Prelude
Prelude
Maybe it didn’t start with his visit, maybe it started when I said to someone “You are different people”.
But it was his visit that brought out a lot of issues from subliminal depths to the forefront.
We played the initial moves of the argument like a familiar Ruy Lopez. The same oblique references amongst the pleasantries, the sudden cut to the chase. Man, but will I be glad when I out of here, he said. And of course, so will you. If you don’t know me by now, I said. I am Indian and this is my playground.
And he grabbed the mouse, and opened the Winamp playlist. “Read”, he spake. “I am listening, I know”, quoth I. He read aloud anyway.
Always on my mind : Willie Nelson
Always on my mind : Pet Shop Boys
Always on my mind (In My House remix): Pet Shop Boys
Meghame Meghame : Palaivana Solai
Kaatril Endhan Geetham : Johnny
Kabhi toh Khulke Baras : Chitra Singh
Manzil na de Charagh na de : Jagjit Singh.
Look at that, he said. Not one song in your native language. You are no son of the soil. (No, but we aren’t shop-soiled either, I interjected, but he ignored the pun). You spend obscene portions of your day screaming away at this. You aren’t a native of where you have a house, and you haven’t been to that house either except for holidays. Let us face it, essentially you are homeless. You claim you belong here? You and I, we are different people, he said.
And inwardly I winced at his throwing the same line I had used.
And I have been thinking this over. About the place we call home. And about being Indian. And about people being, well, different. During rushed journeys, during boring meetings, in midst of passing cutting remarks about the advisability of people’s ancestors having climbed down from the trees, while receiving dressing downs with an appropriately funereal air and downcast eyes. A parallel track, meandering in the head.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something rambling this way comes.
Maybe it didn’t start with his visit, maybe it started when I said to someone “You are different people”.
But it was his visit that brought out a lot of issues from subliminal depths to the forefront.
We played the initial moves of the argument like a familiar Ruy Lopez. The same oblique references amongst the pleasantries, the sudden cut to the chase. Man, but will I be glad when I out of here, he said. And of course, so will you. If you don’t know me by now, I said. I am Indian and this is my playground.
And he grabbed the mouse, and opened the Winamp playlist. “Read”, he spake. “I am listening, I know”, quoth I. He read aloud anyway.
Always on my mind : Willie Nelson
Always on my mind : Pet Shop Boys
Always on my mind (In My House remix): Pet Shop Boys
Meghame Meghame : Palaivana Solai
Kaatril Endhan Geetham : Johnny
Kabhi toh Khulke Baras : Chitra Singh
Manzil na de Charagh na de : Jagjit Singh.
Look at that, he said. Not one song in your native language. You are no son of the soil. (No, but we aren’t shop-soiled either, I interjected, but he ignored the pun). You spend obscene portions of your day screaming away at this. You aren’t a native of where you have a house, and you haven’t been to that house either except for holidays. Let us face it, essentially you are homeless. You claim you belong here? You and I, we are different people, he said.
And inwardly I winced at his throwing the same line I had used.
And I have been thinking this over. About the place we call home. And about being Indian. And about people being, well, different. During rushed journeys, during boring meetings, in midst of passing cutting remarks about the advisability of people’s ancestors having climbed down from the trees, while receiving dressing downs with an appropriately funereal air and downcast eyes. A parallel track, meandering in the head.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something rambling this way comes.
You really must slow down on Pet Shop Boys. :)
Posted by
Anonymous |
February 28, 2006 6:42 PM
Come now, isn't home simply where the heart is? Where do you wish to put your feet up at the end of an exhausting day (you know, trying in vain to put down sentiments of "Homeward Bound" - Simon&Garfunkel)..But anyway, there's your answer.
Alpha, no, that is not me inviting ?! to Boston....my "tossing-their-hearts-around" days are very over...(or no, in abeyance :))
Posted by
GratisGab |
February 28, 2006 10:28 PM
Ph : They ain't a song for the broken hearted? Or a silent prayer for the dear departed ?
Ms G : Your salad days... err salad tossing days are behind you ?
And if you noticed
Home, where my thought’s escaping
Home, where my music’s playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
might as well apply to favourite cd on the car stereo ... don't think it would qualify as home, though. Comfort and loved ones are both transferable; is home ?
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