Wicked Game

More often than not I find myself watching random runs of one of my favourite SitComs - FRIENDS. When it was my first run through the second season, a song that played in the background in an episode for a mere 7 seconds got stuck into my head. I could not make peace with life until I tracked down the track. Ladies and gentlemen, we are talking about Chris Isaak's Wicked Game.

I am yet to be as smitten by a song, that haunts you so sweetly with the melancholy of heart break and hopeless love, as I am by this one. According to Chris Isaak, who sung as well as wrote it, Wicked Game portrays a tale of obsessive love. In as little as practically two verses the song brings out a moony eyed lover, who loved and lost. A lover who is so heart broken that getting over is something he cannot face. He wants his lady love back, yet does not. He cannot let her go, and she is not coming back to him. The crazy whirlpool of love makes his heart churn and pine, making it difficult to break out of the vicious circle. 

Chris Isaak's voice has a strange drone which, alongwith the sedate music,  makes the song effusively passionate. The rather racy video adds to the tone that the song attempts to set. It may be slightly on the edge but does justice to the song. It stars Chris Isaak alongwith yesteryear supermodel Helena Christensen, set in black and white on a beach. 'Wicked Game' - the song - has featured in numerous SitComs and TV commercials. The video garnered its own share of appreciation and accolades.

There are not too many songs that make me think so much that I could write such a lot about them, and still be left with thoughts that may never find words. We have an exception here for sure. And this number makes it to my all time favourites. So what if it's all about heart break? It earns its spot.

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Something I Came Across

The Brits v/s Americans saga has been on for ages and will, in all likelihood, continue for ages to come. The discussions range from the differences in the English they use, their humour, culinary styles, even teeth! A little while back I stumbled upon two interesting articles on the related theme. Not my own, but worth sharing. Happy reading!

Point:
http://www.bbcamerica.com/mind-the-gap/2012/05/15/10-things-americans-do-that-drive-brits-nuts/

Counter Point:
http://www.bbcamerica.com/mind-the-gap/2012/05/17/10-things-brits-do-that-drive-americans-nuts/

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Why Light Up!

While the smoke of the crackers, already filling the air we are supposed to breathe, gave me a rash on my face and irritation in my eyes I spotted something which turned out to be rather amusing. My sister and I had taken my son for his night stroll and were scanning an obnoxious pile of waste left behind by people who had been lighting crackers in the compound some time back. As we agreed that we lived in concrete jungles surrounded by educated illiterates, we spotted a window grille that looked like it had been spat upon at by a monster. By a monster that spits out strings of lights.

What followed was ten minutes of bemused inspection of the lights that had been put up by people in our colony. We do this every year and every year it is equally amusing, if not more. The lights are splattered on random window grilles. However, what is amusing is the pattern in which they are splattered. It seems as if somebody who is artistically challenged has tried his hand at arranging the light strings and has, quite obviously, failed. As a matter of fact, he does this every year and the results are consistent. There are apparent attempts to create symmetric 'U' shapes and 'W' shapes; and it is evident that those attempts were left midway. The poor lights dangling aimlessly are proof enough. There are some who have put up lights very beautifully, in the shape of a diya or just something that does not prick your eye, besides the crackers' left over smoke. But the majority disappoints. 

One window had vertical strings of lights - in all possible garish colours - that looked like a sketch book of a toddler. Only, the toddler had glowing crayons. There was one window which had a very neat right angle of red bulbs; the angles moving east and south. That was all. A window close by had giant bulbs put up in the most eccentric manner possible. Words fail me when I think of it. One household had taken out the light strings which they had put up in the loft last year after Diwali, and they came out all entangled this year. So they decided to put them up exactly like that on their window. Such an appealing sight!

One particular window had fallen short of lights, whereas one had so many that there was not enough space to accommodate them. In addition to the atrocious patterns, some lights glow in such horrible hues that you want to cry. I don't see why it is so difficult to put up something as simple as a string of lights in a manner that atleast doesn't hurt the eye, if not soothes it. I wonder if the people who've put up these lighted caricatures have even seen what their houses look like from the outside. When you take the trouble to purchase these pieces of wonder made in China and also put them up so that your windows draw attention during the festival, why not ensure that the attention drawn is not because somebody sustained an asthma attack by excessive laughter after looking at your window but because you have really done a decent job putting up those blighted lights. I drop it here now. My sense of aesthetics and creativity, both, have already fled; and OCD symptoms are increasing rapidly. The irony is that sight of lights becomes unbearable during the festival of lights.

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My Tryst With Quadrupeds - Vol. V : Roger

While I was in school, the summer vacations were the most awaited. I would visit my grandparents every year, and so would my cousins. It would be a crazy fortnight. A sudden tour through some old photographs brought to mind one summer where we had a unique experience.

I was in Lucknow, and the house was in utter chaos. My maternal uncle and hi wife had gone to the next block to get some tandoori chicken packed for dinner. In the process they had spotted a white Spitz, in a collar, being pursued by the street dog mafia and his minions. They rescued the little guy and tried to find out if anybody knew where his home was, but that was to no avail. They did not have the heart to abandon him, and weren't sure of getting him home because we already had two pet dogs, and my grandma's consent was a must. So the little fellow was lodged at a friend's place for the night. Later, my grandma agreed to give the little boy a home until we found his owners, or perhaps forever.

What came home the next morning was a bunch of cotton wool so adorable that all of us fell in love with it at first sight. Our pets - Tina and Snooty - took an immediate dislike to this new four legged person in the house. Tina, a Pomeranian, was the older one and considered the house to be her property, so much so that she would even brush aside Snooty - she is most likely a Great Pyrenees - who was the younger one and thrice Tina's size. Tina walked away with her nose held high, but Snooty came upto this new creature under the guise of curiosity, which was partly true. I was holding the Spitz in my arms and Snooty began, what appeared to be, sniffing at him. A few seconds later, I felt a set of sharp teeth digging into my belly and realised that Snooty was biting the little dog in my arms. I immediately held him higher, far from her reach but she was not to be dissuaded so easily. Eventually I had to take him upstairs into our room and shut the door to keep Snooty away.

My sister, cousins and I just took the Spitz as our own and decided he would stay with our grandparents from now on. In the meanwhile, the grown ups were upto their antics which leaves adult life devoid of innocent adventure. Soon after we tried convincing our mothers to let us carry him with us to Bombay or Bangalore - totally subject to who's mother agreed, if at all. I named him Roger. We made him a bed which was both comfortable as well as away from Snooty's reach. She would prowl in the corridor awaiting the slightest chance to pounce upon him. The trouble arose when we tried to feed him. He just refused to eat. We tried all possible combinations and varieties of food, but he just wouldn't eat. This got everybody worried. We were to learn a few days later that he ate curd. That was the only thing we did not try feeding him.

My uncle had already passed word around in the colony about the missing home of the dog in our custody. He also sent a message to the vet. Dr Mathur was the only vet in the vicinity and the chances were high that he would know the whereabouts of Roger. Nothing happened for the next couple of days. We tried feeding him tit bits, but he would soon starve that way. In the afternoon a burly man called at the gate. He had the vet's reference and said he wished to see the dog we had with us. After the preliminary interrogation we were asked to bring Roger to the lawn where this burly man waited. It turned out he was his trainer and Roger leaped with joy when he saw this man. All the children, including me, were hoping against hope that Roger would stay. But we had found his owners and he had to leave. The trainer told us he was called Isaac by the people at his house.

I still remember how difficult it was to say good bye to Roger. It was a teary farewell. At that moment we could have done just about anything to have him stay a little longer. Isaac's family was relieved to find him safe, and to express their gratitude they invited us for tea. We were only too happy to go over. When we met him I wanted to smuggle him out somehow; but that was not to be. His family called him Isaac, we kept addressing him as Roger. We played with that ball of fur for a while and, with a longing in our hearts, left for good. That silly thing called attachment!

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The Written Therapy

“A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”
~
 Maya Angelou

It gives me peace and contentment alike.

In times of grief, those of sorrow and despair;

When I'm hit hard and have nowhere to go,

It puts to rest a mind in turmoil, a spirit disgruntled, a heart in pain.

It is a friend, a philosopher, a guide;

A solace, a haven - the hand that writes.

That moment of rapture, that euphoric rush,

That minute of joy, and mirthful blithe.

When tears of joy may moisten my eyes,

A feeling so special that moves my heart,

When words fail my tongue, it is here that I find respite.

And in all humility I bow to the power that empowers me to write.

To give shape to my thoughts, words to my feelings;
To take me far from the madding crowd, yet bring me closer to people;
To ease me of my discomfort, to become a vent;
To strengthen my ability, to hone my talent.
To kill my loneliness, and keep me company,
For all this and a lot lot more, is why I write.

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