My Musical Life

Driver seems to be taking his newfound musical diversity to new levels, exploring the sounds of the wider world, reaching out to acoustic cultures I was unaware he was aware of and I was even tempted to give him hi-five in the middle of traffic this morning, but thought better of it when I realized he was swerving to avoid a small gathering of cows that had taken over the middle of the street. Best to let Driver concentrate on driving.

Like Marco, there is almost nothing I like better than good old-fashioned remix and just when I thought I had heard it all in a “been there, done that” sort of way, my ears were treated to an entirely new experience that still has my ear drums tapping… Hindi yodeling. Who knew such a thing even existed, but there it was… A bunch of lyrics I could not understand and suddenly a “yodel-odel-odel-odel-ay-ee-oo” done with such conviction I was tempted to braid my hair and change my name to Heidi. God know’s there were plenty of cows around to milk and all I was missing was a pair of kurta leiderhosen and some pointy-toed hiking juttis. It was all very “Sound of Music” set against a Hindu backdrop, not unlike Moulin Rouge. But who would be the beautiful courtesan and who would be the penniless sitar player? It was all I could do not to jump out of the car and start dancing in the gardens and pools of the Lotus Temple, but decided against it as my overpowering shyness kicked in basically rendering me rhythmically challenged. Goras just can’t dance.

And a Gora is what I am. A white boy. Fair skinned child of the jungle. A modern day Tarzan living amongst the elephants and monkeys that litter my life the way empty bottles of Veuve Cliquot used to when I was surrounded by wannabe supermodels and international fashionistas serving oversized portions of face to each other on Iittala platters complete with cocktail garnish.

But Delhi is not without glamour. In fact, this coming week is fashion week, and I’ll give you three guesses as to who is going to be schmoozing and boozing with the sub-continental who’s who. Wrong. Wrong. Yep, it’s little me, so hopefully there will be loads of gossip, tales of decadence and debauchery, backstabbing and blackmail that I will be more than happy to share with you here, changing the names to protect the guilty, of course. Look out Carrie Bradshaw, there’s a new light on the literary horizon.