Music To The Ears.

   So last week, I watched a musical after ages, Les Miserables. Though I haven't watched other versions of this French classic, I can confidently say that music woven into this epic has brought out its charm like nothing else could. Opening with the powerful strains of 'Look down...', and soon I was captivated by the charismatic Jean Valjean, imprisoned by the cruel law, benevolent mayor, loving foster father; hotly pursued by Javert, the unbending worshipper of the law. Also played just as immaculately were the characters of Fantine, self sacrificing mother; her daughter Cosette (though she was a little too coy for my taste when she grew up); starry eyed Marius and the brave young leaders of the revolution, bearing flags soiled with their own blood; the deceitful yet comical innkeeper and his wife. All kinds of emotions in one, they could only be expressed through song; truly I thought, this story could only ever be a musical.
   Musicals have always delighted me, they have this outlined innocence contained in the song and dance, and always, outbursts of laughter or tears are in order. I am no movie critic, but there are some that I have thoroughly enjoyed over and over again, let me run you through them (I insist).
   'The Sound of Music', for its joyous, poignant tunes. I grew up singing 'Favorite things' whenever I was down, dancing to 'High on a hill was a lonely goatherd...' in frocks and pink cheeks. The proper little nurses reprimanding and praising Maria, made me shriek. 'Do-Re-Mi' was where i learnt my notes, we sang 'Cuck-coo' in school lunch breaks, rehearsed the dance all excitedly.
   'Mary Poppins', another pretty musical. I was fascinated by the chimney sweeps dancing across the London skyline, Mary Poppins' pink cheeks, penguins flapping their arms trying to charm her,  the bird-woman feeding pigeons, a man 'with a wooden leg called Smith'. Julie Andrew's finest.
  Another cheerful musical I recall, 'The King and I'. It had a most outstanding rendition of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin', Siamese fashion. The king's hundred wives wore those hoop-ended frilly gowns in an attempt to adopt British customs, but met with a drawer related faux pas that I remember quite clearly.
     My favorite is probably 'My Fair Lady'. Eliza Doolittle, the scruffy flower girl with her wide eyed dreams 'Wouldn't it be lov-a-ly', meets obnoxious grammarian Henry Higgins who bets that he can pass her off as a duchess with a few months of training. Enforcing his rules on poor bewildered Eliza, having her blabber into the gramophone, he finally succeeds in getting her grammar right with 'The rain in spain'. From her tentative, crude social appearance at the London derby, to her final triumph at the royal ball, Eliza won hearts with unforgettable tunes like 'I could have danced all night', while Professor Higgins preached about what would happen if you 'Let a woman in your life'. This is one i'll be watching for years to come.
 On lonely afternoons, try getting comfortable on the couch with a musical playing before you. I assure you, there is nothing quite like it. 

Winter Blossoms and Summer Snow

Didnt work, this time its a love poem.

        Winter Blossoms and Summer Snow

Remember that first winter, you cleared the fog

With a swirl of your heady breath;

To catch a glimpse of me running into you, with a smattering 

Of snow on your hair, that day we first met.

You teased, I laughed, like an absurd love song,

We sailed in our congealed cloud of whispered cries.

The heavy winter sky, saturated with sweat;

Rained down on our sparkling panels of ice.

On which we danced and tossed promises of heaven;

In each other's outstretched palms.

The flowers were shriveled, so you crafted blossoms of snow;

For my lonely hair, and I had no qualms.

And the music played vibrant but soothing, a kaleidoscope of symphonies.

It is summer now, and the molten snow has seeped

Into the parched ground on which we stand rooted.

The sieve of vigorous sunshine adorns the hint of a wrinkle on your face.

Again we dance, on our crumbly, brown ice, barefooted.

And scented snowflakes, made of petals, tap delicately on my 

Shoulders, settling on their favorite haunt : your hair.

The pale angry sky softens to grey, steadily raining down

Mingling with the kisses of our perpetual affair.

Untitled...Till i can think of something.

I have been resorting to poetry in these last few posts, but this time I’m determined to get back to prose. Maybe I should start with something light and cheerful (and presumably lame)

There were three of us. 'Hair spree', revolutionary of her own right, flamboyant and artistic, with her dark mane that fascinated many. 'Intelligent blonde’, fashionista in the making, easily excitable sitcom buff. And good old yours truly, who is much too popular to need an introduction (!)

Fate brought us to the First Bench. One sleepy afternoon when we were settled at the back of the class, a certain bejeweled beauty, in Castafiore tones, ordered us out for breeching her code of occupying the First Bench. In a desperate attempt to win back her favors, we established our permanent dwelling in the sacred First Bench. Sure, we were mocked and laughed at, pitied and dubbed as nerds, but our resolve remained unshaken.  And whom am I kidding, after one semester of staying there, we love our humble home.

 On cold damp mornings, our spirits would be further dampened by a pool of rainwater collected under our desks for reasons that could only be explained by the building’s faulty and medieval design. Hence we would be forced to huddle in the center, and consequently be forced to talk. We are women. Call me sexist, but we love our daily gossip. ‘Intelligent Blonde’ would kick off the day with the highlights of her unsuccessful shopping adventures. The gory details of makeup would follow, where I would be left blinking while my dear friends argued over if a special brush for applying lipstick was available. Next, the conversation would turn to our illustrious lab partners and their deep and enviable knowledge and experience in each subject, which never failed to amaze (amuse) us. And then one thing would lead to another; we would be entertained with her spicy stories of a certain young man, and his colorful antics (tattooing himself with a common syringe in a bid to hide an ex girlfriend’s name; driving a drunk buddy through a toll road, hitting rocks, abandoning his bike there and returning an hour later to find the parts missing (sorry I’m making this complicated); a moderately strong hookah addiction, to say the least).

And then there were the sitcom plots. One math class, over probability, we were engrossed in the heroic exploits of television heartthrobs Sam and Dean from ‘Supernatural’, all this while hurriedly completing the assignment which was due. Under the table browsing was never a problem, we were always learning new things down there. From looking at pictures of a famous cricketer’s supposed girlfriend who happened to be acquainted to Intelligent Blonde; to researching ‘magic mushrooms’ of kodaikanal, which, if stories may be believed, leave you, to use the common term, ‘high’; we did it all.

  ‘Hair Spree’ and I are another story; the two of us are some kind of math error soul sisters. We have always made the same mistakes in math, even long before we met. But our enthusiasm in local gossip binds us like nothing else; we would sit there like a couple of mean hawks, trying to figure if the model wannabe who just walked in wears lip gloss, how many hours the sincere mean student might have studied yesterday, and of course, plenty of ahem inappropriate ahem stuff. Those are our favorites. The dirtier the better. Sometimes, 'Dainty Dandelion' from behind would join us in these hushed conversations and we would fall around giggling and hooting like a bunch of girls (which is what we truly are). 

 We are, all above, budding engineers, with a unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and this can be best proven with our experiments on our calculators, lovingly named 'Cal-C'.  Carefully referring to the manual, and of course, with our own creativity, we have, i proudly proclaim, managed to uncover all its amazing functionality, and pass that on to the less adventurous fellow students. Sigh. 

He said, she said

HE SAID, SHE SAID

Beside the shadow of the graceful willow tree

With its slender branches draped in ample finery

Of a soft glowing green, like the eyes of an ogre from a nightmare;

Lay the well formed shadows of him and her.

A shadowy hand drew forward to stroke her flowing shadow of hair,

Their voices in incoherent unison, rose in great vacant swivels

Of her quivering rant, clogged with many tears;

His tone grew intense as the elegant sieve of green and gold drew patterns on his shadow so clear.

Above these estranged shadows, tapping the branch with her twig-thin legs in a dance-like motion

She shivered slightly under her feathery wings in sweet anticipation.

He approached her from the melting horizon, windswept from his smooth flight,

Rushing to her side to greet her, she tittered and twirled in sheer delight.

Back down, the shadows had drifted apart, by far more than just a few feet

Heads of shadow weighed down with pain, eyes brimming with hurt, refusing to meet.

And then, at once, he said, she said, their stoical goodbyes ,wary and cold.

She turned, he turned, and the shadows, like love, had faded, the dark brown turned to gold.

Resting on the boughs, blissful in their cage of sun and shadow

The reunited lovebirds made merry, adorning the meadow;

Where a love went wrong, while above, other lovers caressed;

Only the trees and the silence shall bear witness.

Endeavors of a moth

ENDEAVORS OF A MOTH

Ask me, for I have seen the pallor of the blossoms

Clamoring for the first rays of gold.

They explode in joy, emanating a creamy glow

Whispering to me as I behold:

"Come, warm your frosty back before

 she sinks into her abode behind the mountain"

I smile as  I remind them that i have wings 

to follow her to my heart's content.

Listen, I have never failed to miss, 

the sly songbird composing her melody.

The breeze sets in, humming a joyous baritone

She twirls around in glee.

The leaves begin their dance

Elegant in the soft light of dawn.

They acknowledge me with graceful

Curtseys, which I return and fly on.

On to feast my eyes on the lush splendor of my mountain.

Follow me, for I have scaled great heights,

to see the dew glittering on the grass.

Thick bushels of leaves in the purest green, speckled with

Liberal amounts of rich brown wave to me as I pass.

The heady breath of glossy shrubs wafts through to me in welcome.

The spindle like trees sway, and the whisked sky peeps

With clouds like great bursts of foam.

Now we have reached the summit.

I have left all haste behind, lost all my inhibitions.

Perched on my favorite branch I listen to the sleepy gurgles of the river.

Darkness envelops my world, chilly as the sun was warm

My wings flutter with every quiver;

From the slender leaves' questions and the lonely fern's replies.

I look up to be blinded by the infinite stars adorning my piece of sky.

Sunbeam Reign

 ***************************************

 Sunbeam Reign

I do not have the eyes of a poet

but on days like this I cannot miss;

Your golden fleece lowered down to me,

Laughing, waving, beckoning for a kiss.

You turn away your teasing eyes, but I follow;

With rickety but firm steps the echo of your footfalls.

Scintillating in your simple gown of white clouds but you show me,

shyly, your glory, your delicate strength, as you stand there so tall.

And then you burst into a thousand fiery blooms, blushing a deep scarlet;

You know, you hear, the sounds you fear, you shudder as the sky turns violet.

Its war, you know you cannot win, your fire is out;

Your tears run endlessly caressing the wounds of the world.

The sky shattered by the merciless lightening, grieves to you quietly;

The fierce, cold thunder : you fight on barely with love.

And then a deafening silence engulfs,

Your land, your kingdom, lost in a tearstained battle.

And amidst the chilly mist you rise again,

A maiden, modest in her beautiful morning garb,

Claiming what was always yours, gently spreading your golden mane;

Over lands and seas, lush and vast, where,

songbirds will sing and waves will dance,

The wind will flirt with the silken coy leaves,

Lovers will love, sheltered in your sunbeam reign.

************************************

Symphonies On Soggy Saturdays

Its raining gently. The kind of drip drop that keeps you company when you can't fall asleep after a long day, the kind of pitter patter that wakes you up earlier that you wanted to and makes you smile with your head buried in the sheets. An hour back i was lying flat on the bed, listening to the rain singing, and I knew exactly what would best accompany it. So i lay on my stomach and played some symphonies.
  Mozart began. The rain stumbled, then paused respectfully. No one speaks when Wolfgang Amadeus plays, the rain knew the rules only too well. The powerful strains of symphony 25 took control of the air. A restless, vast ocean emerged, growing everything mercilessly in it. The moist remains of the rain blended in quietly in the ocean, giving it a rich blue tinge. As the higher tones set in, a wave rose. Leapt to the highest levels ever, and fell forward with a grace and fullness, a magic that only Mozart wield. Listen for the instantaneous dips and turns, the thrill that builds up, the elation that fills you to the brim. The ocean trotting slowly toward the end. skipping and thinning. To a glorious waterfall. From where it trickles down, like bits of rain. An ocean converged to blue pieces of rain. Symphony 25.
  The ocean poured down. It slapped against the glass of my little window, vying for my attention, blowing wet kisses. But Beethoven was quicker. He took over me with the opening noted of symphony 5.  As the cascading melodies wrapped around my head tightly, the raindrops winked and fell away. I was not in the room anymore, the soggy saturday was gone. I was hooded, riding a black horse, the dogs of war had been let loose. Symphony 5 took me places, to deserts and dark forests, places where i was lost and found again. the rain brought me back each time. Beethoven played stormily, passionately.  The fragile raindrops trembled under his wrath. And then there was silence, more dramatic then ever.

  I closed my eyes to the silence. Downpour. The suppressed raindrops ran down to embrace their new found freedom. The thunder sang bass. They played their own symphony, a musical storm.