Topic close to my heart

If you dont get the joke, you should stop reading my blog. No it's not the porn bit. :) :)..   It is about the 'whole' family. 

Chakravakam

Also called Ahir bhairav in the other house that the raga likes living in. There are huge stories that ragas tell. Even without being in the form of a song, composition, or lyrics. I am especially not a great fan of raga malika, which are songs where ragas are mixed.

The fundamental structure of raga itself emotes and gives it a shape. In the same way that hamsa nandi is for angst, subha panthuvarali is for sadness, kalyani for happiness, mohana for romance, chakravakam emotes too. I consciously veered away from google for this one. I formed my own opinion on this without bias. If it matches with the generic opinion, I am probably right in the eyes of the rest of the world. If it does not, then it means I am right in my own eyes. It is more precious to me.

Chakaravakam reminds me. Reminds me of memories which are heavy. Which are intense while they last. Exhausting. Not always dark. But not light hearted. They are around some important debates in my life, some I won, most I lost. They are about close friends, of friendships that have drifted apart. Are they negative? Perhaps, but its just another view.

My fav classical song of chakravakam has to be pibare rama rasam. Hands down.

Some of the more popular songs include Albela sajan aayo re, tu hi re from Bombay (remember the interlude where Manisha K runs and her burkha gets stuck to the tree?? The aalaap there is my fav piece), telugu song called ye nadu vidi poni (my fav movie song in this raga).

Here is to all the heavy moments that I have had in my life. The moments themselves are not bad. They contributed to my evolution. 

And they lived happily ever after...

Thanks for being there for me. The last six years would have been a riot without you. In sickness and health, in troubled times and happier ones, in richness and poverty, through the geographies and time less travels, you have been there for me. Protecting me from rough weathers despite the body odour, rains and muck and grease and dust and grime. You have seen me grow older and fatter; especially felt me getting fatter. You protested silently but accommodated me with a soft sigh. The night outs, the hangovers, the tears, the laughs, the sweat from my work out. My faithful companion. My friend who I put through a tough regime under water and wringed the life out of you. I put you through harsh substances and you gladly took them all for me.

You have been my best buddy readily cuddling me when I needed comfort. But, I can see the age wearing you out these days. You are no more firm and fit. You are becoming shapeless. It is ok. I understand. But please, please do not die on me. I cant imagine life without you around. From the bottom of my heart, I will do anything, anything at all to keep you happy. Including indulging your, "Yay, I am a shopoholic" lines.

Dear green t-shirt, please dont leave me behind. I love you. Really. Promise. 

Nostalgic...

Absolutely nostalgic. My mom truly believes that I write well. And she tells me I write well because of her. It is strange because I have not seen her write. I remember her talking about writing when I was a 10 year old. She and I used to discuss the skeleton of my essays, in both Telugu and English. Actually, language does not matter. We were discussing thoughts. Debated. Argued. She never used to read my essays. She said she may find something she does not like and that would hurt me. That the essay was mine and she has faith that I would write well. Strange.

Years later, she started reading my essays. She started enjoying them. So much that she said whenever I write something, I should tell her. That she finds them most interesting and she loves reading them. That she does not look for mistakes anymore because I dont make them. :)

She has kept some of my essays with her still. The tattered, battered, stained paper which now smells is still at home. They are not my best. But she says they are handwritten and hence good for her. She says they were more honest. The writing made it real. That I dint strike anywhere told her I had clarity of thought. But I fooled her. That I dint strike anywhere meant I cheated by changing the train of thought. The essays and my writing was never real. It was fiction.

Fiction when intertwined with truth is reality.

Finer arts

There are times... times when music and poetry does not make sense. Times when words dont make sense. Times that are just times with no meaning or moment attached to it. Times that dont add up to anything. That dont have an adjective. What are these times? Are they trying to explain reasons?

Finer arts dont exist in these times. It is vacuum. Nobody is allowed able to think anymore. Arts, go figure.