Skip to main content

Drama on 3

imageMy radio is almost always tuned to ClassicFM. I decided to switch to BBC Radio 3 tonight and was pleasantly surprised by what lied in store for me- a radio adaption of a play set in Calcutta of the late 1950’s.

Though I was in the mood for music, I did follow the play for half its duration. The one aural flaw I managed to detect in the adaptation was the faintly and oft playing Flamenco Sketches. I remember the track vividly since it’s my all-time favorite jazz composition by Miles Davis. The album Kind of Blue was released in August, 1959. Now, if the drama is set in the late 1950’s, it’s highly unlikely that the track should be playing anywhere within the premises of the hotel where it is set.

But I don’t need to be too critical to enjoy a good play. I enjoyed Chowringhee for 45mins and then ran out of patience before it could finish.

Asha is preparing dosa and I feel famished.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

This is what Bertrand Russell said about religion...

Religion is based, I think, primarily and mainly upon fear. It is partly the terror of the unknown and partly, as I have said, the wish to feel that you have a kind of elder brother who will stand by you in all your troubles and disputes. ... A good world needs knowledge, kindliness, and courage; it does not need a regretful hankering after the past or a fettering of the free intelligence by the words uttered long ago by ignorant men.

The year that was

I'm wearing a rather striking shirt, one that makes me feel like a clown fooling around in a graveyard. Roving eyes latch on to me and make me too conscious of myself. Checkered in red, grey, black and maroon, I've excused myself into donning it and looking silly for two reasons. It's Friday and…more importantly, the last working day of the year. Tailored half-a-year back, I never had the courage to wear it, not until today. It's that time of the year when it's time to reflect on the events that transpired. Last year ended on the worst possible note. Dad had expired and I was numb with shock. The repercussions rippled halfway thought this year. Things were so abysmal initially that I had lost the will to live. Acrid in everything I did, I was immensely angered by time phlegmatically flowing through its cadence. It was as if Dad meant nothing to anybody. What right did people have to live the way they always had when Dad was no more? Why was much of the world still