Rush

I am not in the general habit of reviewing movies and books, but every now and then, you come across a masterpiece (Yes, I’m back again). It is one of these that inspires me to write today. Sure, I have to prepare to leave for Chennai in a few days. Sure I have a poster to complete. Sure I have an SAT practice test reaching out with open arms. But some things are so much better expressed while still fresh in your head.

August Rush is a story of a musical prodigy, his musical development and very plainly, a chronicle of his search for his separated parents. Freddie Highmore, the young actor who played the boy, is by any account, a spectacular actor. I must say, I was agreeably stunned by the depth of the emotions he portrayed, and the skill with which he so brilliantly portrayed Evan Taylor/August Rush’s character. The movie most definitely struck a chord somewhere inside me. Apart from being a persuasive and utterly fascinating film, it had very well written and orchestrated music.

But I shall not delve into the movie and its features much further. I do not intend, in this post, to produce an extensive analysis, but to talk about the feeling it brought in me.

During the entire experience of watching August Rush, and now, only minutes since its close, I feel something: A rush I can’t explain. There was once a time when I called myself a musician by authority of the fact that I had a continued musical education. My understanding of music at a very deeply level constantly deepened, and I found myself maturing slowly in tune to the music. But in the years since I indefinitely shelved my musical education, I never very strongly felt that it is a sorry and pitiful event that, having worked long and hard for almost a decade, I gave up on music due to the inconvenience and lack of motivation.

But now, now I realise it. I realise how sorry and indeed, pitiful it is. With it comes the recognition that there are so so many other things that I left half-done and half-undone when I first left home, and have yet to even give it a thought. I remembering wondering, only two weeks ago, how my brother not only remained attached to his music, but grew in attachment to his music, over the years. I remember reading his blog entry about the same (here) and gaping, with a mixture of awe, wonder, and I must say, confusion. The look in his eyes and the barely restrained excitement in his voice when he spoke of Chopin’s Nocturnes, Bach’s Minuets, Beethoven’s Rhapsodies, and Mozart’s Operas; the passion communicated by the expression on his face each time he showed me his latest composition.

That is exactly what I want. Thinking about it, I feel as if that passion lies within me too. After all, we shared the majority of our musical education. But that passion, I feel, refuses to manifest itself in any way. I feel like that passion, that music that had run in my veins, had been suppressed, put out of my consciousness. I feel like it still lies somewhere within me, but hiding behind a wall; a wall that grew thicker and stronger each year for the last three years.

At this point, I realise that as my last post talked about the biggest advantage of my three years spent away from home, so this speaks of what just might be, the worst disadvantage. Amidst many other resolutions, I pose yet another one to myself, as a promise as well as a challenge. I resolve to rebuild my passion for music and perhaps, to pick up an instrument upon finishing my high school diploma.

But for now, I need to get my act together: the academic one.

Adiós.

PS: Sarah, can you get back soon? It’s been more than 2 weeks! :(

PPS: Sid, Listen to “Bari Improv” , “Ritual Dance” and “Duelling Guitars” from the August Rush Soundtrack here. You’ll like them.

“Bari Improv”   (1:37)

“Ritual Dance”  (1:36)

“Duelling Guitars” (2:37)

El Amor Fraternal | L’Amour Fraternel | Brotherly Love

Sitting in the open, in the Grand Stand above the illuminated swimming pool one evening, I was taken aback when a rather strong yet surprisingly dulcet breeze blew upon my brow. In Singapore, this is what one might call a rare occurrence: the air is generally still and sultry at night-time, and the day-time weather is absolutely reprehensible. As I sat there, reading a letter from a dear friend in Australia, I felt like I could hear a whisper. I felt like I could hear the night talking to me. The night, in a certain indescribable way- the sights, the smells, the sounds, even the breeze- brought with it memories of my brother and an entire childhood spent in his company.

Having lived in so many places, having visited so many countries before my 18th birthday, is undoubtedly ‘cool’, in the vernacular of our generation. However, a few years ago, I came to a staggering realisation. People around me, many of them, have friends they have known almost forever, ever since their pre-kindergarten years, either through living in a certain neighbourhood or from school. Moreover, they have continued to remain in contact with each other. It is this that I came to realise: that I had few of these friends. In fact, One. Sidharth has always been around, and as far as he can remember, I have always been around.

Few people have siblings only a year apart from themselves, and I have received several envious remarks regarding the same. I always get the “wow! you must be real close to him!”, “he must be like your best friend!”, et cetera.

Ever since the beginning of time, I couldn’t stand my brother. I couldn’t connect with him, I couldn’t relate to him. Indeed, reports (and I’ll admit, blurry memories) would claim that I couldn’t stand him so much, that I used to fight and quarrel with him endlessly. (Okay, I’ll admit it: those memories aren’t really blurred) I remember the days when we would get into the most mindless of arguments and end up beating the hell out of each other (the real reason escapes me now, but if memory serves me well, I instigated most of the aforesaid quarrels and the “beating ups”). You know what they say, you don’t appreciate someone enough until the oceans separate you.

Well, that is exactly what happened. After I moved to Singapore, I realised what it meant to have a brother. After I moved to Singapore, away from family, away from that sense of security- both emotional and physical-, I understood the difference between your best friend and your brother. After I moved to Singapore, it really sank in: that there were things you could never tell your friend, that you could never expect a friend to understand, but that your brother would understand perfectly. I understood how deeply touching it could be to have your older brother approve or disapprove of something, to be praised and censured for your actions.

Over the three years since I left the comforts of home, I have discovered a friend in Sidharth. I have learned from him, I have begun to understand him better, and most importantly, I have learned to love him. It is one of the things I most often quote as the biggest and most tangible advantages of having come to Singapore, and my closest friends could testify to the same.

Now, if one were to say it unreservedly, I couldn’t possibly stand being apart from my brother.

Sid, thanks for being around these last two years. Although you were rarely transparent about it, thanks for loving me and caring for me the way you did these two years. All the best for Princeton.

 

An. (I’ve always preferred to spell it this way)

-----A note for the sake of my readers-------------------------------

Sidharth, my brother just finished his A-levels in ACJC. He’s applying to Princeton University, and in my opinion, without a doubt, he’s going to be accepted. Well, that’s about it.

Anirudh

Upon waking at dawn.

For the first time in months, I woke to an unearthly quiet. The sunlight pouring in through the windows and washing itself onto the opposite wall, which ever so often vexes me no end as I try to go back to sleep, for once, most invitingly entices me to get off my bed, wake my roommate just to say “GOOD MORNING DERRICK!” (to which I got no reply save “-moan- can you GE T OFF?”), brush|mouthwash|floss, make a cup of coffee and sit at my computer to write this.

Years ago while still living at home (well, it’s been three years now), my parents, in a seemingly passive and unobtrusive manner, would wake me up by turning off the air conditioning, and throwing open the doors and windows. You would have to think that there were more than 10 windows to that room, going by how fast cool and comfortable room became hot and stuffy room. This manner, and it’s effect (that I invariably jumped out of bed at the unholy hour of 5:45 a.m (well that’s not really an hour, but whatever) I loathed to the extreme, and I remember trudging to the kitchen demanding for my cup of hot chocolate while sulkily negotiating the terms of my wake-up call.

Upon first leaving home for the world beyond, for Singapore, freed from the torment of having decisions made for me, I’d wake up at 8 or 9 or whatever time I chose, oftentimes just for the childish thrill to be gained from the knowledge that I could do as I pleased. But almost three years down the road, today, I look out of my window, and just marvel at the sight: the reddish-brown track wet from the dew; the grass on the rugby field, even through the slight storybook-like mist, shining with a splendid sheen under the nascent daylight, that I can only fathom to have been a product of its extended beauty sleep.

Waking early has its own comforts. The comfort of being able to look ahead at a long day, and hope for some great achievement, hope that your day will be productive, hope that you can complete a whole SAT practice test, hope that you can progress significantly with your Extended Essay and Theory of Knowledge Essay. The comfort of being able to sit, in that otherworldly silence of the morn, and wilfully succumb to your overpowering thoughts.

Like the trite but true expression goes, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.”

It’s never felt truer.

A whole year of IB

WELL! A whole year of IB has passed, and attempting to look back at it and reflect is akin to wilful suicide. Thinking of the million things that could potentially summarise my one year in IB makes my head spin uncontrollably; the sheer number and intensity makes me dizzy.

This one year of my life in ACS, my life in Singapore, outshone the previous two years in great style; the two years combined. I’ve made friends this year that make me wonder how the HELL I managed without them before. Indeed, I’ve made one friend who now makes me wonder, how the HELL I LIVED before. For that, undoubtedly, I’m grateful.

I’ve enjoyed being busy, doing the things I love: competing at Rubik’s Cube contests, serving my school as a student councillor, doing charity projects with various organisations and more. I’ve learnt a lot from it too.

But just as all good things come to an end, all good things come at the cost of other things (which by the way, is the reason they come to an end). Seemingly as a result of these ‘good things’ – though not necessarily- I’ve gone through a year riddled with tardiness in assignment submissions, and a year that ended with a bang; as my dad very aptly put, I “got [my] wake up call, in great style.”

I can almost hear the large majority of my blog’s patrons screaming exasperatedly, “CAN YOU JUST GET OVER IT?” including Sidharth. But no, I don’t believe in ‘getting over’ these things. Ridiculous as it may sound to some people, I believe that ‘getting over’ isn’t all that different from giving up. ‘Getting over’ is so much like forgetting about it. ‘Getting over’ things makes one forget its import; it tends to make people underestimate them.

Ahh. Time to start working hard. Time to put my nose to the grindstone. Time to put my shoulder to the wheel.

A few days ago, Sarah said to me something along the lines of “Why do you leave things to the end?! You’re going to be so stressed out! What’s the point. That way, you worry about it ALL the days leading to the deadline, AND you worry about it on that last day! BE LIKE ME! Do it way in advance!”

That’s going to be the basis for my resolution for 2010. One which I intend to keep (I know we all say this every year, but THIS ONE’S FOR REAL)

Till later.

Of quarrels and separation

Every now and then, you wonder why some things pain your mind and heart to an inordinate extent and why those things never seemed so important till then. Things like jealousy, love, social acceptance and the likes.
What is a feeling that's not a result of the stimulus-reaction faculty of the human senses? A feeling of sorrow, guilt, heartache, pity. A feeling in your heart.

Every now and then, you are brought to a revelation: one of the depth of your feelings towards a friend. Do you not think, as I have come to realise recently, that quarrels can tell you EVERYTHING about how much you care for someone? Do you not think that being apart from someone can tell you the extent of your attachment to him?

Going by any standard of measure, even the most otherworldly, nonnatural standards of measure, this day, this week, this past month; all, in their own ways have not been good.

Today:
Quarrels make most people feel dejected, depressed, dispirited, downhearted. Me? More so than most. The toughest part; having to decide whether to call, whether to text, whether to be the first person to break the silence. What's worse; when a million things tell you not to be that one - the one who gives in- say, characteristic male egotism. WHY WHY WHY should I give in? Was it not her fault?

But convinced though you may be, not discounting the possibility that you may be entirely right, that it was her fault... what result have you? An entire day of depression. dispiritedness. dejectedness. downheartedness.

This week:
Separation from a friend. Having a friend around -to hang out with, to study with, to talk to, to reach out to, even to give you the occasional massages (a tad too friendly, you may think)-, it's easy, SO easy, to overlook his importance. But separation lays it unembellished, unornamented for one to feel. That day, that day of the first separation. That's when you feel the weight of it. You sit around, wondering what to do, where to go, constantly reminded of your assignment arrears and the weight of them, but you just can't do it. You sit around, trying to read a book, but you can't pay attention. You sit around, basically, languishing (in all senses of the word). Then you call him, all the while making it seem like you've been going on with life as usual; but he knows, he knows surely, that you sit there with a drab melancholic air about you, wondering what to do. And then, you give up. Enough of being pretentiously unaffected. Enough of trying to be dignified and emotionless and "manly". Then you go to his place, and stay over.

This month: Protracted disappointment. dejectedness. dispiritedness. downheartedness. Prolonged. depression. Academics, exams, results.

Well, to end an otherwise sorry entry, a last word. Writing so depressingly, though hardly consolatory to my emotions, has helped me decide.

I will call them all. disputant. abandon-er. I will work on bettering my results.
ANYTHING to obviate another such day, another such week, another such month.


Probably, I shouldn't post this; it's served its purpose anyway. But then again, it wouldn't do justice to the real me.
I'm one confused little child. Don't judge me.


--Anirudh

A day like no other

An Anthology of Poetry from Anirudh Krishnan; Volume 3; Poem 15

A day like no other

It’s a day like no other.

I wake to the music of the earth, the music of nature.

As I gather my bearings, I prop myself on an arm. . .

“OH! Strange feeling! STRANGE FEELING!”

My nose begins to twitch; a twitch like no other

It grows in excitement: a mouse in a room of invisible cheese

“What is it! Where is it?” I smell it but I know not what!

A burst of freshness glided through the room,

A sliced lemon? A glade of grass?

I smell it, but I know not what! A smell like no other

The music of nature, of rivers and mountains,

The music of nature, the music of the sphere,

An opera of Mozart, a verse of Shakespeare.

The music, AH! Music like no other.

As I finally walked to the window, I recognised

Recognised the music, the smell.

Beautiful rain, tears of nature;

Was nature not the finest?

Pitter-patter the raindrops fell

Oh what melody, a maestro at work.

A melody don’t you think! A melody like no other.

But no, it changes!

PITTER-PATTER the raindrops clanged,

Upon the goshdarned awning,

Aluminium, I say, ALUMINIUM,

OH the cacophonous din!

Where was that smell? like a punctured lemon?

That burst of morning dew?

I smell it still, but the scent is a-waning.

The sky grew clear, and that wonder rain;

And the hum of the city took over.

His belly rumbled, his organs churned

He must produce, produce he must |

And what of that spritz of morning dew?

An acrid smell! a repugnant whiff!

He spews out his guck! It’s the smog again!

A city like every other.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Good morning Dr. Ong, Senior Admin, teachers and students.

Indeed, regardless of my duty to acknowledge the inspiration for this poem, I shall do so faithfully.

All inspiration for the actual content of the poem came from my friend Victor who thought the rain smelled citrous and the rain on a fine 12th of October in 2009. Wait, there's only one 12th of October in 2009. Apologies.

All inspiration for writing the poem itself, I owe to my dear friend Sarah Tan, without whom none of this would have been possible.

I also owe my brother, aforementioned Sarah and the Oxford Standard Thesaurus for (almost simultaneously) putting thoughts into words in the occasion of the word "awning".

Last but far from least, I ascribe all praise to the Lord (as is custom in our venerated institution). To Him be the Glory.

The Best Is Yet To Be

Sidharth: On the nuances of English in Singapore.

Hi.
I'm posting on Anirudh's blog because I am bored.
I am also cool. And fun to hang out with. but that's not really why i'm posting here.

For those who read the newspapers, at least the headlines, you know me. I am Sidharth. My brother's brother. I'm a really important person around here.
I am wondering what to write, actually....
AHA.
got it.
I wonder if any of you reading this blog here have seen the Ministry of Education's building?
It's rather unfortunate, but the catch-phrase, the tagline, whatever, for MOE is "Moulding the Future of Our Nation".
Does anyone really get the joke?
I honestly didn't think it was a joke when i first saw it. I remember staring at it for at least 10 seconds with no thought running through my head. It's absurd! Moulding? what? as in, rotting it until mildew forms?

Smart as I am, I recovered myself. I realised it meant that they're moulding our future for us. No. that still doesn't make sense. Well, anyway, if you're starting to get concerned about the true motives of the MOE, don't worry. Moulding doesn't actually mean what I thought it meant. It really does mean what they meant.

It's the whole Singlish thing that's got me these days. I thought initially that it was just this way of trying to remove as many unimportant words as possible. Singaporeans, are r all known for their brevity (a brilliant example being this year's National day presidential speech). "Is that fine or not" is loquaciously translated as "Can o' not?". Apparently, it doesn't stop there.... I mean. what does it profit a Singaporean to say "Faster finish lah!" instead of "Finish faster!". As far as word economy is concerned, there is a 33 percent loss. So what is it? Well you got me. I don't know. and the funniest part is that my accent and occasionally faltering grammar seem to make many people laugh. That's why I've organized an overseas CIP to India after the A levels. Hehe.

Ohkay. that's about all I have interest for.
I'll see you peoples later, can o' not?
(oh whatever. At least it's useful sometimes)

Sidharth Krishnan