Thursday, June 30, 2005

Dud on the Dance Floor

It's that time of the evening. The crowd melts away from the bar, and singly or coupled, swing towards the makeshift dance floor. And there I am, holding onto my near-empty drink for dear life. In prolonging that drink to the latest sip (or evaporation, if it comes to that), and hence the ritual visit to the dance floor, lies my key to self-preservation. Any interested party urging me over could so easily be deflected by a wave of the glass and a "li'l drink remaining... be there soon". For I can't dance. Not to save my life. From this ringside seat, reserved for the pitiable, I get an untrammeled view of the swaying masses of rhythm-haves and yes, that pretty thing from Accounts apparently auditioning for MTV Grind. As I artfully down another shot of poison, here's one to the naturally deselected.

So let's talk about the sore dancers, the rhythm-less creations, the ones that God's Wisdom and not his Grace sent down. The ones normally left alone (and best so) at dance parties. Two left-feet they call it. But whoever has attempted dance would tell you (if you don't know already), it's not the feet dammit! It's that your two hands too get in the way of your self-expression. As also a certain disconnect that creeps in as soon as you have to attempt anything wilier than foot tapping. For want of a better excuse, the blame lies with our genes. And the far-Southie misses the Jiggy strand.

As for cultural conditioning, it's only fortunate that being a Mallu I don't have too many brethren in moviedom to set the bar. And therein lies salvation. Mallu stars can't dance. And salivation too. Mallu starlets can sure shake their booty. But then, I digress. "Wow, you dance like superstar M___", therefore, is not meant to be a compliment. It's only mallu male-bonding in a twisted sense. The genres of dancing out there are but two: (I) the walkabout where “character-actor” star & nubile starlet ‘recite’ the song, struggling to make it look as ‘normal’ as crooning on a bus could be, and generally get it all done with, (II) an attempt is made by “commercial” star and underaged starlet to go head to head with non-unionized extras from Chennai. What follows invariably prompts Mallus in mixed company to gingerly reach for the remotes; there are enough horrors in our lives already.

Historically, there are fine dances that originated in Kerala. Most of them, Ladies singles or Ladies group. Picture that dusky lady with hair tied in a floral bun, head tilted by its weight. Crowned with a fine smile that launched a thousand fleets, all headed the other way. Incidentally, it’s not the considerable amount of oil in South Pars, Khobar or Kirkuk that drove our menfolk onto the Gulf, hitching rides on catamarans, camel-trains or Air India (listed in order of safety). It’s the inconsiderate amount of oil in her considerable hair. Ya Sidi, it’s cruel, but God is Merciful. The Gulf carries her faint aroma. Only you have to dig for it. And she be blessed. But no man, she do no cha-cha. Neither do her friends. Because all her dances are performed rigor mortis. Around an oil-lamp, to complete the picture. The sort Egyptians would have performed minutes before stuffing a mummy down the side of a pyramid.

In the meantime, none for the gentlemen to stretch their legs with, to jolly. Even the Scots do their own thingy while bag-piping. (It is this sad state that drove the barren souls to grape-nectar, popularised as Brandy. Parched as I am, let’s not go there.) Barring maybe, Kathakali, to which let me say just one thing. When you dance with a large skirt and all that paint on, don't you still expect the gals to fall for anyone but the bare-chested drummer out in front. For an ethnicity that celebrates a harvest festival, there is as much joy in our dances as Mr. Baby facing Customs at Kochi Airport.

Unlike our agrarian northern brethren. Who need no more than a stick popping on a drum to throw both their hands (and one leg) up, and do some early-Harappan calisthenics. With the feet alternating to aid lower body circulation. My historical research suggests otherwise: that was how they lined up to surrender. The moves came along to cut the boredom. The prevalent thought of that time being 'how many times would you give yourself up, no fight in any case, and all with a long face?' Cheerio! Look, even Genghis can't gag his grin.

I still can’t really figure out why I cannot dance. While I contemplate the dignified reticence of my ilk, my friend from the North seems to have solved his tax filing worries; I reckon he might even find it a lot more fun than usual. Coward.

But why mope, while there's enough drink to go around. Next weekend I will try Scotch and see if it works. But will anyone want to dance with a guy wearing a skirt?

Monday, June 13, 2005

To The One I Left Behind

You were not supposed to die. My friend. I am all of thirty, and so should you be. Though I suspect you were a year or two older. Overaged brat. For you had a silly beard in Class X, if that's what you could call a rash of facial hair, when we never had one; now that's a dead giveaway. You would have gone bald too by now, while my superior genes shine through in their brave albeit receding lines. And fat, for that's what you were in school. That truth I never told you, for fear of an aching butt.

Our 'golden mile' is still much the same. Just the way we left it. All the way from Women's College to "Red Bag's" house. (By the way, the 'baggie' is married with two kids, I'm single & the kids ain't mine, thank you so). Same old twisting lane, with nothing but empty balconies staring into it. And, as before, after the gaggle have sashayed by, it's just that same old prof peering over the green gate as the world passes by. Now, how the hell does he have more hair..? Maybe I'll just call him a dirty ol' man, and make my peace!

Whenever I pass by, I make sure I take the scenic tour. On foot. Not for the birds, but for the memories. Every corner, every fork, all those sights, sounds and the gossip. Stay long enough and they all come up swirling.
I know you wouldn't agree, but the ladies of our time were a class by themselves. Oh, to be fifteen and hopelessly in love. With all of them! I would not take names, and I deny in advance all those link-ups your sick mind is throwing up. Oh, and remember how we signed truce with the threesome - the 'nancies'. Not easy considering the number of chalk pieces expended in pretty much one-sided artillery barrages. Now, don't be a whiner when I tell you that they whipped you good in your only foray into a game of Scrabble. Your triple-word effort being "Mices", which was one mouse too many in your vocab. Yuck. I had to miss three tuition classes for two weeks to escape the sniggering lady-bugs.

We did become good friends through college though, and may be a little more with Ms.Spex. Yup, that's another story. Now don't wonder, why all the women. Of course, because that's all you had on your mind. Except maybe weekends at the old Dutch fort. All the beach to ourselves, and some spicy gossip to go around. So much fun that used to be; and surprisingly, sans tobacco & liquor!

I moved out not long after we last met. It was not easy to accept, and in a way I needed to put some distance between me and all this. I did all that engine-study, as we had planned, and much more. For the kind of job i got into, all that seems ridiculous now. These days I meet up with my folks once a month. Time flies. It's never the same without you, or for that matter, "that-moped-gal". Gotcha there! Her dad being a fat cop never dimmed your enthu for her.

Now it's only a long trudge, to and from work. Throw in a few hours for food, sleep and a 100 channel TV, I live a full life. It all seems like yesterday, like the lingering taste of icecream soda from the corner shop. Ah well, those folks sell instant lotteries these days.

Did all this end too soon? Is growing up a prelude to parting of ways? Like when you left. As if you knew then, as I've begun to accept now, that those were the best days of our lives. Leaving on a high. Maybe we are wrong, maybe we would have had bigger and better, but those days will never see a re-run.

Yet there was so much more we could have had. To grow old together. With memories to cuddle and losses to mourn. Not gone when we were fifteen. There must be some mistake.