Madonna live in concert

Can a Madonna concert be tame even if it is in a relatively conservative Middle East country? Unapologetic, pulsating and edgy best describes her artistry. We waited an hour and a half for her to take stage and this wait was peppered with jeers, taunts, catcalls and boos as the MJ tracks kept playing on loop, false starts and cheers for the random crew making an appearance and the strange case of three chefs making their way through the crowd with a shawarma spit and baskets of bread. Plus, my friend and I were intrigued by the fact that the stage was being thoroughly mopped even though it had not been used. Was it some kind of divaesque demand or pre-act ritual?

Then she came on. With monks clad in red, a big censer swinging and bells tolling. From there on it was a fantastic display of theatricality. The song selection may have disappointed most of the crowd but there was no denying that when it came to performance, not many can match the sheer force that is Madonna. We all knew that this would be a toned down version of a regular Madonna concert but who knew that even the watered down version would be so provocative and gasp inducing? Grinding and pumping on and against her scantily clad dancers—both male and female, religious imagery, graphic images of guns and splattered blood, provocative strip dancing, conical metal bra and all she tantalised and pushed as far as she could that invisible line of decency she was expected to toe—at one point she almost kissed a lady dancer.

What was the most exciting aspect of the concert? Me actually being able to see Madonna—not just on the screen but on stage. We were not that close, but bobbing and weaving my head, and standing on my toes I did really, really see her. 

Raindrops, keep falling on my head

I never miss the rains. The rains meant power cuts, mud and grime that coated your shoes and lined your toenails, wet soggy clothes that clung to you making you shiver and feel icky, splashes and splotches of  brown, wet mud that looked like someone spray painted your trousers, and not to forget the umbrellas and raincoats to trudge. In a city like Bombay, especially if commuting by train, carrying anything extra meant added need for dexterity. Your umbrella has to be ready to open in a flash yet it should not come in anybody’s way, you cannot afford to poke anyone, and God forbid if your wet umbrella or raincoat touches anyone else, who may just be a tad dryer than you!

When I moved to the Middle East, I knew I said goodbye to the rains; and I was happy about it. The occasional rain showers meant nothing, although I still grumbled about having to carry an umbrella. However, in the last couple of years, I’ve started to miss the rain.

What do I miss? The smell of the water hitting a parched, baked earth —why haven’t they bottled that scent as yet, I wonder; the draft that hits you when you open the door in a thunder shower and you leap back from the spray and the chill and hurriedly usher in whoever is at the door. I miss searching for candles and then waiting in the semi-darkness, talking, laughing, singing and making noise—noise that seems to amplify in the stillness brought on by the power outage. I remember the afternoons, when we children were kept on dark, threatening to rain cloud watch—if we got it wrong, it was a mad dash to get the clothes off the line before they were soaked completely; facing mom’s thunderous glower afterwards was something we never looked forward to.

I miss sitting by the window ledge watching the bolts of lightning crash somewhere in the sky, listening to the sound of thunder, the droplets of water hitting the protective shades over the windows and the leaves rustling, the chatter of people as they huddle under the giant tamarind tree that once stood as a sentinel in our building compound, protecting the building and all those who sought shelter from the rain. I even miss trudging through dirty, muddy water and the rush to the bathroom to clean off the slime and treat the feet to a Dettol wash to ward of any possible infection. My walk home would include walking through pucca roads between paddy fields and avoiding the water snakes, crabs and fish that swam past.  Sometimes, I miss the spraying of water from oncoming vehicles, some deliberate, some unavoidable and the evasive actions we took, the turning of umbrellas when the wind was too strong, the sometimes having to sit with umbrellas open in the train when the windows or doors would be jammed. Yet, I know, above all these things, what I miss most is me grumbling about the rains.