HALP HALP Stop the clock

Had a semi panic attack yesterday. I realzied that...I haven't smoked for over a year. Can't drink wine anymore. One Margarita makes me drunk. Joints? What's that? December date is racing toward me in all its glory and with it jog all the gold, sari, and how-to-be-a-good-bahu paraphernelia. Funnily what set off the panic was an innocent article I started writing for The Players Newsletter (a college theatre group I was a part of at some point in my life a gazillion years ago). As I recalled the mad stoned days at the Pilani festival, all-nighters in the audi with navy cuts and hip flasks, train rides, random crushes and the fanfare we usually collected after our performances, I felt like I've been tamed. By this country, this PhD, and most likely-ly by my age. And I wailed in fright. And in denial. NO NO I can't have left all that behind. It has to come back again.

Poor A watched the panic attack reach its peak and subside. Half-amused, half scared. I am sure he was rolling his eyes and laughing hysterically inside. or maybe he was preparing to run! Anyhow. The phase has passed. But I am still looking for a theatre group in town. So if anyone feels like doing some social service. Write in with suggestions on how to rewildify a rapidly tamified life.

Time

Change of location.
Instead of Simon’s Mass Ave, Cambridge I am sitting on sunny window-side chair at the Montague Book Mill. There is a river scrambling down rocks in the sunshine outside and I can see a couple of little girls trying to jump over the river rocks. Both side of the river are lined with trees. The flowers on my table, the music at the café and the sounds of the river is making me nostalgic. For the summer days in Manali.

3 years ago, July 2004 I was sitting in a similar river side café, Café Manalsu, with the Beas running along beside me. Sitting with me were two friends, one who since then has chosen not to be friends anymore and one who went back to his home in Germany. I never met him again. We sat for hours sipping our lemon honey teas, followed by the rum and coke offered by the generous café owner-manager. Planning our long hike to Tso Moreri. Bitching about the friends who chose not to join us on the hike. Bitching more about those who chose to. Planning our next meal. The babaji with his chilam sat outside waiting for our German friend to “score”. I listened to Bob Marley as I sipped by Tomato Basil soup.
I wish I had a portkey to take me back in time. To that café, those friends and that exact moment. 3 years ago, July 2004.

to Ahmad Jamal with love

oh, did I forget to tell you, I spent the evening with Jamal and Heath this sunday. Now isn't that a grand beginning to a post? Heee hee! But that IS what I did at the Tanglewood Jazz festival.

Spent the most amazing evening listening to some of the undoubted Kings of Jazz - Ahmad Jamal, Jimmy Heath and Hank Jones (and a not so inspiring Roberta Gambarini). Jamal killed me with his style, he would just touch the piano and even before he sat down the most amazing music would fill the hall. Heath was quite a killer too, although I understand the saxophone less than the piano and could not figure out HOW he could manage to get all that music out with such few movements...
Gambarini was a bit too naika for me and all her big-eyed shoo bi doos were beginning to get to me by the end of her half hour slot. Donno why Hank Jones couldn't play more and drown out her voice.

We were inside the hall and though that gave us a great view of Jamal's hands on the pianos and Heath's brilliant expressions, the lawn seemed quite attractive as well. I recommend the lawn seats and would probably choose those over the inside next time. The tickets cost almost fourth, you get to picnic and drink your own wine. Listening to Jamal under the stars.. mmmm.. that would have been lovely too (quite a musical life I suddenly have in New england, sneaking into a Dylan concert and tapping to Heath's saxophone. Wah bhai wah. I am proud of me)

"U.S. bomber mistakenly flies with nuclear weapons"

Umm hello? They make it sound like "Sub to laaye phool buddha gobi leke aa gaya (my old hubby mistakenly got a broccoli instead of flowers)... Isn't it a lil more consequential than that?