Monday, April 09, 2007


Lately a passing remark made by a dear friend of mine has left me distraught and remorseful.

My blissful and generally joyful existence received a rude shock when PP said,

"... waiting on some beautiful boy you from old ways...
... the song reminds me of you"

The fact that I will sell my brand new pair of awesome denims to see the Killers perform this very song, has left me feeling worse eversince this harmless comment was directed at me.

The profound nature of such remarks perhaps escapes the orator itself, but it haunts the audience throughout the weekend and the alcohol-washed blood stream makes you believe that you have indeed become the song.

And so I can't believe I can be a song called "when you were young" ... errr... 21 is still considered young in certain not-so-civilised parts of the world.

Perhaps it means, that I will never date Jesus ... or that I will marry a fifty year old Mexican and serve tequilas to American outlaws.

And this takes me back to the age I first believed...

I could be a song.

At thirteen it was "heaven". Why? I was the girl who used to say goodnight to a Leonardo di Capricorn's poster... what do you expect?

Next, quite a few teenage years have blanked out. I have no idea why? But the one song I can remember is "Drops of Jupiter", which ended up becoming my password and is probably still to some ancient mail ids I don't remember even exist.

At sixteen it was "Stop crying your heart out" which got me through calculus and brilliantly boring summer vacations spent figuring out the number of A's I could visualise within the geometrical shapes that comprised iron-grills in the basement's skylight.

At seventeen came "Yellow" -- the one song I truly believed was secretly written for me, for I was destined for greatness and the song was to celebrate my most glorious moment as well as play at my funeral. Who knew the invitee list mourning at my funeral will change within the next three years, and so will the song. Atleast I was no longer killing houseflies in the basement, rather splattering 32 mosquitoes all over a single yellow wall in my room, till the parents decided to poison me with All-out and white-wash the wall.

And then came, "Run" at eighteen; the last year of my life when I could proudly boast of possessing more depth than the Mariana trench and the word pussy was still an adorable reference to members of the cat family. I would sit for hours and imagine what the music video must be like, and then I just got down to imagining my own versions, till I saw the real one, only to realise, my version was better.

Then there were some brief interruptions in the form of "Broken wings", " Goodnight kiss", "Supergirl" and "So sick", but none could be worthy of becoming myself.

If at all "when you were young" were to take the honours, then I'd rather go deaf.

Its April.
Summer is here.
The harmless remark is eating up my insides.

At twenty-one, I am no song.