours. And umm…the cuts are sharp.
Well, if you read this description of Zubair Kirmani’s collection in any fashion magazine, you know where and how the gyaan came from!
Goss from the big man
Sunil Sethi, the handsome and mustachioed FDCI head breezed in for Rohit Gandhi-Rahul Khanna show on Friday night and immediately went on a muah muah spree. Later, he was heard declaring to some highly blinged out friends that he will be organizing, for the first time in India, an all-men fashion week in July. Did somebody say the R-word? It seems for the fashion frat, recession is just another word that can be milked and converted into autumn-winter collections!
The Tabebuias are back. They are my only emotional anchor to this city. If and when I am displaced from here, it is only the Tabebuia yellow and the lavender Jacaranda that will make me think...oh I wish I was in Bangalore. Last year around this time, my very own Jacaranda tree that had its elbow over a muddy algae-green lake filled with white and pink lotuses near the art gallery, lost its balance finally (which it was threatening to from many years) and fell.
My God! How well the tree communicated! It’s very stance said, look guys, I am sidling, my knees are buckling because of all the pain that is life but I flower every year unwearingly. I have a muck-filled lake below me and tourists who throw chips packets all around me. But I know I am sexy, heartstopping and beautiful both when my head is full of lavender flowers and when am anorexic and bare. For those of us who really understood this tree (I know at least one friend who mourned this tree’s fall with me), it was an expected tragedy. How can something so beautiful last? And it should not too. Like Seth says, it is enough to be blessed with such moving music. Why ask for anything more?
Now. That makes me want to re-read Equal Music all over again and quote Donne from memory. I know I will never get around to re-reading anything at all but I can definitely quote Donne.
No noise nor silence, but one equal music;
No fears nor hopes, but one equal possession;
No ends nor beginnings, but one equal eternity;
Goodbye dear tree. I know you have found your very own world without end.
Whatever happened to the world’s collective Harry Potter obsession? Forget collective, what happened to my obsession with Potter? From picking up Deathly Hallows at 7 in the morning (after having booked it two months earlier) to reading it while still on the bike (which Siddharth, as amused and stoic as ever, drove steadily), reading it standing bang in the middle of Shanti Sagar’s darshini hustle (like they show in bad Telugu movies, when the hero first spots the heroine, the rest of the crowd is fuzzy...I felt exactly like that on that July 21 morning and well, felt so fuzzy that while walking back to the bike from the restaurant, while still reading of course, I bumped into a stray stone lump and my glasses fell. My pretend nonchalance reached absurd peaks at that point as I picked it up and continued to read. And continued reading the entire day till I turned the last page late evening, while it rained heavily outside and my back almost broke with the effort. And my bewildered parents wondered and siddharth sat waiting, the am-amused-but-am-resigned-to-my-fate smirk intact. Somewhere in the middle, I remember weeping when Harry buries, without using magic, what’s-his-name..sheee I have even forgotten names!
Reading the ‘Tales of the Beedle the Bard’ recently did nothing to excite my Potter instincts again. If anything, I was getting slightly irritated with the typical Rowling digressions and long un-contextual sentences (basically where she assumes that everybody remembers every character and every event in all the seven books). I still remember so many enjoyable re-read sessions with a big fruit n nut in hand, sitting curved on our divan and watching TV sideways at the same time. And joyful night shifts spent answering Harry Potter quizzes, downloading the Harry Potter countdown clock, walking and walking in London keeping my eyes open for any little Potterish thing I can spot...
Today, I don’t even feel like looking at my collection, forget picking up the books for the next re-read. Is this just fatigue? Or horror, horror! had I plain succumbed to the publicity machine? Are muggles around the world feeling like me? Perhaps it was magic enough for a lifetime...my instincts are warning me to leave it unvisited. Thanks Wordsworth. When in doubt, turn to Yarrow Unvisited. Works for me every time.
But, but, I want my Potter addiction back. I have lost an escape route, perhaps for ever.
Two days of homage. Yesterday, I ate my last omelette perhaps at Coffee House and day before yesterday, I ate scrambled eggs on toast. Alone and happy as I like it. I love eating alone. At home or in restaurants. Nothing really should come between you and food. Not love, not romance, not angst. Over-the-table conversations and dinner romances are uh-uh duh and duh.Thanks Cheryl for telling me about the no-frills scrambled. A next-door marvel that took me eight years to discover.
I loved this piece on cooking onions and patience by that cutie Nigel Slater. So here goes.
And not before time
There are plenty of short cuts worth taking in the kitchen (really, who wants to spend their life making croissants?), but more importantly there are the things we often skip or hurry or gloss over that it might be wiser not to. By which I mean the nuts and bolts of the cooking process that while tempting to rush through would, if we were to take a bit more time over them, make cooking and eating even more of a pleasure.
Cooking onions is a task worth taking your time over - 10 minutes just isn't long enough to get their crisp, watery flesh to break down into layers of honey-toned sweetness. Onions, whether small and whole or large and sliced, need a low temperature if they are not to burn and blacken, and plenty of stirring to prevent them colouring unevenly. The warmest of gold, evenly spread throughout, will take a good 25 minutes of an onion's time.
We like onion tarts in our house, both the thick, quivering quiche variety and those that are more like a pizza but without the cheese and tomato glop. Any onion that is to go inside a tart case needs cooking first, and cooking slowly, too. Then there are the dishes where you need the onion softened but not coloured. I'm thinking of that soup here, the one that looks creamy and tasteless, yet is, at first slurp, the very essence of gentle onion. I tend to cut a circular piece of greaseproof paper for this one, laying loosely over the top of the roughly chopped onions, so that they steam rather than brown. It works, too, if you keep a lid on and don't have the heat too high.
My favourite way to cut an onion is in to segments: so, in half from root to tip then each half into thick segments, like an orange. This way, they may take a long while to cook, but when they do finally soften you get thick nuggets of golden, melting onion flesh, somehow more satisfying than those skinny rings that get into a tangle and make your tart crumble to pieces as you slice.
It's the same with roast onions, baked onions, call them what you will. They take an age to soften right through to the core. But to try to undercut the required time is to end up with something quite unpleasant, if not inedible. You can get round this by boiling them for 20 minutes or so before draining them and returning the partially softened onions to the oven. If you toss them in a little sizzling butter first, they will cook all the quicker, but you must still have your patient hat on. Time alone will render a hard, winter onion as soft as butter and no amount of tinkering can really speed up the process.
For the record, an onion, thickly sliced or roughly chopped, with a little butter in a heavy pot, will take a good 30 minutes to soften over a low heat. I'm not sure even I give it that long, which is a shame, because the benefits are extraordinarily sweet and satisfying.
I always feel very comforted when I read this poem. How nice to feel nice about being a nobody and how snug it feels to know that Emily Dickinson thought so too, at least she wrote so too.
Though Ii wonder. Is it dreary to be somebody? Isn’t it drearier to be nobody? I don’t really want to deconstruct this poem but well, it does say somewhere there that being a somebody is being a nobody. When i wonder like this for more than two minutes, my crabby shell rears up, behind which it is so easy to hide. And back to being snug about being a nobody and gazing at somebodies.
And here’s the poem.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us--don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Yesterday I realised I like maintenance-work related long power shutdowns. Prior knowledge of no noise and so all your inner noise kinda starts strumming. The afternoon light was blue-tinged because of our blue curtains. The laptop had not been charged and my phone was gasping. So all sources of music had gone phut. And hence I could let my voice out and my dreams travelled. One after the other, I sang songs — clearly and with what thehrav I could manage and the living room echoed back. All this while I was alone, surrounded by the blue, crying inside (for unbloggable reasons). And I was shredding radish. Ah. what therapy that is. The spell broke after I finished singing the Rajasthani maand. And if you have heard it ever when there’s blue inside and around you, especially if it has been rendered edgily, raspily, our common recall is enough to make us soulmates.
|
RSS Feed