Aqualung

Jethro Tull

 After recently acquiring a home theatre, I took out some old CDs, removed the cobwebs and put on Aqualung by Jethro Tull, a 43 year old album. I had earlier liked Jethro Tull’s music for their unique style dominated by flute and guitar riffs, rarely paying much attention to the lyrics ‘cept applauding pithy stuff like “skating on the thin ice of the new day”. Being a man of leisure, having retired this year, I desultorily googled for the lyrics. I was really gobsmacked to learn that this was a concept album with the central theme of “the distinction between religion and god”. It was touted to be one of the most cerebral albums to reach millions of rock fans.

In the final number ‘wind up’, the last stanza says,

How do you dare tell me that I am my father’s son

When that was just an accident of birth.

I’d rather look around me, compose a better song

‘cos that’s the honest  measure of my worth.

In your pomp and all your glory you are a poorer man than me,

As you lick the boots of death born out of fear.

I don’t believe you

You had the whole damn thing all wrong.

He’s not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.

The words are really deep and philosophical, quite iconoclastic also, denouncing the ritualism deeply embedded in all religions. Even Osho couldn’t have said it better. And that is saying a lot. 

Shikanji

SHIKANJI

I was attending a typical Indian wedding of a scion of a well to do family. The barat, was a shortish affair in keeping with the desire of the socially conscious head of the family. This, however, did not stop the bridegroom’s friends from indulging in wild contortions in front of the equine carrying the ceremonially decked out bridegroom, in response to the blaring brass band mangling the latest Bollywood hits. We all, fitted out in pink saafas, a traditional headgear made on the spot by tying a long cloth into an intricate giant knot which tightens around your pate, were strolling along. Soon the groom’s mom also joined the merriments to the delight of all others who were politely waiting for just such an encouraging signal. Now potbellied balding oldies and frumpy matrons, who were carrying a major portion of a gold souk on their plump shoulders, also joined the dancers.

To avoid the embarrassment of getting dragged into the dancing melee, I stepped back a little and started observing the proceedings detachedly.

To provide bright light for the barat and to add glitter to the proceedings, some hired hands were carrying garishly decorated lamps (tube lights) on their shoulders/heads, which were powered by a genset on a handcart. The entire caboodle of about a dozen tube lights was carried by a motley crowd of women and children clearly belonging to the underprivileged strata of the society. Some kids were so small they were barely able to stumble along with the precariously perched tube lights.

In keeping with the high social standing of the families involved, light tasteful savouries were being provided by liveried bearers to the merrymaking baratis. One of the items being served was a concoction deceptively called Shikanji. It was not iced lime juice as commonly understood by the north Indian meaning of the word, but thick boiled milk made further thicker by adding crushed dry fruits to it;  a deadly combo which can knock out the stoutest tummy with just half a glass. Knowing fully well its effect on the digestive organs, I and many others stayed away from the Shikanji. I found the young boys carrying the tube lights looking at the glasses of Shikanji with ravenous  eyes. They knew what it was, must have often dreamt of it, and had a look of hopeless despair in their eyes knowing fully well it was not meant for them. Suddenly, one boy who was well into his teens and much stronger and bolder than the others, mustered enough courage to pick up one glass of from the unsuspecting hands of a bearer, with a look of desperate defiance. Before the bearer could say anything, he had taken a large swig. The bearer shrugged and went away. The offender drank the rest of the Shikanji with a triumphant smirk. The other boys were aghast at his daring and jealous of his good fortune. Their wistful looks met with a studied wariness from the bearers. I marvelled at the irony of it all. Those who were offered Shikanji` were in no mood to consume it and those who would happily give an arm to have a glassful, were denied it. I felt like picking up a glass from one of the trays being swished around and offer it to the youngest tube light carrier who was looking at it with more desire than what Paris must have felt for the Helen of Troy. But I have never been able to get over the “what will the people say “albatross around my neck. So despite the haunting look of the young tube light bearer, I desisted from doing anything quixotic. I wish I had the courage of the boy who got away with a glassful of Shikanji.