Friday, September 14, 2007

I was never a bathroom singer.

How does anyone sing with water going in and out of the mouth? I always found it easier to sing in the kitchen, specially those days when I had to cook on the kerosene stove. The kerosene stove always provides a fantabulous background score. It can transform anyone's voice to Lata. Music director, sir, you should try it.

Better than a kerosene stove, is to sing standing on the door of a local train in mumbai. The train should not be too crowded, you should be able to stand at the door holding the center pole, close your eyes to the sun, feel the breeze and pretend you are all alone with Krishna. Its nice if you have just visited your guru. The throat is open, like a windpipe. Or should I say bansuri?

Traditionally speaking, I learnt singing on a two-wheeler. Mum was worried that we kids sitting behind her might doze off and lose our balance. So singing was our childhood duty, yodeling together was bonding, with each other and with our most important culture: Indian Cinema.

No wonder, then, I find it painful to sing singularly in front of anyone. You don't do that. Not in real life. In real life you sing in satsangs, with other devotees.

Yes, it is fun to call up Prayas and burst into a song on him. More effective than actually tickling.

Gone far away are the days when I would sing to myself, sitting all alone in the safe white walls of a home, and sing one bhajan after another, till my tears would dry and my throat hurt. Gone are those heavenly singing spells after which, Krishna would get me a glass of water.

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