Portrait

Michael Jackson has died. It’s pretty surreal. This was the star of my generation. The legend. By the time we came around John Lennon, Bob Marley and Bob Dylan were already gone. We would only grow up hearing stories of the enigma that surrounded each of those people, and the phenomenal effect they had on the world. We would, in turn, learn to love their music, their personas, basking in the glory of that curious thing that happens post-mortem: where something takes on a rosy hue in memory. We lived in a world where they became hugely sensationalised, glamourised, romanticised and possibly overrated, simply because they were dead. I barely remember the passing of Kurt Cobain.

But M.J was ours. He was all ours. And now he’s dead.

I grew up singing ‘bidet, bidet’ for Beat It. I grew up pissing myself in fear watching Thriller. I grew up owning the CDs and a video tape of all the Number One videos. I grew up in a world that liked Michael Jackson, that treated him like a star, a king. I watched it fast turning into a world which wanted to crucify him, for his eccentricities, his alleged sicknesses. But by that time, I had already made up my mind about how I felt about him. I liked him. And that wasn’t about to change, regardless of the increasingly weird behaviour, the exceedingly bizarre face or the return trips to courtrooms. By that time, luckily, I was old enough to separate the career from the personal life.

More than anything, I grew up wanting to dance. And anyone who grew up wanting to dance hasn’t escaped the Michael Jackson fever. At some point in all our lives, as dancers or aspiring dancers, we have all admired him, looked to him, imitated him. Even the great Akram Khan, British-Indian dancer and choreographer, whom I love endlessly, once said something to the effect of, “I grew up seeing white people onstage, in the movies. And then Michael Jackson came out with Thriller, and I saw that there was a possibility that brown people could do great things, too”. Michael Jackson gave a lot of people hope, he was the poster boy for dreams of dancing, hidden away in our minds. For people dancing in the privacy of their bedrooms and showers, little boys and girls who dreamed of enormous stages. An entire generation of black and brown people, to whom he inadvertently reached out, but also the masses of white people, who had found their King of Pop.

He affected a lot of different people. From Akram Khan to Elizabeth Taylor. From me, to the children playing cricket down the street. He reached out to this side of the world, a lot, too. From the West, to the East. He was a man that literally touched the world. His career reached out across borders of age, race and more importantly, artistic tastes. He achieved both mainstream and critical acclaim for his music and performances, and all the things he pioneered as an artist. He had fans who listened to all kinds of music. Those who listened to Pop liked him, those who listened to Rock liked him, even those of us who have a penchant for the more obscure liked him. He was respected, truly respected.

No popular artist working today can even come close to matching that kind of success. Today, all mainstream artists are lost in a sea of mediocrity, to be forgotten after a single or two. He, on the other hand, worked hard to stay put. He revolutionsed pop music in the ’80s, using rock instruments, heavy electronic lead and bass guitars in dance music. He revolutionised the music video, turning it into an epic extravaganza of plots, characters and special effects, much like a film. He revolutionised live performances for pop artist, making them an action and energy packed all-round experience for the audience, with unbelievable dancing, gimmicks, and expensive stage sets.

Another characteristic of his career, unusual for artists from the crazy ’80s and ’90s, is that he is timeless. I can listen to the albums Bad, Dangerous or Thriller today and it seems current, not outdated. It’s interesting. It’s certainly better than a lot of the shit people churn out these days. It seems even more current and intrinsic than music that is actually currently popular in the mainstream.

His performances were skillful, amazing, perfect. That level of expertise and energy, seldom have I seen others bring to a live stage. Today, I see all these popular new artists performing live, and it’s a true test of how good they really are. And mostly, they all fail miserably. They are boring, and mostly, they are lazy.

Michael Jackson, live, was never lazy. Every second of every song, he is working, he is there, a 100% and he is giving it to you. He made up in glamour for what he didn’t have in vocals, he made up in dancing for what he lacked in lyrical profundity. He always came through for the people who came to see him. He always lived up to the reputation that preceded him.

And now he’s dead. We have lost not only a singer, not only a dancer, but a man who worked hard and earned respect and admiration the good old fashioned way. And that’s what the industry will miss the most. An example of how simple, pure hard work can produce magical results. An example of a true professional, who was willing to do what it takes to become what he did. An example of skill and expertise earned through endless commitment to achieving perfection, and an example of how tireless perfectionism pays off. He was a pro, and, in short, that’s all needs to be said about the man.

This is not a generic loss I feel. I actually liked this guy. It’s not me acknowledging this loss for the rest of the world. I was a fan. It’s my loss, too. And in the years to come, I will remember him for myself. I won’t be living with stories of greatness anymore, I will have known myself this man who was larger, and weirder, than life itself.

Collecting donations in cash or kind is a curious thing. You are compelled to find out how much people are willing to part with, in the name of the greater good, a ‘cause’ greater than their own needs, and essentially, how generous or giving they are. In a time where money is difficult to come by for most of us, it is especially heartwarming when people are eager to give. But this is not something I’m readily willing to find out about people. In fact, I’ve been kind of weary of collecting money from people because it would mean I’m peeping in on this very personal detail. It’s funny, but also interesting. Of course, at the end of the day, everyone that does donate in my eyes is generous. But some give more and than others. And this knowledge is a burden I would sometimes rather not shoulder.

I have always been a bit weary of people who like the glamour of ‘causes’. Go Green! Power to the poor! Free Palestine! I wonder, sometimes, whether any of these people are really willing to do what it takes to see the changes they claim they want to see. And whether they truly believe the sweeping statements they stand by, or claim to do so simply because it seems like the kind of thing they should believe, in order to appear to be a certain kind of person.

And this is why I hate the pretentious: it’s like you have this archetype in your mind, this vague, abstract concept of a personality, which might not even really be humanly plausible. Artist. Liberal. Activist. Intellectual. And then you have this checklist of things that you need to be/believe in to be that archetype. “I should think that Che is cool and that weed should be legal and that the rich are the evil.” Or, “I should listen to a certain type of music, like a certain kind of book, and whether I actually like these things or not is immaterial”. There are very few people I know who actually un-pretentiously form their own opinions and carefully think about what they believe to be right and wrong, and most importantly, are up to changing their minds as they grow older and wiser. They don’t really care what ‘type’ of person that makes them. Luckily, they are all my friends.

I see people who are all about the hoo haa about Iraq but don’t bother to treat those who are waiters or drivers like human beings. I see people who are always so busy sending things to the IDPs but won’t stop to give a beggar in Colombo a red cent. I see people who spend a lot of time writing about the evils of the elite, but wouldn’t take a stray dog in from the cold, leave alone another person.

It’s wonderful when people want to help, but I believe true generosity comes from wanting to help anyone you can help, anytime you can help. It’s not about choosing your causes, choosing who deserves your goodness, and who doesn’t. That’s not a judgment I feel we are fit to make about others.

It could be buying the tri-shaw driver a maalu paan the next time you stop at Perera and Sons to buy yourself something. It could be saying ‘Good Morning’ to the man whose job it is to open the door for you at Food City. It could be letting a friend share your home in a time of need. It could be taking the neighbourhood’s stray dog to the vet. It could be, literally, the famed helping-an-old -lady-cross-the-street.

Really, the opportunities present themselves to us all the time, and most of the time, we don’t even notice. We walk on by, rushing to hand in our large donations to a cause that is in our eyes more worthy than a shabby beggar, a stray animal, a cab driver who likes a chat just as much as the next person.

What cause do I believe in? Well, mostly, I believe in the cause of human decency, pure and simple. Very easily achieved, results guaranteed to satisfy all parties involved. It won’t take a minute out of your day.

The last time I was in London, it was 2005, I was 4 years younger, I was with my mother and a lot happened.

I was there for one and a half weeks, and it seemed as though everything happened all at once.

The Live 8 concert happened. Approximately 200,000 people, I’m certain from all over the UK, spilled into Hyde Park to see it. To see everyone from Coldplay to U2 to Elton John to Annie Lennox to Madonna. And of course, Pink Floyd reunited, for the first time together with Roger Waters on the same stage since 1981.

Wimbledon happened. I think Federer won.

I went to my first Pride parade, as London Gay Pride week unfolded. It was beautiful, colourful and lots of mischief and fun, and I saw Ian McKellan in the flesh.

The July 07th bombings, which came to be known as the 7/7 bombings happened, leaving 52 dead and 700 injured.

I saw the amazing, enigmatic, utterly skillful Akram Khan dance for the first time, at the premier of Zero Degrees at the Sadler’s Wells theatre.

I saw the work of Frida Kahlo, alive as I had never seen them before, at the Tate’s Summer exhibition.

London won the bid for the 2012 Olympics, incidentally the day before the bombs, and it hence became London 2012.

Personally, a lot of other stuff happened too. I was ever the theatre enthusiast: I saw the Phantom of the Opera, and A Winter’s Tale at the Globe. I was the tourist; we went on the London Eye, I did the wax museum. I went to beautiful, beautiful Oxford. I flirted shamelessly, and batted my eyelids at bars to get drinks. I wanted to buy everything I saw. And it was nicest because for that time, I had my mother all to myself, and we had a good old time, us girls.

I cringe when I read my posts from then, but in a way, I am so glad I have the posts, however embarrassing the may be. It’s not only a record of all the things I did there and what a wonderful time I had, but it’s also a reminder of who I was then.

This time I go with a serious schedule, and by myself. I’ve relatively calmer, more interested in music and theatre than in spending 25 quid on the Wax Museum, and even though I could legitimately drink, something I couldn’t do last time, I’ve already done and gotten over drinking, and don’t anymore. Is life always this ironic?

London town, here I come.

David tagged me, in this on-going tagging fever that RD started. To put into five words how I feel is difficult. As you already probably know if you read my blog, I like the sound of my own voice. I like to talk, and in the blogging equivalent, I like to blog. I like to put all my thoughts down, arrange them one by one, carefully, meaningfully. This is one of the reasons I blog. Writing them down helps me to make sense of them, to organise them.

But, OK. This is a challenge. Five words. Here goes.

1. Distrusting
2. Fearful
3. Despair
4. Hopeful
5. Overwhelmed

I think the last one is the most true to how I feel. Right now, I’m feeling so much, so many different things all at once, I feel tired. It’s hard to go around feeling so much, all the time. My mind is constantly bombarded with thoughts of those in the IDP camps and hospitals. My heart aches with despair and worry, for all those overseas, who are worrying day and night about the members of their families who got left behind. My very body it seems is heavy.

And yet my mind rationalises, telling me to feel hope and positivity. And so, we come to number 4. Perhaps the most important feeling to harbour right now, hope, but also the hardest to feel. Some days, I feel like I’m forcing myself.

But I am forcing myself. To be patient, to see the bright side, to give it a chance. And maybe for now, that’s good enough.

I tag no one. Everyone, it seems, has a pretty clear idea of how they feel.

…as I walk down the grand, wooden staircase, the banister gleaming, my footsteps echoing, in my mind’s eye, I can see myself, walking down these very same steps, years ago. There used to be a time, when I was never far from this place. Sitting with the girls at the bar, laughing with the boys down below, on the sprawling green lawn.

All the names, written in white block letters, names of captains, names of presidents, names of friends, mingle with the very air of the place. This was a time before. I was young, and foolish. Not just in the way in which we all say it, but truly young, and truly foolish. The place becomes a time in my life, and not really a place at all.

The structure has remained the same, it should look no different to me than it did then, but it does. It does not contain the same feelings, the same expectations, the same excitement as it once did. Coming here today does not mean the same things that it did then, when coming here meant so many things, all at once, too much to feel, for a girl so young and so very foolish.

I have spent many hours here, desiring, being desired. Sitting cross-legged on the lawn, being affected by some oarsman or the other, knowing very well that I’m having an effect on them too. Pretending not to look, not to care, but inside, tripping up with a woozy kind of joy. When the veil of night comes to cover all our mischievous agendas, hands get held, lips get kissed, hearts get broken and mended again, falling in and out of love. Friends get drunk, earning but never losing respect, carrying each other out, holding onto shoulders and doubling up with laughter.

This place reminds me not only of the things I used to do, but the way I used to be. Do I long for who I was then? Frivolous not in a crass, stupid way alone, but in a carefree way. Today it seems my every move is planned carefully, my heart content, not constantly agonising, searching, yearning. I did dangerous things, not entirely dangerous to myself, but small, selfish things. I did detrimental things. Not things that scarred one for life, but momentous things that lasted just a second in all its powerful glory, until I moved onto the next one.

I did not dare calculate how I affected others, afraid to find that I was truly normal, and solely unremarkable except for the way I made people feel. But I used this as much as I could, as much as I was allowed to, by all the good friends who wearily watched over me, ever ready to cut in, but also eager to let me stumble and learn.

I did things in an unhesitating way. In a forceful, potent kind of way. I never failed. I never missed. I always got what I wanted, who I wanted. And this place has seen a lot of that. What and who I wanted was not always exactly right. It was always what and who I wanted then, right then. And I was young and foolish enough to not look beyond, to be able to work towards that without a care in the world, without having to think ‘What next?’ until it came right to me and tapped me on the shoulder.

It was a wonderful kind of abandon, careless but never reckless. It all seems like a distant dream. A vague memory that doesn’t even seem to really belong to me.

In the end, I still managed to preserve every part of who I am for the right one, the right now. I am still whole. Different, but whole. This place has remained the same over the years. People still come and go, all the people I used to know and some people that I don’t, and some people that I know still, from the bottom of my heart. And it seems I have moved on, in all the good ways, the comfortable ways. It’s nice to revisit, like a relic of my past life, my past self. Nostalgia is good, but it is too connected to the past to be my favourite feeling. If there is one thing my past self and my present self have in common, it is the desire to live in the present.

And so I walk on, the nostalgia fades, to be replaced by all that I am feeling, and all that I am, right now.