We the Write stuff.

Im not a cricket fan. I know the sport, because I'm an Indian. You cannot call yourself an Indian if you dont know the game. It's in our blood. But like me, there are some who are allowed to find the sport tedious. Oh so tedious. But being a continent away from home, the city that houses Sachin Tendulkar, stirs up a passion in the sport you'd otherwise ignore. To break it down: Living in the UK has taught me many things about myself, but most of all, it taught me a love of cricket and an understanding to why it's my nation's passion and in its prayers. The morning of the final, my significant other's heavy metal alarm started ringing at an hour where light hadnt really made an appearance. For a change, he put it off himself, and frantically started typing on his iPhone. Instead of kicking him, telling him to go to sleep or just flat-out ignoring him, I found myself asking, from the sincerest part of my half-asleep brain, "Who won the toss?" It didnt occur to me that he could have been checking something else. It was day of the final. And it was being played in our home. He couldnt have been checking anything else. It didnt even occur to me that cricket is not normally something that would emerge from my almost-unconscious. This game was more to me than just a World Cup. The passion of the sport exuded enough energy to tie me back to home. London has many virtues and I love it with all my heart. But it comes nowhere close to the energy of India, something that makes me wilt on even the most perfect of London days. When we stepped out of the house, it was one of those most perfect of London days - where people wriggle their shoulders in the sunshine, the daffodils are dancing, and scores of Indian students are grinning all over the streets, the colours of the flag painted on their faces. We found ourselves in a basement bar, where the flag emblazoned the walls as well as the faces of strangers+friends who like us, had come to spend a good many hours alternating between pumping our fists and swearing. We spoke to friends. We laughed at the Sri Lankans. We drank Coke. We drank beer. We painted our faces. We checked out the opposite sex. We laughed at the ads. We cheered. We cursed. And all of us, all the time, prayed that we would win. For Sachin, for his last World Cup. I dont believe in religion, but I do believe in Sachin. His name means pure. He is our national treasure, the cleanest one we own. If you belong to India, you belong to the Republic of Sachin. It's that simple. When we won, and my significant other lifted me up, I laughed at him from the air, from a blurry haze of blissful faces. As I twirled air-fully in his arms, I felt the burdens of bad news from home, the job market and the looming dissertation leaving my shoulders. Just for today, I would let it go. As Sachin was carried around the pitch, we all stood and bellowed the national anthem. It will forever be the kind of miracle you'd never be able to comprehend. Most of us had been born&brought up abroad, with international schooling under our belt. We hadnt been forcefed the national anthem from birth. We barely KNEW the national anthem. We could hum it, yes. Sing it, probably not so well. But somehow, from this yearning, patriotic and homesick part of us, the beautiful song came to our lips, and we sang loudly; strong in our heartfelt victory for our country. That night, as we watched from my significant others window, fireworks lit the sky above my beautiful friend, the River Thames. We were sending a message to home, us Indians a continent away. We were sending our painful regret at not being there, and a heartfelt joy&relief acknowledgment, that no-one, could be as happy as the billions of Indians scattered across the planet at that moment. Indians of the Republic of Sachin slept well that night. If they slept at all.

Some months ago, I found myself in a personal slump. One of those unfortunate situations where nothing was really going wrong, but nothing was really going right either. So I walked the streets of Kingston, chainsmoking and desperately looking for some kind of answer. Clarity falling from the skies would have been greatly appreciated. Instead, I found myself staring at a poster for London Jazz Festival month. A beautiful festival that would begin at my local theatre with a John Etheridge showcase in a few days time. These were all signs. What else could it be?

So I clutched at this straw. Jazz would save me, like it had so many times before. I considered going alone, but the more I heard about the magic that was Etheridge, the more I realised that would be selfish. So I took my oldest friend and my newest friend, the latter who would soon become my significant other i.e. if we ever fight, I will blame Etheridge.

There three of us stood, in the rain, waiting for it to start - The Jazz Geek (me), The Metal Head (The New Friend - TNF) and The I-Love-Music-So-As-Long-As-I-Have-A-Good-Time-It's-Cool-Person (The Old Friend - TOF). I spent a few moments worrying about the grief I'd have to suffer if they both hated it, but before I could really do or say anything about it, we were sprawled on wooden steps, waiting for it to start.

I was right. Etheridge saved me. As soon as he started with a cover of Miles Davis' classic "Doxy", I felt waves of uncertainty and the burdens of personal disaster leaving my shoulders. Clarity crept into my freezing toes, and for the first time in weeks, I didnt worry or wonder about "what-if's" and "whys and wheres".

After a few songs had been performed, I ventured hesitant peeks at TNF & TOF sitting next to me, and I breathed even easier. TNF sat in silent concentration, enjoyment and understanding washing over the planes of his face with an occasional comment about how beautiful Etheridge's guitars were. TOF spent the entire evening whispering "Thats amazing, did you hear what he just did?" over and over again.

Im not saying that Etheridge saved me to the extent that my slump was resolved overnight. But his music and his humour cleared my head and replaced hyperventilation with steady breaths. A few days later I found myself calm enough to resolve my slump on my own, and I endured the loss by purchasing "Doxy" as a single and driving my flatmates crazy by keeping it on repeat for days.

When I started growing immune to the powers of "Doxy", again I found myself walking the streets of Kingston. This time with a friend who had uncovered secrets of Kingston streets that he was more than willing to share with me. So in the bitter cold, down lanes and through alleys, we walked.

And reached Collector's Records. I've been in love before. With friends, with men, with books, with albums. This is the first time I've fallen in love with a store. Records in racks and shelves and turntables to play them on before you decide to own them. We stayed till almost-closing time, discovering, exclaiming and placing on turntables. I left with Billy Joel, Simon & Garfunkel and more, tucked under my arm, beautifully preserved in their original vinyl selves - the second best thing to owning them as people, in my opinion. And they cost me less than a pack of cigarettes would have.

My favourite part of London is how almost everyday is a burst of bibliomaniac joy.

Its the small stuff, like having manic 10 hour classes, and running home to grab a few hours of shut-eye before another class at 8pm, only to be kept awake by doors slamming and loud laughing from the kitchen, only to slam my door open to lose my temper at whomever I see first, to find that a flatmate has wedged a whole pile of packages from Amazon under my door. For me, me, me.

Its the big stuff, like trudging sleepily in the rain in my pajama's to get some coffee, only to find my tattered copy of "Howl" that I'd given up tearfully for lost, placed next to the coffee machine, with a post-it saying, "I dont know which building you're in, but I see you hovering around here all the time, so I thought this would be the best place to return it. I hope you actually find this, and if you're not you, then sod off, this doesn't belong to you"

And then its the truly perfect stuff, like becoming an accidental and active participant of BookCrossing.

I'd heard of BookCrossing in one of my first Publishing classes, where 60-odd book geeks including myself, gathered to talk about how reading is a community - a dying community in some respects, but for those who love to read, an exciting community nonetheless.

BookCrossing, essentially, is the "the practice of leaving a book in a public place to be picked up and read by others, who then do likewise." I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard of, and it gave me, and the other people sitting around me, goosebumps just thinking about it. We all told our professor, that it sounded almost too good to be true, and it was probably just one of those things, like the Tooth Fairy, who you truly believe is real, just because you want to believe it, when deepdown, you know its a parent who is the real Tooth Fairy. She nodded wisely, and said, "Wait and see, you won't see it coming"

And then, a few days ago, I got onto a bus and sat on a book. I hardly ever do this, since books are my personal God and religion, and well, you don't normally sit on your God. When I got up, it was a much worn copy of "The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop", which is one of those books you've always thought you should read, but it was either out of stock, or too expensive, and along the journey of all the other books you've wanted painfully, you sort of pushed it at the back of your mind. On the book, was a note stapled to the cover, "Read this and pass it on" and on the title page, were the initials of all the people who'd read it and the dates they'd found it.

I forgot I had a tottering pile of textbooks to wade through by the next day, forgot that I had groceries to buy, food to cook, laundry to do, trash to take out. I forgot social commitments and Skype dates. I forgot that it was raining and that my heater wasn't working and I was, to put it mildly, freezing. I forgot about Stoner Sam and his Stonery Sammy ways. I had been crossed with a book and nothing else mattered.

I passed it on last night. I left it on a table at the cafe I usually frequent. Before I left, the proprietor grinned at me and said, "You've picked prime property there, honey. That book knows that table well"

That book, knows more people and places than I do. And Im grateful I got to know it, and that it has KM 4-10-2010 permanently embedded in its pages.

Note: A very Appy Birday to the old man of the blog, Harry from WetheUs and well, everyone who reads us etc.

Ello All

It's Tejas' Birthday. Wooptedoo dah. Wish him or kiss him.

Yesterday was a bad day. A surreal experience for me, since I had one of those moments where Art somewhat saved me. A bit. It was a perfect marriage of the emotions I had, and the emotions I felt after experiencing the art.
I lost my phone yesterday.
This is the second time in 9 months, I think. I have recently lost my kickass iPod that my sister gifted me, which had tremendous sentimental value, my nephew's mp3 player and my mom's flash drive. Yes, I'm an idiot and no this is not for sympathy. This is about the connection of art and how it manages to dig in to you, through all the clutter and crap you may have inside you and still carve a small nichè for itself amongst all the baggage you carry.

Yesterday I re-read a series that I had stopped through halfway a while ago, and had not managed to complete it. It happened like this. I lost my phone in the morning, moped for a while, then went to landmark by 1 pm and sat there reading for a good 7 hours. There is something liberating about being cut-off from the rest of the world. In my state of mind, it almost felt good, that I could escape having to tell people how dumb I felt because I lost my phone, ironically because there was no way to tell them. I did not even have the strength to feel sorry for myself or just plainly ask 'Why?'

Thus I sat and read Y: The Last Man.

Y is about Yorick Brown (and his capuchin Ampersand) the only man to survive a plague that strikes all the Y-chromosome carrying mammals(namely all males) around the world simultaneously, killing them instantly. Whats left is broken infrastructres, plane crashes, food shortages, and a whole lot of women. How Yorick survives these conditions plus a bunch of crazy chicks who are either trying to sleep with him or kill him forms the rest of the story. Needless to say a story as epic as this, has to be thought out well and thought out well is exactly what it is. In 60 issues Brian K. Vaughn manages to tell the story at a decent pace, progressing with the plot while still holding the attention of the reader. Obviously it is filled with great allegory, and social commentary but is undoubtedly and ironically going to be viewed as masogynistic and yes, chauvinistic. However Vaughn bypasses all that and continues with his story about the last man trying to reunite with his girlfriend in Australia.

But Yorick- the average everyman, still seeking his true love not knowing whether she's alive or dead, and a huge responsibility on his shoulder is someone I could definitely identify with at that moment. No, I am not the last man on earth, but at that point of shame, I wished I could just be alone, or run away. It probably sounds highly dramatic, but that my friends, is the power of art! In 7 hours I immersed myself in Y and questioned myself as he did, that is reclusiveness what we really want? or is it really the complete opposite? Maybe we just want to be accepted no matter what we do, and while that would be great, it is not fair at all to shy away from the responsibilities that each of us possess. Alas, Poor Yorick, I knew him!

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! - (Hamlet, V.i)

I keep giving this one example of how I always listen to Billy Joel before an audition, or before facing any 'music'. Why? Because for some reason hearing his voice is the equivalent of having someone older or someone I trust saying to me "It's alright Tejas. Just get in there and do your best and know I'm right behind you". Very Uncle Ben.
Sigh.
Uncle Ben, why do I miss him so much?

Comic back to the point. The marriage of art and the person who experiences it, is a very personal moment. It's like family, literally. Because every person has their own experience when they are in contact with the art. I cannot expect anyone to have the same feelings or emotions I did when I read it, it is probably not going to happen. But maybe you will have it with something else, maybe a great album, or a great painting, when you are at another emotional level. And it'll cause you so much pain or joy or emotions you can't even describe. It's truly awesome.

That my friends is the power of art!

I have mentioned before that I can't sing to save my life. This isn't entirely true. I can't sing like Tejas can, or like Harry can. I can't sing like Norah Jones or KT Tunstall. I can't sing for other people, I can't sing to play the fool into karaoke machines. But I can sing, when I really really need to, when it seems like the right thing to do, and when my voice chooses to ignore my brain telling it that it's a terrible voice and not to humiliate me.

Carly Simon and Dusty Springfield have/had voices and wrote music that most current female artists can only dream of having/writing. When they sing, the emotion and the rawness, blares through and heals wounds, and you know, that if you have emotion and rawness, and wounds that need to be healed, then you can sing too. These women are/were brave, are/were independent, are/were magic from the moment they opened their mouths. Their music is/was the kind of music that you can imagine old men sitting on park benches and nodding their heads wisely over, saying "They dont make voices like that anymore" And they don't. They really don't make voices like that anymore.

For the past month, I have let Carly and Dusty save my soul. Imitating Brittany Murphy in "Little Black Book", I lie on my bathroom floor and belt out Carly Simon. Im alone at home, and I sound good, because Im singing my soul out, letting the wounds heal. In my room, at night, I snuggle up to the words of Dusty, crooning her words softly to myself. I lie spreadeagled on an empty beach and sing about clouds in my coffee and the son of a preacherman, while watching the clouds above me rearrange themselves and float away, leaving me cleansed and clear.

I am now wishin' and hopin'. I have fewer clouds in my coffee. I look forward to the look of love. I have no secrets. I can tell myself that I haven't got time for the pain. I close my eyes and count to ten. And, I am anticipating, that little by little, I'll know just what to do with myself.

So, thank you, Carly & Dusty, Simon & Springfield. For giving me the strength to sing, and for letting me know that my soul is worthwhile enough to be saved by both of you.

I have always found a place in my life, for the music I love most. I have attached a song or an album to sometimes things as simple as a fleeting emotion, an entire book that I'd read or even an entire phase in my life. Let me state for the record that in the past few months I have heard at least 10-12 new albums, some which have been great, some not so much. But this obviously provided me and a population with a host of new material to attach our lives to. In any case I feel that’s what one of music’s most important functions should be. People do not want to listen to happy songs when they’re sad. They want to listen to sad songs when they are sad.
And how strange that this season I have been so lucky to find not hope or love or optimism. I found strength.

Battle studies is definitely one of those albums. John Mayer has surpassed himself and proven to be the best musician-singer-songwriter-guitarist of today, without any doubt whatsoever. He has effectively bridged old-fashioned blues and contemporary pop to produce an epic album, my favourite of last year. He described it as a ‘guidebook to relationships’, which could not be more true. If you are in a relationship, or just got out of one; if you have had your heart physically torn from out of your chest, and you feel helpless, if you feel trapped, or unloved or indifferent, remember not to lament. Don’t give up or give in, just be brave. Fight on.

Had to do this for stats!

6HUPTNWNQYJQ

Thats for you, baby.

Music as you may know is a big part of my life. In the past few years especially I have consciously/sub-consciously tried/failed/succeeded many/very few times to create/understand/replicate/modify/manipulate/control/innovate classic/contemporary forms of music. The results of which have been disastrous/astounding/enriching.
I would be inclined to think now, that music is an integral bit of everyone’s lives, whether they know it or not. Whether they try and incorporate some element of it into their lives. I can see an image of a corporate head going for a jam with friends after work. Or perhaps and a woman who finally buys herself the piano that she’s being putting of for so long, just to finally immerse herself into this new world of melody. Or maybe it’s the countless number of people putting their headphones on every time they step out of the house. Whatever it is, people are doing it, and if you’re not, you’ve got to try.

As I was aimlessly driving through the internet in my Powerbook G4 (Something I seem to be doing too much of lately* ) I stumbled upon a certain group of unlikely musicians, The Rock-Bottom Remainders; who were doing exactly what I thought people were doing. Random men and women who strum guitar and play music in general at a very basic level, had come together to jam-up and enjoy each others company and just play some simple songs to break away from their regular lives. More and more people like the afore-mentioned are finding music to be that one thing that they can use to colour their lives. The band I’m talking about have taken regular jamming to another level and has sort of an elite membership: Dave Barry, Stephen King, Amy Tan, Maya Angelou, Mitch Albom and Matt Groening to name a few. These very successful and powerful writers put down their pens and meet once a year to jam up for charity and the really cool thing is that they really know that they aren’t good at music so there’s always an endless supply of witty jokes about how bad they are:

"We play music as well as Metallic writes novels." -Dave Barry

"People are throwing panties at you. They certainly never do that at my book-signings." -Matt Groening

The point is that while this rock n’ roll band of published authors aren’t very good, they still go at it and have been at it since 1992. And also they are a hilarious bunch of people, so you should check them out for sure.
Music is for everyone and only you. You should first and foremost, feel the effects of the guitar in your hands while you strum it. You should get the feel of what John Mayer is saying when you buy his CD. Another super example of what I’m talking about is how my friend and I formed a band way back in 2008. We’re not too good, but I can speak for both of us when I say, I think we RULE. I enjoy cause I can experiment with new ideas in this relatively pure acoustic-one-woman-managed band but mostly I enjoy cause I get to watch a not that great singer pull out all stops and just sing his heart out. And I realized that much later until we were too busy to meet up let alone jam up. He may very well be the funniest guy I know and we connect on some kind of supreme level, and for that I miss him, and hope he accepts my heartfelt apology for bumming him out all too recently.
Please do yourself a favour and get out there. Buy a Karaoke machine. Or a violin. You’ve got to try.

*Lately = the last 3 years.

I have wanted to do a post of Anne of Green Gables for the longest time, but the timing was never right. To do proper justice to Anne-with-an-e Shirley and everything she represented, there had to a proper time, place and feeling.

I discovered Anne of Green Gables when I was 10. I had borrowed an abridged illustrated copy from a friend and I felt hopelessly in love. An orphan who was sent by accident to a brother-and-sister, she managed to transform their lives as well as the pretty Canadian town she lived in. Between the ages of 10 - 15, I managed to track down all 8 of her books - dating from her childhood, to the lives and loves of her own children. My collection of Anne Shirley's life has and always will be one of my most prized possession. She was and is one of my best friends. Her colorful imagination, her lyrical flights of fancy, and her all encompassing sense of love makes her far more than a mere fictional character. The fact that she was far from perfect helped too - a perfect person would never manage to dye her hair green, her nose blue, get her 11-year old friend drunk, bake a cake with anodyne liniment etc. Anne Shirley creeps her way into your heart because she is so...human.

One of Anne's pet theories, is one of kindred spirits. A kindred spirit is much more than just a friend. A kindred spirit, is someone who understands unconditionally, without even trying. Someone who becomes a part of your life without even trying, whether you like it or not, because somehow or the other, she/he just knows what you're saying/thinking/feeling. That someone will not only tolerate your incessant ramblings but will manage to acquire the underlying sense behind it. That someone gives you far more than love or friendship - that someone "gets" you, which is much harder to find than love/friendship.

Since Anne Shirley explained the concept of kindred spirits to me, a decade ago, I have been on the lookout for them. And I have found them, perhaps not as much I'd like, but I love the ones I have with a deep deep devotion. My kindred spirits shared a flaw however. They never understood the concept of kindred spirits. I could explain till I was hoarse, I could attempt to shove poor Anne down their throats, and they never really got it. They liked the way it sounded, and thought it amusing that it meant so much to me, but never really understood the significance of a kindred spirit the way Anne did.

But recently, I found a new kindred spirit, one I have never even met. It is surreal in the nicest possible way knowing that you and someone can "get" each other, without ever having met. But this someone, when told she was my kindred spirit, knew enough to exclaim"Anne of Green Gables!" This someone knew what being a kindred spirit meant, and understood enough of Anne-with-an-e's own spirit to know how yay it is to find one. This particular kindred spirit excites me more than the others I have, because if we can "get" each other when we have never met, I would love to know what it'll be like when we DO meet.

At age 10, Anne Shirley became a kindred spirit for life. One of the few fictional characters in my bookshelf to hold that title. But more than that, she paved the way for me to find kindred spirits of my own, apart from her. She taught me that once you find someone like that, you keep them. She taught me that an imagination can be the greatest comfort when you are "in the depths of despair" and she taught me it doesnt hurt to dream, even if you have freckles and red hair.

And most importantly, she taught me to always look at the bottle before you attempt to dye your hair. Green hair is not...becoming.

“Kindred Spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. Its splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world" - Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables

By now there may be almost a million posts about him, and yet it feels wrong not honour him with a post of our own on this blog. What to talk about? I could once again talk about how he single-handedly changed music or even revolutionised the modern music video. I could say that Michael was the humanitarian, and donated large chunks of profits to charity, or plainly that he is the greatest breakdancer in history. But of course he is more than all that. Michael Jackson was black, white, famous, infamous, bad, lonely, inspiring and a smooth criminal. For me (and I guess a for a lot of people) Michael Jackson is one of the first artists I could properly associate with music as a kid. I remember owning 'Dangerous' on audio casette and later on 'Thriller', and if I can remember clearly I think there's a home video of me dancing madly to 'Jam'; I shake my legs wildly as I sing random words to fit MJ's quick lyrics. Thinking back I realise how MJ came so much earlier than most of my other musical influences like Backstreet Boys and Elvis Presley. Anyway, so I decided I'd write about what my favourite things about the man are.
Here are my Top 5 Favourite Michael Jackson things:

5. Come Together by Michael Jackson - This was my ringtone for a really long time, he took this already kick-ass song and somehow made it his own. I really thought that this was his song and not the other way round. But man, even the King of Pop had to cover the freakin' Beatles!

4. The Red Leather Jacket from Beat it - Out of all MJ's quirky get ups (some supreme, some not so much) this is my favourite. The pushed up sleeves when he does he the pull-grab move in the video looks soooooooooo cool. I have wanted a jacket like this forever and seriously who hasn't?

3. Lyrical/Vocal Ability - Anyone can sing awesome lyrics well. Beat it and Thriller are so cool to sing cause they have fun and catchy lyrics, but what do you do when you want to sing about a cause? How do you do it without making it sound corny or too forced? You do it like Michael Jackson. MJ has plenty of preachy songs that don't even sound so cause he makes the transition so easily. He blurs the line between awesome music and good intent, which so many artists (Sheryl Crow, though I love you, take a damn leaf!) fail to do today. Black or White, They Don't Really Care About Us, Man in the Mirror, We are the World, etc.

2. The Moonwalk - How would this not be here? I know theres all that bullshit surrounding the fact that "He didn't invent it" and " its originally by someone else"; you know what? Balls to that. There is only one person who can incorporate it seamlessly as a deathdefying act into his array of already badass moves and that's Michael. The black shoes and smart white socks catch your eye too easily.
You watch Bille Jean Live. You go 2 and a half minutes in. You wait for the musical break.
1 2 3 4.
And then you wonder why this man ever died.

1. Legacy - You really have to thank your stars for Michael being as big as he was. He really is the last great. I have lived in the life and times of Michael Jackson, I was his contemporary and that is seriously one of the things to tell the kids someday. The Beatles were a group of people, who died individually (well half of them anyway) and it didn't leave that great an impact. Freddie Mercury who is awesome, still isn't in the same league. Elvis is probably the only one, and just like that, Michael Jackson is only one. There is and always will be one Michael Jackson.

Sorry bro, RIP.

I was going to blog about something else today, but last night I had dream about my ex-girlfriend. She usually seems to pop inside them now and then. We got back together, and I was the happiest I have ever been in a long time, until I woke up. So for the rest of the morning I sat wallowing in whatever it is I am wallowing in, and in typical fashion I further forced myself into more of that tasteful sorrow, by listening to all the heart-rending songs that I could find. Today I am part a large group of people that seem to have many names some including ‘losers’, ‘the pathetics’ etc.

But I say no! Mostly because I don’t want to be named those things, but I think it is time we celebrate those people! I want to celebrate Romeo and Juliet, I want to celebrate Peter Parker and Gwen Stacy, I want to celebrate the doomed lovers, or all the failures. Today should be the opposite of Valentine’s Day (It only shouldn’t because it’s my friend’s birthday and she would hate that). Why did it go wrong? No one knows. But we tried. We should be together, but we aren’t. That is the sentiment. Sorry guys.

There are so many people out there just looking for something. Yes it sounds cliché, but it just shows that people want it so bad and that it’s repeated so often that it has become a cliché. I write all these things and it’s hard, but I hope someone out there can relate, so I feel a little better.

So once again I find myself aimless in the middle of a post, on what I hope comes off as a professional blog. Why do I do these things?

Might as well make a list! Here are 5 songs I’m listening to right now.

Lovefool – The Cardigans. You know how people say ‘the singer is speaking to me’? Yeah, well how about that?
Hanging By A Moment (Acoustic) – Lifehouse. I love this version way better.
Slow Dancing In A Burning Room - John Mayer.
Colours – Amos Lee. I think this guy is really under-appreciated.
This Never Happened Before – Paul McCartney.

Yup. That’s all.

Ello all
Just a short one to let you all know that I've finally mustered up the courage to officially launch the web comic.
A few disclaimers are in order though. Firstly, the layout is rubbish but I'm working on a new banner which may take some time considering I have an exam in 2 days. Secondly, the image quality is equally rubbish and I think it's a glitch in my camera. I'll probably have to end up scanning though. I'm still in a testing phase. Thirdly, I've never done this before so if the actual strips themselves are rubbish, well let's hope and pray I learn soon.
This isn't something that'll grow into anything commercial, rather something I desperately want to do and figure it's worth the effort. At the moment it's all very rudimentary but I'm hoping I can make some progress and fast.
Anyway with much trepidation I present to you- http://rupees100.blogspot.com - a webcomic.
Credit to Anish for somehow locating the damn thing and commenting on it two whole days before I even told anyone I'd come up with a name. He is, in fact, the best.
Be gentle...

It was time for this post.
I spent the bulk of my summer in Jaipur, and though I had a gazillion things I wanted to accomplish, in the end Harry, Kyra and I pretty much sat and watched TV for the most part, and really who can deny that pleasure? I watched a whole lot of Jay Leno, Diff’rent Strokes (Awesome, awesome show!), Yo Mamma, Friends, English Premier League and even had my dose of IPL (Deccan fan here). We also watched a lot of Vh1 and all the ‘latest’ songs that were. There was one song however that from the first time we heard it, caught on to us by storm. Note this song wasn’t very good, in fact it really wasn’t good, but the sheer hilarity of the song just hit us and now we love it so much I sure it’s one of those thing we’ll laugh about for a while.

“Now if she does it like this will you do it like that? Now if she touches like this, will you touch her right back? Now if she moves like this, will you move like that (come on) Shake, Shake, Shake, Shake, Shake It “

- Shake It by Metro Station

It’s just the genius of the marketing that has made this song so successful. Shamelessly targeted at all the teenyboppers out there, who pass through adolescence listening to a band that maybe taking themselves very seriously! But who am I in this, anyway? I’m just a lowly critic, albeit with a point to make. Now this song however bad and lame it is, will stay with me. I like this song I admit it, though wholly for different reasons.

Have you ever had that feeling?
You keep listening to a song over and over again, at a certain time or place in your life, and then it gets old and you reshuffle your playlist. Then years later you hear the song again, and you get that weird feeling that kind of reminds of you of that previous time. It shoves those feelings back into you, even years later because your mind conditioned itself to combine to unrelated things: The song and the emotion you felt at that point of time.
Anyway it’s nice.

Completely swinging around, I love Joss Stone. I love the way she sings, her voice, her presence, her music; everything. I heard her for the first time a month before the Desert Rhythm Festival 2007 where Mika was performing. She was too, so I decided to check her out. Well basically I was wowed, and enough to say that in the end I decided I wanted to see her more than Mika. I’ll also admit that it’s because of listening to one of her songs that sparked this post.
‘Tell Me What We’re Gonna Do Now’ by Joss Stone feat. Common.

The song in itself may be average, but god I love it, again for different reasons. The way she screams so melodic-ally right at the end, just gives me the good feeling that people give a shit about what their doing. Whether the world ends in 2012 or not, at least we gonna go out swinging and singing.

Anyway, right about now this post seems aimless, but sometimes music is like that. We need to float. And there are songs out there that speak directly to you even if the lyrics don’t fit. Also I felt I needed to do this, and I’m gonna be doing music for a while now. I hope you guys can relate.

More posts like this! Woo!

Hello dear reader,
It's very likely you don't know who we are and so, before we get into it, we'd like to introduce ourselves. In case you do know who we are, stop reading now and do a little dance.
All three contributors to this blog are college students studying in India. We've all spent significant parts of our childhoods growing up in the UAE as well, and whether or not that has anything to do with it, we all love to watch movies, read books and listen to music. This blog however is a result of the fact that we also love to give our opinions about everything.
So what should you expect from this blog? Expect rants exhalting or berating anything from the latest Apple gadget to the latest piss poor excuse for cinema in this country.
So without any further ado, I give you the contributors:

Tejas: An Arts student in Pune, he is an avid musician constantly writing and experimenting with new styles and genres. He's also a part time film maker with a penchant for word play. He's also the funniest guy we know so you can look forward to some interesting takes on the latest developments in art and technology.

Kyra: A graduating media student in Mumbai, she's a writer who's done everything from painting to acting. She's also written a book and is by far the most accomplished writer of the three of us, so we fully understand if the majority of the hits are when she posts!

Harry: A media student in Mumbai, he's struggling to complete his graphic novel and loves complaining about anything he sees or hears. He is an accomplished artist and has a keen eye for detail. We expect most of the criticism to come from his side.
That's the lot of us, who knows we may have a few guest writers once in a way, but for the most part it'll be us talking about the things we've been doing.
We do hope you come back to read more.
Till then.