Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

Music transcends time and space. You only need to close your eyes and the ride to your imaginary world, with your imaginary companions and script, becomes so smooth and real that you forget the existence of the world that lies behind your closed eyelids. It can also take you on a ride to every nook and cranny of your memory revealing the images of people, things, or situations and the sentiments associated with them.

Sometimes an old song re-surfaces out of nowhere bringing along a kaleidoscope of memories attached to it and lingers on for days as if it were my old friend reminding me of my childhood, my bygone years. I whisper the song in the passage, in the kitchen while making coffee, and in the bathroom while taking a shower. I google it and save the lyrics on my phone. I look at the words and understand the song for the first time. I wonder how I never saw the meaning of these words, I’ve whispered hundreds of times. Sometimes I look for chords, tune my guitar covered in dust, and try to make it sing along with me. As always, it lacks the soft and sweet tone the song demands, and when it realizes its tempo can’t keep up with mine; it crawls back to its stand feeling dejected. My vanity makes me record my singing, but the perfectionist deletes the recording. After noticing the lack of attention, the song slips out of my mind with no formal announcements or adieu.
When I listen to these songs from my childhood, they always evoke memories weaved out of multiple events, some hazy as dreams and others as distinct as if from yesterday. I see a boy of 10 on his way home from school crossing Kamalachi street, an old and busy corner, famous for its bicycle store. For his tiny legs, it would take a 10–12-minute walk to get home. He would pass the store glancing at the shiny bicycles placed outside the store. He, like every other kid of his age, would imagine coming to this store one day and leaving proudly with a brand-new Chinese bicycle. As he walked, he would hear a song playing on the radio and would hum along with the music. As he turned left, he would pass a few adjacent bicycle repair stores, presumably once owned and run by a single person, but then split between two brothers after their father had become too frail to run the business. He would see the sons on their blue jumpsuits stained with soot and their darkened hands fixing a punctured tube or hitting a fender constantly producing a loud hammering noise to otherwise a quiet milieu. Next to the store, some old and rusty bicycles, long neglected by their owners, without rims, saddles, and handles would lean against the wall. It would be one of these repair stores, which would take his dad’s old bicycle and transform it into a shiny green Indian bicycle, his first bicycle. But that he couldn’t have guessed back then.
The same song would come out from the general store on the left and he would continue to mumble the song to himself. He would switch lanes to avoid the heat and glare of the mid-afternoon Sun. A little further down on the left, he would cross a rectangular square with houses on the three sides, but open to the road resembling an open theater. The square had a well in the middle and next to it stood a tube well. If only he would look in that direction, he would see some women washing their clothes, others with sticks in their hands guarding the dry food spread on the floor, few children, too young to attend school, playing with sticks and throwing rocks at stray dogs, and a new mother with her oily face sitting next to her baby, asleep oblivious to the surroundings. But he had seen that every day everywhere. He would instead dwell on the song blaring out from one of the houses. He would move on. By the time he reaches the crossing, the song would end and the commercials would begin. He wouldn’t mind those commercials if they include catchy jingles. He would wait for the next song. He would turn right, leaving behind the hustle-bustle of the vegetable (Ason) market. Soon his eyes would land on one particular shop on the right side. The store was barely 10 feet wide, but this was where his world lived. He would get closer and scans all the postcards of movie actors and actresses hanging outside on the wall. He would take his time and even read the headlines printed on the front pages of Mayapuri, Filmfare, and Stardust. Sometimes he would hang out until the storekeeping would cry out to leave. The new song would play on the radio and with his tight lips, he would sing to himself. Soon he would pass the electric store that also sold milk in the early morning. Now he would only have to walk a few minutes. His legs would move faster. His go-to store that sold Pustakari (local sweets) would greet him. He could now see his house and if he would run, he could get there in a single breath.
It’s been 40 years since then. I live on the opposite side of the globe. Most of the singers from that era have passed away. There are several FM radio stations playing every sort of music. The majority stream the music of their choice from the Internet. With the passage of time, people change, and so do the surroundings they live in. Most of the old homes have been replaced by concrete buildings covered with commercial billboards. TV and mobile phones have taken the place of the radio. When I visit the town, it feels like visiting an old relative, now aged and living with her grown-up children and grandkids, whom I have never seen or met before. We look at each other and amaze at how the other has changed. I want to tell her children that this town was and is mine too, but something stops me. She notices my hesitation and smiles at me serenely as if to free me from my guilt. I keep walking on those alleys and courtyards quietly looking for familiar sights. With a heavy heart, I leave her promising to come back. But, I rarely visit her. And, it is in these songs, when the images of our youth start to re-appear, a boy of 10 emerges and takes me for a stroll.

May 18, 2020.