Rock On!

A lazy July afternoon two years ago, in reconnoitering the Net to plan a trip to Shanghai, came the news that a certain Roger K Barrett was no more. "For those who knew him, and certainly some of us spent many an evening reveling in the joys of the company of Syd and his kinsmen..." was how one mourned his pioneering genius, in the poignant knowledge that the Madcap Laughs, but now in a different abode.

Nonetheless, hope lingered for the faithful: that the Floydian bell had not tolled its last yet. Indeed, it grew by virtue of a momentous reunion during Live 8 a few months ago. Mind you, any new note to add to the treasure trove that unfurled with Piper at the Gates of Dawn two score years ago, would be up against sky-high expectations. Their success had been staggering; time since last foray unbearably long.

Miracles were par for the course, however. Like the day when practising a new song for Wish You Were Here, before the evening party for Dave Gilmour's wedding, a fully shaved overweight man, looking aged beyond his years, had wandered in unrecognized in the studio. Amongst friends after a five year hiatus and amidst the strains of Shine On You Crazy Diamond (ostensibly dedicated to him) Syd had asked for a guitar, to find none, and walked away from them forever.

With the tragic demise of Rick Wright this week, alas, that hope is gone. There would be no more from the band that redefined music with experimentative sound, evocative lyric, and phantasmagoric rock opera constructs. Debates as to the order of greatness among the prodigal Barrett, meditative Waters or mellow Gilmour usually led me back to my first etched-in-rock principle. Serendipitously discovered during my baby steps in College, it went: there was Floyd, and then you had Music (or, more pithily, Floyd is God)!

Indeed, for a musical journey so rich in idiom, varied in vein, and haunting in memory, attempting an epitaph is surely ill-advised. Suffice it for me to exit today, then, with two tickets for Rock On in hand, by reaching into the divine anthology for a composition sans pareil, from the aforementioned 1975 album, and leave you to savour some of its nine-part gem:

Remember when you were young; you shone like the sun…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
You were caught on the cross fire of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze…
Come on you target for faraway laughter, come on you stranger,
You legend, you martyr, and shine!

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze…
Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter,
You piper, you prisoner, and shine!

Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
Pile on many more layers and I'll be joining you there…
Shine on you crazy diamond…
And we'll bask in the shadow of yesterday's triumph,
And sail on the steel breeze…
Come on you boy child, you winner and loser,
Come on you miner for truth and delusion, and shine!

Whose Trust Is It Anyway

It has been four weeks off the air. One doubts if they offer much to history books though. A strangely muted run-up to the Olympics and quintessential theatrics of a US presidential race have jostled for mindspace. Elsewhere, a roller-coaster of oil prices and gloomy predictions for world economy have been in headlines. The latter, in any case, has now passed beyond the realm of speculation to ostrich-like acceptance of fact. All told, despite intent, Echohum has been stuck at its modest debut in the last weekend of June.

Existence was humdrum at an individual level too. Attempts to break the monotony via Weekend Getaways from Delhi went nowhere. Sports was armchair variety only; and all despair. Sample this: a new tenant at Wimbledon Centre Court, another vote for Spanish conquistadorial instinct in Europe 2008 and two forgetful outings for Kimi (retirement in Canada; frittered pole at Magny Cours). Team India's last hurdle capitulation via simultaneous loss of batting form and proverbial Dhoni luck, meant that the cup of woes brimmeth over.

Possibly the closest to brush with history in the interlude, thus, was the in-the-end-not-so-close arithmetic exercise AKA 'Vote of Trust'. I would have found the cocktail heady, given typical affinity towards things political, and prurient interest in intrigue in high places. Yet, it mostly left bad taste (and little potential for drawing-room gossip); and apprehension as to who and how governs We, the People.

Reasons for such cynicism are aplenty. Start with the actual proceedings in the Parliament. The debate (if one can call it that) around whether Shri Somnath Chatterjee should pivot to the symbol adorning his electoral ballot; or ostensible propriety in putting constitutional kursi first; was a chapter in the decline and fall of probity in public life. Indeed, one almost believed this solitary vote represented a national crisis. Multiple TV channels ran helter-skelter for a soundbyte on whence-Speaker, with opinion-makers of all ilk offering platitudes on the subject. Of course, as is wont in such cases, the bitterness persists as these words are being written, with a promise of more to come.

Frankly, apart from these 'concerns' on the Chair, one does not know what else to note from the discussions leading up to the vote. Inane opening remarks by the PM, zero-surprise rebuttal from the Leader of Opposition and a series of speakers whose earth-shattering postulates were given a total miss by the two newspapers and three news channels in my sample, save for three exceptions.

Two of these were scions of prominent political families. Both tried to cloak party affiliations running through their veins with an 'apolitical' hope-in-youth type appeal. Mainstream media sources cited above made suitable clucking noises, harking back to glory-hallelujah Rajiv Gandhi days, in talking of this duo. Nary a care for the mismatch between intention and delivery in respect of Mr Clean (post the cited mid-80s Bombay Congress plenary remarks). Hope springs eternal, perhaps?

The third spotlit character was this incorrigible Hindi heartland comic. Die-hard supporters (thankfully much shrunk now in numbers in his erstwhile fiefdom) would have us believe he is Lord Krishna reincarnate. Restraint is needed here, the post being long enough already, with much due; but suffice it to say that his caricaturing, like forementioned dynastic hopes, was completely puerile if mildly entertaining.

Of the spectacle of currency notes being held aloft, much has been said (and captured for posterity by news TV). Yet, one could not help but wonder if this was akin to a show-and-tell, an acknowledgment of our polity's passage in horse-trading sense from insinuation to omnipotence-omnipresence. It was almost Freudian to watch money being waved on screen over the heads of Hon members as if the nation needed to be reminded of the lure of lucre. Like l' affaire Somnath, this one continues to play on.

Who's Left, pardon the pun? Skipping the rest of shenanigans (Sonia ji, Mayawati ji, Amar Singh ji et al), let us talk of M/s Karat and Co. This branch of the democratic family stands out for the remarkable insularity of their world-view. They doggedly pursue the 'high moral ground' despite a pitiable track record when in power. Your average Leftist is not illiterate, yet can be brazenly illogical and (notwithstanding current cracks in citadel) the entire flock toes the same line, Gulag or no Gulag, and a Nandigram to you if you disagree!

A quick peek in history is instructive to analyze Karat-speak. During Quit India and after Independence, the Party batted for the British, going so far as to label our Freedom-at-Midnight 'fake'. Then, their stance on the 1962 War sounded suspiciously similar to comrades north of the MacMohan Line. Now, after a near-full term of power-sans-accountability, Shri Karat decides to pull the plug. Not, mind, for rising prices, economic reform or like issues aligned to their avowed shibboleths, but a Nuclear Deal. Other than perfunctory noises of the pact being anti-Muslim, our Marx-Lenin types did not even attempt reasons for their opposition. It remains equally unclear as to what they gained (or will, come election time) politically.

One wonders if there's more to this anachronistic anti Americanism, given the extent of nuclear power adoption by China (set to overtake France as #1 in civilian energy use). Any argument of retaining military testing option too ought to come more naturally to the BJP and certainly not the Commies, with their vociferous opposition to Pokharan II or consequent nuclear armament. Perhaps some day Com Karat can enlighten us (it is beyond imagination to expect anything faintly logical from Com Yechury). Until then, it is an idle mind or thick skin that would try decipher method in the Left's madness.

All in all, a month's hiatus is best summarized by a Tuesday tale: a 'victory' that may be Pyrrhic; a 'vote' of no note; and 'confidence' alas...

About A Name

A journey of a thousand li begins with a single step. For a blog, one must perforce start with a title. Having flirted for long with the idea of writing one, it surprised me yesterday that this seemingly minor detail had missed my attention. Afternoon soon turned to evening in musing saddi Dilli's traffic volumes on an otherwise uneventful day. The mind kept going back to questions of a nomenclatural kind though, even as the decision for dinner was made in favour of Khan Market next-door over Select Citywalk. Regardless, the condiments on offer failed to stir any divine ideas. Nor was the resident critic in one of her more indulgent moods.

So I slept over it.

And it came to me early Sun morning (confessedly an uncharacteristic action for the hour in my case). The math, as they say, is clear: there are really only two original numbers, zero and one. If you went from zero to one, and then again more than once, you would have many. Equally, there is no other way to get to many than to start with one. Hence, One is Me.

'Many', on the other hand, may well invite charges ranging from mere egotism to ominous megalomania! My defence is simple: the reference is not to any precocious assumptions of following (not that such be unwelcome) but to the multiple touch-points that is Life. Amidst its myriad hues and shapes, inspiring ideas and individuals, and inimitably diverse emotions and expressions, we find life in atoms and Atlases (that dance in a marvelous interdependence for existence) and beyond.

Let it, therefore, be my stated intent to open this multitude of experiences; and humbly seek to add to them through reactions, suggestions or comments. From One to Many, back some; and then some more!