Kadellam pichipoovu

You’ve read the story when it appeared in a local language magazine over many weeks, and it was a very unusual and interesting one from one of your favourite authors. They played this song a few times on the radio. It was instantly likeable, with an unexpected guitar and other instruments you could only classify as ‘western’ (for a story set in a village) while the singer's voice added a rustic feel to the whole number. And you would never hear it till 15 years later, when you are in another country. You can’t believe your eyes when you see this song on the list printed on the back of the CD, and you tell the shopkeeper how long you’ve searched for this number, and he doesn’t share your enthusiasm, but merely tells you the price.

Dance

There’s something nice and almost sacred about the CD cover, which is one of the reasons you pick it up. Then you look at the artists and the line up pleasantly surprises you. You pay up and rush home, shower, change, fix yourself a nice glass of whiskey, struggle with the cover and the tab that wouldn’t come off (especially when you are in a hurry), slip the disc in the system and settle in the sofa. After the teasing intro comes the distinct sound of the mandolin. Fluid, clear, seamless, like a drop of water along the strings. By the time the percussion kicks in, you are on round 2. The boy genius, no matter how old he gets, he will always be that, a boy genius, you think as you flip the rewind button.

Intoxicated

You’ve called some friends over with like minded interests in music and books and of course, whiskey. There’s great food, but first, the golden yellow liquid. And music. You have a playlist and you want to wait till there’s a mellow mood before you can surprise them with this new CD you’ve bought. After some random music and conversation, you realise everyone is on their 3rd drink, and you slip this disc in, and wait for the reaction. You take a bow when they are totally lost in this lilting number, somehow the mere act of buying good music has made you a member of the band. The single malt blends beautifully with the night, just like the two different traditions of music systems blend in the song.

Don’t go to strangers

It’s a warm day at the resort you and your friends from work have come to visit for a short stay. It’s a little gem tucked away in the neighbouring state, someone said, and someone packed a thermos with rum and coke and you all started on an overnight journey. The thermos is empty now, but it wasn’t that much for five people so no hangover. You sit by the little hut on n easy chair, lolling with an unread book, and an unlit cigarette. You wait for the beer to come from the thatched-roof bar a few metres away. You can see the sun bouncing off the shimmering sea from where you are. You ask the bar man to play the song from the cassette, and he obliges. The lazy guitar lead blends with the equally lazy sea breeze, you close your eyes and listen to both. You take a sip of the cold beer, it tastes like peace, with a hint of the sea.

Kanavil midhakkum

Another morning song with hints of rain. Even though it’s an 80s composition, you hear it much, much later. There is no recollection of it getting any airtime either. Perhaps it was too experimental, you think. There’s a certain chirpiness, a sense of light heartedness that’s accentuated by the rain that’s just beginning to land on the windscreen. Not time for the wipers yet, you’ll be at your destination by the time it starts to pour. But right now, sitting in a steel and glass cage on the road, you still feel free listening to this song. It’s liberating. You journey to a breezy seaside place during one interlude, and feel the bracing, eucalyptus-scented of hill stations with their long winding wet roads during the other. For some reason, you remember the pretty girl whom used to see on the way to your college, even though you’ve never heard this song when you saw her. It’s not a song. It’s a trip.

Thalatudhe vanam

There is rain in this song. Something about the beat, its rhythm and one of the recurring instruments, and the way it is sung, reminds you of a rainy day. It hasn’t started raining yet, but you can feel it in the air. Maybe it’s after a long, hot summer. The air cools a bit, you look up and see dark clouds lumbering across with the weight of water drops, the sunlight dims considerably. Distant thunder growls, prophesying a welcome shower. There is a certain playfulness in the whole atmosphere, in the cattle that are coming back home early, in the school children returning, in the chirping of the birds that probably know a thing or two about nature’s ways, in the leaves that are being carried in a swirl by the wind. It’s as if the whole earth is romancing the nimbus clouds with its swaying rhythm to welcome the first shower in a while. And then it starts. The first few drops fall on the dry, scorched pavements and tar roads, on the plants and trees and the soil, unlocking the heady fragrance of the earth. It gets heavier and the drops coalesce to liquid lines connecting heaven and earth. People run for shelter, covering their heads with whatever they have, newspapers, shopping bags, anything. But there’s a sense of happiness. Kids go out to welcome the summer rain, there’s celebration in the air.

Thazhampoove vaasam veesu

The bus has stopped at one of the stations on its way, some passengers have got down for a smoke, some are still in the grip of slumber induced by the rocking journey. There’s a sweet rottem smell from the discarded fruit and flowers near the platform where the bus is parked. They are parked diagonally, and if you looked from the top, they would look like bricks at an angle, parallel to each other, as if dropped from a tetris game. It’s getting stuffier inside. Outside someone is trying to sell you a ginger drink or fruit or coffee through the window. You say no, and look at a couple of 12 year olds who’ve come onboard to sing the most recent hit songs in the most grating, unpleasant manner. You smile at the quality of the rendition, but they mistake it for appreciation and come to you for money. You fish around and give them some coins. Thankfully the bus starts, and on hearing the horn being honked everyone gets inside. As it moves, a slight breeze blows though the windows, and just as the bus exits the station, you hear this song coming from possibly another bus that has a music system or a tea shop. You’ve heard it before, you know the melody, and it runs through your mind long as the bus leaves the city limits and hits the highway with fields on either side.