The Bombay theme from the film by the same name (going by wiki convention), is probably only piece of instrumental music that renders me unable to do anything else but listen to it. The piece is a roughly broken into 3 parts, using a flute as a prelude, proceeding to the much deeper, stringent strain of a full orchestra, with heavy bass.

Much has been written about this piece of music, and before Jai Ho and a dozen others ruined it for the rest of the world, it was A.R.Rahman’s signature, his magnum opus. It became so ubiquitous that there is actually a basis now for a Zidane-Rahman number. Its theme has been classified as sad, morose, helpless, hopeful, serene, marking a beginning, and more. Who am I to judge the great critics who took it upon themselves to analyze an almost abstract piece of art?

And what about me? To a person who believes art exists for art’s own sake, there are no meanings to the piece. There is simply a feeling, a touch or hint of what you should create in your mind after listening to it. To my surprise (a long time ago), there was nothing evoked by the piece. There it was. Nothingness. Tejo would call it black, but it was more white, a white board rather than a slate. There were no irregularities in the surface, a smoothness matched by that thin film of water over flat marble, extending as far as the mind could see. There is was, the hidden message so many searched for. It is ours to begin, and ours to destroy. And what happens when you feel all is lost and find the frame corrupted by the machinations of your own mind? Why, you listen to the music again, of course.

P.S. 42. Need I say more?


3 thoughts on “Symphony

  1. PeeTeeVee says:

    I’d still say black. Black from before a figment of Latin imagination intoned “Fiat Lux!”.

    Your beliefs lack grammar, I see. Art for ‘arts own sake’? Ah that vengeful feeling… 😀

    And yes raps, the music is all there is. Call it Omkar. Or call it String Theory.

  2. Raps says:

    As so many put it now, mea culpa. Spell check apparently does not check for grammatical typing errors. Leave “Fiat Lux!” out of this. I never said anything about light. And if you asked Hercule Poirot what the colour was, I have no doubt he would answer “Gray!”. Each to his own form of blankness, I say.

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