A Noble Dilemma: Music isn’t Poetry…

In October 2010 this year’s prestigious Noble Prize was awarded to             many deserving candidates from different fields of work. The name missing from that highly esteemed list for the past few years was that of Bob Dylan. It was Bob Dylan, who brought the entire nation together with his popular song which instantly became a raging anthem universally, Blowing In The Wind. His iconic song “The Times They Are A-Changing” is held responsible for igniting the musical movement during the Vietnam War. The thermometer of Dylan’s fame climbed an unimaginable height specially in the teenage domain, especially with the teenagers who believed in the doctrines of peace and anti war. Dylan made musical ballads a precious literature. His immaculately rhymed verses have been compared to the work of many literary geniuses. Rumour has it that Dylan’s name has been nominated several times for the Noble Prize with the same outcome every year roughly since 1996. The debate every year since the first nomination rests in the fact that many don’t include musical lyrics in the genre of poetry. This ongoing debate results in many diverse opinions.  Although some are of the opinion that song lyrics can only be completely realized when performed, I choose to differ. Just like many others out there I personally feel that music and poetry are soulfully linked. Music cannot be disregarded and put away into a dark enclave. Music is the universal language of the soul - understood by all, and moving in all its majesty and capacity. It moves the soul like nothing else can. It is completely unfair to ignore this form of art when it comes to deciding the winner of the Nobel Prize.  Dylan gave the rock version of music a new political agenda. It was no longer just a love lyric, it was now a beautifully rhymed socially stimulated version of soul steering music. Dylan himself has avoided this question repeatedly when asked, although we find him mocking the whole debate in one of his songs entitled I Shall Be Free. No. 10 where he says, Yeeppi! I’m a poet and I know it, Hope I don’t blow it. This great song writer cum poet has changed the line of thought of many generations with his motivating lyrics. Bob Dylan’s music has been a great influence in many people’s lives including mine. I fail to realize why his musical masterpiece is not considered as good literature by a certain sect of people. Good literature is not necessarily restricted in the printed classroom texts. It can be found anywhere. It according to me is ridiculous not to consider Dylan’s lyrics as literature…it is even more asinine, to not consider this hugely talented man as a laureate. Whether the Swedish Board will ever be capable of correcting their negligence or succeed in balancing their obdurate stream of thought in realizing the true potential behind this store house of talent remains a mystery. But in the common man’s journal Dylan is a true winner. He believes in him and trusts him when he infamously says, “Anything I can sing, I call a song. Anything I can't sing, I call a poem". All that we can do is hope that in the impending future our musical idol will receive his due.

SHARP CONTRAST…

The light refused to change colour. Oh how I loathed the very sight of that bright red hue that seemed completely ominous to me at that point. Yes I’m a little prejudiced about certain things, some of which I have to admit are my own creations. But at that very moment reason chose to escape me and thus I promptly looked away from the box providing the three different coloured lights their sanctuary. All I did was wait for the traffic light to change to green. The crossing at Exide was very busy that day. Bikes tried to overtake the stagnant cars and buses while drivers of the later stagnant vehicles busied themselves in honking furiously. The whole area was engulfed in smoke and finally after coughing for a steady 5 minutes I decided to roll up the window pane of my cabbie. While I was busy blaming the driver for not taking a different route my eyes caught a scene that is customary to any traffic. A little girl was carrying a big rough slab of wood on which was displayed many hair accessories. This slab was tied around her neck in a necklace kind of a fashion. She was walking bare foot from one car to the other. Though I was glad that I had rolled up my glass and would be saved from the whole nagging procedure I felt a little bad for her. The sun was in a mood to show off that day and the girl was too little and the thing round her neck looked too heavy for her to carry around. She kept on knocking on the glass panes and as expected people kept on ignoring her. My cell phone buzzed and I looked away. I was going to the Shantiniketan Building in Camac Street that day. It was my first day as an intern in the Mirchi office. I was both scared and excited in the same breath. I picked up my phone from the seat and the traffic moved a little. Relieved I looked up and saw that the cops were furiously trying to get the traffic in control. The little girl came and stood infront of my window. She knocked on the window and I could not look away. She was barely seven years old. Her hair was rough with dirt and her clothes were torn in places. Her innocent face was smeared with grime. Though she looked exhausted she dragged herself along with that dead weight beside the front window. The driver was just about to send her away when she started speaking in broken English. Smartly she asked me to buy some clips from her as she needed money to buy herself a pair of school shoes. Although I was aware of the fact that the child must have been lying there was something about that little sturdy face. As she kept on requesting in her broken dialect my phone rang again, this time it was from office. Before I could take it the little girl stopped in her attempt to speak English and hung her head. She looked massively lost. But then in a frantic rush she informed me that her name was Mala and that she wanted to eat as she was very hungry. She also wanted to go to school. I felt a little bubble forming in my throat as I realized how different my life had been. I took out money and offered it to her but she pressed me to buy something. So I did buy a clip and offered to buy her food. Her sad little face immediately lit up--   brighter than that ominous red light. She said she wanted to have paratha and needed ten rupees for that. As soon as I gave it I saw her dragging herself to a nearby paratha wala. That is when I heard my phone ring again, office again. Thankfully the traffic was beginning to clear, and my cab was moving again. I reached in no time and found my new friends outside. All of us entered together. The pleasantly cool air of the air conditioner, the soft feel of the carpet, the plush arm chairs, the cool drink that was offered… I couldn’t ask for anything more at that point. However enjoying all this made me a little guilty inside as I remembered Mala.  Though I have never seen her again I hope she goes to school someday.     

To My Best Friend

It all started when we were both barely seven years old. I distinctly remember being miserable inside when I was asked to gather my belongings, pack my bag and shift to this new table where I had neither any inclination nor any desire to sit for almost the rest of the year and that to beside that one girl whom I had always found slightly strange. While I had a hint of a tear in my eyes during the whole process you seemed full of gaiety, while I resisted all your friendly advances you seemed to be the vicar of perseverance…in all to make the long story short I hated you totally and completely. I remember blaming God, our class teacher you and everything and everyone on whom my then spiteful vision rested. It has been more than thirteen years now since that fateful day when we were literally forced to sit together in class. I often wonder how our lives would be if that day could be erased. Strangely enough I find that very thought to be mortally hazardous, for today I’m completely dependent on you. Although I have and will always cherish the vigor of the bond that we share today, I will also treasure those juvenile fights we had back then. I wonder if those silly happenings are to be held responsible for the special connection that we share today. You, my dear best friend have been with me through thick and thin, supported me when all others chose to be invisible, chided me when my feet left the sturdiness of the ground below my feet, cried a million tears with me when I was feeling low for the silliest of reasons…today I say thank you, I thank you very much for all those things. I know that I often infuriate you by being obstinate when the times not right and somehow you manage to cope with it. My dearest best friend, I’m not just thanking you for being there for me when it was needed, I’m just trying to let you know that I love you for the person that you are, however crazy and pig headed at times. I love you and  always will.