R S Prasanna

Spam that tries to be literature.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

The Music Man

The man was in rags. And in ecstacy.

His fingers seemed to catch every note wafting out of my house window, and I, for a moment thought, he was not conducting the music from my music system. He was pulling each note from it, slowly coaxing it out.

I moved closer to the window. The man's closed eyes widened.

I did not know what music was playing. It was some vague opera, I guess. Hit the wrong button and zoom I fell into the wrong century in World Space.

But by the time I could change the radio channel, I noticed this man nearing my window, and well, he started doing what he has been doing now for the past few minutes.

His fingers were greasy, light though in movement. His lips quivered with recognition.

I watched on.

The singer shrieked. God, how shrill! Surely glass breaks.

The man's face cringed - he raised his hand, his fist closed.

He opened his right fist, and his fingers slowly floated down - the other arm still raised.

The singer's voice softened. It floated.

The man's eyes relaxed, still closed.


The singer started in a whisper, some bass instrument caressed.

The man smiled, his fingers floating.

The violin joined in.

The man opened his eyes.

The singer fell silent. The violin played the last note.

Then, the bang on the drum.

In precise synch with the man bringing both arms up and crashing them down.

The man smiled.

World Space fell silent.

I coughed at the window.

The man walked on.

My eyes followed him.

He disappeared down the bend.

So, what could be the end of this story?

I am still waiting for the man to come to my window again.

Today is the twenty-seventh day.

I have religiously sat at the window, ever since.

I walk up to World Space, turn on to the Opera station, plonk down by the window. And wait.

Well, I am still waiting.

Richard Strauss to Pavarotti; the bass-baritone and the counter-tenor have come and gone; be it the homophonic texture, or the polyphonic arrangement - no, the Music Man has not to this day answered their call.

And what a beautiful piece by Gluck! How could the Music Man resist the beautiful syllabic text-setting, the ripping apart of the de capo aria!

What divine music!

Damn it!

Where is the Music Man?

At the Theatre

I am sitting here, way past midnight
I havent spoken to you yet
Just a longing keeping me awake

I sit at the comp
I listen to the music
And all I see is a theatre
With a miillion people
My life's work there on screen

You weeping on my shoulder

The music shall rise and it shall cleanse me, my Love

And as all the million fall silent
A tear in each eye

I shall chide you for not looking
But you, my baby, can't look

Then the crescendo shall come
And there on screen shall kiss
You, I

Shall kiss the Man, the lady
And "The End" shall come bold on screen

Then the projector shall dim and flicker, but not yet!

Wait, there on screen
"Written and Directed by..."

That's when you shall rise and clap
Like your life depended on it
As if you were born this monent
And born for this alone

A million claps, a million tears
A million buoquets
Shall be thrown my way

But I shall sit,
and dear my Life
I know you will hate it
But I shall hug you by your hips and

Douse your evening gown
With tears that are twenty five years in waiting!

There on screen my name
A million minds seeing my work
The music cleansing me!

And your hips wiping my tears,
Your fingers kissing my cheek,
Your hug assuring me that
I deserve it in the end.

Thats the dream I had tonight
Only, I wasnt sleeping

I could not

Its been long since I spoke to you!

Art Is Living

And this, dear pal, is what art is all about, in my humble
opinion - a product of an artist when he is undergoing some mysterious
process, where his mind and senses unite, his creation and his life
unite; he sees himself, his art, life, and God, all at once, clearly
standing before him; and he seems to take notes....

And then, after that moment of purity, the unexplainable life experience, there on the table - would lie one clean piece of the artist, produced by his most purest
state of mind.

That for me is art.

Art cleanses.

In its creation - and appreciation - in any form, I believe, lies the
only few minutes in life, when one lives!

Thus, Live. Honestly. Your craft will improve automatically, to cater to your ever increasing standard of living!

You dont need anyone else, then to evaluate your art.

Mozart the Vulgar

(One beautiful line from the
extraordinary movie, "Amadeus." )

Mozart has just written an opera about a
prostitute. He is to stage it for the king, under the King's
patronage. But when the King hears about the topic chosen by Mozart,
he is applalled.

"I trusted you Mozart, so much as not to even check upon your work.
Today, I did, and today I regret! A prostitute! Appalling."

The other jealous Noblemen salivate in anticipation of the King
devouring Mozart, their prey.

"But King..."

"Shut up! So it is true what they say! You philander, your eyes and
morals wander! And today you plan to bring your filth on to my stage!"

Mozart's eyes moisten.

"Sir, I," Mozart swallows the lump in his throat. "Sir," he continues,
"I am vulgar."

The king waits.

"My work is not."

("Amadeus" written by Peter Schaffer, for stage and film)

Saturday, August 05, 2006

Mother and Daughter

“Don’t worry, you’ll win,” said the mother to the child, twenty seconds before she lost.

They had trained for weeks. The child, you see, suffers from a crippled knee, from an accident three years ago.

The mother had very badly wanted the child to win at the games today.

As the child took her position on the start line, the mother had said to herself: “I’m sorry child. I’m sorry. Win, and forgive me for that day.”

The twenty seconds on the running track, the mother anticipated, would seem like a little less than eternity. Eternity was different. Oh, sordidly different. Eternity was that one millionth of a second, three years ago, when the mother had rammed the car –

The child was nearing the finish line. It didn’t seem that long after all! The mother stopped breathing.

“There, my child! Just push a little more, baby; I know your leg hurts, the splints are coming off, but child there you are just a few metres away, go on, you’re coming so close to forgiving me!”

The line was exactly a metre away.

When the child stopped, and looked at the mother.

The mother started. Then, the tears came.

“Why! Why are you stopping, baby. Run! Don’t stand there looking at me! Run to the line! Won’t I ever be forgiven? Don’t stare at me, run!”

The child kept looking at her mother.

They both cried like babies that day.

The mother cried at what she saw as eternal damnation for all her life. Life, unforgiving life, holds no mercy, she learnt.

The child cried because she, unlike her mother, knew.

There on the track, there was no line there anymore.

The child had not taken twenty seconds to reach, no.

More accurately, four minutes and forty-eight seconds.

All that remained in the place where the line stood, was a bunch of PT instructors walking toward the stranded cripple.

Waving her to move away, as the next batch of runners were readying their start.