tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49621727791978663922023-11-15T22:57:05.443+08:00RadiodaysMusic is about memories. It’s as much about the song you heard as it's about where you heard it. Even though the blog is titled Radiodays (I grew up with the influence of radio), it's about music and where it takes you. Here are a bunch that still take me back to a dusty road or a rainy afternoon back home. Please feel free to contribute your songs with links and a brief description of where it takes you when you hear it.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-50387034398529351262013-03-26T22:33:00.000+08:002013-03-26T22:53:14.312+08:00Oh Hansini
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You don’t know the movie it’s from. You don’t know who the actors are who are singing this song, but you do know the singer. Sometimes you felt this kind of voice should be made illegal, like a drug is in some places (where you are making a living now, for instance). But you love the song, the voice and the possible meaning, which your partner at work and a good friend, an artist on his off time, explains, because it’s a language he was born in. A kite is involved and a sweetheart, somewhere in the song. Seamlessly, many months later, as a segue from a familiar past, you meet him at a café for lunch and you remember this song when he comes in bearing a gift for your birthday, which is in the same month as yours is. It all makes sense.
Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-47239128623388201162013-02-23T17:56:00.001+08:002013-02-23T17:56:42.672+08:00Putham pudhu kalai<iframe width="400" height="300" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Ytzlszu2MaQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s a morning song. Not any morning, it should have rained the whole night before and just stopped just before you woke up, and the crisp morning air should carry the fragrance of the rain from the night. It’s a morning with the promise of a beautiful day ahead. Because that’s how you remember hearing it, on the way to school which was a bit close to a music shop your cousin opened with his friends. He has a sense of music and shows you all the shining new equipment and the largest collection of records you’ve seen ever. You still have time for the first bell at school so you hang around and listen to some songs when he plays this latest song from a movie that’s running at a cinema near your house. You won’t see the movie for some reason, but the song will follow you wherever you went, carrying with it the early morning, rain-laden breeze.
Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-73632489959247881212013-02-23T17:33:00.002+08:002013-02-23T17:33:56.699+08:00Ruk jana nahin<iframe width="400" height="300" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/oH8TJ-0uYgg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s a Saturday in your sister’s house in town away from home where you’ve been living and working for a while now. You are used to it, the place, the people, the people at work, the work, the water which tastes seriously different from the one you grew up drinking. Saturday meant there would be a Hindi movie on the telly and you hope they’ll show something decent. You haven’t gone to see anyone, you look out the grilled window on the first floor and the streets are empty. There’s a water pump to the right where periodically there are fights among the people who come for it from the slum nearby. The programme on agriculture is over and your sister calls out to you to come watch the movie. There’s only her and another lady with her daughter. She knows the language so she can translate the tough bits. The movie starts with this song which you’ve heard as a kid on the radio, on the Phillips Major back in your home town. It takes you back to the dusty roads, the cool breezy mornings, the water, the house with the railway line way over in the back. It was one of those trains that you used to see that brought you here to this town.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-6674257846667771262013-02-23T17:01:00.002+08:002013-02-23T17:01:34.482+08:00Kanchi re<iframe width="400" height="300" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/D4Jl4p82lsw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s a Sunday morning, and the school holidays have started. You are in your 4th standard or primary school years. Your school is a 10 minute walk, actually you can see it from the terrace of your house. Yours was the only house with a terrace in the neighbourhood. There was freedom in the air along with the fragrance of summer. The mornings especially were beautiful as were the evenings. Today was especially breezy and nice. Your cousins had come over for the weekend visit. They used to live next door before your family moved house and came here. All houses have stories and this one did too but you wouldn’t learn about it till you were all grown up and working, years later. But now it was a beautiful Sunday after school with your cousins. The cousin sister was more your age so you talk about this and that, telling her what a tough time awaits in the form of new mathematics when she would be promoted to the class you just got promoted from. You talk about the songs you’ve heard and like. She sings this song, which sounds very nice. You’ll hear it again on the radio later.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-15617376594401126132013-02-23T16:20:00.002+08:002013-02-23T16:20:52.977+08:00Khilte hai gul<iframe width="400" height="300" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VtoKGG0NT7g" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
You are in another town, on a job. Actually it’s your first decent job, and you are on training. You don’t know where the posting is going to be, it could be anywhere in the country. It’s a bit disconcerting as this is the first time you’ve left home not knowing when you’ll go back. You remember how all your family and friends came to the train station to send you off. But the fact that you’re staying with your relatives, your mother’s sister, a wonderful woman, and her nice family, softens the edge of being away from home a bit.
Soon you learn the basics, how to get around, how to get to the hotel where the training is, which bus to take back etc. You meet some decent people at the training. Some of the managers are nice, some seem tough. As the session of a week comes to an end, you wait with bated breath as to where you’ll be posted. You wait for your name to be called. Heart pounding, anxious which strange city with no friends or familiar faces they’ll post you to, you wait. The big boss calls your name, and as you stand there with a strange mix of dread and expectation, he says you’ll be posted in your home town. You could have bought the whole world a beer, only you hadn’t started drinking, and you didn’t have enough money. There will be a few more days of training, and then you can go back to working. It was a Saturday, when there’ll be a Hindi movie on the local channel. TV started only at 6 pm and lasted till 10 pm. On a particular weekday they showed the latest songs. Sundays featured the regional movie. As you went back, with your heart brimming with happiness and relief, they had just started showing the movie from which featured this melodious song.
Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-10849810328041932282013-02-22T15:54:00.000+08:002013-02-22T15:54:07.056+08:00Ilamai enum poongatru
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You’ve come back earlier from college and changed into your casual clothes. You are standing outside the gate to people watch and wait for the milkman so you can have your tea which your mother or sister will make. It’s around 4 pm, and the street is not exactly teeming with people. There are kids going back from their schools, chattering, laughing, swinging their bags and lunch boxes. The college goers consider it beneath their dignity to carry lunch from home. Not cool to be seen with packed lunch as it won’t make the right impression on the girls you never had the courage to talk to. Or ever will. By the time your job and bank balance gave you the confidence, you were all grown up, married, in another country as were the girls. That’s how it went. Presently the milkman comes on his bicycle, carrying a huge aluminium can on the carrier at the back, with thick ropes holding it in place. In front, around the handle bars, there are smaller cans and measuring cans. He gets down, leans the cycle against him to balance it, opens the tap on the can and pours milk into the steel vessel you hold under it. The fresh, cold milk fills up to the brim, sending a cool wave through the palms of you hand, contrasting with the warmth from the street which is still absorbing the heat from the settling sun. Then as you look up to turn around to go back in, there’s the girl you see quite regularly. Pretty, tall for her age, and looks the quiet type. You wait till she passes you by, then walk in, holding the cool vessel. The radio plays this song which you’ll remember for a long time.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-41108812052708505192012-10-18T12:00:00.003+08:002012-10-18T12:00:39.691+08:00Kadavul oru naal<iframe width="300" height="225" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6UDl9gCxVC0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
The man next to the room your dad was staying in played this song. You didn’t know what it meant. You were just about 4 or 5 years old. But you liked it for some reason. Thinking back, maybe he played it over weekends. He had a machine, which you later learnt was a gramaphone. It was fascinating that a spinning disc with a needle could produce songs. Who was singing? Where did they hide? When you were not being captivated by this machine, and this song in particular, you climb the short wall next to your dad’s room onto the tiled roof. You remember the mornings when your dad took you to the ‘hotel’ nearby for breakfast through a market selling fruits and vegetables. The whole restaurant smelled wonderful. It had a counter with the cashier sitting behind at a height. The counter had a red Coca Cola sign. You don’t remember what you ate, but you remember your father transferring coffee from tumbler to the ‘davara’ which is a flatter vessel to cool it down.
Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-22153306628895492902012-10-18T11:59:00.003+08:002012-10-18T11:59:36.951+08:00Statue, statue (Boomiyil iruppadhum)
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You remember the smell of jaggery being made. That’s what your parents and your family members you went with to see the new house they were buying. It was far from where you were living, with your cousins on one side, and the friendly neighbour who gave you a teaspoon of ‘powder’ which was ‘Ovaltine’ and a biscuit every morning. You remember the medley of smells from the small ‘petty shop’. An old woman is sitting behind a row of bottles, handing out cigarettes and candy to customers. She has huge gold jewellery hanging from her ears. You can see the big hole. In her ear from which the piece of jewellery is hanging, and you wonder if it hurts her. The smell of ripe bananas, cigarettes, groundnut cakes and other candy hit your nostrils. But dominating all is the smell of jaggery on this warm day. This song comes on from the small transistor radio in the shop. Later you would go to the place where they were making the jaggery. There was a well, and a thick tube stuck out of the well all the way out into a tank. The water rushed out like a frothing, liquid snake. You still the smell of the jaggery in your mind, and the song. Statue, statue, he was saying.
Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-59508596825640264742012-10-18T11:53:00.002+08:002012-10-18T11:54:20.316+08:00Thiruparan Kundrathil<iframe width="300" height="225" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/BpBxO1VKDSI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
You were probably 4 or 5 years old, and it was the first few months of having been admitted to a school down the road from your house. You were playing with your cousins and friends all day long, and suddenly you were yanked from your familiar routine with familiar faces and thrust into this school with total strangers. You hated going to school every day. You hated saying good-bye to your elder brother who sat you on the front bar of the bicycle and took you to school every morning. You sat there on the edge of the bench and kept thinking of when your sisters will come with your lunch. After a while, you seemed to be getting used to the routine, not whole-heartedly, but whole enough not to feel so sad. Because you learnt that the kids you played with were also going to school. One day, around 11 am, while not listening to the teacher going on about something and daydreaming, your sisters come to your class and you see them talk to the teacher. Your new found friends want to know what’s happening. Soon, you are told to take your bag and go with your sisters. You couldn’t be happier. Once you are home, your mother is waiting for you. She says for you to get ready as you are traveling to meet your dad who is working in a town some hours away. You just follow her and go to the bus stop. Strange women smile at you and talk to your mom. It’s warm inside and you wish the driver would start the bus so some breeze would come in. There’s a smell of sweet fruit. Some mother buys ‘murukku’ from a vendor for her kid. You don’t get that as you are not allowed to eat outside food. Then you hear this song, rendered quite badly. You look around and see a girl with a small boy, and she is singing this song, and stretches her arm out for alms. You don’t remember if anyone put any money in that hand. You just remember the song.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-27318185364375130422012-04-30T16:28:00.001+08:002012-04-30T16:28:52.063+08:00Sendhoorapove<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/EM5bF3WhN-o" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s annual school holidays in your new neighbourhood where your family has just moved into. You’ve made a friend across the street. It’s an unusually cool summer morning when you go to his house which is in the back of the owner’s house. It was a standard practice when the owner of a house wanted to make some extra money they rented out the small ‘portion’ in the back to people they knew or friend’s friend’s relative. Your house was also in the back come to think of it. Your friend is in the owner’s house, and he introduces you to them, two brothers. They seem like nice people. One of them has made some sweet dish and he is offering it to you to taste, you have a taste and it’s quite nice. It’s a fairly big house but not as clean as your house is. Bachelors are like that, you remember someone saying in connection with something else. Later, your friend takes you outside where the owner’s tractor is standing. It’s a blue tractor with a trailor, and you get on the trailer, and he tells you you can see air if you look real close. You strain your eyes and all you can see are those vague dots swimming in front of your eyes. He says that’s air. You can see it now, can’t you? When you go back in, this song comes on the radio, it sounds beautiful.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-26079167735081632212012-04-30T15:59:00.001+08:002012-04-30T15:59:33.096+08:00Ilaya nila<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1C3B2wupfKo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
The year seems good for decent grades, especially in math, a bit unusual. There’s a sense of relief in the air as the eminently forgettable two years at the not-so-top of the line school are coming to a swift end. And come June, the so-far-near-drab life would take on an exciting turn with the next step being in a college. College! In other word, freedom. Freedom to go and come as you please, freedom to ogle girls, freedom to talk about things you couldn’t till recently, freedom to watch movies that were certified ‘A’, freedom to come home late … you can taste it now as you go to your school. The hope of a new beginning makes even this dowdy affair seem interesting. As you take the bus in the morning, and as yo leave for school, they pla this song on the radio. It’s captivating, jazzy, unusual (like the high grade in math), and its guitar work is like nothing you’ve heard so far. Then, when you are in college, in the hilly, cooler part of your town, enjoying the unalloyed freedom of being above reproach from family members, your friend plays this song on the guitar and wins a gold medal. Years later, very many years later, you would pick up this song on your guitar too, and it would be one of the most satisfying experiences of your life, especially when you play the last interlude. Bliss!Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-63743737824079423642012-04-18T21:53:00.001+08:002012-04-18T21:53:30.085+08:00Take a bow<iframe width="300" height="182" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JwdY3dpAdPc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s during the first few months on your new job in the new city. You’ve come to work on a Saturday and the office looks deserted save for the few other people working on the same project. Time dilates on a weekend shift, especially when your wife is waiting at home. You finish your work as best and as quickly as you can and take your friend up on his offer of a lift, he is going your side of the town he says. There’s still someone at the office who will lock up later. You take the empty elevator down to the lobby that has a few tourists looking for a bargain at the shops selling cameras and watches. Your friend says he has parked his car a few blocks away, about a 10 minute walk, so you walk to the car park in a mall. It’s an old beat up Toyota. It has character, feels strong somehow. The streets start getting emptier and emptier, wearing a lazy weekend look as you reach home. This song comes on, accentuating the emptiness further. Your friend looks at a passing car and says, ‘red merc’. You laugh at the way he says it. He drops you off outside your apartment block and you walk up, feeling a bit drained but looking forward to the evening.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-34212735757266419402012-04-09T10:33:00.001+08:002012-04-09T10:33:25.862+08:00Walking in Memphis<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/KK5YGWS5H84" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It's early days in the new city you have moved to, and you are on your way to work or is it a weekend and you're on your way to the mall in the downtown area with your newly wedded wife? You don't remember now, but you remember the day was pleasant. It was a cool tropical morning and the air con in taxi make sit cooler. Rain drops slide down the window blurring the view of buses, cars and pedestrians on either side of the road. Everything feels refreshingly different, the newness of the place hasn't left you yet, there will be time for that, years later when it would be not so different as it is now. The cab with its air-con and the almost silent clicks of the indicator light, the smell of the interior which is quite pleasant, the taxi driver's accent, the sights of the city ... everything feels so different. The taxi is at a traffic light, you look out at all the foreign-make cars you never saw back home, as a yellow taxi pulls up next blocking the view, and this song comes on the car radio.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-10640546553154866652012-04-09T10:29:00.000+08:002012-04-09T10:29:00.519+08:00Love is all around<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TQQ6SfPZggw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s still early days in the new city. You are settling in, with your colleagues, in your new home, the new surroundings. You take the train which is everything the trains in your town were not. These are clean, new, efficient, and nobody hung out of carriages like the did back home. You take the train with your wife to the mall in the shopping district. There are cosmetic counters on the first floor, clothes and household stuff are sold on other levels. You watch a movie in the hall which is located on the top floor, and you look down at all these shops on your way up the escalator. Later you will have dinner at a pasta place you’ve become a regular at over the last few months. It’s a routine now. As you go up, this song comes on again through the speakers.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-88968204855759785502012-04-09T10:27:00.000+08:002012-04-09T10:27:33.242+08:00Postcards from L.A<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/kXPKNiUFPls" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
You always heard this song on your taxi rides in the tropical city you moved to recently. They played this song mostly in the mornings. You don’t remember what the days were like now as you try to remember. Not specifically, but they seem very pleasant. “everything looks and feels different”, you said to yourself as you soaked in the feel of the new city, with its new people, foreign faces, colleagues who looked nothing like your countrymen, roads that were totally unfamiliar, sights and sounds and accents that were nothing like you had ever seen so far…. Living in a different country, travelling out of your familiar womb was always going to be laced with a thin line of nervousness. Wasn’t that what excitement was all about? Like a rollercoaster ride. And every day almost they played this song on the radio, which too was a new experience, for the taxis in your previous city didn’t have a radio. They didn’t have air con, let alone radio.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-51761902510992693122012-03-26T15:34:00.000+08:002012-03-26T15:34:03.211+08:00Chinna pura ondru<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/mb8brHHkxpw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It usually comes on in the afternoon, a hot afternoon. You can’t recall why you were home when it came on the radio, maybe it was your time off from work, perhaps you were in between jobs, maybe it was the job hunting days right after college. You have been asked to go and get some tea bags for the evening, so you step out not much wanting to, as the girls you liked to see come back from their schools or college will be on the way anytime now. You don’t want to be caught with cheap tea bags, it would be embarrassing. Luckily, the shop is close by, less than 5 minutes’ walk. The street is a sleepy, a banana vendor is sleeping on the cart which is under the shade of a big tree. Milkman sees you and waves from his cycle. You nod and walk on, and buy your tea from the small petty shop round the corner next to a tea shop that’s a bakery as well. Vacant stares from strange people as you pay for the stuff and cross back. The putrid smell from the rotting vegetables at the entrance of the market hits your nostrils along with the assorted smells from the shop, a medley of cigarette smoke, burning rope for lighting cigarettes, fruits, candy, and ageing biscuits. The song comes on as you walk back, and your friend is at the gate. You signal to him, pointing to the teabag, saying you’ll drop it and go to his house, which is just across from yours. It’ll be just about right to watch the girls.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-12545239691939789982012-03-26T15:22:00.001+08:002012-03-26T15:23:24.202+08:00Gadi bula rahi hai<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/i46jlVrrwdQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s around 8 in the morning. You have to get ready for school that’s about 10 minutes by walk. In fact, you can see the school, which is a single big room with an asbestos sheet, from the terrace. The school is to the the left, beyond the well and a plae called buttin factory, which for some reason has sharp glass pieces stuck to the top of the wall surrounding it. To the right, there’ another well, and beyond that is a row of thatched roof houses made of clay which sit by the railway line. Two trains pass by in the morning, a slow passenger around 9 and a fast express much earlier around 8.30. It comes back in the evening in the opposite direction. Sometimes you see that from the back entrance, standing near the water tank, and over the back wall. The familiar starting tune of the morning programme comes on as you are getting ready to take a bath. It’s a one hour programme, and you usually leave after the last song. When this song comes on, you tend to think of the train that’ll pass by soon. You don’t know the meaning of the songs, you like the way it sounds.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-59089397391444679732012-02-17T13:16:00.000+08:002012-02-17T13:16:08.281+08:00Annoying papad bunnyIt’s a Sunday afternoon. Lazy, uninspiring, uninteresting drag of a day. Not a bad day, but just drags. And the programmes on the solitary channel are not helping. A regional movie is on with unknown actors and landscape. You have to wait till evening for your language programme to come on, till then you watch this ditchwater dull show. A couple of other guys are around, lolling in various postures on the sofas. Your friend’s cousin comes in with something they’ve cooked in their house. Smells like jaggery and ghee, probably a festival you don’t know about. The ceiling fan’s wings rotate slowly, as lazily as the afternoon. A cobbler comes to the door and is sent away. You hear the door latch being lifted and another friend comes in, not bringing much to accelerate the slow-setting lethargy. Some ads break the boring programme on TV. When this comes on you don’t know which is worse, this annoying ad or the insipid offering.
<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lSYMX6PmT34" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-57484259912697896792012-02-17T12:57:00.000+08:002012-02-17T12:57:05.144+08:00Cursed Bullet CommercialIt’s a day of no work. You’ve just finished college and tried your hand at a job your cousin recommended you didn’t like it, so you quit. You are in your friend’s house, where you most of your waking hours with other friends. Today there’s a cricket match. An important one with Pakistan. Soon, the rest of the unemployed friends come and some smoke, most don’t. A supply of betel nut (pan parag) is ensured by some instead. The match starts and the opposition is batting, so you don’t pay much attention. You keep the TV on mute, and listen to some songs on the system. After a quick lunch at home, you are all sitting around the TV, on the floor, in the sofa, on the arm rest, wherever there’s space, it’s occupied by friends, friends’ friends, colleagues of brothers, strangers who become friends instantly. Pan gets passed around, there are jokes, banter, and hope as the match progresses. You make fun of the opposition players, give nick names to your team players, someone answers a call from your brother’s office asking for the score. And then this commercial comes on. And you all know instantly what this means. India will lose. It’s happened more than once, and it’s no coincidence. This is a cursed commercial for a great bike, and soon enough your team stumbles to a loss, leaving you all distraught. You retire to your regular bakery run by two guys, and discuss what was the turning point of the match.
<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/PFQAq5MB2kU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-87819073338627529832012-02-17T12:22:00.000+08:002012-02-17T12:23:03.885+08:00Annoying AdsA day like this doesn’t come often. No school and a chance to watch a movie! It’s summer holidays and your parents have agreed to let you go watch a movie with your neighbour across the house. It’s an English movie at a cinema that has the best sound system in town. You can hardly contain your excitement. A movie! Wow! By 5 pm your friend comes over and after nodding your head to all the advice (cross the road carefully, keep your money safe, don’t eat oily stuff during the interval), you start walking. It’s a good 30 minute walk, talking about this and that, mostly a cricket match, or a ‘favourite’ teacher. When you reach the cinema, there’s not much crowd and the queue is short, which is good as you don’t like long queues, and the potential houseful sign. You stand in the line in a narrow concrete roofed structure, the three rows separated by iron railings. Soon you are at the counter and you buy two tickets for 2.90. That’s a decent section of the hall, just far enough from the low life seats and near enough to the high class, a palatable middle ground. Relieved at the ease with which you got the tickets, you walk a bit, wonder if you should have the famous coffee and ‘keera vada’, you shelve it for later, during the interval. You enter the cinema and the halls’ lights dim. Instead of the movie you paid the money for, you get these ads. You hate them, they are so intrusive and stupid, you think. You make fun of the ad with your friends. Not just this one, but every one that follows. But this will play for a long time, as long as you went for the movies, this particular one would out last all of the others.
<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2BRYGTqouuE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-44609456324967790342012-02-15T13:49:00.000+08:002012-02-15T13:50:09.888+08:00Kalyana parisu comedy scenes<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/i5uh6yQ7gzw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It always came on your radio in the afternoon. Around 4 pm on weekends. The people in your house have woken up from the slumber induced by the heavy meal and now are ready for some hot coffee. The aroma of filter coffee wafts in from the kitchen. It doesn’t have to waft far as there are only two rooms. Someone switched on the radio and this comedy scene comes on again. You’ve heard it many times but it never tires you or your family members. It stays fresh and funny no matter how many times you hear it. You’ve never seen the movie though. You remember seeing the poster on your trip to your sister’s town. The black and white posters on the wall right next to the party symbols running for the assembly election that year. One of the symbols had a cow and a calf. Someone had thrown cow dung on another poster next to it. You try to paint a picture from the sound of the characters and as always, you are far from reality. Later, when tape recorders came into households, your friend’s folks had this on tape as well, and you borrowed the mono set and heard it like you’ve never heard it before. Timeless.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-28372545696047470682012-01-03T18:29:00.000+08:002012-01-03T18:29:36.764+08:00Kraftwerk – Robots<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/AYwV1TA7Et0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
There’s a music shop that has opened down the corner on the first floor of the two storeyed building that has some random shops, like a travel agent, a Xerox shop etc. You go there in the evening with your friend to check out the price of recording songs. You’ve just learnt things like TDK, Sony, Maxell tapes and that they come in 90 and 60 options. Your friend’s got a new mono player in his house, while you’d have preferred a stereo you can’t force his dad to buy what you need so you settle. There are lots of brand new vinyl records with sexy images of women in skimpy clothes, abstract visuals, guys with funky hair style … as you browse and ask if he has the songs you heard on Radio Australia, you hear this rather catchy tune coming on. And you ask him to record this immediately.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-73812868481404016232012-01-03T13:34:00.000+08:002012-01-03T13:35:43.805+08:00Paruvame<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WxCIUL4cDxw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s a winter morning in the small town which has its own weather system that separates it from the big cities. Water gets real cold without freezing, coconut oil somehow freezes and becomes greasy snow in a bottle, door fronts feature rangolis with pumpkin flowers on cow dung mound, it’s December back home. You look forward to the school half yearly holidays, and soon, in the coming month, there will be a longish break for the harvest festival. As you walk to the bus stop, watching people shiver in the early morning cold which has made some shop keepers sleep a little late in opening the shutters of their shops, the sun breaks through the clouds bringing a brief respite from the biting cold. You try to keep to the slivers of the sun on the ground but it disappears again. Somewhere on a radio this song comes wafting through like the aroma from a gently cooked meal.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-47163935596064302162011-11-10T16:33:00.000+08:002011-11-10T16:33:31.195+08:00Last thoughts on Woody Guthrie<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Q0OdNY8Aybw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
It’s afternoon in another country, in a friend’s small apartment with a music system that seems bigger than the room. Outside seems shut out and it’s quiet inside. The poet’s uncertain voice stammers to a start and rolls and tumbles along taking you on a ride through the rollercoaster life with its sham and skullduggery, cheapskates and cheaper thrills, political plotting and character assassination among hope and sunset that doesn’t feel like the end. It leaves you quiet for a while. You hear it again. And let it sink in slowly as spreads into your consciousness, leaving a trail that gets covered with your workaday life over time only to resurface, suddenly. Like today.Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962172779197866392.post-4162363846176663002011-11-04T09:43:00.000+08:002011-11-04T09:43:48.794+08:00Engengo sellum<iframe width="300" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/z7d_vn1a-Cc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Another June morning, another beautiful day with soft rain and gentle sunshine. As you walk to school, past the tea shop with its customary morning customers, you scan the odd sizes posters hung from clips on a thread under the counter with big jars of candies and biscuits, carefully avoiding the puddles, you hear this song coming from the radio set. The songs is soft and gentle too, you notice, blending seamlessly with the June morning. People look happy, girls look prettier, the day promises nice surprises. You actually look forward to going to school!Guru Nhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07123052338713635671noreply@blogger.com0