Knopfler mania
Dust rose in brown clouds as we ran across the grounds to the sound of music. At the corrugated pig iron entrance, security guards stood checking for suspicious items. Handbags were checked, a match box was unearthed and thrown away. Despite this, inside, we could smell weed. A few undaunted lighters were lifted mid-show in silent reverance to genius in action.
The crowd was decent. No groping, leaning or brushing past, even under pressure. We made our way through the placid, craning mass of dark bodies till we came to the barrier that separated the more expensive enclosure. We stopped defeated but expectant. In the meantime the man had started singing.
The full bodied, grainy ‘voice’ of Dire Straits was a caressing unction tonight. Poor fools! Marijuana was completely redundant.
Droopy dog faced... kindred spirit to millions, the reclusive phenomenon strummed classic after classic with the misleading ease of a book worm thumbing through a novel on a Sunday afternoon. Sans plectrum with his trademark picks in play, he continued mastery over a bevy of guitars for the better part of two hours.
Hours we spent in holy union with Money for nothing, Sultans of swing, Far away, Boom— like that, Brothers in arms and Shangri La.
The earlier lithe frame— which belied a 'core species' male voice— had seasoned into comfortable vintage lines. Other than that nothing had changed. Lazy vocals and a controlled frenzy on the strings made for a mind numbing experience.
A screeching cessation of reality.
Nothing existed except sound and the here and now.
Inexpressibly spiritual yet real as muscle cramps, every golden hour of a cherished childhood afternoon spent reading on the carpet, with sunlight falling through the curtains and the relaxed boom of a confident timbre blasting a heaven all of its own- came back to me in a rush.
Standing on wooden tables, cemented wharf like structures... even helmets, we stood mesmerised at the aural replay of personal histories.
The old man was playing OUR songs...
He sipped tea, coughed occasionally and sported nothing but his music. No coiffured hairdo, pierced cartilage, leathered flanks or steaming special effects. Reinforced dolby digital unadulterated sound and stylish to boot. Thats Knopfler for you.
Finger-licking good...

middle that appeared in the Deccan Herald on the 19th of Feb
The road taken and taken... and taken
Walking down the pavement to office is rarely an easy job. I am reminded of my father’s maverick manoeuvres on the highway in the face of heavy traffic at such times. With the aid of his steering wheel, he has been known to make impossible angles with the road while sneaking past lumbering trucks in a wild bid to claim the open beyond. Although by the time he is satisfied with the “nice stretch of clean road” in front of him, the rest of his passengers find themselves flung unkindly on alien laps and limbs, with sizeable lumps on their foreheads.
Being the travel worn (and bruised) victim of such escapades has steeled my nerves to no uncommon extent, so that present predicaments on pavements only elicit a diabolic grin, such as ‘Crocodile Dundee’ might wear if faced with a house-bred gecko in Kensington palace instead of a snarling, inhospitable reptile in the heart of the Australian outback.
Months of negotiating complacent, slow-moving, ice-cream licking, toddler yanking, footpath socialising, window gazing, hand-holding, masses has instilled in me a bluff courage and sinister disregard for life and limb (other peoples). As also a cunning way with manipulating the crowds to grab the slightest opportunity and propel myself to a more advantageous position vis-a-vis the rest of the loitering bulk of humanity (daddy would be proud).
And yes they do loiter... like kids in a park, like flamingos in a lake. Like urchins at a traffic signal. Like Sharukh Khan over his Kirans.
It strikes me as singularly strange that no one seems to be in a hurry to go anywhere at 2pm and 3pm and 6pm and 9pm on MG road. Or isn’t this the bustling metropolis I thought it was?
Whatever be the reason, there is just no accounting for haste.
But since being late is a nasty habit (due to a sluggish constitution and an inordinate love for all things on TV) the final walk down the sidewalk takes on a sinister significance. The price we pay for over zealous slothfulness (writer shakes head).
But I digress, very like the crowds I speak of. Covering a distance of 12 metres over a scantily cobbled pathway— with stray ‘pet’ dogs amassing vast territories for a midday siesta and corn carts sending carefully stoked missiles of flaming coal where they would do maximum damage to your recently drycleaned cashmere sweater— is not an easy task.
The delicate operation of “eat my dust loser” requires, a finely tuned appreciation of the physics of approaching bodies and the corresponding mental aptitude for making quick calculations with regard to the relative velocities of bodies crawling away; maximum mileage possible considering weather conditions, wind drag and finally— contingency procedures for occasional unforeseen banana skins (in the shape of well dressed yuppie coming to sudden stop at spotting old school friend, shrieking teenager diving into shop with ‘sale’ in window and bawling toddler who sidetracks yelling for ice cream).
Every day brings new challenges in this line of work.