Enigma

A call from an old friend brings back memories like never before. The way a familiar, old but never forgotten voice brings about a rise of dusty nostalgia. Those memories made once upon a time which feels like a lifetime ago, they all come rushing back to engulf your whole being. Suddenly your mind feels more crowded than usual. That strained and exhausted feeling where you know you want to delve back into those old memories but at the same time are so acutely aware of the dire consequences this trip down memory lane will bring.

Questions. The numerous amount of questions that spring to mind when an old voice is once more whispering their explanation of as to WHY they walked away to begin with down the phone to you, making your mind numb. The confusion that the person behind the voice first started, when the person walked out your life, it annoyingly begins to itch the inside of your mind once more.

"It was too hard. She died and I thought, I thought fuck it. I need to get away from this city. That and the fact that I thought I wasn't going to make it either"

Confusion once more. It ensues the over used emotion anger. It springs up like a fiery passion you never knew existed within you. Once you become victim to it, it's hard to subside. Once in play this emotion is one of those we strive to impulsively solve or subconsciously decipher. I find expressing fury excessively is not necessary. There is no need for it. It seeps through your whole existence and becomes a hindrance to the actions we must take. It shatters all logical and rational thinking. Once overcome by it we stop searching for a practical reason to act the way we usually act. The layer of decorum we uphold perfectly day to day, is recklessly thrown aside.

"You had Cancer, and didn't feel the need to tell me? After she left our world, we had only each other. Yet, running away and leaving you thought was best?"

Many a time I have seen anger ruin the best and closest of relationships. It ruins our way of solving things. A barricade arises from it, between you and the other individual. A hazy smoke screen almost, which your eyes sting from straining to see through. To make sense of what is happening. Although a lot of individuals, including myself fail to control our temper, why is it that controlling resentment is severely difficult? Is it the mere fact that we are only just human? So then human nature would be the reason, right? Truth is there is no excuse. Yes, I agree that by releasing your fury your heart feels as if a weight has been lifted. Does not make it excusable though.

"Lets meet. I promise, I'll explain. I was stupid. I'll explain. I'm here now. And I need you."

Redemption. You can be less than whole and deeply flawed, but what is it that makes you come out the other end all the more better? The trials and obstacles that make you think and go through an onslaught of perplexing emotions, to get to, happiness. Sorrow, guilt, anger. In the end anger is not worth it. Sure, it has to be endured at times. In order to teach ourselves a lesson. Through out it all, strive to remember that to eradicate pain, we need to control anger. Flare-ups, temper tantrums, and unbridled rage destroys life. We need to be careful about venting our spleen. Hate and anger are the root causes of all pain.

S.K.

Currently blogging from the place I have taken refuge in past two days, I am laid up in my bed listening to the sweet croon voice of our very protagonist I wish to blog on today. For the die-hard and loyal fans, they already will know from the title of my entry. For those who have yet to be musically educated, sit back and let me feed you music for the soul through my words all about this mans talents.


The revival and surge of new RnB is underway. The likes of Frank Ocean, Kendrick Lemar and The Weeknd have spent the last year making and producing amazing, brilliant RnB.

Who is the The Weekend? He is Abel Tesfaye. Abel Tesfaye IS The Weeknd. Right this very minute as you are reading this open up YouTube and fire in "The Weekend-Trilogy" or buy it straight off iTunes. Trust me on this you will NOT regret it. Sit back and listen to his blissful voice. Zone out and really listen. He is the ultimate cure with his harmony whilst singing he will have you hooked as soon as his unique tone falls upon your ears. For despite its deceptive, collective-implying name, the latest big name in RnB is a single individual from Canada.

After House Of Balloons surfaced around early March, 2011 I fell deeper for Abel's music on his voice alone. I found myself searching more and more about him and scouring YouTube for more of the addictive voice he possesses. Stumbling then across his website, there I found the offering of his drug all for free. He epitomises the word alluring. His music is a compilation of stories concerning a life of house parties which are drug and drink fuelled and it all being hazy and forgotten the next day. This is opposite to what we are used to hearing in todays music. Like the glamorous club and sex outings which embodies mainstream RnB stories today. His electro-influenced beats in addition with atmospheric zoned out synths and super-80's snare sounds paints this picture of an aftermath. An aftermath of the hazy hangovers from these foggy and smoke-filled parties almost as if the feeling lingers forever in your system even after you get over it. Have a listen.


What I adore about Tesfaye, is the raw honesty that comes across through his music. It isn't like most artists these days where the music is dressed up in crude words in order to increase street cred. His high register alone bares his heart and soul out in every song, an amalgamation of an innocent yet extremely effective tone. Lyrics which make you think twice due to the ambiguity behind them and the way he has us tapping into his psyche. The blunt and frankness to his lyrical style works. I remember on the day of Thursdays release fans eagerly flocked his website to gain access to his new material, and the site crashed.


It's almost as if, you crave to be transported into his world. A few beats into the hypnotic strains of  "The Zone" (featuring Drake) or "High For This" you are indeed instantly transported to this hazy half-remembered world.

"From the morning to the evening,
complains from the tenants,
got the walls kicking like they six months pregnant
drinking Aliza with our cereal for breakfast,
girls calling cabs at dawn quarter-to-seven"

Yet for all the decadence of these parties we hear about through-out the whole album, one assumes that this is the enjoyment party-goers or ultimate achievers of the music industry strive for.  However, as we conclude with the final mixtape, Echoes Of Silence- we come to realise that Tesfaye is not some wild, indestructible ecstasy appreciating neanderthal, but a significant human protagonist with self-conflicts, troubles and personal problems. A shrouded figure who will never be able to understand fully.

His two vocal moods; through out this "character" he portrays, one being a swoony croon that gives way once he's high (see The Wicked Games video) and the other being severely sinister. Think of it almost as a byronic hero on heroin.

The dude who goes to house parties, skulks hidden in a corner somewhere. His cover for Dirty Diana- MJ for example. I am a HUGE and die-hard fan of Michael Jackson and have always been skeptical of any artist trying to cover any of his songs. However if you listen to it he really does it justice. His high note when he hits it as the chorus kicks in is a chilling homage to MJ's voice. In fact when I initially first heard House Of Balloons I was reminded of MJ's voice.This alone is an enormous accomplishment in itself. He is musically seductive and intoxicating and borderline sociopath lyrically.

Guaranteed once you spend time with his album alone, the sinister, nocturnal and almost predatory tone will have you forever a fan and hooked.

I leave you with his latest, Enemy (not on The Trilogy Album)

SK

My Father felt it necessary to drag me to B&Q today. At 11am with my spectacles on, the bush of a hair scraped back and not having slept a wink for three nights now, I was quite literally a walking insane insomniac. I was stood in a daze next to this young Indian couple and my ears perked up when I heard snatches of their conversation.

"Rara I'd rather watch Devdas, I want to have an emotional night"

Yes, I heard it quite distinctly as "RaRa" so this is what I will have to blog.

Poor RaRa! But yes, Devdas. A well renowned Bollywood film starring the stunning Aishwarya Rai, the exquisite Madhuri Dixit and my favourite Bollywood actor of all time Sharukh Khan. Now I am actually not a big fan of Bollywood. The only few films that I actually went out my way to watch are Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Ghum, Devdas and Black. These films, actually possess integrity, chronological structure and a decent storyline we could MAYBE relate to slightly (in contradiction to the far-fetched storyline's which litter the Bollywood industry) and so therefore deserve some merit.

I am however, forever incredulous at the infatuation over the rest of what I believe to be quite indisputably, utter rubbish.  Seriously guys how can you even sit through such mind-less garbage.

So I was recommended this film. I sat and watched it for fifteen minutes. Instantly I had a severe problem. Forever the grammarian, the bloody title of the film was "I hate Luv Storys" Firstly. Where is the logic in not at least spelling "Stories" correctly?! This riled me to the very core of my being. My 6 week old rabbit could've named the film better. That's saying something, because you know him being a RABBIT and all. After discovering this and watching about ten minutes more of random prancing idiots who's acting matched that of my ten year old's brother when he lies about where he hid the cupcakes- I gave up. Then there was this one I was dragged to go watch at the cinema, called "Patiala House". God I can not actually credence the fact I actually paid even a penny towards what these people claimed was a film. Last time I checked, a film is considered to be an important art form, a source of popular entertainment and a powerful method for educating (or indoctrinating) today's society. This film? Consisted of shoddy and the most cringe-worthy acting- if you could call it acting which I couldn't in fear of insulting and degrading the actual term "acting" and everything it stands for. The story line seems to have been cobbled together by somebody who had two minutes to prepare the script.

Yes you have your classics from back in the day, which actually are an enjoyable watch with decent acting. My Mums favourites such as Sholay, Baazighar, Dilwale Dulhania Ley Jayenge etc. However these days I find it's the same cheap glamour with the same generic music which I find all so jarring. No substance.

Bollywood is an industry which thrives upon duplicating story-lines, having one or two hit songs to make the film get some hype. Yet overall, the actual film itself is rarely ever anything that stimulates my mind.

Alvida,

S.K.

October 7th, 2001

I lay beneath the broken bunk eyes flickering around the dingy and obscured room, ice cold and shivering, not due to the temperature but fear. I hear the brisk pace of thundering footsteps, muffled by the distance. They are nearing ever so slightly, every two minutes searching no doubt for the next carnage to cause. The cold sweats start. I hope against hope they pass us by.

Aryan lay hushed in her cot on the opposite side. I fervently pray she keeps silent all in fear that they, the ones who carry destruction in their hands would disappear. The whispers and the almost nonchalant talk during the past week were rendering to be true, we were under attack. My beloved country was already in political disarray - our people had to hold our own now with no help arriving any time soon from the other nations. They liked to pick upon the inferior. In their eyes that was us.

Mother had gone to the markets early in the morning to retrieve my books for school and had yet to return. What exactly is occurring at this precise time, I do not know. The firing sounds have marginally increased and from what I can hear, they are directly situated south of our location. All I know is that silence is now determining whether or not I stay breathing. The terror engulfing my homeland makes it impossible for me to risk thinking we are safe for even a millisecond. Who knows how deceptive their kind are. These "soldiers" as they like to call themselves, are eminent in how silent they can be when trapping the innocent.

Aryan has been due her feed for about three hours now. I am surprised she has not woken yet. At six weeks old she is quite a content baby.

The door creak's open and as I look across from under the bunk I feel my heart chillingly glaciate in an instant. As I realise this is no soldier, but my mother my heart resumes its normal beat. Petrified as I am, the feeling of unease subsides a little when I lay my eyes on her. I want to rush towards her and embrace her like never before but I do not move. Her eyes wide with fear, I can just about make out her body trembling in the ray of moonlight which is beaming in as she opens the door. The strip of light becomes ever thicker as she slowly makes her way in. I hold my breath. She slowly turns and proceeds toward me.

In the second it takes her to turn around after pressing the door silently shut, a scattering of unnatural lights litters the cold stone floor I lay on. Mother instantly springs towards Aryan niftily picking her up and tucking her in her slip and swiftly pushing her back behind the hay stack, out of sight. As the torch lights beam my eyes hitched onto a balaclava clad face, looking through the windows.

"In here! A few in here!" shouted a male voice.

I try to take a breath and can not. I attempt to blink and can not. A moment of inertia encapsulates me, this will cost me my life if I do not act now. My mother quickly moves next to me in a matter of seconds and as quick as anything I feel myself falling out of this surreal moment and grasp her hand giving me courage to jump out from under the bed. We stay together against the wall, on top of the broken bunk. They march in, their kalashnikovs held high shining in the moonlight. Mother and I remain silent not taking one breath, waiting for the unpredictable to happen. The leader stops in front of us. I am staring eyes wide open, his minions search the room. I whimper as one of the armed men puts his hand behind the hay stack. Mother grips my hand tighter.

"Just a baby. Stone cold and no heart-beat" He growled to his leader who was staring right at us.

"No! Aryaan! My baby!" My mother screams and instantly lets go of my grip, heaving and gasping as she attempts to run across to where baby Aryaan lies. The leader moves in that instant and effortlessly smashes his gun across my mothers face. My world is shattering before me and I am at a loss as to what to do.

"Leave her alone!" I cry, I start running towards her. She keels over, the bloody spittle that froths at her mouth has already begun to soak her chin and neck.

"Bring the young one outside now, lets show her what their kind deserve" he growls. As I hear him walk out I look up to see another masked man. All of a sudden he snatches a handful of my hair and begins dragging me outside. I scream in terror. I cry out for my mother, who is convulsing behind me keeled on the floor.

"Please! Just help my mother, forget me, kill me after help her!"

He does not stop until we are a good distance away. He lets go and I crumple before him onto the ground. I feel isolation engulf me. My breathing is hitched. I can see a group of heavily armed men making their way between rows of bodies towards us.

"Stand up! Get up, stand and face me, filth" He spits the last slur out. I manage to get myself up and I glare into his eyes. I can't speak even if I want to. Silently through my tear filled eyes I start to beg. Beg for him to show some bit of remorse. My attempt is futile as he raises his gun, his eyes give way to everything he and the others embody. Ruthlessness, emotionless and cold-heartedness.

I look up towards the starless black sky, the moon as bright as ever. Staring at it calms me, the Moon almost embodying protection. I again look into the eyes of the merciless and callous man before me. I do not wish for him to see my fear. I do not wish to be weak in front of him, so I close my eyes and weep. I can hear through my sobs the water lapping back and forth in the well. Distant cries echo around me. The acrid and pungent smell of gunpowder fills the air. As I await painstakingly for the inevitable to begin, tears stream down my face. I long to turn back to look at my mother and my baby sister, to be in her arms and smiling down into the hazel eyes of Aryaan.

"Look at me you kalaar" He yells, the racial slur ringing in my head.

This is it. I must open my eyes let this beast view my resentment at the very least. Why not. The quicker I did, the quicker I could see Aryaan.

My mother screeches. I open my eyes, one last time.

"Bitter-sweet" essentially is a term applied to situations that involve mixed emotions. Those memories which you so badly want to revisit but are tainted by betrayal leave you with a bitter-sweet taste.

I pondered into the early hours of this morning contemplating how to construct this, so as not to end up pouring my own emotions out. Trust me, you do not need that!- Should I focus on a past experience, and let the audience take it as they wish? Stay vague and not be specific?- However, I would be lying to myself if I did not admit that the sole and main reason I have been thinking of a commodity such as love and the consequential aftermath of stridulous emotions, is due to being enlightened to a heartfelt and emotional past experience from a very commendable friend of mine.

As we sat in her parents bedroom, aimlessly talking about how it was her wedding anniversary, jilting her with other friends here and there- I was well aware it was a sore subject. Married at seventeen and divorced before she was even eighteen. I won't go into extensive detail of what happened between them. Let's just say we all believe he suffers from a personality disorder. Her disposition on life has never been serious. I find the most laid back people, are the ones I warm to the most. Her bubbly and enthusiastic nature is a spark that makes us all crave her company. I was resolutely taken by surprise as she literally broke down into tears, crumpling before me and saying today, being the anniversary of her marriage brought back a sordid amount of astringent memories. How she loved him still so very much. As we comforted her, I could not help but be frustrated and angry at the idiot who she had fallen for.

In my mind, this man, her ex husband performed a well executed ambuscade. She, surprisingly on the other hand looks upon their time together with rose tinted spectacles. I will always be baffled by the emotional attachment and her affection for this immoral man she holds so dear to her heart. No resentment or regrets have sprung from her towards the whole sorry ordeal. She still loves him to this very day. As she sobbed through the story, it was very apparent that she was still completely attached. And who wouldn't be, I do not blame her one bit. So young and naive to believe the guise her ex had portrayed. Pleasantries' are always a disguise, a mere fabrication if you wish, of what you would like to see, a mirage. Some may refute this notion, however my experiences and those of this young lady contradict everything.

At seventeen years old, she was betrothed to this inhumane man. With no prior experience, nobody telling her from right from wrong, nobody providing any sort of advice on her decision to marry after getting to know him after an inordinate amount of time. I have never felt so damn sorry for anybody else in my life. A high passel of sympathy emits from me towards her. I chastised her gently, that she should not be crying over someone who epitomises ruthlessness.

I guess bad things happen to good people.

It's life, and it's our sordid thinking at times (for some) and naive mistakes that render such despondency. Yet these mistakes unfortunately need to be cultivated in order or us to apprehend. The reason I am sceptical on the matter of love is because, past experiences and other peoples experiences have made me fearfully aware that the notion of "love at first sight" is ludicrous. That it is indeed a very ambiguous affair. Nothing is ever as it seems at first. Onions/layers etc. I believe love grows. Strong attachments are a good signal, yes, the craving of their company, yes, the warm fuzzy feelings that are aroused with them, yes. All {are} tantamount to possibly the start of something that will keep you together and happy for the rest of your years. Love. I do not wish to be personifying Adele. Stating that it is a complex subject is an understatement. It takes naivety to think it's love. So easily can one disregard pragmatism. It is only after the bitterness and bullshit, do we then realise the severe mistake in favouring moral idealism. Once you put aside the fact that we, as individuals may not fully comprehend such a symposium subject of love, you still would like to think past experiences have rendered you "aware" and hesitant at the very least.

As always, I like to cut it short and leave you to ponder and add to my thoughts.

"First love is only a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity"
George Bernard Shaw


S.K.