Sandy Hook: A Few Thoughts and a Lot of Tears

I was going to post the last of the Competition details but in light of what happened on Friday, I just didn't have the heart.  I will post the final competition day details at some later date but for now, I'm putting that on hold for it seems terribly trite at this moment.  I'm sure most of you understand this need to be respectful of the events and take a moment to reflect.  This, BTW, was one of the harder of blogs for me to write.

Friday was a pretty normal day for most of us I think.  We were all looking forward to the weekend, probably had plans with friends, family, party events, happy hours later that night, shopping, gift wrapping, may be even just sitting and relaxing at home after a long week at work.  For others may be they were looking forward to attending a concert somewhere, meeting up for the first time with a new interest, flying off to some destination to do something fun or may be not.  The options are limitless but what none of us expected to hear the news that 26 people had been gunned down by some psycho who decided to bust into an elementary school and open fire. 

Sure we've actually heard this story far too many times and it's to be noted that recently the frequency seemed to increase, the crimes just a bit more horrifying then the last and we've emotionally dealt with it (somewhat) but this?  This was unexpected.  (Not that those others were any less expected mind you, each and every single instance of such violence is vile, reprehensible and sad equally so)

I had just come back from lunch and one of my buddies pinged me, seeming unusually sad.  He's the type of person who is goofy, super smart and extremely pragmatic.  He looks at the world with eyes that are full of humor in most situations therefore if he was sad...something was very wrong.  He always hides his emotions well but not even he could hide this, not even he could be a 'man' in the face of this sort of epic tragedy.  I asked him what happened feeling slightly panicked and all he said to me was 'those poor babies'.  Clearly he saw my confusion and told me the news.  My stomach clenched instantly.  I left him to his devastation, I didn't blame him as I scanned news headlines.

When written pages weren't enough, I tried desperately to log onto any streaming news network from work to see what in the world had happened, I prayed that it was just...bunk...not wanting to see what I was fairly sure I would see.  Sitting back hard, staring at the monitor my eyes glued to the white letters at the bottom, a number actually, first it read 16 I think, then 18, climbing to 20 and last 26.  Some reports said 28, others were closer to 30.  It was horrific as I sat with my jaw dropped open watching with astounded eyes.  Children?  What?  I couldn't process the thought in the least.  Children they said.  Not just teenagers but little babies...5-10 year old range.  Huh?  No, this was some hoax right?  A real sick one but a hoax nonetheless.  I was so hoping that either it was that or a dream.  I had fallen asleep at my desk and this was the aftereffect of many insomnia driven nights. 

Alas no, not in the least.  This was far too real for words and I didn't know what to think.  The shock was so great, the disbelief probably written all over my face.  I still scoured the headlines hoping that someone would say that April Fools had come early.  No dice.  So I sat and kept watching...and watching...my hands numb, my brain had somehow switched off.  The implications of this had not really set in at all.  Obama spoke to the nation, pausing, collecting himself, wiping away a tear with a thumb from the corner of suspiciously red rimmed eyes which in turn caused me to also tear up.  Did I tear up because he did?  No, of course not but because the overwhelming grief was just not my own and seeing the president barely control it on national television suddenly brought it home, how many people this news was affecting.

Going through the weekend I stayed glued to the television (when I was home) and my heart continued it's constant tightening.  As the names were released, as the faces were revealed, as parents started to come forward, as the stories were now recited of the heroism...I cried a lot.  Tears kept seeping from my eyes as I looked upon each innocent face that were full of so much life. 

So no I'm not saying anything new here.  Nothing that you haven't read in thousands of posts, blogs, news feeds since...I am not special in my pain or the words I write.  The fact that my heart breaks or that my eyes can not hold back the choking tears, this is not a singular thing...people all over are feeling this (or so I hope).  The realization that those faces represented our future lost, happiness ebbed, beauty snuffed, laughter hushed, joy destroyed and now untold potential gone like the softest sweetest warm wind so fleeting yet comforting for as long as it lingered...the only thing remaining are the faces...those innocent faces.  And those adults?  Those amazing brave adults?  The real heroes?  They too...only faces on pictures now?  Memories to be shared?  How big can a tragedy be?

However these are questions we're asking right?  But never mind us, human beings love to do this transference thing.  We love to make things about us, how it affects us, how we cry or mourn, how we can't sleep or are paying...all the 'we'...but this time it isn't, although no time should it be.  If we cry, weep, mourn, then what precisely are those parents, family, loved ones...what are they doing?  How do they handle this crushing monstrous grief?  How do they live in a home, neighborhood, area where every single thing is attached to a possible memory?  How do they even drive by the school which halls were witness to such horror that one can only imagine?  Do they fall apart or become stronger?  Do they find faith or loose it in bitterness completely?  Do they cry out for help or slap the hand of sympathy away?  Everywhere there are words of comfort and yet how do we expect that anything anyone says or does, will replace what they have lost? 

A few friends say that I am very empathetic and I've always prided myself on this one trait but now, I do not want to be.  I want not to think a step further into the head of that mother and father anxiously waiting at that firehouse for their little boy or girl to join them, eyes scanning the children as they poured in may be crying, may be confused and dazed?  I do not want to wonder what that husband, wife, mother, father, child, friend who were waiting for a phone call from their loved one  with reassurances that the kids were okay and they too were safe but heard nothing but silence, must have felt.  God I so want to focus on comfort and supporting but I can't think past how they felt when they went home that night...or if they went home?  Have they slept since?  Eaten?  Could their tears fill a lake?  What visions do they have in their minds eye when they close their eyes or as they lay their dear ones to rest forever?

I don't know, I'm not sure what it is I'm writing or trying to express, I just pray from the bottom of my soul, my hearts heart that somehow they find some sort of solace (although is it possible?).  In Islam, it is said that Allah (swt) places a rock on top of your heart so that we can bear the pain of loss...how many rocks did Allah have to dole out that day?  I so don't know why I had to write this...I think the same as everyone else, why create these beautiful little souls, put them in the arms of their parents, give them a face and identity and attach memories to them when they will be so ruthlessly taken away again and that too in such a short amount of time?  May be, just may be they were such loved souls by God that after he sent them here, he just had to have them back next to his side as angels and therefore called them back?

When I told P, who had been busy at work all day long, he stared at me in horror.  As he sat watching the news with no expression on his face, I went to get ready for my nephews birthday gathering happy that I could at least hug him and his sister to me and reassure myself that they were okay.  When I came back, feeling drained he looked at me, shook his head and this is sort of what he said, "I can not imagine what those parents must be suffering how they're dealing with this but I was just thinking...some of them may have more then one child and therefore at least they can find some sort of comfort right?  I mean they can hug, kiss, love those children they have that are still alive, right?"  I nodded, sitting hard on the sofa knowing what he was going to say, "but what about...I mean what if some of those parents had just one child...one that they struggled to have?  A child that represented all their dreams come true and..."  I didn't want him to continue, I understood where he was going with it.  He knew that I got it without finishing.  His pain and my pain was shared. 

As I watch debates regarding gun control, mental health care, people screaming back and forth arguing over which should be addressed, what needs to be fixed, how we avoid this in the future, all I can think is, those poor babies, those poor parents.

RIP lovely Angels, may you forever laugh, giggle, play, sing, eat all the junk food you wish, color the heavens, be the twinkling stars that shine up above and sit on clouds with your legs swinging all the while at peace.

RIP to the true definition of what a Hero is, those teachers who thought nothing of their own safety before those of their students.  You are an inspiration for your bravery and you have given me hope that humanity still beats in the breast of the every day person...you are my hero. 

And God please...please give those left strength to live on and somehow heal them while showering your mercy upon the rest of us.

Day Two And it begins...Actual Competition Day 1 (Otherwise known as Insanity)

Shouldn't come as a shocker that day 1 arrived too early for me.  Bleary eyed and discombobulated I got up and bogarted the shower using up as much hot water as I could without tapping it out.  I realized that for all the packing which I had done (basically meaning hardly any at all) I had to also steal half of my mothers shower paraphernalia.  She's one of those holistic, Ayurvedic, tree-huggers so everything she owns is extracted from the bark of a yem tree.  Okay I'm exaggerating but seriously I just wanted some Body and Bath stuff. 

I had planned to go to the hall by 10am but Big Bro told me that I was judging the Bhajan Group 3 so I had to get there by 9:30 and since there was a java run to be made, time was not my friend.  As I rushed around swiping eyeliner onto my tired lids, rifling through the suitcase to find the bag that housed the jewelry and slipping bangles into my wrists I contemplated the pretty high heels that I had brought to wear.  A vision of throbbing feet with a poor me hobbling around flashed through my minds eye and I cringed.  Grabbing the heels anyhow I basically swallowed a sandwich Ammu had made for breakfast and was ready to take off.  I came to a skidding halt when I stared at those darned heels again, my feet rebelling but my style sense screaming in horror at what I was alternately contemplating, which was to wear my flat black comfy slip-on shoes from Easy Spirit.

As I muzzled my female outrage, my mother actually gaped in horror as I slipped my feet into the shoes and said in a gasp "you can not wear those!"

I looked at her and said with a sigh and roll of the eyes, "I'll be on my feet for the next 14 hours, if someone gets upset about these shoes, they can just get over it."  She protested again sounding almost desperate, wanting me to change even assuring me that she would bring a pair of more flattering yet comfortable shoes for me when she arrived later but I assured her that it would not alter the fact that I was still going to use the ugly pair I was just then fashioning.  I think for a moment she wanted to tackle me, possibly forcing me into changing footwear but I slipped out with a wave before I found myself on the ground.

Unfortunately the Starbucks run was not meant to be once I settled into the car and glanced at the clock.  Crap, 20 minutes to get to the hall which included the long hike from the parking lot to the building.  I felt bad for anyone who would come face-to-face with me until I had some hot java poured down my gullet but oh well...

So for those who have been coming to the event for the last few years you know that this part of the campus is as familiar to you as your own home.  There's a feeling of familiarity which is uncanny and for 2 days it is, in fac, home to us.  As I slugged to the hall shivering in my coat I thought with a sort of resignation that this was just the first of several long walks I'd take throughout the next 48 hours.  I thanked my better sense, ignoring my protesting sense of style, for wearing those hideous ugly black clogs that totally clashed with my white and grey blue salwar as I comfortably reached the hall and made my entrance.

The food stall had already been set up and the smell of coffee was wafting about teasing me yet there was no rest for the weary as dad swooped down on me in the lobby as I was saying hi to a few old acquaintances.  He instructed that I was to go inside and prepare for Category 1...Bhajans.  *Sigh*  And so it started.

It's almost like time stands still...morning mushes into afternoon, afternoon bleeding into evening and evening stretching into night.  Music is playing in the background constantly, sometimes faint sometimes demanding attention, the spicy smell of Indian food envelops the lobby calling to those who do not want to make the 20 minute drive to the nearest eatery to pick up something to munch and the low murmur of those milling around.  There are cries of happiness upon seeing a familiar face missed over the year, laughter bursting from different groups of folks and pictures being taken here, there and everywhere.

Frankly I think music is such that the atmosphere must be congenial, it demands it with a cheerful growl.  The appreciation of music is binding and for the most part those there have it.  Sure not everyone likes the same things, some prefer the tabla over the bharatnatyam category, north classical may be chosen over sitar, sitar over ghazals but regardless of your taste, you can sit and appreciate the time and effort the person on the stage most likely put into the art form they decided to take up.

The lovely couple whose house I go to in order to take my own classes every Tuesday night was there as well sitting only three rows from the front close to the left aisle.  They smile at me as I approach them, each giving me a warm hug as if they hadn't seen me for months as opposed to days.  I gave them murmured words of encouragement and they smiled slightly nervously.  They are probably in their 70's at this point and didn't start their music classes until about 20 years ago.  20 years though, is a long time when you think about it in the grand scheme of things but not when learning is involved.  And if you ask either of them, they will tell you they did not make any improvements in their individual concentrations.  I would disagree.  They most certainly could not be categorized as amazing nor even all that good but the fact is they had passion and sincerity.  Had they improved?  Yes, most assuredly.  One evening several months ago after class as I sat talking to Aunty (as you all know every individual older then yourself is either called Aunty or Uncle regardless of whether they were related to you or not) while packing up and my dad was busy busy messing around with his phone as he is want to do, I had emmited a sound of frustration making a face and saying that learning classical vocal was no joke...

Wait, wait...let me back peddle for a second.  Remember how I mentioned that I had never really picked up one "talent" that I could master?  That, unlike Big Bro, I was wandering in the mist of music trying to discover what I could find my passion in, what would bring out the desire to learn?  Well yea so a few years ago, approximately 3, I had a sort of epiphany during one quiet winter night just prior to dad's birthday.  I was wondering what I could give him that would be special and it struck me.  The next time I saw him, I eagerly told him about my interest in learning north classical vocal.  Whether I inherited any talent from my family, one thing was and is for sure, my father had/has never been happier with me because now when someone asks him 'what does your daughter learn?' he can say with a wide toothy grin and pride, 'classical vocal!'.  *preens*

So anyhow back to Aunty and me as I'm moaning about how after every class I feel inadequate when realizing how much I had to learn, to improve.  My dad throws me a stern look over top his glasses that were perched at the end of his nose (with a small smile playing around his lips), shaking his head at me in this 'no' gesture and saying "how will you improve if you don't practice?"  Good point dad, I think, as I resist the urge to heave a sigh.  It's not like I didn't know this but life was/is busy.  Where does anyone have one hour to...okay I'm making excuses.  Everyone has that time, I'm just always fighting a losing battle with laziness.  Laziness wins.  Aunty though is meticulously putting way the harmonium and straightening the tabla, her hands graceful but slow and as she does so she says to me in an almost wistful soft voice "we started to learn music when we were so much older, once we could focus and our children no longer demanded our attention, our grandchildren were born...and we probably still are not very good but we find devotion and love in this, we just love it.  It is the one thing we will do till we die."  Then she looks at me  and softly says "you are so lucky because you are young and have a lot of time to embrace this, be thankful that you can and for your father and your background."  Another good point, no?

Yes, I suppose I am thankful and as I sat there in the competition hall watching a little girl holding up her sitar which was twice the size of her small body, I thought to myself that if she has that sort of dedication to learn, that sort of devotion to be able to master her art, why not me?  I admired her.

Taking several pictures of her slight frame and then moved on to capture other images.

I spotted one young lady who I remembered came to the competition first when she was 5 years old, now she was 17 and had brought with her a few younger girls who at least appeared as if they were about to compete.  Another little boy sat with his fatherm one of his tabla's clutched in his small arms, he couldn't have been more then 7...in the far corner sat a kid in his teens looking bored while he sported earphones, head bobbing in time to the beat of whatever he was listening to while ignoring everyone.  I spotted a woman dressed up to the nines flashing blingy earrings her friend/acquaintance while animatedly explaining where she purchased them from, most likely.  To my right was the table where those who manned the ticket booth sat looking slightly zoned out because there was a lull in the afternoon therefore they could catch a moment of quiet and to my left a gentleman was lounging against the brick wall waiting for people to come purchase his CD's...

Clomping into the auditorium with my comfy yet ugly shoes, the Bharatnatyam category was starting and one could hear the jingle of bells everywhere.  The first young girl from category 1 stood slightly off-stage with her back straight, legs rigid and a giant smile plastered upon her lovely make-up-ed face and hands pressed together in the eternal sigh of 'namaste'.  The music cue was given and she proceeded to take the first step with self-assurance and ease.  I clicked several pictures of her, the swiftness of movement caught in pixels.  Quickly I checked to make sure the picture captured the moment as I wanted it to and smiled.  I couldn't help it, it was perfect, not the picture but her.  I admired her.  I headed backstage and spotted the announcers sitting together, all young and sweet, every one of them giving me wide grins and asking me how I was...kids I've seen for years now who were as familiar to me as my own family because...well they were my family, my musical family.  As I stood exchanging a few words, a joke or two, my father walked past and stretching out his arms he did a silly little hip shake (for my desi friends, think "thumka") that made everyone laugh/giggle although quietly.  I grinned too and embraced him astounded that the man had so much energy at his age when all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and snore till someone complained about the sound. 

Moving into the changing rooms in the back, I saw visions and specters of my past there.  These were of friends practicing for their own performances who were now living thousands (some only mere hundreds) of miles away engrossed in their individual lives.  I smiled at recollections of jokes being shared, of tears being wiped away after a particularly bad (in their minds) performance or holding nervous cold hands just before going out on to the stage.  How many hours had we spent there, year upon year?  How many jokes still lingered in the air?  How much laughter had that space witnessed as well as sadness, despair, joy, love...all the emotions that could be felt?  We had grown up there, my friends and I and even though they were no longer around physically...I could not help but feel as if they were there in spirit.  My heart squeezed for a second as I sighed.  I missed all of them so much, the group we once were, the faces that everyone knew as well as adored, those who were at one point inseparable yet now...separated.  

At that moment an uncle was accompanying a tabla player on harmonium.  Uncle saw me, smiled kindly and went back to meticulously keeping the harmony going without missing a beat for the competitor who would be taking stage within a few short hours.  Taking one or two snaps I let them be, heading back to the main hall.  I waved at the MC's again, thinking for a split second that these were the next generation of kids who were even then creating endless memories.  Lucky them : ) 

Regardless of the comfy shoes I had been going between answering questions of guests as well as other minor details that often cropped up all morning therefore was a bit tired (not to mention the severe lack of sleep).  So I chose a seat in the middle of the hall where the view was the best for picture taking and sat with a slight groan.  On occasion someone called out to me or waved, I responded in kind.  My eyes traveled to the front where one good friend was singularly manning the sound system looking bizarrely chipper and smiling at his phone while Jim Uncle (my brothers first teacher ever and a friend who has been acquainted to our family since my dad first landed in the USA as well as a pretty amazing tabla player) was reading a book waiting for the judges scores. 

Big Bro was strolling by with a shawl wrapped around his neck in a weird way (which is in fact his way) talking with a buddy of his.  They were both grinning over something.  I was glad I wasn't apart of it because knowing them, it was likely off-color.  On the other side of the auditorium I saw my friend R gliding up the aisle with a big beautiful smile on her face as she greeted someone who had just arrived, her sari still sparkling in the dimness of the light.  My two cousins also had entered and were searching for something as their eyes scanned the crowd.  Turns out that something ended up being me as they waved me over.  Giving them the international signal for 'one moment' I focused back onto the stage and took several more pictures, then went to join them.

I guess between the picture taking and myriad of other tasks, the time slipped by.  It was exciting to discover that we were ahead of time therefore had the opportunity to breath (something we would not be doing on Sunday).  My cousin N and I were also slated to perform on Sunday therefore some practicing was in order for although she sounded like an angel, I closely resembled a bullfrog.  My throat protested even the slightest "Sa" (I guess in the western scale it would be a "Do"?) and I appeased it by sipping hot tea.  Our favorite tabla player and friend who would be accompanying us reassured that we would do fine even as N and I were freaking out royally.  We were not prepared (but that's nothing new for us really) yet somehow we always managed to pull our performances off.  A few practices later without even the slightest confidence that we wouldn't crash and burn, I picked up my camera again and headed for the tabla room. 

For a few years we had been splitting up the categories...while one was happening in the main hall, another would be going simultaneously in another.  This, unfortunately, was a necessity when the competitors were far too many and time far too short.  Tabla was the category which got bumped so when I entered the 2nd hall I was surprised to see that there were a lot of people there and more so shocked at the little performer who sat with his big tabla taking center stage.  He was astoundingly good and with my mouth dropped open I sat down in complete awe.  He couldn't have been more then 6 or may be 7 but his speed and confidence was ridiculous.  This kid was on fire!  I stole a glance at the crowd and sure enough the look of astonishment were on nearly everyone's face.

A friend, who had competed in the past on countless occasions and had accompanied thousands (if one took into account the years in which he attended) of competitors, was judging.  Our eyes met and there was a definite 'what the eff' look exchanged...again, I admired this little dude (not my friend, the kid) who had such amazing talent, passion, drive that he, at the same age where I was running around playing with Star Wars figures and skipping rope, could give even seasoned professionals a run for their money.  BTW, later his sister, may be a slight bit younger then him, sang north classical vocal and she too made me wonder 'vocal steroids?'  Was thre even such a thing and where could I get me some?  I mean what sort of cyborgs were these kids?  Okay this is just jealousy speaking but seriously she was better at taans and sargams at the age of 5 then I was at the age of 39. 

To the intense joy (and definite shock) of the organizers, we were done that day by 10pm.  Only those who in the past had been there till 1am could appreciate this fact and as I was finishing up some things, a few close people keeping me company, I was bombarded with questions as to what was going to happen that night, where would we go to hang?  It was tradition and god forbid exhaustion should replace tradition.  I don't know why it often fell to me to make the plans but that's the story of my life.  We ended up home for dinner then I shoo'ed everyone off to my poor cousins house for an 'after party'.  About 15 of us decended upon the poor OCD ridden cousin who smiled and welcomed everyone into her home.  Thankfully her mother and father were in Bdesh which meant the house was ours.  You know that saying, what happens in Vegas...?  Well...there you go.  Those who have been apart of these after parties in the past will be smiling and nodding and thanking the lord that I have no interest in sharing information more then the fact that it was great chilling with buddies, laughing and yes, indulging in an impromptu round of Antakshiri.  Hey, we're all musical...we love to sing...sue us *shrugs*.

I got to bed at 3:30am, exhausted and wiped out but thinking to myself...bring on the next and final day. 

Day One: Competition Inaugural Night and other random info

I've done a lot of mentioning of the "Competition" but haven't really gone into detail.  This is mainly because I felt by this point it would be out of context so now that my memories are coming to the point where Thanksgiving is now in the past and the Competition is eminent, it's important to backtrack.

As you may recall my dad and mom brought us here to the States when I was but the tender age of 3, my bro 5.  Abbu was already a musician by lineage and passion but not necessarily by trade.  I believe his job in Bangladesh was as a Bank Manager for a bit, a very reliable stable job but his first, last and forever love would always be music and he had not only the talent but the knack for teaching it.  He had already an impressive group of students in Bdesh but looked to recreate the same here as well as extend his student-ship.  And when opportunity knocked in the form of a visa, he packed his plaid bell-bottoms, trimmed his handlebar mooch (that's mustache to y'all) and embarked for Umrika, leaving his wife and children back in the motherland while he struggled for about 2 years to 'make it'.  Although his older brother was here, he struck out independently shortly thereafter and was able to quickly find a bunch of long haired hippie Indian music loving students.  That was truly the beginning of a very impressive and long career for my father.

[Total side story...Abbu told me that when he landed here his brother had scooped him up from JFK.  Chachu (dad's brother) figured Abbu would be hungry after the long journey and suggested they grab some hot dogs.  My father was flummoxed...his first exposure to the new world and it was where people ate dogs...hot?  He told me that his confusion was great and he didn't know how to tell his esteemed older brother that he had no interested in consuming garam kutta's (garam = hot...kutta = dog) for dad took this in a very literal sense.  He still laughs to this day when someone mentions hot dogs and he'll ask me "Beta you want a Garam Kutta?" then chuckles while I roll my eyes.]

To say my father was successful is a slight understatement.  This one singular man was able to move to a new country and in a few short years bought a house, a car, and had expanded his student base to an impressive number.  He also finally went to get his family and thus we landed here to be engulfed in a world of classical music many thousands of miles away from where it was first conceived.   He has always lived and breathed music, his love was so evident in the resonance of the sounds of the harmonium, sitar and tabla that always seemed to linger within our walls of our home.  In fact, there had been times in the past, as a young woman when I was sitting in my house and swore I could hear the lingering sounds of music coming from the basement.  Sounds spooky doesn't it?  But it's almost as if the walls of our home had absorbed all those lovely notes and played them back to us when everything was quiet.

And BTW, just so you know, music in itself is very much in my (our) blood.  Ours is a musical family.  My grandfather was Ustad Kader Baksh from Kolkatta (Calcutta) and my dad's immediate older brother is also an Ustad of classical vocal.  His sons all followed in mastering the art of tabla and my brother too did the same, starting from the age of 5 when the drums was far too big for him to even see over and my mother used to threaten him to sit and actually practice for at least a half hour a day.  I have a very clear recollection of him banging on those darn things and thinking to myself how much I would love to own earplugs at that moment.  That same dude now is...well hell he's brilliant.  And may I add I seriously dislike him for his talent.  You think that being awesome at tabla was enough?  No, no, not for this guy.  He had to self-learn sitar too and even has a fairly good voice.  How annoying is that?  Oh it doesn't stop there either.  His knowledge base on anything Indian classical is totally obnoxious and add to that being pretty good at the whole 'computer' thing (to the point where he can write his own darn programs and have actually released a few interactive CD's...more on that later) and you have a recipe for slightly toeing the 'brilliant' line.  Over-achievers really piss me off. 

What did I do then, you may wonder?  After all considering the amazing lineage I come from...surely something equal to Big Bro, right?  Let's just put it this way...NO.  I guess in this sense I was more the black sheep of the family.  Of course my father and even mother wanted me to take up some form of music tapping into my genetics but I was far too busy running around the neighborhood getting into fights with boys and scraping my knees.  The words 'drive', 'focus' or even 'passion' were not in my vocabulary at that time and I can assure you that this was very much a point of contention between my parents and I.  I think it was slightly mortifying for my father, an Ustad (Maestro) of Indian classical music, to have to respond when asked what it was that his daughter was learning, "she hasn't really settled on anything yet but she has time...".  Poor Abbu, this particularly when he always said that in order to master and understand any classical form of music, one should start at a pretty young age.

Anyhow, I was encouraged to learn Bharatnatyam and although I thought it was a lovely graceful talent to try to learn...well the fact was that it was so not for me and I blew chunks at it.  All that bending...yikes.  I tried vocal but found it too boring, I mean I wanted to be Debbie Gibson or Madonna, not just practice scales endlessly and sure enough wasn't mature enough to do riaz (practice) for hours upon hours.  I picked up the western flute in elementary school and guess what?  I was damn good at it, enough to win a seat as second flute in the Baltimore Symphony Junior Orchestra (which I couldn't join because it required a two week traveling stint to Russia for a few performances which my mother would not allow).  I learned flute throughout most of my school career, loving it however at the same time I was also learning Kathak..which I adored.  That too I eventually quit after 9 years because mom was opposed to the idea of me dancing on stage...good Muslim girls did not do such things. 

Back to the genesis of the Competition, Abbu was offered a teaching position with the Ethnomusicology Department at the University of Maryland Baltimore County ("UMBC"), which was where he actually made his first "contact" with what would end up spring boarding the competition from a 'thought' to reality. 

I don't know when the idea of the competition first popped into his head, I was probably far to young to realize what he was cooking up in that symphonic head of his but before I knew it we were told that we, as in him and our family, would host an annual competition where people could come from all over the United States and compete in various categories.  The event would last 3 days, the first being an inaugural concert followed by 2 full days of the actual competition (yes with judges and all!).  The first happened 29 years ago...I was 10 years old and it was nothing but fun then with no responsibilities other then being the MC and running around with my friends having fun and exploring the university campus.  How dad did it back then I have no clue particularly when everything was done by hand as well as snail mail with computers far far into the future.

The inaugural program was always the true kick-off to the actual event.  It was where we could sit back and listen to the artist invited to perform and breath for a few hours.  After wards a few select people would be invited to dine with the artist.  We kept things this way for many years until the burden of organizing the program along with advertising and then hosting the dinner just became far too exhausting when one took into account the following 2 days of insanity.  For a few years in the middle, thankfully, Dad dropped the idea completely (which I can't lie, I was glad for) but as of about 2 years ago, it's back and although it does make the weekend just that much longer, as an adult I more so enjoy the music and artists that perform then before.

Oh, did I forget to mention that the Competition is always on Thanksgiving weekend?  That's typically the 3rd weekend in the month of November (for those who have no clue as to when it is) and always held at the University of Maryland Baltimore County Fine Arts building.  It's advertised for about 2 months ahead of time and we try to restrict it to approximately 120-140 competitors.  Yes, that's a lot of people and the only one of it's kind outside of India, the competition, not the people, I mean brown people are everywhere after all...well never mind. 

The categories run the gamut from north classical vocal to all kinds of instrumental, bhajan, shabad as well as south classical.  We used to have Nazrul Geeti and Rabindra Sangeet but well I guess it just wasn't as popular as the others so we eventually cut them out.  The most popular ones to watch are on Sunday which features Ghazals, Film Songs, Duets and Dances of India. 

Wait, I'm jumping ahead of myself.

Once it started though, those 29 years back, it's been going strong and (I think) getting better.  With the advent of modern technology (such as the computer and Internet) we have been able to spread the word and hope that eventually it becomes bigger and bigger.  Also because of the popularity it has gained, the names we bring to our Friday night inaugural concert are impressive.

This most recent competition, which was just a few weeks ago, we invited Shakir Khan and Ustad Salamat Ali Khan to perform on Friday.  Now I've already spoken about Shakir in one of my blog entries but it never hurts to repeat.  He is a brilliant young artist who, with his natural talent and mehnat (otherwise known as hard work) has gained popularity and a fan base.  He is also a cool cat who we had fun joking around with. 

As for Ustad Salamat Ali Khan he too was brilliant and being the student and disciple of the Late Medhi Hassan Sab, well no wonder.  I had a chance to meet him at our house where he enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner with us the night before.  He was extremely pleasant and sincere, humble as well and didn't seem to mind the chaos.  If anyone can withstand the Hossain craziness without running away screaming, then they are good in my books (although shrinks may wanna have a good long chat with them...just sayin').  Same goes for Shakir.  He seemed to legitimately enjoy the mad house and all those who resided within not to mention gel with the lunatics without batting an eyelash. 

The evening was no doubt lovely, the auditorium full and the artists were both in their element and fantastic spirits.  Sitting in the darkened chair reunited with friends I let the notes wash away the exhaustion from a whole day of generating judges score sheets, preparing badges and running errands for last minute items that needed to be picked up.  It was full speed ahead for most of the day from the moment I woke up and then I was told that I would be MCing which added an annoying layer of trepidation.  Making a fool of myself up on stage isn't my most favorite thing to do.  Couple that with the fact that no one had prepared bios for the two artists that I could use for introductions *frustrated sigh*...thanks to my friend R, I was quickly able to throw some appropriate sentences together and at least appear as if I was well rehearsed. 

Sitting there in the front row, I leaned back, closed my eyes (not even close to sleeping) I sighed and smiled when my cousin squeezed my hand.  Okay, so may be the next 2 days were going to be just fine?  
 
Next blog, I'll tell you if it was or not : )  Lol, this is in an effort to leave you in suspense! Just humor me.  =\

The Craziness Continues...

...And Thursday dawned crisp and warmish.  I slept till about 9am and found myself scowling at the clock.  I didn't get why it was ringing neither why I had to get up but it was insisting.  So I heaved a huge sigh of irritation and pulled myself out of a perfectly comfortable warm and snugly bed.  I passed by the mirror and squeaked in horror before rushing to the shower.

After making myself somewhat presentable, I faced the epic challenge of packing for the next several days.  For those South Asian women out there, you will appreciate the fact that the task of packing is about the most painful experience for us (close second to a root canal).  Mind you it's no less painful for women all over the universe but for us we have an extra added layer of pain-in-the-assishness (yes, this too is now a word).  Not only do we have to figure out all the normal stuff but add to it bangles, bindi's, petticoats, blouses (for sari's not for pant and shirts), whether we wear a sari or a salwar and then accessories which are and should always be over-the-top.  Desi bling I tell ya.

Anyhow this did not put me in a good mood particularly because I had to couple all that mess with needing to get together 'regular' clothes.  P was in good spirits (which pissed me off because I hadn't had coffee and well generally am not a morning person) and he kept encouraging me to "look forward" to the next few days.  Um...yea so not there at that moment.  All I could do was frown at him and give him warning looks.  The good thing about being married for 16 years?  He knows when to back off and make himself scarce.  Boy did he make tracks!

I had at some point decided that the best course of action was to simply grab anything that I had already worn, stuff all that into the bag and get going.  Which is what I did and also which probably can explain why I (think) closely resembled a bag lady during the oncoming days.  But we were on the road by 2 and at my parents place by 3. 

As soon as we got home, things seemed to kick into high gear since not only were there tons of people milling around rehearsing or hanging out, but also there was the added bonus of Thanksgiving craziness.  My mother even had a turkey which one of her friends had marinaded and was ready to be trussed and stuffed into the oven.  I took a quick trip with Big Bro to his "office" (a very generous term to be used in connection with this hovel that had seen more parties then actual work done in it) to scoop up last years competition decorations.  Once back at the abode the turkey took center stage.  Something about sticking your hand up the butt of a big over sized piece of dead poultry just screams "happy thanksgiving"!  And something about not actually having the roasted bird on the table is a slight bit depressing...so we have one, no matter what.

In-between preparing a few of the side dishes (mostly out of boxes since this year scratch food was not happening) my mother was also in the midst of crazy desi cooking.  Not everyone likes turkey so we always have to double up.  *sigh*.  Past Thanksgivings have been hell on earth for me when I hosted because I had to always take into account the varied tastes of my family.  I admit that there had been times when I wanted to fling mashed potatoes at certain members of the clan and tell them to either eat or trot their butts off to McD's.  But that's neither here nor there.  The fact was that chaos reigned supreme in that kitchen as we bumped, weaved, grabbed, stirred, spiced, strained, added and all those other culinary terms to our evening meal. 

The funniest moment was when I was staring at a box of mashed potatoes reading the directions trying to figure out how to make it.  Being one who has only made fresh mush in the past, this box thing was a bit put-offish so I read the instructions then went to gather the ingredients together.  When I got to the refrigerator I saw that we had no milk.  I asked my mom, who was busy stirring something at the stove, where the liquid white stuff was.  She looked at me and said "oh we're out of milk".  I did a mental 'huh'.  "So how do I make this?"  I asked her while waving the box feeling confused and dreading the mere thought of heading out to the store that day.  She said without missing a beat, "just use powdered milk".  My eyes bugged, my heart stopped and every molecule in my body screamed NO!  She pulls out a familiar red and white tin of Dano powdered milk, hands it to me and turns back to her task as if the problem were solved.  No, the problem was not at all solved in my book!  It was seriously sacrilege, what she suggested, and I was beyond appalled yet again the daunting task of going out to get one stupid carton of milk was not appealing in the least therefore...well let's just say that I made it with the powdery stuff and um...hey it wasn't bad.  So in case you find yourself without milk and a box of mashed potatoes, keep a stash of powdered milk somewhere in your cupboards.  *still flinches*

The plan was to serve dinner at around 8:00ish, then leave for the competition hall to get things set up around 8:30.  I pointed out the flaw of this plan to my bro who was sure that everyone could scarf their food down in a half hour then haul ass.  Hey we're desi's...we always work at least an hour behind schedule, if not more.  I can assure you this wonderful schedule never even came close to being adhered to.  Sure enough dinner was at 8:30 and people seemed to lounge around eating till about 9:30ish and even then the leave taking was reluctant at best.  As the guys grunted and groaned under the weight of speakers and other paraphernalia we women cleaned up the kitchen.

Oh did I mention that I burned my hand whilst basking in the heat of the turkey?  Yup, as all the females gathered around the oven to check out the bird (emitting the proper amounts of ohh's and ahh's of appreciation), I was in the process of manhandling it when the back of my hand came into direct contact with the side of the oven. Talk about a second feeling like eternity.  My first instinct was to drop the blasted thing, screech like a banshee while running around in small circles flapping my hand and sobbing like a 2 year old.  I repressed this urge in the face of my mother who looked on the verge of collapse and who, if she had a clue I had injured myself, was liable to go over the deep end and curl up into a nervous ball on the floor.  Never mind I wasn't taking a chance so I did the mature thing, blinked back tears of pain and went on with all that I had left to do.

Suffice it to say the rest of the evening was physically painful for me but that's okay cause hanging around with our friends consuming various delectable eats was the balm.  And boy did we have a lotta people that day.  Impromptu gathering of random folks.  It was nice but the clean up of that mess...so not nice.  As it were my girl R was on her way to help with the decoration of the competition venue therefore I had some major ass hauling to do myself in the form of dishes.  Everyone else was far too slow for my taste therefore I manned the sink and probably blazed through about 100 individual pieces of pots, pans, serving platters, cups and utensils...that too with a burned hand.  Am I a stud or what?  (May be not a total stud cause although I had every intent of hiding the burn from my mother, I couldn't help but actually yelp in pain when I was walking by the counter and accidental whacked the very spot that was burned.  Ammi swooped down on me in a hot second and berated me for not telling her.  *sigh*)

R did make it (and she was on time) and helped out in the putting away of the food (which BTW I absolutely loath boxing up leftovers...I mean I seriously rather be run over by stampeding water buffalo) and soon R, my cousin P and I were off to the university Fine Arts building to do some decorating. 

The night when we do the set-up is always a sort of silly precursor to the 3 intense days yet to come.  And it's also a re-establishment as well as reintroductions to old friends.  It basically 'set's the stage' (no pun intended) for the congenial atmosphere that will fall over the competition within the next 24 hours (and also we sort of find solidarity in exhaustion so there's that other aspect).  The guys set up sound and then spend about 3 hours testing it which translates to them getting up on stage for impromptu performances.  The rest of us are typically busy putting up banners and lights and whatnot to make the space at least look presentable although by now after years of use of the same crap we so need to get new decorations for next year.  *sigh* 

This year it was bitterly cold and when it was time to go I kept thinking to myself 'no no, it's okay, I'll just sleep here for the night' for the prospect of being blown straight to Canada was so not what I needed but plans had been made to do some Black Friday shopping with my Cuz and R had to skedaddle back to PA.  Now you wonder, after all this...Black Friday (hence known as "BF")?  Well yea.  I mean I'm a woman after all and who knows what I can score, may be my 100th scarf, a bit of bling or even a pair of terribly uncomfortable but cheap pair of shoes?  The possibilities are truly endless.  Besides in the past several years, the competition has robbed me of the ability to indulge BF hence I will find anytime I can spare, even if I'm exhausted and draggin' big time boo-tay. 

Oh and talkin' about BF...so many years ago, I'd say about 8, I was mad for these certain pair of boots but they were in Nordstrom's and the one near my parents place had run out.  I was informed that there was one pair at Tyson's Corner Mall.  I think my mother agreed to let me go only because of the crazy glint of determination in my eyes.  My cousins decided to tag along and so there we were zooming down Route 29 in Columbia.  If anyone has traversed this one particular stretch of by-way before, you'll be well aware that cops seem to troll this space endlessly.  Go 10 miles above the 'suggested' posted sign and you're spam.  Knowing this but blatantly ignoring it I pushed pedal to metal and hurled down the street weaving expertly in and out of traffic while my cousins egged me on and sang at the top of their lungs some Hindi song that was the rage then.  I was feeling good with my shades in place and the sunroof wide open the prospect of sexy boots close within my grasp.

Of course for me nothing good lasts too long and therefore was I surprised to see the flashing lights in my rear view?  Nope.  And when I glanced at the speedometer it read '78mph' I did a mental 'wtf?'.  Um...when did that happen?  Talk about being lead-footed.  As I pulled over my mind raced with all the quick explanations I could give him:  my dog died and I had only a few hours left to get it stuffed, my gophers in the emergency room due to a heart attack, my bird flew the (real, not proverbial) coop and I was chasing it but it was hard to formulate much of an explanation that sounded plausible with my cousins sort of freaking out in the car.  I told them to zip it and patiently waited for the guy to approach. 

He was probably in his 50's with a lot of grey hair neatly trimmed.  Sporting the traditional aviator sunglasses he had a white toothy smile and his uniform looked starched.  I thought to myself 'the devil approacheth' and plastered what I thought would be a half pathetic pout on my face.  Surely he'd let me go with a warning, right?  He politely asked me for my drivers license and registration, then asked me the one singular question that just plain ol' irritates me... "do you know why I stopped you?"  Is that a trick question?  Again another moment in my life where I had to repress the total urge to say something super inappropriate to a person of authority and in this case it was biting back the following sentence: "why in the world would I actually answer that question truthfully?  and besides don't YOU know?"

Instead I said "I was going a bit fast."

He quirks his eyebrow and says "just a bit?  You were going nearly 18 miles above the speed limit, another 2 and I would have to slap you with a reckless driving charge and take you to jail."  He didn't say this in a mean way and smiled when I sort of cringed (the smile wasn't vicious either).  Then he said in a kind-ish voice, "where in the world were you going in such a rush?"

All those excuses that had sounded reasonable in my head went right out the sunroof as I stared at him, wrung my hands together and said in an almost exasperated voice, "well there are these pair of boots at the Tyson's Nordstroms that they have on hold for me for only the next two hours and if I don't get there by..."  My cousins literally gasped and smothered laughter while the cop stared at me in shock, his mouth slightly hanging open.  "...and seriously I've been looking for these things for so long and I just have to get there before they..."  By the time the last word had left my mouth, he was barely repressing a full out guffaw.  When I went silent, he finally let go throwing his head back and laughed, a booming sound that seemed to echo through my car.  When he was finally able to control himself he leaned in and said to me "that was one of the more honest explanations I've heard."  He handed me my license, registration, a ticket for 250 smackeroos, told me to go to court and wished me good luck with the boots.  :|  (P.S. Those ended up being some of the most expensive boots I had ever purchased and super uncomfy as well...damn it.)

Oh, so anyhow back to present day and shockingly enough my cousin and I got to Columbia Mall and actually found parking in less then 15 minutes.  The whole time we were there I was asking my cousin who were the nutcases that felt the need to shop at midnight?  She pointed out to me with a rather sweet smile 'us?'.  I hate it when she states the obvious. *scowl*  We both bought a few things but more or less our intent was to wander around, spend some time together and were home early, just by 2:30am.   Later as I crawled into bed beyond tired with burning eyes and an aching back, I thought to myself that I was probably about the stupidest human being alive and that when I could have rested I hadn't while when I wouldn't be able to later on, I'd be begging for it. 

*sigh* 

Day end.