Keeravani, Fallen from the Skies

The silence of the Himalayas heavily perched on our backs, we wistfully set out into the plains again.

The crystal clear skies above the mountain tops were already becoming a distant memory.

The priceless companionship of crickets were increasingly replaced with sounds of traffic and marketplaces.

Yet the silence of the mountains, the stillness of the air and a weight upon our hearts barricaded the ripples of the outside world.

Slowly and gently we were slipping into reverie, just like the sun threatening to dip beyond the dusty fields.

Some quick glasses of lassi and one papery dosa later, we marched up to the taxi stand that would take us to the transit town in Bengal.

Throwing a glance behind us, we spotted those conifers which bristled as though they knew what lay ahead of us.

Dusty roads, cracked highways, jammed town squares and listless Bollywood songs that would put us in and out of misery at the music player's will.

The green of the tea gardens crouched beneath a layer of ridiculous brown. Dust. A brown that threatened to stay until the skies showered.

Men and women picked their way amongst these shrubs for a living. They must know the green. Or the black, dried leaves.

Leaves that would waft the aroma of the mountains, in a cup. The mountains were still and untouched by the chaos of the lower mortals.

Mortals who could pen lyrics about women being the balm to the wounded hearts of men. Listless songs for a wandering humankind.

The sun dipped. And so did our hearts, through those pothole-ridden highways, despite the fake cheer of the driver.

Stop with the Bollywood songs. The aux chord is mine now. The air (within the car) shall reverberate with some thing of greater deference to our mood.

The evening stars refuse to come out. The air is still coated in dust. The mountains are no longer in our sight.

Something needs to change. A reluctantly cheerful Coke Studio song slips along. We hum nonchalantly. Our eyes still search for something exciting in the horizon.

Time slips by, with our destination nowhere in sight. The songs line our journey one indie, one classical, one hip-hop and hardly any Bollywood.

Now the silence rests in our eyes only. The wistful smile that breaks once or twice on recognising a song on the playlist, immediately drips of a dryness that is customary after a sumptuous feast.

We had feasted on the mountains. Our stomachs were nourished with the banter of the mountainfolk. Our eyes and hearts were brimming of mountain stories.

The Himalayas would weigh upon us. Like anything.

Suddenly, a twang of the violin.

The night was completely upon us. Google maps, coded in its own bars and colours showed us that the destination was hardly an hour away.

The tea gardens had given away to a gorgeous winding valley. No colours to be noted by the eye in the dead black of the night.

No stars still, but a huge glowing moon shone behind sparse clouds that drifted by.

The violin now flirtatiously courted the bass guitar. Keys gently chaperoning their clandestine meet.

The music was lilting. The windows were down now. No dust in the air.

The car gently swerved along the curves and we moaned at the sight of river that was suddenly rushing by our road now.

The moonlight glistened on the river like silver threads on a black sheet that rippled gently. Slowly the drums picked up and a keeravani as heavenly as the night caroused the air.

Silence was everywhere. Rock'n'Roll infused with Carnatic like the glorious moon playing hide and seek behind those wispy clouds.

We were smiling. The driver was amused at the change of weather. The trees alongside the river rustled in approval.

The voice of the violin, adorned by the notes of keeravani, tangoed magically to the shy percussion. James Bond would have been proud of the sly.

Our heads were firmly sticking out of the window now. Sniffing the air of the valley. Smiling with the contentment of peaking in the plains just as well.

Crickets were back keeping pace with the jazz and Carnatic and rock and roll.

This, my friends, is how I will recount what Skyfall Keeravani means to me.

The silence of the hills, the seduction of a river by the valley and the thoroughly beaming benevolence of the moon in the company of my friends, wind grazing our faces with a candour that only wanderers have experienced. Skyfall Keeravani is that sweet piece of music to me.

Where Time Stops

Perched on a flat cushion, legs dangling comfortably numb after sustained hours of reading in the same position, I winced slightly. Tore myself away from the part-comical part-thoughtful novel that I was reading and looked beyond the window that framed all the light this room received.

Late March afternoon. It was all that the imminent summer had gently warned us about. Mango trees pregnant with flowers that would soon become firm, green young fruits. The last of the spring flowers dotting the hedges, walls, fences and the narrows streets of the locality. Monkeys calmly sitting far apart from one another and concentrating on whatever they were messing with at the moment- a neighbour's washing line, a tetra pack of juice half-consumed, another monkey's dirty head. Some children in the street called out to one another and merrily scampered about unaware of the trees, the flowers, the silent monkeys and the occasionally glancing me.

I turned towards the partly shut book. Counted the number of pages I had devoured in this one sitting. 135. Not great, but not bad at all. I had had a huge reading block in the previous year. Picked three promising books, got through 40 odd pages and then got distracted with other things- music, travel, short-reads, magazine pieces, more music, more travel- and never managed to complete any of them. So even this one sitting was cumulatively greater than my attempt last year. I had already completed one 300-page book in February, it was mostly about music and a little bit about travel. Somehow the themes of my life, at the moment, fit in every scenario. But I digress…

It was the peace and quiet of an afternoon that had led me on to this train of thought. Even on abnormally silent days in the office, somebody is hammering outside, a car whizzes by every two minutes, the koel's soft call completely drowned by the rhythmic typing in the office and the invasive phone calls. Such silent days are far and few in between. Weekends suffocate under chores to be done, friends to be met and non-negotiable calls to the near and dear. When silence arrives, it is accompanied by exhaustion, not creativity.

I shut the book firmly now. Only 40 pages left, I am sure I will complete it tomorrow. It is easier to breathe knowing that the reading habit is not all lost. I look out again, make myself even more at ease and let the mind wander. I am at A's place. She is cooking in the kitchen. Intermittent sounds, ones that I can recognise from my own kitchen, promise more comfort. The day is not too hot. I was sitting shrouded in a thin shawl in the morning, and just listening to the unbelievable quiet of the small town. The main roads were chaotic and a hell-way of honking trucks and buses, cars and scooters. But beyond that, huge eucalyptus, mango, peepal, ashoka and other avenue trees cloaked the residential areas in absolute tranquility. 'It is still noisy and one can't sleep so easy', A protested.

In a small town, it is easy to get from one to place to the next within a limit of ten minutes. There seemed to be nobody hurrying, hustling. Or maybe that it was an extended weekend and everybody had willingly resigned to have their peaceful four days. Yet, on the previous evening, a rare sense of freedom and youthful energy burst within me and I sprinted. I sprinted down the wide, dimly lit, completely empty and tree-lined avenues. I hopped, paused, breathed and stopped. I grinned back at A, who too shot down the road right after me and at P who leisurely strolled behind. Young as only the young are.

I remembered the stroll down the town's roads two nights ago. Ethereal fragrances drifted in the air, benign bottle-brush trees showered their blessings and the bright moon nudged our young spirits. And this deep sense of finding solace and unexpected counsel in the buzz of the crickets and unsolicited company of a passing mongrel, too.

Such settings are only in a few pockets of the city, untouched by pollution and uninhabited by humans. I must find more time for the countryside, I thought to myself. Silence, undisturbed sleep, more peace and a leisurely mulling of all the important things in life over a cup of tea, by the sunshine-streaming window billed for a invigorating retreat.  The testimony of a place where one can hear the clock tick and the wind whistle. Where Time stops and indulges the thinking mind. A announces that lunch is ready, and I more than willingly substitute the book on my lap for a plate of hot puris, sabji and cold raita.