For the love of MJ

"Why not just tell people I'm an alien from Mars? Tell them I eat live chickens and do a voodoo dance at midnight. They'll believe anything you say, because you're a reporter. But if I, Michael Jackson, were to say 'I'm an alien from Mars and I eat live chickens and do a voodoo dance at midnight,' people would say 'Oh, man, that Michael Jackson is nuts. He's cracked up. You can't believe a damn word that comes out of his mouth.'"


People are often bewildered, amused almost at my love affair with Michael Jackson. Most of them immediately respond with a, ‘You like that child molester?’ in incredulity and horror. I try to handle such situations with nonchalance and composure but the truth is, I cannot feign indifference and that manifests itself in my terse replies. Contrary to what most people think, I am not blind to Jackson’s many flaws and imperfections. I realize the horrible atrocities which he was said to have performed have besmirched his reputation, but I also appreciate that they may or may not have occurred; few people know the answer to that part of the story. And therefore, to accuse him so authoritatively and with such unfaltering conviction is both unfair and uncalled-for.

More than Jackson’s revolutionary music, his awe-inspiring dance moves or his phenomenal success, what draws me towards him is his incredible life and the aplomb with which he lived it. It is so easy to disparage and sully his reputation, but a deeper and more introspective look yields a glimpse into a deeply troubled individual who not only happened to revolutionize the music and the music video industries but also lived a most extraordinary life. The tragic details of his life are not unknown; he was raised in a tumultuous home, suffered physical and verbal abuse from his father and spent a major part of his life sheltered and lonely for companionship. His circumstances in life caused him to grow up in age, but not in maturity level. He was an adult trapped inside the mind of an adolescent, with a penchant for having a Peter Pan complex. Needless to say, there is more to MJ’s story than meets the eye…

In his last few years, especially the ones following the child molestation allegations, Michael had become a laughingstock. People ridiculed his lifestyle, his appearance, his personality, his mannerisms. He had always been shy and reserved but after the criminal charges were levied on him, he became a recluse. He was ostracized by the media, and hordes of paparazzi hounded him mercilessly. But it is entirely irrelevant what the public perception was and is of this man, and his 'Wacko Jacko' persona. MJ proved his mettle as a singer/performer par excellence; he was an icon who turned the pop industry on its collective ear with his impeccable falsetto and rhythm.

As an entertainer, Jackson was revolutionary. With his trademark single white glove, his sequined red jacket, and his spry agility and lightness of foot, Michael moved with trademark flair, and it was clear that he belonged on the stage, regaling audiences spanning several decades. When MJ would moonwalk across a stage he would send throngs of fans into an unequivocal frenzy. Trying to perfect his elegance caused many a night of unrest for millions, as they endlessly attempted to sashay backwards across their floors, but in vain.  

Somewhere underneath that collision of figures that is his career - twelve No. 1 records, fifty one million copies sold of Thriller, eighty million copies of the others, thirteen Grammy Awards - there's a man, and one whose achievements are far greater than mere numbers. His '80s success opened up white America to black music in a way never seen before. Without Jackson there is no Prince. No Whitney Houston. No Lenny Kravitz. And the world is a lesser place. 

Such is the magic of MJ…

Birthday thoughts

16^th February, 2011 is the day I celebrate a milestone birthday – one that ends with a zero. Herein onwards all my birthdays will be in the ‘tees’ and somehow that makes me a little sad. For as long as I can remember I wanted to be twenty years old. For some odd, inexplicable reason I thought that when I would turn twenty I would have the solution to all of life’s problems. I believed with full faith and utter conviction that at 20 my life would be perfect; I would be an educated, independent working girl with at least two degrees to her credit. In retrospect a somewhat unrealistic proposition, at age 10, however, as plausible and real as Matilda’s magical powers.

Now that my birthday is less than a week away, I seem to be almost dreading it. And that comes as a huge surprise not only to me but to my family as well because I have always awaited and celebrated my birthday with great fervor and exuberance. Perhaps the reluctance and melancholy has to do with the realization that I have been unable to achieve all that I thought I would before I turned 20. For the first time in my life, I am regretting not being able to make use of time to its fullest. On the achievement barometer, I am somewhere close to the bottom – there has been no substantial progress in the last two decades of my existence; I let that time pass me by and it makes me so mad at myself. Mad enough to make myself depressed.

I am a staunch believer that celebrating birthdays is not merely a convention. Birthdays are occasions to celebrate one's growth, maturity, and development. Birthdays remind us that the gift of life is the most precious and important one. Thus, they are generally associated with celebrations; partying, receiving good wishes and gifts, holidaying without any care in the world. However, this particular year I’m feeling pensive; my 20^th birthday is making me pause and think about that gentle nudge of the clock that keeps moving me forward, ever forward. This year it is the catalyst that is making me stop and ask these questions: What have I accomplished over the past year? What have I done that would make me proud? Am I more successful today than I was last year at this time? There is no definite answer to the aforementioned questions. However, I can say with certainty, that the journey from 19 to 20 has made me a better person; it has helped me explore myself; it has made me aware of my strengths and weaknesses and that in itself, is no small feat.

It's the start of 2011, a brand new year. I may not have accomplished all that I thought I would by the time I turned 20 but starting today I'm going to do what I can to get closer to my dreams and goals. I'm going to appreciate life more and give it the respect it deserves, not just for me, but for everyone who no longer has this luxury. And when I blow out my candles this year, I'll make a wish that every year that I'm alive is better than the one before – I am going to make my birthday a reason to celebrate. And I'm going to face it the way I have always done, with laughter and excitement at all that I have yet to accomplish and all that I have to look forward to in my life.

Another year goes by...

I don't particularly like New Years. I have always been shy of novelties; new books, new faces, in a nutshell, any sort of change - from some mental twist which makes it difficult in me to face the prospective. I have almost ceased to hope; and am sanguine only in the prospects of other (former) years. Many things turn on the New Year. We vow and reminisce; we plan and gather our thoughts towards an action we may not be able to carry out through the following twelve months. Some things end and some start. We get an imagined chance to start afresh, a New Year, a clean slate. The New Year is also a boundary and arbitrary line drawn to enable the world to sort things out. 

From Christmas Day till New Years Eve, I like to plunge into foregone visions and conclusions. I encounter past disappointments. I try to make myself armour-proof against old discouragements. I forgive, or overcome grudgingly, old adversaries. But most importantly, I review my last year’s resolutions, in hope to carry them out in the following year. If anything, each new year teaches me that plot and plan as we will, every month will spring up some completely unexpected surprises on us; people will change for better or for worse – some will come into our lives, others will leave us. Come what may, one maelstrom after the other, life will stop for no one and nothing. With this spirit in mind I begin 2011 and like every year, resolve to make this year, the best one of my life.

To those who follow my blog and those who don’t, ‘May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books, and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art. Write, or draw, or build, or sing, or live, as only you can. May your coming year be a wonderful thing, in which you dream both dangerously and outrageously. I hope you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it; that you will be loved, and you will be liked; and you will have people to love and to like in return. And most importantly, because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now, I hope that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind. And I hope that somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.’ – Neil Gaiman

The sweeper of dreams

After the sun sets in a symphony of suffused pinks and golds, and laborers retire home after a long grueling day, and wives tentatively await the arrival of cantankerous, irascible husbands, and glittering blackness takes over the canvas of the sky – the world comes alive in its true essence.

This is the time when owls, night-guards and lovers reign. Under the camouflage of the brash, glittering night sky, the world of dreams and fantasies comes to life. Night, by the way, isn’t my codeword for child molesters, assassins and whores. You misunderstand me.

My allusion is to the metamorphosis the world undergoes, once it adorns its black cloak. This is the time when everything is possible – we can be whoever we want to be. We can do whatever we want to do. And after all the dreaming is over, after we wake and leave the world of madness and glory for the mundane day-lit grind, through the wreckage of our abandoned fancies, strolls the sweeper of dreams.

Just as we wake he comes to us, and sweeps up kingdoms and castles, and angels and fairies, mountains and oceans. The sweeper talks little, in his gruff monotone voice, and when he does speak it is mostly about the weather and the prospects, victories and defeats of certain people. He seems to despise everyone that is not him.

He sweeps up the lust and the love and the lovers, the ambitions and the greed, the hopes and the desires. One by one he sweeps them away; the infant that was wailing, the lover who was cheating, the friend who was drowning, the parent who was dying.

He will sweep it all – every single dream he considers superfluous. And then he will burn them all. Burn them to leave the stage fresh for our dreams tomorrow.

If ever you run into him, treat him well. Be polite to him. Ask him no questions for he never gives any answers. Applaud his victories, commiserate with him his losses, agree with him about the weather. Treat him with the respect he feels he is entitled to. For there are unfortunate souls he no longer visits, the sweeper of dreams, the arsonist of fantasies.

You must have seen them. They have mouths that twitch, and eyes that stare, and fingers that fidget, and they babble and they mewl and they whimper. Some of them walk through half deserted streets in ragged, grimy clothes, their belongings clutched tightly under their arms. Others are locked in cells, in places where they can no longer harm themselves or others. Do not mistake them to be mad. In fact, the loss of their sanity is the lesser of their problems. It is far worse than madness. They will tell you, if you ask them, they are the ones who wallow, each day in the wreckage of their dreams.

So fantasize as much as you want, until human voices wake you and force you to face the music. But don’t forget to offer thanks to the sweeper of dreams – for he gave you leave to feel liberated and unrestrained and euphoric for a few hours. Offer him thanks for if the sweeper of dreams leaves you, he will never come back.

Inspiration: Neil Gaiman

Trivial pursuit

Have you ever wondered why keyboard keys are arranged in a particular, seemingly nonsensical order, so that the first line reads 'QWERTYUIOP'? If your answer is no, then you probably belong to the sane majority of people who generally don't spend much time musing and wondering about little details that have no relevance whatsoever in their daily lives. However, if you answered yes, then it is probably very important for you to know that there is a reason for this odd arrangement. When Christopher Latham Sholes and his colleagues invented the first practical  typewriter in 1873, they faced a problem with the type bars clashing together. To counter this obstacle, they re-arranged the keys so that the most used letters in English Language were positioned well apart. This design proved to be such a success that the same layout is used to this day on Keyboards, blackberrys, i-phones and other cellular devices.

I have had a strange fascination with trivia and general facts since I was a little girl. I was always asking questions that appeared irrelevant and absurd to others. For instance, I insisted on knowing how the chefs hat got its shape, which by the way, was originally designed by the great Italian Renaissance painter, Leonardo Da Vinci who was apparently, also an excellent cook! The hat was later redesigned by Alexis Soyer who starched the pleats so that the hat would stay uptight and give the chef's head some ventilation.

As a child, I would read volumes of Encyclopedia much to my grandfather's chagrin, who wanted me to spend every waking moment with my textbooks. Perhaps, he thought cramming my brain with 'useless' information would be a waste of time and precious brain cells. Little did he know that knowing that a chameleon's tongue is twice as long as its body or that butterflies cannot fly if their body temperature is less than 86 degrees, made it so much easier for me to understand Pythagoras theorems and T.S.Eliots, 'The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock.' 


Such seemingly useless factoids also help in explaining some things that we would not understand otherwise. For instance, an ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain; it is probably why they bury their heads in sand so that no one will notice how disproportionate their eyes are with the rest of their heads and we humans think that they are shying away from their problems, No, they're not; its just that they are a little more aware of their eyes than the rest of the animal kingdom. Talking about animals, did you know that milk of a hippopotamus is bright pink and that cows produce more milk when they listen to music. I wonder if this stands true about all genres of music or whether the quality of music matters? If the quality of music influences milk production patterns, do cows produce finest quality milk when listening to Beethoven's symphony or go on a strike when they listen to Jawad Ahmed's songs?

Another benefit about knowing trivia is that one gets to know the true potential of seemingly innocuous things. Peanuts are considered fairly healthy food but do you know that is one of the main ingredients of dynamite? Yes, the same dynamite that is used to blow things up! Similarly, according to trivia, a portion of the water we drink has already been drunk by someone else - possibly several times over! 

Needless to say, I have proven beyond doubt that I am a trivia junkie. And a proud and self professed one at that. If ever you pick up your phone to make a call and find yourself wondering, why Graham Bell chose to invent the telephone of all possible things he could have invented or befuddled at why Leonardo Da Vinci painted Mona Lisa with no eyebrows or want to know the lurid details of Nelson Mandela's divorce, you now know who to contact.