Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Compositions & Lessons in life


Angshuman left his guitar in Delhi; he had no time to pick up his life from Delhi. Dispatched like a Registered post to his home town with no return address. Well, that's how he left, or (is it?) he left us!!

The guitar en-route found a new connoisseur in the form of Imtiaz, a perfect companion for a loner like him. Imtiaz, a self-professed non-idealist and probably the most cynical person I have ever met in my life.

After a conversation with him, I sometimes simply don’t like climbing down the stairs, he lives on the 3rd floor, and the flight down the balcony seems like a better proposition.

One such night, Imtiaz made me listen to one of his compositions... Here's a snapshot of it. If you understand Assamese, sail along sailor:

refer to the widget to hear the compositions"If you have cotton stuffed in your ears
You listen to distant voices
Why do you still panic and look for an escapade?
What do you listen to?"
"On lofty branches hangs a ripe fruit
Still I can't get a grip on it
Even though I have strong huge palm
I can never get a grip on them
What a price for innocence..."

Imtiaz normally during these moorings takes-off on a tangent, a little difficult to hold on to. I constantly churn my stomach with new ideas, twist and turn and imbibe them into my blood-stream and return smelling like burnt tyres.

A high voltage running on a slim fuse wire.
My shameful grip of Assamese literature takes its toll, and Imtiaz transforms himself into a patient teacher explaining to me the simplest of Assamese 'dat bhonga' (tooth-breaking!) words.

"On Floor tiling I taste of a comfortable bed
I slip down below and the smell of the earth insinuates me
You cover me with earth so that I can't see the darkness of the night"
"you walk on the earth soiled by the late showers
mud flips past your slippers
and you feet accepts them claiming it is yours
soon its gets warmth, the mud dries off and fall off your feet
you look back and they are gone
finally you try to trace back your steps
the earth stuck to your feet which you called yours is gone
its gone and you can't finish romanticizing about it"

How ironic and how true!!
Our bygone days which we protect as our own with sole proprietorship
We keep romanticizing our past memories
Nostalgia overcomes us and we become its slave
It’s like that mud once that dries off, peels away from our feet
When we are busy enjoying the emergence of the sun after the rains
We forget, and we no longer can claim it’s ours
Coz it’s gone...

It went past us and what remains are just us...


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