Minchagi Neenu Barelu

How many times had I heard this song already? Let’s see, about thirty times on the first day itself. When I realized that I was still none the wiser about what its words meant than the first time I had heard it. And what’s more, I realized that it had not bothered me. Neither had it stopped the love song which was in a language I didn’t understand at all, from speaking to me. Sweetly romantic, the song was not above being a cliché. But to me
the words were strange and new everytime. I heard a different song each time it played, if in a faintly familiar tune. The same blue sea breaking on the shore in refreshing waves.

Unlike music which transcends language, a song is its words. Music plumbs the depth of sorrow or soars among clouds, its meaning freely floating between the musician’s mind and the listener’s imagination. But a song is rooted to its words. And the failure to understand their meaning … is a beautiful hurt. You have to then but listen, pinned to the spot.

Just as you have to let angels speak or fairies sing. And cant stop them in the middle to say, “Hey, I don’t understand a word you are saying.” For fear that this alienness might melt and leave nothing at all. Foreign sounds randomly dart in the air, brilliantly catching light for a fraction of a second; you think you know a word but it’s lost as suddenly in the rush of sounds. Sorrow or happiness? Love or hatred? All emotions look so unsure
that they cannot bear their own superfluousness and fall apart.

Now there’s no pretension of understanding. You are left to feel the words. Trace their shapes in the air. Sniff their sounds for hard corners or softness. Or let them just fall about. Then, you hear it.

Older than any song, older than language perhaps, or human meaning. Is the urge to be understood. The need to simply express. This is the white energy in the burst of a song. Which can express things that cannot be spoken otherwise. Without meanings to clutch on to, I fell down through the song of
another language, to softly land at the beginning of all songs.

Language is a barrier, specially when you know it. It’s too full of meaning.

Dummy Copy

What do they taunt copywriters for? Is their profession so enviable?
I have often wondered how do their ideas, TV commercials, serve mankind.
Doctors take oaths to serve life ( Human life that is, not serve life behind
bars like one of our MDs charged with pornography).
Even lawyers serve the law of the land, in a convoluted logic you can
legally challenge with the help of a lawyer.
Who do copywriters serve with their creativity? Okay, they work for the
greater awareness of consumers. “Thank god for that ad, I know that Oligo
Thermal Gel Intense Hydrate is no chemical bomb that could annihilate
millions but a cream from L’Oreal for dewy skin!”
How about we serve brands, then? Creating cult movements through
commercials.
Ever wondered why the cult of Nike rises, yet more people slip into the
endemic of sedentary life.
Okay, I am going simplistic, but admit this: The Nike cult is hardly made up
exclusively of those who rigour it out. My 110 stone colleague swears by
Nike.
It is an idea of life people might fancy. But practice…?
The last major cult movements I can think of were made by people who
believed in something and lived it. That is how they grouped together,
influenced more people and stopped wars. Or waged music.
Nowadays it is either an eccentric groupie who live out their extreme cause.
Or else it’s a mass cause endorsed by a brand. In which case it no longer
remains a cause but a Cannes awarded commercial!
*Just face it.* Copywriters help innumerable brands to endorse some cause or
the other. But can’t think up a single one they could stand for.
Unless of course, not standing up for anything particular is a defiant stand
by itself!

Me The Blogger

A floating speck of a nobody in the wide world – still feels
pinned and squeezed. Gasping stale air of second-thoughts.
But then, nobody asked her to live inside her head. What is in there anyway?
Blazing self awareness? Sometimes I wonder if people can see a halo around
my crown, light escaping through a crack.
But blinding light of self awareness or murky forgetfulness, neither helps
when it really comes to seeing.
And, we wonder what the wise can see that others can’t.
Welcome me to bloghole. Where there is enough murky space to never bother
finding oneself again.
Where I can indulge in my analysis-paralysis and give them more solidity
than a short- circuit between neurons.
That last line makes me want to immediately back out of here. Solidity to
thoughts that weigh tonnes already?
Moreover, you can share what you know, but how do you share what you don’t
know, which weighs down heavier.
And do I really imagine I am sharing my thoughts with anybody here other any
my own ego. That’s some note on which to end a first post, even before I
have really begun.

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