I thought I had left behind my love for Bengali songs back in my childhood. Growing up as a kid in Kolkata, drenched in the everflowing morning and evening songs blasting out from my neighbor’s home. Over time the loudness in the morning ceased to be music and more of an alarm clock, something of an annoyance. That was the first time I fell out with music.
I think I lived without music for a long time when that happened, I drenched myself in literature and forgot about the tunes that would inevitably play every single day.
Somewhere, along the way the neighbors stopped playing their music too.
I fell in love with the strips of Bollywood and English songs that came to me through friends. New shiny desktop blasting out songs from artists that made me feel like everything they had done had been to explain my life to me.
Through the muddy waters of metal songs that made little sense lyrically to the shiny abyss of psychedelia I travelled everywhere. I left behind the thoughts that plagues me before and entered into my own zone. I learned about myself from Pink Floyd, I pushed myself forward with Frank Turner and I discovered myself again with “The Cure”.
But, somewhere between the bridge from “Neutral Milk Hotel” to “Arcade fire”, I moved away…
Present day offers a new world view really.
Away from my home, away from the neighbors blasting Rabindrasangeet, I listen to old Bengali songs again and again.
When you are away from your home, you crave for pieces of it.
For me the pieces come from the pictures of my city that smell of steam. From music that describes the life there in moments. Even the wandering smoke from the chimneys seeks the flame that makes it. I seek my heart that I left behind in Kolkata.
I seek life.
I seek myself