Like a rolling stone

Having spent nine glorious years of my formative life in Chennai, then very much a throbbing, pulsating city called Madras, there was bound to be a big confusion. A north Indian growing up in the south in no new concept, but back then before cable television came in to India, life with just Ramayana in Hindi on Sunday’s and everything else including news in Tamil was a bit perplexing, not for a four-year-old, but for my father, who still can’t do without watching news reruns 4-5 times. My mother made do with a second-hand Rapidex book that resembled a leaflet, what with many pages missing. My brother and I — when he wasn’t busy slamming the door shut on my face — therefore, took refuge in music. Buying cassettes were therefore a much fussed over ritual that we as kids looked forward too once in three months, but then there were always my brother’s friends from whom to borrow from. So came in the Lionel Richies, The Wham!, John Denver and the Muppets, The Beatles… No every tape was appreciated, not every tape cherished. Then, there were ridiculous break dance cassettes, six of them from some series, that my aunt thought made perfect birthday gift, thankfully for my brother. Cable, however, changed our lives like nothing else. There was variety, yes, but there was this vice-like grip that music videos had on us. The big hair, ripped pants, the vision of Axl Rose. The Guns ’n’ Roses. Michael Jackson. Nothing drove my mother up the wall quite like GNR. Every time she spotted their guitar lead, the legendary Slash, she’d wish someone had the good sense of gifting him a rubber band or two. The point, however, is that music wasn’t just an escape, although it was in a way, it was inspirational. The images that they would conjure up in my head were more powerful than the books I’d read at that age, even though I didn’t understand most of the sentiment or language behind each experience. If you ask me today, you haven’t really lived life until you’ve heard The Rolling Stones.