Blue Bedouin

The guy locked himself up in his secluded recording studio for 2 years. He had experimentation as a DJ (6 years) and then as a radio broadcaster (several more) to arm himself to achieve his dream.

What he created is now offically called the Khaliji Chillout subgenre. He is now officially called the first musician to introduce it to the world. If any of you get your hands on Blue Bedouin, chances are you were either expanding your collection on a whim, completely into foresight, or just plain darn lucky. Most online music store stand officially empty of their coffers of this baby, and well i've heard a couple of his tracks, and they ARE GOOD!

Me gonna get me one of theees Blue Bedouin babeee! [aka Madea - anyone who hasn't clued into this series (film and NY play) either, are missing out on something gig time!

His name is Hussain Al Bagali and he's two Blue Bedouins old. The third installment of this creative genius of an album will be out soon, which is all set to incorporate dance beats. This will be a trilogy sort of move, before he moves on to make dance beat records.

This from a Dj and music lover, who doesn't listen to music in his car and prefers to listen to the sound of the engine himself.

Somethings just can't be said in Mallu

This here ditty, i found in an issue of a magazine, tucked away in a corner shying away from the acidic remarks it would coax easily from a Mallu. I say Mallu, cause I KNOW that they all agree with the first 3 lines of each paragraph, but never in all their intelligent converstion be able to make the 4th line a thankful or kind sentence. It will always if not everytime end up as a sacarstic, anecdotal joke told in the mallu comic hall of fame as a slap-on-the-back take on life and how in our malluness we keep up 'wit it'!

I am thankful for the husband
who is on the sofa
being a couch potato,
because he's home with me
and not out in the bars

for the wife
who say's it's hot dogs (chor and sambar) tonight,
becasue she is home with me,
and not out with someone else (hot diggety!)

for the teenager
who is complaining about doing dishes
because it means she is at home
not on the streets (most mothers would also end with, "eddi, nanni vennam! Nanni!")

for the taxes i pay
becasue it means i'm employed (NRI's not included!)

for the mess to clean after a party
becasue it means i have
been surounded by friends (i don't even wanna go here!)

for the clothes that fit a little too snug
because it means i have enough to eat.

for my shadow that watches me work
becasue it means i am out in the sunshine

for a lawn that needs mowing
windows that need cleaning
and gutters that need fixing
because it means i have a home.

for all the complaining
i hear about the government
because it means we have freedom of speech..

for the parking spot
i find at the far end of the parking lot
because it means i am capable of walking
and i have been blessed with transportation.

for the lady behind me in church
who sings off key because it means
i can hear (and how!)

and finally, because it means i have
friends who are thinking of me.

Author unknown

Somethings just can't be said in Mallu

This here ditty, i found in an issue of a magazine, tucked away in a corner shying away from the acidic remarks it would coax easily from a Mallu. I say Mallu, cause I KNOW that they all agree with the first 3 lines of each paragraph, but never in all their intelligent converstion be able to make the 4th line a thankful or kind sentence. It will always if not everytime end up as a sacarstic, anecdotal joke told in the mallu comic hall of fame as a slap-on-the-back take on life and how in our malluness we keep up 'wit it'!

I am thankful for the husband
who is on the sofa
being a couch potato,
because he's home with me
and not out in the bars

for the wife
who say's it's hot dogs (chor and sambar) tonight,
becasue she is home with me,
and not out with someone else (hot diggety!)

for the teenager
who is complaining about doing dishes
because it means she is at home
not on the streets (most mothers would also end with, "eddi, nanni vennam! Nanni!")

for the taxes i pay
becasue it means i'm employed (NRI's not included!)

for the mess to clean after a party
becasue it means i have
been surounded by friends (i don't even wanna go here!)

for the clothes that fit a little too snug
because it means i have enough to eat.

for my shadow that watches me work
becasue it means i am out in the sunshine

for a lawn that needs mowing
windows that need cleaning
and gutters that need fixing
because it means i have a home.

for all the complaining
i hear about the government
because it means we have freedom of speech..

for the parking spot
i find at the far end of the parking lot
because it means i am capable of walking
and i have been blessed with transportation.

for the lady behind me in church
who sings off key because it means
i can hear (and how!)

and finally, because it means i have
friends who are thinking of me.

Author unknown

The sky is the thinest film of yoghurt

I looked up from a research paper and stood open mouthed pen hanging from my lips - the sky was the thinnest film of yoghurt. Spread nice and thin, lace like.

To most it seemed like an ominous reflection of the weather, but i was so taken up with it, my toes curled with delight. I sat down on the floor and continued to the amusement of everyone to stare up into the sky, for as far as the window and the sky would allow me to see, i couldn't see a fresh patch of blue, just a transluscent hint of it under the canopy of curd. IT was a yummy feeling.

i imagined reaching out to scoop some unto my finger and swallow the fluffy mix, i tried to think about why i was doing this. Y'see for the past week or so, i've been getting this weird hunch that the sky's been painting me a picture everytime i look at it. I've never seen the sky this way, ever. Trust me.

And then by dusk, the artwork dissipates into nothing, like it was never there. But it would have lingered for my benefit, a good 4 - 5 hours sustaining me for the worst part of the day.

Yesterday it had patterns, symmettrical in rows, different patterns, nothing the same, and what are the chances of seeing that for 4 hours? Impossible? Believe it.

On the weekend, i put my feet up on the big glass window at home, and suddenly waves of cloud filled my window, with curls, troughs and blinding flashes/sparks of light. It was beautiful.

Ideally, i'd like to believe it has something to do with my name. I recently read that a jewish belief is that your name is a powerful expression of who you are. It communicates a lot more than just a tag to be identified by. They believe strongly, as do i that the name finds you, and not the other way around.

My name was found on stormy skies, there was a raging flood, and the clouds loomed really close, my mother said. Megha - means rain clouds. Dark clouds.

I've known it to rain incessently when i'm extremely upset. Poof, summer turns to drenchville! Just like that. And so the clouds reach out once again, this time - it's different. Can't tell what, but will keep ya posted.

At the Eapens - The Adventure of Christmas Dinner

A full blown achayathi moment happened last night. Twas the Christmas dinner and uncle eapens house. Nuff said!

I was trying my best to be entertained, i was managing to get my bits of fun, when Ninan uncle and Sunil (from Papua New Guinea) struck up a conversation on export goods with trade tenders. More family of the Eapens began to flow in and so did the liqour. Everyone was rosy cheeked and merry. Cept me and a girl who we'll call the Eapen's DIL (Daughter in Law), cause i kinda like her.

Yeah so DIL is a new mom, she had a pre-term baby, who's called Ethan, Ethan Eapen. Woo Hoo. He's a colicky one, this precious little guy. He's small and tiny and he's coming to terms with this here world and being thrust into the mallu world. It's a tough initiation, i can tell ya.

So, here i am trying to have a conversation with the aunties. I'm doing quite well, asking them about the napkins and their other Christmas dinners which (is always the case) was grander, more fun and a success. They always had the Indian ambassador's PA and other 'well known' celebs and it was always 'the talk of the town'. Yeah.

I managed to not shoot Bacardi Beezer up my nose, and after the 4th and extremely detailed description of Kochumol Aunty's party, i dove straight into the Christmas deco in the tree. It was beautiful, i have to admit. They spared no cost, no bling, no nothing to have that tree fixed. It was pretty.So i played with the flaxen haired angels, poked at the ribbons, pulled at the baubles, spun the cany canes, and i marveled at the colours. It was a good 15 minutes, when the door bell rang and more poured in.

You stand, you say hi, you bow, you blow kisses in the air. Sigh. Dinner wasn't going to be served until 11:00, i knew it instantaneously. I was hungry.

The men folk were getting to be interesting cases in personal anthropological study. Two drinks down and that's when they beging to wax eloquent. They have opinions about 'everything' and all of them are right. No one can be wrong. It started with unions at the Hyaat and Meridian. Mr. Abbey was a new recruit into the social scene. A recent green stick from Cochin, he was new to town, was an apt business conquest, and was mallu! It couldn't have been more propah.

So here he was all mild mannered. Oh, he reminded me of my professor in Manipal (Prof. Mathew!) and a good mix of a quiet man waiting to burst forth with drink. He began in his very prosaic manner to explain how to go about negotiating with demanding unions and how he managed to call off a strike! Then he said the impossible, in a capitalist, consumerist room full of mallus - he said he was socialist. The fangs were beared, everyone was rushing to the bar for a stiff drink as the plotted their solo speeches. Whew, the sense of foreboding was so tangible, man!

Anyway, this is where i decided to exit, i needed some fresh air. With DIL offered to show me to the peaceful part of the apartment. We entered this room, it was all quiet with lamplight. And Ethan Eapen was asleep, well, half askeep. She pulled out this mammoth gold tissue photo album of the wedding and i sank peacefully into the pages - the wedding had one ceremony, two receptions and a lot of free loaders to the first. Geez!

The entire city was there, some of them DIL didn't even know, remember, recall. When i turned page 72, Ethan decided to cry out for me, and she rushed to his side, saying it's okay, and baby boo. I kinda felt weird. I began to wonder how it would be to be a mom.I felt all pudgy and soft, and i actually wanted to hold the little guy. Aww. It lasted for all of 2 minutes.

Then we started to talk, and compare notes on life and life after the Hitch and life in general. And it turns out i knew quite a few people from her workplace. So it was nice, cause it veered to comfortable conversation. Then we started talking about this and that and then suddenly dinner was served - i could smell it and plus the aunties called.

So, when i entered the room, the assault was on full blast, Mr Abbey was completely submerged from all sides with everyone telling him exactly what they thought about the communists, in between you'd hear patient but persistent correctiosn from the man himself, that he wasn't communist, but socialist. Ninan uncle was slapping his right hand over this left in a dismissive gesture (all mallus know this move) telling him just what he thought abou the ice cream parour case and how we needd to learn about the balance of the freedom struggle. Not only did we lose some, but we gained a lot, he said. And in a way, his arguments were compelling. Abbey on the other hand was tryin to quote page 122 of the Socialists Bible. Hmmm...

Dad. Dad was laughing and watching with Sunil in the corner. Both of them had withdrawn to silent spectatorship and were enjoying the show. Ninan uncle is born entertainer. So was Eapen uncle, who quickly ran to the kitchen to sound the alarm for dinner. Dinner brought the respite, and the energy break. Everyone simmered over the points. Some smarting from personal comments. But all in all, by mallu standards it was a concert, people!

What i couldn't get about Mr. Abbey though:

1) Socialist - why would you be working for the next pay cheque to make up for currency exchange

2) Socialist - why would you still kneel when the aramana residents walked down the park path to kiss the ring, if you totally believed in equality and unions

3) what is it with you, that you can't accept therealities of every individual's experiences and that you'd try to ram certain theories down everyone's throat when you're not convinced of them yourself.

I felt sorry for him. Cause one thing was clear, he was a simple man, with very fair values and a sense of deep justice for the world. In Dubai, you've got to learn to balance that with some real stuff like - life.

Theories i learnt the hard way are man made. So is religion. I was glad that i was safely out the race, way before this dinner happened. Whew. Thank you God.

Three different puddings and platter full of fruit later, i sat down to attempt one last half hearted conversation with Abbey's wife, who made it apparent that she hated the Gulf, hated her new life and kept for no apparent reason looking away half way through her conversations with everyone. It was her way of making sure Kochumol aunty wouldn't invite her back. Mission accomplished.


It was time to say good bye (already?!) and we all walked to the door, had a couple of more coversations (tis tradition even when it's not Christmas!) and then finally patted backs and shook hands. Kisses in air were in order, thankfully there weren't too many women who were at the door. So that over, we finally made our way down the hall way to the elevators.

Dad, Abbey, wife, kids and i - Abbey uncle stumbled, dad was walking carefully in his 'i'm-not-drunk-you-are'walk. Wife was disgusted, some more. And the kids were sleepy. Some shifts and uncomfortable grunts/silence (and Abbey uncle getting off on the 3rd floor and insisting it was the ground floor) in the elevator later, we were down and we said bye cordially.

Walked to our car, dad and i burst out laughing together when i said. "Ninan uncle was..." and we drove home.

Merry Christmas y'all.

It ain't over son

I wrote a letter to my brother, not too long ago and i realised that i took my dark moments for granted like no one's business. I shot out some very deep stuff about family and God to him. The irony lies in how easily i was all to push all of that to the background when it came to some very important parts of my life.

It's all there somehow, hanging like a big binch of grapes. Plump with the knowledge and wisdom that is mine for the taking, if only i'd reach out and pluck.

Maternal instincts can be a bitch when you're a sister. Your torn between the two personalities. The one my brother and i like and the one that's hard wired into me (and keeps popping up without a warning!). Try as i might, balancing the two has landed me on my bum a lot of times. And despite the sore episodes, i still continue to worry for him.

Tis quite natural, most tell me. And then they quizzically look at me and ask - where i'm going with this.

My answer to that would be no where to prove a point, if that's what you're aking; but to be able to just voice my thought process and see where it can take yours.

I admire the fact that i'm able to acknowledge that i get all frumped up about my kid brother (he's no kid nemore). Most would constantly either hide behind the glorified title and others would just justify the bloody deal with just a shrug and a walk-off.

Here's the thing, Aj and i shared a friendship as well. Y'see that's where it gets messed up. Siblings can be friends, but when you take that and try to make it into something that's only convinient to your pompous self, then the issue begins to germinate into a full scale 'BLAH'.

I do take responsibility only to the point that i tried to use my position as an elder sister to get some points straight across and it back fired. Badly. I was too wrapped up with my life, to be able to sit down and dissect the issues like we used to. The surface was scratched.

Another thing is the combination of him being my brother, a man and a friend. He was hurt, only this time, we couldn't make peace by visiting each other's rooms and slipping notes under the door, or barging anyway and settling the issue once and for all. He was miffed in his tetosternony way and i was well, already getting enough that! Geez!

He was miles away, i was miles away. All we had is a telephone. The miscommunication on one these contraptions is so collosal....i don't even want to go there.

anyway, so A, B, C - we're here now. Miles apart physically, and the bond languishingi in limbo. Cause the calls are expensive and the rest of family/friends (yeah, tell me about it!) needs to lend in their two bits of advice, before we can even start to have a conversation.

And so, until i meet him, i just don't see this here wound closing. We talk, we still joke, but we both know that we have some things to say to each other, and so what else we share is just = small talk.

Interestingly, i'm looking forward to it. Even if it has it's fair share of spark and fire. It will. It should.

In the letter, i list a few things i didn't want him to forget in life. Some of the things we had in focus, but we both lost sight of, after awhile. I can say safely, that i'm making my way back to grace, with those things again. Aj, well he's got some stuff blocking his view. And i know there's ample blood throbbing in the male bastions while i say this (yes, he knows what he's in and can deal with it) BUT...he isn't willing to acknowledge that it's a deep well he's free falling into.

I tried, i failed. I let my maternal back-up take over. Why? Don't f*&^ing ask me, why! I wish i knew. I don't.

This isn't over bro. You know it isn't.

Overwhelmed with a propah noun

It's not everyday you get to stand back and take a birds eye view at your life. I got a strange but very raw taste of it when I was signing Christmas cards at the office. Ironically, I'm close to 2 weeks old here (overwhelming, cause I still think it's just yesterday I was walking in and being introduced to everyone) and I'm signing Christmas cards cause tis what you do when you're part of a team. This is contact building, an unofficial way of introducing yourself.

You'll have everyone at the receiving end of those cards looking at your name funny, and thinking - hey, new girl! Alright! OR hey, new person, hmmmm....wonder if I can get more freebies...alright!

Anyway.

So I'm signing these cards, yeah? And half way through the Lifestyle pile, I'm saying my name as I sign 'em, kind of trying to keep myself occupied. When the moment hits me. Bird's eye view. Megha. Meg.ha. Megha. - I keep saying this over and over and realize that it's not everyday when you look at your name and repeat it slowly for around 50 odd times and suddenly you're looking at yourself, your name suddenly takes on such a new dimension of importance.

you begin to think what people think, when they read your name, you begin to think of the possible images they could have of you in their head, their expectation when they're gonna meet you for the first time, the preconceived hair type, skin and clothes. The reaction when they see you.

So if you're Megha, it sounds northish, it sounds like she's this jhola bag type, the writer, the extra sophisticate PR person, the friendly girl next door (can a Megha be a girl next door?) Hmmmm....nope!

And then you don't know the name anymore, by now you've said it more than a 100 times, and you're wondering who you really are. Whether you embodied the name well enough. Did you do justice to it. It's suddenly a new found responsibility. Many people really don't see much into their names. I know I didn't for the longest time. I mean I had versions of it being flung around everywhere. So many times the syllables would be lost in familiarity. Meg, Meghe, Mig, Maggie (I hate this one!), Migha (trust the phirangs to do this!), Maigha, Moigha, hey, listen, yo, hello, moale (mallu for beti), mol (shortform of the previous, yes we have them too!), kutta (sweety in mallu), eliammo, pay attention, listen up....see?

Yuo're not you anymore, your just part of the landscape. Another being in the wheel, another person. You're not you. and the worst part is, you get used to blending into the bland, and then you sort of come to expect it. Now, I'm not saying your name is supposed to give you an epiphany here. Nope, sorry. But what I am trying to say is that somehow, your name means a lot more to you than anyone else. It kind of stands for something, not just what it means, yeah? It's what it brings to you.

Forgetting it, is the first lesson we learn. Atleast I did. Until I signed those cards. To each his own share of personally enlightening experiences. But I do believe, my name took on a larger than life importance after that.

I have this great story of how I came to be named Megha.

Tomorrow. Is another day.

Brain Storms

Picture this, 8 people sitting in a room, having brainstorms. Everyone's got this motley group of dark clouds over their heads, they're hunched over, heads wet from the rain, some dry for lack of creativity. Their eyes knotted in a stitch over the possibility of implementing something crazy. Everyone's staring out the window or looking at a patch on the wall. Lightening strikes the bald thinkers, shiny pates have the tendency to attract them bolts in this office and then it bounces off other people's foreheads.

The rain is slipping down people shirts and skirts, forming pools at the feet of the ergonomic chairs, girl with a curl starting drawing water circles with her feet, distracted, not completely here, but wet with ideas of her own.

It's a beautiful and yellow outside, everything is marvelous, people have things to do for the weekend. Ours doesn't start until tomorrow. Sometimes, things like this tend to happen. Now i have the Sunday blues. Monday is closer to the weekend ironically.

Boistrous bitch twirls her favourite candy wrapper into a twisty butterfly, completely pissed off with the ideas, which = hers are always better. In her own head the storm is turning volcanic. The top of her head is giving off a bit of steam. And i can detect the palest tinge of red - orange. It's only a matter of a few minutes, we're gonna have to run for cover.

earthy/sexy 'paki' girl, is having her storm of calm. She has a small smile and a picture of 'her little lady'in her lap. When you've got something that cute staring up at ya, it's hard not to have a smile on your face. She's got a pleasant drizzle happening. Some of her ideas are very flower power like. But they work, these are the ideas that sustain you to the next big bang. Money talks for her, cause most of them are her clients.

The white chicks are animated as usual. Constantly blowing things into the air, making bubbles from the soap that's forthing with the rain. They never run out soap. Bleached bone ideas, but they make sure the weekend frees up for their regular trots and discovery. It's all about the weekends and a probable raise.

I'm completely soaked. Got my ideas running rivulets through the office. By nwo i would have had a standing ovation for the launch, and somehow, a sense of peace really calms me to the point where i know that jumping the gun isn't the way into this league. There is a even a good possibility that i don't want in. I like the coversations i'm able to have with these guys, the coffee the lunch and the work i'm responsible for. I like what i'm being able to achieve, at my pace. I mean what is the rush for? Somehow, getting stuff done in relation to be being able to reach out is suddenly so important. Hmmmm.

So i do the right thing like stone cold sleepy mama and come in during the pregnant pauses, something like the thunder. It kind of makes everyone sit up and nod, and agree and then they add that to the list and then it's cacaphony for the next 15 minutes. Some more of boisterous bitch, some mroe stone cold sleepy mama, some more of lightening pates (they could have a basketball team!) and we're all good to go.

Until psyched out decides to speak up - in her silky, near whisper voice. She's got that look in her eye again. Saudi beckons to the South african. She's dry.

Post lunch sessions can be really warped.

The feeling of a sense of lack

the silence is killing me. In my head i can't seem to notch up the points. The sense of lack is back.

Everyone seems to have a verbose way of putting things on thier space, it feels warm and fuzzy, like you can feel the clack of the keys, feel what they're feeling. They speak like they're sitting across from you, they feel so close, so personal.

they're trips, they're words, they're emotions. It's all there, spilled. My visits to different pages of personal, make me think so much about mine.

Tis the sense of lack again. Knocking.

Most the time, the sense of lack is masked inside, in a boorish statement, in a negated part of my psyche. Y'know?

I haven't heard from my Big brotha in a while. Don't know if he's out travelling, or in a different part of the world with no access to cyberspace. Tis is the sense of lack again. I wonder if he's miffed, last i checked, he was there. I miss him.

My lil brothas are missing too. Don't where they are - i guess all of this is a collective pile up. of the sense of lack i mean. There's no communication. None of it. Where are you sista? You missing too....

Sigh.

It's been a week. Officially, new job and all. Tis good. I like it. So far.
But my sense of lack now permeates into a different part of me. I'm allowing it to access a very protected place, and i know that i will need to do something drastic to snap out of it. Where are the friends i was promised, the glittering social life, the people to meet, the time to spend doing sweet nothings? WHERE?!

Suggestions for drastic, please.

Someone....anyone?

Flash! I'm having a vision.

It's not everyday i can concoct these stories so plush with detail, that i can't help but tell it. the deatails are all in my head and i can't really recollect them in verbose. Some of the embellishments are a personal touch! It lasted the entire 'gurkha shift' of the radio. So let's call it a story, let's call this a situation. Let's call this anything you want to call it really.

It happened over a few mind numbing realities, and a couple of stiff points pointed out. It happened when i was numb and zoned out in my car. i was being driven home and then the radio switched on to smooth jazz. It was 10 'o clock. The search was heavily on for a car wash. That's when it happened. a technicoloured dream unfolded across the windscreen, and i slumped into it thankful and very aware that i was letting go.

I mean times were when long drags could do the trick, i was getting this for free. So i wasn't going to be the one to complain. heheh. Ride on.

It's a noisy jazz bar, instruments are being tuned and there's a heavy kind of smoke in the air. It's a jazz bar. My favourite people walk in (you know who you are!). I'm a vision - half latin diva / half indian princess. i'e got long hair and i've got a scarf half done in a turban, long dress, feet bare, and sitting on one of the most comfortable stools. you only get them at jazz bars. the old school kind.

The moment i see them, i break into song, it's a slow and practiced way of setting the tempo for the evening. No matter how many times i take the stage, i just can't seem to get that thrill out of my head, when i know a song will hit home with the people i know will get it.

So i belt out the sweet notes of "I want a sunday loving". It's a road-trip of a different kind. After my session with the keys, i join my favourite people, share a couple of drinks, and sit in the corner with a cordless microphone, accompanying talented others on the seconds and the mixture of alto and sop.

And as Louie plays his famed frenzy on the keys signaling end of act one, i blow kisses, plant one on the bald bouncer, and we're out the door to the many musicial dens of old. Until after each person's satiated being smile in unison that we're done for the night. Or is it day?

I'm in the middle of a carwash now, and i sit up in a stupor of not knowing when i got there. It's not automated, it's too darn late to find one now. And as the automated gun spashes jets of water on the windscreen, i can't help but smile.

Tis a trip i liked. I thank ye sista for being awake with me over the month, for sleepless nights spent in conversation, and a stolen swig of wine. I thank ye for the insight, i thank you for the shared happiness in finding that the trips can be much better. Wot say?

I conclude, verily that from lack of sleep, and a concerted effort to foray into the unknown is an enlightening journey. and boy did i dig it!

Slump.