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. 

The push and the pull

Her mind is a whirl. It’s like something has snapped. She is free of whatever had her tethered. It’s a moment of clarity. The foolhardiness she had been indulging in, the dangerous games she had been playing — she saw it all now. It’s like she is floating, above, somewhere, watching everything unfold, cringing at her shamelessness and reacting with incredulity. Who is this provocative, self-indulgent person? Is it me? Is this what everybody sees? No! Someone stop her! Stop her before she makes a complete fool of herself! Why is she doing this — to me!

Why is she pretending to be what she cannot clearly be? Is she being indulgent because that’s what it takes to get noticed? It’s not real. It’s just a game but she can’t stop it anymore. The game is now more important. She wants to know how far she can go with this pretense. Now that she has stepped on to the stage with its strobe lights and festoons and glitter, she doesn’t want to get off —it’s just getting interesting. How far is too far?

When the lights are off and the audience gone, she is dismayed at her desperation. Yet, somewhere deep down she is questioning this guilt. Does it stem from the shame or from the truth? Has this pretense taken off the mask of civility and exposed all the darkest secrets of her mind? Did she walk into the trap knowing that it would force her to face her baser self? Why did she bait this demon with information, with charm, with guile? Oh you masochistic fool! Why did you have to persist to walk down this foolish path and kill us both!

Dancing the dating dance

“I had this guy leave me a voicemail at work, so I called him at home, and then he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell, and now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies.”

-         From the movie He's Just Not That Into You

I don’t know how many of you were nodding your heads in agreement when Drew Barrymore explained her pitiable state of dating and communicating in a technology-reliant society, but I felt that her character was saying everything I wanted to say but in a eloquent yet matter-of-fact way!

Need I say more? Given my dating experience through all the portals and channels available to find the one person I could marry—online, matrimonial columns, matchmakers, priests, friends, friends of friends, relatives and their extended families, colleagues—you would think I would have gained some insight or clarity on the subject.  All that I can tell you is this, with enough conviction and case studies to boot, dating is a murky world. It’s an exhausting platform designed to infuriate you and leave you helpless and confused about who you are, what you want and why are you doing this in the first place. There are more questions each time you go through the whole rigmarole.

Practice makes perfect but practice in the dating world can make cynics out of even the most optimistic, romantic person. 

Stand out and be counted

Inspiration comes from various things and it’s not always your usual suppliers. On an episode of Modern Family, the uncle (who is gay) is comforting his step-brother (who is in high school) not to be worried about being considered weird, because he says that when we are younger we always want to fit in; we don’t want to be one of those different people, but when we get older, we want to stand out and be different. That’s when I had an epiphany … ok …not epiphany but I realized that there was so much truth to that.

The last thing you wanted as a school or college student was to stand out from the crowd. Of course, you wanted to be popular and brilliant and famous but only for the right reasons. You didn’t want to be the make-way-there’s-a-geek-coming-through person. No sir, not at all. So you did the best you could to hide your quirks and blend in. You shopped where everyone shopped, ate what everyone ate and talked, spoke, laughed like everyone else.

When we grow older everything changes. Our priorities don’t allow us to conform. As adults, we want to steer clear from the mundane and the common. We learn very quickly that if we want to be something or get anything, we need to sprint ahead; and the only way we can do this is by being different. So, the difference that we tried so hard to camouflage under the guise of conformity in our younger days is the only thing that is going to make us stand out as adults. And just like that, the things you were so ashamed of as a kid becomes your saving grace. It’s ironical then that when we seek to stand out we no longer find the going easy. It’s like we’ve angered the muses that bestowed those gifts to us in the first place. Try as much as you want, seeking them out again is a painstaking process.

Chance and me

I gave you an opportunity

Said Chance to me

A million and more times over

But I didn’t need it then

I petulantly cried

And you always come when you’re not needed

But Chance is adamant

And doesn’t like being slighted

After all it what is its purpose

if people don’t take him on?

Every single one of them

You squandered, rejected or ignored

And you expect me to forget?

said Chance incredulously.

Ok! I admit I screwed up

I was blind, proud and lazy

But can’t you see I need you now

I sobbed terrified at being left alone.

Chance and I continued to squabble

The conversation was getting nowhere

Or so we thought

But the more we talked

The more we realized

that Chance needed me as much as I needed it.

I need assistance.

He needed validation.

I needed reassurance.

He needed utility.

So now we’ve come to this partial truce

To give each other one more break

I take the chances that he provides

and Chance makes sure that he arrives when needed.

Did you just say that?

Taken out of context, words can be twisted to some very hilarious and icky levels.

Like I overheard this colleague instructing a supplier who installed some artwork for a client, “Front ka picture le. Full front ka chaihiye. Peeche ka bhi le lo. Bad mein kam ajayega” (Take a picture of the front, full front. And the back. We can use it later.)

Or this colleague, who is not a native speaker of English, telling someone on the phone, “Go there quickly. The girl is already waiting in the room.”

In the office pantry, I asked a colleague washing his dishes, to move aside since I wanted to pass water, and he burst out laughing at my exact use of words.

And the ickiest comment I received after my haircut goes to —“you’ve cut your hair… nice… what about the bikini?”