Wraiths

This empty season the cold is gone.
Mist walks the streets, I follow a wraith, unconnected, passing through.
Passing through?
Lucky people play a game of chance, warming the winter sun with smiles the size of kings.
Holy water sprinkles the air, clothes and eyes get damp, time to kill,
Why won't time be killed?
Phones ring in houses, in hands, in pockets, inside a dog's mouth.
Callers end with lover's greetings, promising the end of another long night
And the cold stays gone, breathing gently in dusty forests, as taillit jackets flash close.
In this city there're wraiths walking, sometimes in the alley, or riding a horse, or walking two dogs.
What will be the endgame?
Down in a well in the east, seven seconds of sunlight blind a broken man
It blinds him still, till he awakes and sees the dark, cold as labyrinths of the nameless ones.
I met a man of magic, a scar across his face.
A scar a scar a scar a scar
He noted he had walked quite far, from the ghost of Sesquehana to the bums of Times Square.
Once there were bums, and jazz and solitary jungle moaners in a dream of rainbows.
Now there are wraiths in a city, passing through like summer lightning
With marks on their faces or long black tails that bend easily.
Where is the fever? The cold fever of the biting wind?
Who knows where is the other life.
-Beq
29.1.2007

Jazz It Up

Watching Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter a couple of weeks back, I couldn't help the goosebumps. I mean, its HANCOCK and SHORTER for chrissakes! For a while I was just grinning, after which I strated paying attention to the music. Hancock started with a rendering of "Dolphin Song". Though I've heard that song only once, it seemed great...and then it began to sag. Herbie ol boy was evidently not trying very hard. I mean, for someone of his stature, to miff lines with a bunch of greehnorns of the Thelonious Institute of Jazz was not on. And all the instrumentalists kept playing in unison, resulting in a remarkably colourless sound. It was nice jazz, but not great jazz. A version of "Criss Cross" followed and I started wondering if perhaps Hancock doesn't care for the old material anymore...I mean, he plays with turntable players these days. But try as I might, I couldn't dislike it. I mean, here was the man who made "My Point Of View", perhaps my favourite jazz album!
But Wayne Shorter was yet to come and there was hope. Seeing the old man with his soprano sax was electrifying, and when he led the band through "Footprints", I was in wonderland again. Again, he wasn't doing much outside of playing around with scales, but the feel of the man! Fabulous. I haven't heard "1+1", his Grammy-winning duet album with Hancock, but the one they DID do was good, and perhaps that rescued the show. I mean, I'll always remember the occasion, if not the musical nous.
To round it off, a few days later I heard Kenny G on VH1. Ah, now at least I didn't have to see that midget-brain perform! Why? Why? Why do Americans like stupid white men?

Long Train Running

Many years ago, I missed a train. Its not as simple as it sounds. To date that is the only train I've missed, and also the most traumatic of all the train misses I never had. Confusing? You bet your left ventricle it is! Consider this scenario. You're 20, cocky but unsure, have no money and have missed a train to the East Coast from the West with no plan B. The only silver lining to this black cloud- the rain had a BIG part to play in the story anyway- was that I had for company three other cocky 20 year olds- ok, one was and still remains 18- who were more broke than I was. Blame it on them splurging on Goan spices, knicknacks, and industrial quantities of cashew feni...I was feeling good at the end of a stingy trip where I'd saved enough money to buy my girlfriend three good meals back home. And here I was, stuck in the wrong part of the country, the only guy with any money and the tail lights of the Howrah Mail dissapearing in the rain. I think it was Shurjo- the one that had the most feni- who expressed what we were all feeling as we battled swarms of wet humanity at Victoria Terminus to get to our train...BANCHOD!!!! BOKACHODA!!! (Sister-fucker, Foolish Fornicator). But to no avail. A few of the illegal Bangladeshi immigrants seemed shocked, but on the whole Bombay didn't care. She was probably chuckling smugly at a job well done. It was she who had so spectacularly seduced us with her looks and gobsmacked us with tea and pizzas at a posh Malabar Hills apartment with a view of the Arabian Sea. It was she who had thrilled us with the sight of huge waves crashing on the marine drive as a typical Monsoon storm raged. It was she who dulled us with delicious condiments in a warm house and then watched us swear our way through spectacularly conested traffic while the soothing melancholic strains of Coldplay's "Parachutes" played out.
"I never meant to cause you trouble
I never meant to do you harm."
So sang Chris Martin as Shurjo (again) occasionaly thrust an angry fist out of the Honda City- courtesy his rich relatives (he has them everywhere)- and cursed the city. We were worried but stoned enough and full enough to trust Bombay.
Which led to the vanishing tail lights incident.
So what now?
An hour later while I was being crushed between Shurjo's huge backpack and mine by enthusiastic local train commuters on the way to Kurla Station, I almost wondered if I shouldn't give them the slip, save my money and get my parents to bail me out. But where to stay? And what about pride? So, I reluctantly fished out all my money, and while trying to get past a seemingly station-full of touts trying to give us random tickets we rushed to the station master, who smiled sweetly at us and told us to get tickets from the touts. We said sorry, that we were students, so he said well, there's the Kurla-Howrah Express which leaves in an hour from the opposite side of town, if we were interested. Damn right we were, and hence the crushed backpacks. The commuters laughed at us, pushed us and encouraged us to push back. One of them also asked me seriously if Shurjo was from China. I think Shurjo had asked some stupid question. Rudder and Julius were more unlucky. In their rush and ignorace they had clambered on to the Ladies Compartment and given their "lean and hungry Cassius" and ominous backpacks, they came close to being thrown off the train by the cops. I think they managed to stay on because
a) Legitimate women would heve been thrown off the train as well, just to make way for all that baggage and
b)Some sweet college kids flipped over Rudder's cleft chin and pleaded with the cops.
When we reached Kurla, the crowds vomited us out....
...into the waiting arms of the auto mafia, who fought amongst themselves with knives and invectives for the right to kidnap us- get us to the main Kurla Terminus. What followed was a dogfight...but the guys who eventually bundled us in were the sneaky chappies who let the main contestants shed their blood while they got the loot. A careening ride through dark rainswept sewers followed and just when Julius was about lose hope-and temper- and get his rusty Rampuri Chaku out...wonder of wonders, Kurla Junction. I don't remember what we paid the Chota Shakeels of the Kurla Auto Association, but our objective was to get on that train even if it were our corpses that made the journey.
"Find the TT!"
"There he is"
"Sir, we're poor lost students. Not much money. Miss train. Please tickets."
Gentle smiles (from the TTs)
Grimaces(Us)
Well, we did manage to get tickets, albeit with broken feni bottles and seats all over one compartment. The train stopped on every station and by the time we got home FOUR(!!) days later, we were hungrier than Ulysses when he got to Ithaca, and we almost kissed the garden of germs, that is the platform at Howrah...but that's another epic.
"If you ever feel neglected
And you think that all is lost
I'll be counting up my demons
And tell you eerything's not lost"

Looky

In the reason
Of a squaty
Inn the doherty
Good riddance

7.1.07

I'm extremely tired. My eyes are refusing to be coordinated (like a certain drunken cat I know) and my hands don't feel like moving, and my legs are numb. This is the worst possible time to type this out, but then again, it might be the best. I don't aim to be lucid.
Many of my friends have written some quite nice little things on the new year. Emotionally, I think they've covered it all. One, for example, was drunk, and the other had a baby trying to rage against the world while they wrote theirs, so I cannot say that my state is particularly trying. And I've had a nice, nice, nice day. Started the day with a vintage car rally, which was better than the dog show; and ended it with a tale of a dancing penguin which got me humming "Staying Alive" and jiving in my head. And I had some nice company. And yet, and yet...
As I start getting used to another year, I find that all the words of kindness linger on when I no longer need them. I read Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas, and I know what its like to be free and be totally helpless at the same time. Like a man on an ether binge. Old Gonzo Thompson says that ether makes your body lose grip on reality. Everything's wonky, you're wonky, the laughing peon at the edge of the University green is a hyena, and you say "Good day, Jose" to a passing policeman. But you're brain's fine, and is a little curious about the body's antics. Hmm, he thinks, funny. Ether. It makes you free, but you're helpless, helpless, helpless. Hope this year's not an ether binge for anyone that I know, and that covers a lot.
And in the end the love you take
Is equal to the love you make.