I love attending musical evenings. Must confess I do not know my sur from my taal or the octave from the tenor. I have very little patience for getting into the nuances and retention power being low. Its just that I love the Sound of Music, that's it, plain and simple to us the toneless. Music gently taps me in the gut to say forget life’s travails, they are but fleeting, lose yourself in the melody of music. Am sure if I were born during the flower child years I would have been in a constant musical trance.
I attended one such evening in a popular suburban Restobar, with a view of the sea and evening sky. The mood was magical. It strengthened my reason to retire to Goa. I saw faces that gate crashed my new years party and feigned absolute ignorance of my existence. The last time I looked in the mirror I know I looked the same, I had not enhanced anything as its recession time, the amount of makeup was the same, maybe I had changed my clothes, that could be the reason.
The singer for the evening was a once popular girl from the first disbanded all-girl band. After hearing her sing, I now understand why the group disbanded. I managed to survive one song and short of jumped off the balcony roof. I had deluded myself into believing the place would be filled with music aficionados but should have realized she is the disbanded one, so the music lovers would sit this one out. See I told you I do not know the nuances of the music world either. Behold I suddenly felt I was sitting at some Indian fashion Week show instead, as it was teeming with the model brigade and the people who don’t make it in Bollywood. They attend such evenings to get their photos clicked and pay to get it printed. The peacocks strutted with fedoras and cigars and made huge gaffes indulging in the propah sahibs language. “fructified” was “fuctified”, “all you front benchers”, “please situate yourself comfortably” and “ho r u” (which translates into “how are you”) lucky for me, I did have an interpreter who had spent a few years in Dilli and could decipher the English.
The musical evening started but the brigade was busy air kissing and swirling wine glasses, and chattering away. The music was not anything to write home about, but am writing to you. I decided to spend the evening watching the beautiful people and hoping I could strip their masks. Thought I was almost there ,but there were three layers of pancake on their faces to hide their flawed beauty. I observed two very keenly. Am sure they were found by some fashion photographer who happened to see them at Malad or Sion station because of the daddy long legs, lacking in the face department though. They stared at the glasses of wine being offered, sure they didn’t know that there are things like grape, year, vintage, breathing. They probably decided to follow suit, the Tatler magazines they had turned to, of pictures of women holding glasses. That’s how the education. They held such an animated conversation, blowing smoke rings and sipping the wine that I had to squint my eyes some more to get past the mask. I was almost going squint trying to find the beauty and the soul. The makeup and smoke clouded it. There was a certain discomfort with the whole demeanor. I doubt either was listening to the other. Everybody loved everybody and the air was electric with so much love that it was lost on me. How could I not see it. I guess I was blinded by the shutterbugs and kisses.
I've come to the conclusion most people who attend all these evenings and express undying happiness at seeing faces they would pay to kill, go home sadder. To survive in this industry you have to sell your soul to the Devil. Am glad am on the outside .
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