A piece of HIStory..

The world was somewhere in the dying weeks of the year 1995. In one of the forgotten bylanes somewhere in Mumbai, walking alongside his mother, was a little kid, oblivious to the implications of both the time-frame and space-frame. Something caught his eye, and in an era when the word 'window-shopping' was probably yet to be invented, suddenly the little child was transfixed, staring at something through the display pane of a shop. Navigating between the twin storms generated by the newly discovered overpowering urge to own it, and the stark reality of the price of the object of desire, the kid reached the shore of compromise, trying hard to convince himself that it wasn't nearly worth all of the 250 Rupees of his hard-saved money, and walked away from the window.

They say God made mothers because He couldn't be everywhere. And God knew, albeit a jiffy after the mother, that the kid wanted it. Wanted it badly. Twenty feet beyond the shop window, mom's love asserted itself in the form of insistence. Half-resisting, the kid was practically pushed into the shop, and a small cardboard box pushed into his eager hands. The mother even pretended that she was 'lending' him the 250 bucks, and that he was to pay her back from his savings when they reached home. The kid could never figure out how to tell his mother how much he loves her. But that's what makes mothers such a good substitute for God. They don't need to be told.

Two whole days later, the ten-year old was nearly dancing with anticipation when he finally arrived home, a few hundred kilometers away from Mumbai. He tore through the plastic packing, and with shaking hands, held the two cassette covers, neither anticipating, nor fully comprehending what was to come. Out came the cassette and went straight into the cassette player. And as HIStory played, history repeated itself, as it already had, millions of times around the world. The boy would never be the same again.

The first piece of music that transfixes your soul is like the first teacher who holds your hand and teaches you to write, suddenly empowering you with a new paradigm. Through the years, you meet a number of teachers who open your eyes to numerous other things, but the first one will always hold a special place in some corner of your heart.

Fast forward to 15 years later, and it has been about 9 years since the kid has heard from the cassette. He often contemplates pursuing a serious career in music, but he has moved to other genres and expressions of music. He plays the guitar now, propelled towards a musical direction that so very often mocks at the very genre of the music on the original cassette. But today, suddenly, he is vividly cognizant of the debt that he owes to the person who created the music that taught the boy's heart to sing.

Rest in Peace MJ.

Av