enthucutlet

I get paid to write. Not here but elsewhere. Language is my weapon and all that, but it is unnerving how I could never get myself to write about Swedish House Mafia’s One Last Tour in Mumbai. I fall short of words, phrases and even letters. Probably because it was more than just a night I will remember for the rest of my life.

But hey, that doesn't stop me. I write today about another artist who touched my heart. For whom India waited FIVE long years. For who- left millions of ‘EDM Fanatics’, if I may say so, delighted and spellbound for a long time to come now. For whom we burned in the mid summer Bombay sun and never complained once.

A distant silhouette of the worshiped man, blazing bass, wobbly footsteps, broken toe, uncomfortably large plastic glasses, familiar faces, cacophonous singers screeching absurd lyrics, the thought of waking up with the happiest heart and Maximal Crazy; this the what I am left with now. A memory, a dream come true, a happy-happy moment, a pleased heart.

He played the classics, the favourites and the heart pleasers. I wouldn't really go into track listing the entire show but 2 hours of inexpressibly mind blowing music is what he gave us. Proved worthy of his title. And left a million hearts with a ‘see you soon’ tweet! It is moments like these that life at 20 seems perfectly worth it.  

I saved my favourites, which I’m sharing. And about the gazillion memories, I’d rather keep them like a fat kid and his cake.

29.03.2013

(Not necessarily in this order)

1. Obviously, Maximal Crazy

2. Chasing Summers

3. Zero 76

4. Lethal Industry

It’s one of those whimsical days where I seem to bask in the whirr of my early mind alarm to wake up much earlier than I need to, filled with extravagant enthusiasm; that is usually a rare sight to the younger, perplexed and frenzily swooped side of me. Sugar coated fantastical mornings like this where I imagine not to go gushing and gawping into a sheeny shiny office with lady like ensembles flitting in immaculately tailored suits, I gasp a sigh of relief. (Yes, gasping and sighing at the same time is perfectly almost possible, TRY IT). But nevertheless I end up skipping stairs and rushing through doors to soothing sights better than chrysanthemums bloomed, cupcakes and new music.

Dressed chic and smart to look old enough to be taken seriously, I decided there is absolutely no point to impediment blog posts due to my inability to make time from slopping Sundays to click pictures; I decided I should also start writing shorter sentences.

So with humungous planet sized enthusiasm and excitement after the super fabulous weekend at the MTVBlocParty, I make my way into office looking forward to a surprising week ahead, maybe?(i will need much more than a just a part of a blog post to write about the two day madness, so i'm just going to write a new post. sometime later this week.)

Oh yes. And in the midst of all this, I happen to stumble across this in the drafts of my mail box. Written months ago in the disappointment and aggravation of Swedish House Mafia’s One Last Tour getting cancelled, I’m probably only grinning at this right now. THEY PLAY TOMORROW. And I’m being overly cautious to conveniently discourage any form of ‘jinxminx’ this time.

So this is what I vented out in that hour of frustration that day:

  “In the angst of a bizarre weekend and endless ranting about Swedish House Mafia cancelling their Mumbai tour because of the very ungrateful man who has the world’s most ghastly timing to make everything go wrong, it felt like I was the only person who lived through this horrid, starving and hilarious experience. As crazy and mindfucked as anyone can ever get, she perhaps is the only one who could’ve levered my mood then and lived through this. And me.

Appalled by this sudden shut down of a city that never sleeps; we rummaged around looking to find ATLEAST a loaf of bread. But that’s not the point. The next day, the city came to what it was. The cabbies charged exorbitant ‘normal’ rates. My boss and I ate the same ‘chilli garlic pathetic noodles’ from the office canteen. And everything seemed as miserable as it could of not having a chance to watch SHM alive. UNTIL UNTIL UNTIL TODAY. They’re coming back and HOWWWWWWWW!!!!My level of excitement cannot be typed so I’m just going to pretend to remain calm and let go of this topic; for now.

So well, slowly creeping back to clothes shoes and bags, I figured my affection towards comfortable, loose and polkas with exaggerated lengths. Whilst everyone in Bombay pretends like they’re freezing to death at 24 degree Celsius, I trot around in happy prints in soothing shades. Sheerness of this asymmetrical piece is totally werqing the ebb and flow of my swinging ballistic moods and it is definitely a gooooooooood day. Also since my works calls for the ‘formal’ factor in shades of corporate, my boss was kind enough to make a clear cut distinguishing flyover about the difference between a corporate slave and my job. Definite extra brownie points for that. EEEEEEEE. XD”

  Pictures will be up soon.

So till then I’m just going to end it here with this beautiful man. (Note: It is very rare that I define divine musicians like this)

Growing up in India, every time a child would shout his urge to become a ‘Police Officer when I grow up’, we stared and our eyes gleamed. Like the shining beacon of hope just took over our world. Like Superman is just waiting to grow up. It was a matter of courage and bravery. Back then. And now?

Roughly 549 rape cases recorded every year, a rape every 40 minutes, child abuse, molestation on the roads, assaults on poor tribal... Is this all we have left in our country now? A moment to hang our heads in shame ever so frequently for shredding a girl of the basic level of dignity she hoped to live with? Shattering the slightest optimism of a woman to be able to live in peace in her own country? And we rejoice and parade over democracy.

Millions of words exchanged, articles written, rewritten, parliament sessions adjourned over decisions unmade; and all that remains is she cried wolf! Too many times, perhaps. Anybody there? Anybody cares?

An extravagant evening of style, glamour and the wine, I was as delighted as I could get to attend the Blenders Pride fashion tour’s Bombay story. Ecstatic and with an immense level of ridiculous glee in my heart (and face), I put on my best fanciable ‘costume’ for the event and swung along the tightly wound smocking and uniform codes of ensembles draped in signature fabric, trying my best to ‘fit in’; least knowing that it is a swooning collage of immaculately tailored environment with glamour and shine. And yet shaking off memories of a bedazzling night and my perplexity with my camera, I managed to pile up a few pictures from the enduringly evocative collection.

Though on the contrary, this sugar coated evening was fracas when it came to the obnoxious; and absolutely shattering my fantasy land perception of the first row glam dolls at such an event, the first come first seating arrangement. Gushing and gawping through media shenanigans and femme fatale posing in Mexican quinceanera dresses, I jostled my way into the arena. With the infectious opening that it had, I remained awe struck throughout. All fashions powerful muses swathed in splendid modes of fabric and design, restoring my faith in beauty in the Indian bronzed skin.

Though a very made up audience, as it looked like, this was probably a reality check about how people actually make a remarkably high standard of living with the kisses in the air, rolling eyes with a high voltage scan of who wore what and a perfect drape with a wine glass incumbent in a definite and perched posture. With no room for mistakes, it is profound how they live through years and decades yet seem completely sane and beautiful in this borrowed skin.

I’m not complaining at all. But the best I can put this is how I struggled to move ahead from this eavesdrop fragment of a sentence.

My fetish for fancy frames doesn't seem to cease so here we go, another one to the many. glasses were a gift and the face too. (aaah, how i missed these cheap thrills of self proclamation. I'm sure even you did)

“My personal life is hanging by a thread”

“Let me know when you entire life goes up in smokes, it means it’s time for a promotion”

- The Devil Wears Prada

Shuttling between work, eat and sleep, I fail to find that space between them. Social life. Was? It was social life; now it’s just an ‘I’m too tired’ of an excuse; the floundering paradox of this being the seething anxiety in me to give up all the vodka and dancing over a keyboard has now turned into a mediocrity of my enthusiasm for parties.

 Breaking the ennui of this not so happening melodramatic life of mine, my parents decide to drop in. Always a pleasure to see faces full of love after all the bullshit you’ve done since you started breathing, and it is a tranquil week thereafter. Obviously.

I don’t have to bother about the washed clothes, if i’ve put the leftovers back in the fridge or think twice before I pass out in front of the tv. Awesome isn’t it? What’s also breaking the monotony is my exasperation in making calls to godforsaken journalists who are JUST NOT INTERESTED IN TALKING TO YOU. I mean in this world that i’m striving to get paid; we’re treated worse than the BPO’s calling mid afternoon asking if you need a life insurance.

But anyway, still battling to fill up the vacuum of boring evenings and batting my eyelashes carefully enough to look wide awake in office (which I seem to be very unsuccessful at), I mastered the art of procrastination.

Of typos and distractions, this is what caught, stole and grasped prolonged version of my attention span; with John Mayer’s Whiskey, Whiskey, Whiskey playing in my ear.

·         High voltage nail paint flashing right into my face

·         Earphones, that I was using two min back, tangled up so cosily with my laptop cord

·         Twitter , I need food. 

·         11:55 A. M

·         Protracted versions of Mitt Romney and Obama’s battle

·         More elongated versions of the debate

·         Perpetuity of sounds that my starved tummy has been making

·         More article

·         More hunger

·         The nail paint is hurting my eye now

·         Robert Vadra makes a dashing entry; impressive

·         12:04 P. M

ZZzzzzzzz.

26 min and the happiness shall arrive.

“...the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' What did they call such young people in Goethe's Germany?”  

Well it’s not until it’s lost that you realize the value of it. What if it’s not lost? What is it’s out of sight? Out of sight but not out of mind kinds?

Lost a dear one today; but what still leaves me stable enough to put up a smile on my face is the how she taught millions how to live. She lived her life, each day as it came, every rain as it poured, each penny as she spent and every tear as it fell. She was one of the first people I met in college, hanged with me till the last day and when time came to move on in life, we hugged it out with the guarantee that we’ll definitely bump into each other somewhere, sometime. Maybe we will. As they say, she might be in a better place now. With better people. No, I don’t think she’d say that. She better miss us. But she unquestionably is grinning from up there and pointing fingers at all those who said no to another drink every time she insisted; “I told you fuckers to have that one more beer, didn’t I?”

Haha. You crazy. I just wanted to thank you for all those times. For everything you did, intentionally and unintentionally. (Yeah, you did sort of make people smile when you’re not around too). And for all those crazy stupid love bullshit that completed my college life.  And I hope you’re making more wherever you are now.

 I’m sure we will meet, somewhere, sometime. I love you to bits, Sullu.

There is no better way to put it than this. This was yours, this is you.