Wednesday, July 22, 2009

The obituary I am not supposed to write

I was pretty busy searching for an obscure German movie when imdb flashed the news. The melancholy of a 'mega' celebrity death then came to sit in my living room through 'cathode-ray' mourning of fox/cnn/abc.
I was surprised, I was bewildered, I was feeling a little perplexed. And then when weeks passed smeared in the usual color of bitterness and we got rid of all those shiny commemorative issues ( I got one from TIME and decided not to go for LIFE), suddenly death of Michael Jackson brings lots of fragmented memories thrown up from this daily whirlpool called my cubicle-bound mind.
I can see that rented apartment whose yellow wall once beamed from the glow of a cheap poster of 'BAD' bought from local expo. I can see the first mtv video transmitted in one of those forbidden afternoons in DD2 showing us a thin albino-ish man's impossible dancing skill. I can hear trace of those long forgotten songs, songs which to my hindi 'muzic' loving ears sounded like coming straight out of a heavy blend of cacophony and bliss! I remember buying 'Thriller' from M.N.Biswas and Symphony ( Where is that shop now? Shopping malls engulfed it?) and flaunting it to my suburban neighborhood by playing it for at least 10.5 times a day with volume of my T.Rex aged Phillips cassette player turned up to the heaven.
And then I remember my departure from the world of MJ. By the time I reached 17, a song, if not played by four relatively long haired men and did not come with heavy drum beats and at least with a two minutes screaming of electric guitar, was destined to be labeled as trash. And 'pop' was the only synonym for trash those days. In a way it still is. So MJ bowed down to Bryan Adams/Bon Jovi and then to Pink Floyd/The Doors/Led Zep/Metallica and then to that monster of sucking everybody's emotions from Duluth,MN and then...

Naturally as I entered the age of being a serios rockophile , the alleged pedophile of LA started to live a thousand miles away from my world of music. Today, when his ashes has gone to dust and vultures of media has got the first hint that time has come to give their unflinching claws a little rest (until death of ... Britney ?), why do I care for the death of a guy who for the most of us has long become Whacko-Jacko ?
I looked back in that half-lighted lane of memory. The smell of adolescence, the portrait of a small town boy listening to some alien songs, the sound of some alien songs talking to him in a forbidden tongue, the first stab at finding identity in a world of faceless zombies suddenly make my throat to feel that slimy sadness that it has ceased to feel for a long time. It's not Michael, the MJ, the peter pan, the whacko-jacko who lies there in the womb of tender death, it is my childhood ---all the bridges burnt, all the innocence lost, all the meaning of freedom grinded under this hallowed dog-life--stares at me with a morbid, weak glance.
I pull down the lid of the coffin.