#scurf96: that one song, those hairy arms and the last, tight hug
When xyz cannot sleep, does he sing himself to sleep? I wonder...
Something happened in the first week of August and it stirred a pot of emotions, making me want to sit up straight and notice a whirlwind of feelings I had buried deep within. One thing led to another and here I was, wound up at the doorstep of a beloved artist. Devouring his songs, one heartbeat at a time. It was almost as if I was circling back to an old love, rediscovering an obsession, scratching at the surface of a a trunk full of old memories. While I think subliminally I was doing that, on the surface of it, it was a sublime and musical journey. It transcended the set boundaries, almost as if pulling me into the real of art. A third world, away from the tangibles and intangibles we often find ourselves embroiled in.
One song took a few hours of repetition on the TV, as I worked, ate, drank water and forgot to breathe, spellbound by the immenseness of the emotions. The sensations shooting inside my body were strange — I had not felt these in years. I have often kept away from Hindi and Urdu songs on account of the surge of emotions they make me feel (with or without alcohol). It was as if I was finding myself all over again. A jolt of vitality freshening me, as the mukhda turned a corner.
Great art is like a treasure map — something that redirects you to the treasure within, at the centre of your being, connects the dots and moves you to stillness. Doesn't make sense, does it? But this song, this first one, was like having a glass of whisky on the chatt of your childhood household. The gloaming hour is upon the city, as the dusk covers the beating heart of its people with a palpable sense of loss. My heart, a little empty, a little unaccomplished, traces its footsteps back, following the trail of breadcrumbs someone had been leaving everywhere all along. My heart unaccomplished, alone but beating, on the terrace in that crepuscular hour echoes a lament under the smudged grey skies. Alone with my possessions — failures, loneliness and the cup of chai, its a slippery slope, I think to myself. After each sip, you shake the cup a bit, watch a brown liquid swirl inside. Your heart sinks. But you reaffirm yourself, perhaps there's enough chai to last you through the song. Then comes the last sip. That last sip that leaves you utterly alone, the way you had entered into this world. You glimpse at the empty pit of the cup, and feel the abyss stare back at you. You look up at the now inky blue skies, their emptiness sends a shiver down your gut. You feel a dull ache arise from one corner of your chest. A loneliness so acute, even your years of depression has not known it. Staring at the sky blindly, dulling in proportion to your desire to live. Your heart beats, you know what you missed. You could have told him how much he meant to you, but you wouldn't want to go down the road. There were circumstances, situations. Now the sun has set, the chai is finished, the loop on the song is closed. You are alone, once again, in the bleating darkness of the impending night. Thy cup runneth empty, but thy heart? Thy heart runneth over...
