It is the little things in life that matter. This is what we live by. We make every day worth the effort to wake up by indulging in small things like the zephyr by a tree or the morsel of pasta. That is all our day is really. An aggregation of small things. The day is good if the number of nice things is more than the number of bad things. One way to make sure of this is to not be around when the bad things happen. Lose yourself in something which can gobble you up. A good book apparently can do this. A sport or a movie can do this. Music can do this too.
Music pollutes. It pollutes the pure, clear air of distress and pessmism and frustration. It takes you away from every kind of worldly happenings. It takes you to the worldly happenings of the musicians, which are somehow emotionally stirring. The pointlessness of the present is replaced by unexplored truths of the songs. All the cliches about music are true nonetheless. The word music has itself evokes different ideas in different people. Music is an ethereal occurence. Music sets you dancing. Music makes you think and philosophise. Music makes you happy. Music makes you sad. Music plucks you from your world and puts you in a place where your world doesn’t matter. Music doesn’t set you free. It simply makes you believe there were, in fact, no bondages.
Generalising music, with all its details, has made it easy to describe. But there are certain things that still seek to be classified as music. Is the silent hum while mom cooks music? Is the constant chatter on the dining table music? The rustle of leaves and pattering of rain that seeps into you? The drone during class which makes you believe you’re not alone? We’ll well claim all this to be ‘music to ears’. And there are hundreds of things like reassuring cricket chirps and the very obvious crows of the cuckoo that comprise music.
Does music come from within? Can you sing? Can you play? We probably can. It is immaterial if we sing or play well. We can lose key in every alternate note, have no sense of beats and all that theoretical jazz. We can make music whenever we want. We can sing what we like and like what we sing. What we sing may just be monotonous tuffs of air through our nose; it is music even then. We don’t need reason to sing. We don’t need to know how to sing. We don’t need an issue to sing about. We can sing about the Moon-a and June-a and Spring-a.
It is incredible how, time and again, a fruitless exercise is given as much importance as the gola waala in any of SP’s (my college) festivals. No, I don’t want these exercises to stop. They provide for a much needed digression from other fruitless exercises. I saw some of the dances on Friday evening. I thought they were decently choreographed, and decently executed. Some were bad. Some of them were only done to get it over with and buy social acceptance for the next four years. The dance and all were good, music loud. All in accordance with what the quad has become inured to. It was all the same as countless times before. The adrenaline in the dancers, the smirks on cynics’ faces, the hard high fives and little growls of arrogance, the chants about the DJ, IT, free publicity for at least one ‘quote on a t-shirt’. There was also the usual absence of people who are too matured to attend fruitless exercises, too cool to watch a bunch of fresh hormone bags, too superior to be seen in the crowd of equals, to tired of people in general and too disconnected with the world to fit in again. Then there were absentees for genuine reasons like studies or staying far away or some other work. (So much to simply make the title relevant.)
Let me tell you what isn’t fruitless. Sitting till unearthly hours to code; there’s pure ecstacy when a program runs, and orgasmic pleasure when it gives the right output. Being a geek isn’t fruitless either. It makes our pretentious life simpler. It allows us to laugh to jokes on digital filers and short channel MOSFETs. It allows us to use excuses like “I can’t get sloshed tonight, I’m programming.” Staying for (almost) all events in the quad isn’t fruitless either. Negativity is also not fruitless; it helps fill the half empty glass.
Ranting about definitions of coolness is simply too boring these days. There is no time for it, nor new subjects. Also tiring is ranting about atrocities of the powerful people. Complaining about nothing going right is also painfully laborious. Pointlessness is the word of the hour. (Ranting about not ranting is a first, isn’t it?) To cut it short, and probably get back to work, I’ll abruptly sign off.
Or not even that.