War songs and bar cries (oops, the other way)

“Your generation’s taste is pathetic. How could you listen to something like that? It won’t even last a fortnight”

"Maybe. But I like it now. And did you like 'your' song because you knew it would last forever?"

"Anyway it lasted. Our time was full of good music. Now times have changed. Everything is mediocre. Too populist."

"True. A lot of us like such songs. You like 'your' songs and we like 'our' songs."

"But what we liked are the best."

"That's what you say."

"That's the truth."

"Wait a minute, isn't that what we call fundamentalism?"

"Do you remember that masterpiece composed by…aha…hmm…that's the one…"

Someone was sensible enough to intervene so that we could finish our pegs in peace. Binges recur thanks to such souls who act as fire alarms. Like them, a potential fundamentalist is ever present in every joint. Maybe people are more fundamental when they are drunk.

Toddy shops had banned talks on communism and communalism through decrees written on the wooden panels that screened the rooms. Understandably. But what made them such fascists so as to ban music on their premises? Sometimes music can be a great divider too.

Years ago during a festival in Kazhakkoottam, we met up a group of friends in a shady bar. We were still lingering on to the university campus despite the vacation. We drank up brandy that looked like the proverbial daru in old Hindi movies and smelled like varnish.

Our troupe was poor in resources but rich in music. I too sang. (Those days not everyone had a mobile phone to reproduce drunken songs the next day.) Admiring glances and appreciating sounds came from the other tables. A tipsy man came over to us and requested the Tamil singer to repeat that Ilayaraja hit. Why not? We obliged.

The next request came from the other table. This time it was RD Burman. Why not? We competed with the blaring speaker put up by the festival organizers on the road. The thrilled juniors SPB and Kishore Kumar strained their ears for more applause. But the first admirer was less admiring now: "When I say Tamil, only Tamil."

"Who are you to say that? We would hear only Kishore Kumar songs," retorted the second admirer. Tamil! Hindi! Ilayaraja! Burman! We hummed the first lines of many songs as if in an Antakshari at the command of the rival gangs of Kazhakkoottam.

With years of experience in cheering fisticuffs, we scooted one by one. The goons of Ilayaraja and Burman were now at swords point and between them the main singer, Junior SPB, was waiting for the next command. Fortunately, we could drag out the sloshed singer before the first beer bottle smashed against the table.

Wish the bar manager had the old toddy shop wisdom.

Our songs, your songs.