Right now the disorder of last evening has carried on to my next day, as I sit a few hours into my professional time, geographically faraway from my profession, and mentally even further away. I will light up a smoke and hold it fragile between my fingers as I stare somewhere faraway into space in he narrow confines of my room where I sit sipping lukewarm half a cuppa masala chai, just to dramatise the situation - seems I get more of my kicks from the destructive elements life has to offer, in some half-agreement to the nihilists and the satanists. I'm already living days in this carryover stuff, much like an algorithmic multiplication of 9s to a random infinite number, leaving a carryover at each step - carryover trail crawling, as life ordains me.
To come back to the original focus, what this boob had agreed to, was a concert; a rock concert; an Indian Ocean rock concert; organised at this sprawling complex of IP Park; organised by some Indo-Deutsch partnership. The inference chain went so :
- if not the venue, enjoy Indian Ocean
- If not Indian Ocean, enjoy the venue
Initially happy to see a free concert at hands, I found that 'free' is an initiation opportunity for a lotta other freeloaders, and this being India, 'diversity' is to be expected. So there were mummy-papa-baccha types, uncle-aunteejee types, uncleji types, bhaiyya-types, corporate-spending types, chirpy-bird types, mid-life-crisis types, and chutiya-wannabe-types. [On the way to here, I had been musing on the impossibility of a Woodstock in India - the sneaky kids, whiplash-wielding-self-discretion-using policewallahs, pariah dogs, vendors, wannabe oldtimers, and the adjoining shitting ground for some poor families, all spoiling the atmosphere for an observational rocker and push him back home to write diary entries instead] So I found myself on a wooden row of benches, beer in hand, pork sausages on the plate, right opposite a muslim couple (the girl was in a Burqua) - in their religion, alcohol is haram, so is pork. So this was the kinda opposing confluence it turned out. Later there was a trio of village women in kitsch green saris veiling their face (घूंघट डालना), opposing my view for a while - then they actually sat down to sit through the concert!
To add to it, there was Ashoka Hotels doing the catering, and doing so in the most creepout manner - by employing their over-professional crew to imitate a McDonalds; a McDonalds at the price tag of an Ashoka (kingfisher being the cheapest drink at 180/pint, and veg burger being the cheapest food at 200). There was a mustached-uncle in suit taking the order, on a whole page of grid of items on offer, which was to be given to seemingly-minor employees at the serving counter. But it had a silver lining, as the following incident explains: there were these svelte German girls sitting opposite for us for a while, into whom bumped some Indian acquaintance of theirs (white toothy smile plastered on his face) whom I found annoying. When he exclaimed "I'll join you guys with a beer!" I was relieved that he was gone for at least half an hour - so big were the unmanaged queues.
I.O. themselves were unspectacular; I wouldn't say they were lethargic or untalented, or that they were great, but they can't hold you for very long. I suppose they are less of what they started with by now. They have a sick drummer. They made me busy with a lotta questions about why I, impulsively, didn't like the concert. It could have to do with me re-entering a Syd Barrett phase presently, and expecting something more chaotic, more synthesized, more grunge.
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