Lights, Dry Fruits, and Kaboom!

The season’s first box of dry fruits and diya candles arrived last week. This never fails to make me yearn for the days of yore – when corporate Diwali giveaways were ghee dripping sweetmeats quaintly decorated with dry fruits further sautéed in ghee. The brightly coloured, festooned box now looks more appetising from the outside than from the inside. Phew, that’s off my chest…onto the next! 

Two years ago, our beagle freed from 3 years of caged existence at a testing laboratory came hesitantly into our lives. She shivered and scampered in fright for almost everything, including kind, calm words of assurance. So the distant, dying sounds of Diwali frightening her didn’t surprise us. Over the months and years that followed, she learnt to settle into her home with us, go on walks to explore her world, put her inquisitive nose to good use to find her way to the kitchen every time any kind of cooking was in progress, show her intense disapproval if someone came to her door by barking the roof down (the angry rebuff can turn into a Heathcliff-like cold welcome depending on the chicken and cheese you offer by way of a bribe), and to jump into my arms as only an excited child at the sight of her favourite person can. 

I’m now used to her tirelessly following me around the house as I go about my work. She’ll pause for a quick scratch to her ears or sit on her haunches as she watches what I do and then the pitter patter of her paws assures me I have my shadow with me as I continue moving around the house. A few days ago, I was putting together the things for her bath when the first familiar kaboom went off. We both paused in our tracks. I couldn’t show much emotion or reassure her because that would strengthen her belief that there was a need to be frightened. As nonchalantly as possible, I turned to watch her. The silence that followed the firework was a few seconds long and Daisy decided to go to the balcony to investigate.

She looked out into the bright afternoon and could see nothing to fear other than the buildings and trees she gazes out at everyday while sunbathing. The second boom came as she turned to come back to her trail behind me. She didn’t turn around to inspect but raced ahead of me into the room where she sleeps every night and jumped onto her bed, panting and looking at me. “Zoomies for what now?” I questioned her in a light-hearted tone. She wasn’t fooled. She continued panting and watched the direction from where the sounds came. I gave the ears the forgotten scratch and went in to turn on the water. 

When I came out, she was nowhere in sight. I called out to her and her head popped up from between the dinning table and the wall, but not a sound, nor a pitter patter. I grinned and made as if to catch her for her bath – a usually high-speed chase follows this gesture as she jumps from bed to floor and on and off a zillion times till she collapses on the bed demanding a belly rub. My heart skipped a few beats as she picked up a paw ever so lightly and held it close to her – a sign of fear. The honey-brown, doe-like eyes that fire up with joy and sheer naughtiness now looked wary. The panting continued. And the worst of it all for me was the shivering haunches. I knew if I held her now, I could feel her racing heart.

When children are frightened, they cry, they come running to you to be cajoled. Daisy did neither, nor do most dogs. They cower in fright, when even their own homes where they rule the roost become a battleground of confusion and fear. I closed the sliding doors, knowing that it will do little to keep the sounds away and picked her up for her bath. Usually not a fan of being cuddled, she let me hold her as thankfully, the sounds died away in the distance. 

So, what happens next week? Hopefully, we get to run for shelter with Daisy to a quite getaway in the outskirts. Not because we don’t love the lights and happiness around us, but because the sight of a thousand pair of frightened eyes on the streets mirror the pair we see at home. 

Bright Lights and a Bird Set Free

As a reticent 6-year old, I was silently ecstatic when I was picked up for the junior choir. Our choir conductor was the prim and posh Mrs. H. We adored her lively music classes, and during our morning assembly, she jingled away at the piano with happy tunes for our still somewhat infantile tongues (Ah, Mr. Dickens, your words!). 

Her amicability with children aside, Mrs. H was also known for her exacting coaching when she trained us for school performances. The big day arrived, and we nervously, and as primly dressed as our conductress, fell in place on the podium behind her piano. The first song started slow, picked up mid-way, and we finished on a high-note to exuberant applause from our teachers. Whether it was the applause or the lights and podium, I can never tell, but a fair amount of nerve set in. 

For the next song, I found myself pushed under a microphone. I peered into the darkness above the lights, but the microphone seemed to appear magically from thin air. The lights, the microphone, the overall upbeat atmosphere - surely there was no better time to push my vocal abilities? Loud and clear, I took off with the familiar lyrics, only to be interrupted by a voice over the speakers that seemed to know no melody. Confused, I stopped for a few seconds before picking up hesitantly again and the unseen off-key debacle picked up alongside, just as hesitantly. 

The lights now seemed to add to the confusion as hands tugged at me. With a frantic flick of her head while she continued to play her piece on the piano, Mrs. H conveyed the message - move away from the mic. Cringing from the now not-so-magical mic, I discovered the art of lip-syncing for the rest of the performance and all the way through my school years.

Our fears and reservations die down, don’t they? Especially when you forget to cling to them. And so this one did too, over the years. I’ve learnt to accept I can’t sing to save my life, and mercifully, I’ve never had to. I can’t help breaking into a song every now and then, and I stand mocked for those private performances, but mostly by friends whose jokes are better than my melody, so I can’t resist giggling along; or if their jokes need a lift, I intensify my performance.

This seems to be the right place to quote the lyrics of one of my favourite songs - Sia’s Bird Set Free:

And I don't care if I sing off-key

I found myself in my melodies

I sing for love, I sing for me

I shout it out like a bird set free

I’ve known a good many singing voices that have died down over the years. The ones that had no reason to fear anything with a voice so firm and beautiful, and yet they’ve decided to forget the melodies that once defined them. Letting go of fears and reservations means you now have something new to hold in its place. And what you choose to hold onto next is entirely up to you. Courage, for instance, is a great choice! Courage to step up to the pitch and swing, when colleagues and peers gather round to watch. Courage to fail, because I cannot and may not want to win them all. Courage to fly, when the weight of my self-perceived limitations pulls me down. And courage to be a bird set free in a world full of choices and infinite experiences.