Saturday, May 10, 2008


I was woken up by a strangely familiar smell. Hair? Clothes? Comforter? Sheets? The feeling doesn't go, even long after brushing and a shower. A nostril implant? Ickie.

Tissue, paint, music, shoes, pictures and sweaters later, I still feel it. I turn up the music. Put away the paint. Hide the shoes and the sweater. Put the picture face down. Clear up the tissue.


(What IS that smell?)

A cup of tea brewed in my favorite way grows cold in my favorite mug. I don't need it to wake me up. The music prods something in me. Unburies some kind of revelry I didn't know I was capable of. It does it gently, not shovel-like, more like an archaeologist dusting a delicate piece. But the now surfacing vine refuses to tame, it thrashes aside the cell biology exam, the Khaled Hossaini, the new tube of Prussian blue... but the notes continue to shush it, whisper soothing words. The vine is turning into Jack's beanstalk, magical, wild, growing uncontrollably.
A sudden quiet.
Sivaranjini. A voice smooth as silk, rich as cream grips the vine with its lilting waves, gently but firmly. It disciplines that unruly child. Walks the periphery, soothes the convulsions. The vine shrinks, now a blade of grass. Slender, elegant, obedience personified. A long, drawn-out session of snake-charming.
Exhaustion never seems to come to the voice, its dessert-like quality never seems to fade, no matter how many times over I listen to it.
Maharajapuram Santhanam.

Song: Just play any kind of music, I can only hear one thing in my head now.
Color: Deep purple.


The Regular Joe said...

Such is the prowess of music.

Deepu Vasudevan said...

Well, this was more than music. :)