Its all about being true blue

A sudden ear-block and a rude jerk woke me up from my snooze. Almost immediately I could hear at least a dozen mobiles being switched on around me. That signaled that the runway had arrived. I fished my phone from my pant pocket and punched it on the head. The familiar Nokia tune greeted me, and a message from Airtel, warmly welcomed me to Delhi, as though assuring themselves, a sadistic pleasure out of my roaming gullibility.
My sim-card had accumulated seven text messages over the flight. Three were missed call alerts from friends and family. The four others read as follows:-
“Three cheers to ARR!”
“Wow…! Rahman has won the Oscar! I am so excited!”
“Ela pugazhum iraivan oruvanukke, Rahman is THE BEST!”
“Amidst all those in our nation who claim they are fit for Oscar, only ARR has made the performance to win it and make India proud. Jai Ho!”

Call it instinctive; I raised my hands in tumult, and announced to a colleague sitting next to me that Rahman had made it! Call it instinctive again; the next moment I yanked my iPod from a tough corner of the hand baggage and tuned to the “Rakkamma Kaiya Thattu” song from Thalapathy. It was not the song, it was not the movie, it was not the actor, and it was not the singer. All I knew I wanted to do at that moment was listen to an Ilaiyaraaja composition. I followed it up with “Janani Janani”, then the Mouna Ragam tracks, then Bharathi, Alaigal Oyvathillai, Payanangal Mudivathillai and all the way up to Gurgaon, my thoughts lounged on one single man – he was clad in white, a mien of salt and pepper, with a pair of mystic eyes deeply studded in what I used to think, was the face, of the man who invented music.

En-route, I pulled up the taxi driver in a sudden conversation; sung him a phrase from “Ilaya Nila” and announced to him that it was composed by a genius called Ilaiyaraaja, who sat back in the South. I swear the driver thought I was an incurable jerk. Or at least, he eyed me like I was one. I looked back at him stoutly.

“Udhar…DLF Square, Jacaranda Marg, Phase II…Off the service lane.”

He veered off the service lane dangerously and that was when I figured out that these Bihari drivers driving cabs registered in Delhi did not fancy Ilaiyaraaja, or did not know him at all, and for all they knew, he could be a taxi driver back in Madras, or just another Pani Poori vendor in Chandi Chowk.

I knew I was behaving strangely. I was not averse to AR Rahman. My conscience hailed him as the musician of the minute, and the single uniting factor that our Nation long wanted. But why, why was I trying to be so indifferent to him and his achievement? I still don’t know if it was the bad Nescafe Coffee I had just then, or if it was the true spirit of realization dawning upon me, I understood it was not indifference towards Rahman, but it was a demonstration of my loyalty to Ilaiyaraaja.
I told myself, Rahman is definitely a genius, but Ilaiyaraaja is no less a genius. In this moment, when the world comes together to celebrate Rahman, I told myself, I want to remember Raaja.