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Aspirin Colors: Mohsin Ali

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Aspirin Colors

Government restrictions, strikes, clampdowns, virtual curfews, real curfews, gagged voices, stifled aspirations, and now, all these come with musical concerts of byzantine complexities. You know whatit kills many things in you. Axiomatic, it needs no explanation for the people of the valley- that enforced tableau in the political theatre of the South Asia. We are accustomed to these idiosyncrasies of occupation- sacrosanct concertina wires, dour men in khaki with moustaches curled into ripples, the torpor of these days laden with air so heavy that you can chew it (metallic taste), straitjacketed spacesthe Aspirin Days. Zubin Mehta concertI wake up this morning prepared for my Aspirin day. I stare at my ochre colored room in a garfieldish stare. I am also reluctant to response like Garfield. I am contemplating the dreary prospects of the day. Restricted movement, a strike-no work, no walks at lovely Boulevard road, no meetings, bland tv programmes , and most inconsiderately, an officially clamped musical concert on me and the rest of the people in Kashmir valley. We all woke up with a taste of curiosity in our mouths, calculating the price of this musical extravaganza. Some put the figure in single crores the previous night, and woke up with realization of crores more than the count of all fingers. And it is no civil list, say the economists. Zubin Mehtas concert is a matter of curiosity, devoid of any ardour. By the time we finish our breakfast we hear platitudes. Yes, we know that traffic movement has been restricted along the Mughal Gardens, yes, there is heavy deployment of police and CRPF personnel in virtually all of the city, yes, the roads are strewn with concertina wires, blockades abound, prospects of protests and stone pelting glare, and worst, personally, is my aching tooth (all clinics are closed). For my mother the other nagging concern is the absence of milkman- impossibility today as he resides in the area where the concert is held. The police have blocked every activity around Shalimar Garden. Ration my tea. Zubin Mehta hasnt disappointed. He has descended upon us with three tier security, sharpshooters, and swarm of helicopters and a bevy of elite. The already boring day, seethes with anger. Out of the 1500 privileged invitations, more than half are from outside the valley and the rest of bourgeoisie is from valley. The citizens of the valley coursing with blood other than blue in their veins are stifled inside their homes. He had an epiphany, Zubin Mehta. He didnt call Kashmir, the valley summoned him. The rest was seen to completion by German Ambassador Michael Steiner who perceived it a magical endeavour in the heart of beautiful Kashmir. The concert was titled Ehsaas e Kashmir, experience with the valley. I wonder what experience they wanted with the people clamped inside their homes. Their pizzazz was directed to whom? The Zabarvan mountain range or the decrepit monuments inside the Mughal garden.

The streets present the look of apparition. Phantom streets, phantom towns, phantom cities and phantom concerts. News of stone pelting and protests infiltrate the atmosphere. We are witnessing the smothering of freedom both in experience and art. Mr Mehta and his Bavarian Orchestra is too high profiled and constricted to be an independent expression, the quintessence of music. It makes us proud of street performers. A tale of two cities- Another music concert is planned by the civil society of Kashmir ten kilometers from the Mehta concert. Titled Haqeeqat e Kashmir, the reality of Kashmir, local musicians and poets are planned to perform. Everyone is invited. Avant Garde. Dickens would be proud. It is the time of manipulation, it is time of genuineness. It is clampdown time, it is expression time. It is the time of the experience, it is time of the reality. We are devastated, we are hopeful. Purely on the verve parameter, Zubin and his Bavarian orchestra lose. The compositions of Beethoven and Haydn do nothing to make good the loss of freedom for the people of valley. People tune their TV sets out of curiosity. Zubin is performing, uncharacteristically. There is no flamboyance in his conducting. The Kapellmeisters moves his baton sinuously slicing the heavy air with metallic taste to no effect. The faux paus expression of the audience says it all. Ten minutes later, channels are switched. Beethoven hasnt failed. He has been failed. There is always a proper platform for expression. A Russian leader once remarked, listening to Beethoven makes me forget the revolution. Sorry Mr Mehta, we are on the other side. We wont forget. I take an Aspirin.

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