Indian music is sexy.
Yes. Yes. I know. We’ve all seen at least one Bollywood production. We’ve all heard the loud punches, seconds after we saw them land on the noses of men. We’ve all seen a song rise from the lips of a brutally battered man. A man so bloodied, his left eye is glued shut and his white shirt (it’s always a white shirt) is just soaking with blood. We’ve seen this man literally lose the will to live – his song, resigned and dejected. He’s like a bird with two broken wings and an empty space where its right leg used to be.
We’ve felt dejected too. The unfairness of it, tagging hard at our angry veins.
The man – he just lies there. The bleakness of his situation surrounds him like stagnant water in a dungeon. The song on his lips fizzles out. And for a moment, all is quiet. You cannot even hear a pin drop, because pins wouldn’t dare drop. Even pins know when the situation demands respect. (I don’t know why I feel like this should be an official African proverb! None of that anonymous crap either!)
The camera zooms in and you see a tiny smile on his face. Next thing you know, the man is leaping to his feet – his movements strong and fluid. Very Karate-like. Yes. Yes. I know karate is Ryukyuan. I bet you didn’t know that. I bet you’re off to google right now. I bet you’ve said Ryukyuan 3 times just so it can roll a little easier off your tongue. Well…guess what? I did all those things too. All this time, I thought karate was Japanese! And now I find out that Japan annexed The Ryukyu Kingdom and then all things Ryukyuan became Japanese! I feel a little cheated right now. Okay. Not a little. I feel all my righteous indignation welling up to the surface again. Isn’t Japan the same country that sent Kenyans running helter-skelter over the Kiondo trademark?
Fun fact: A person who practices Karate is called a Karateka. How fitting – considering Karate was taken!
Anyway…where was I? Yes…the man is doing karate-like leaps. The breeze is doing karate-like wafts. The sun is doing karate-like rays. The music is doing karate-like beats. Ah…you get the point. And who are you to be left out? Your heart is pulling Matrix moves all over the place! You don’t speak a word of Indian, but you know defiance when you see it. He’s not giving up. Neither are you!
The camera zooms out and you see a huge tree in the distance. The song lifts. It transcends your screen. The man is running. There’s a sling on his shoulder. When did it get there? Who cares man? Quit asking irrelevant questions!
He gets closer to the tree. You see someone hunched under it. A woman. You can see her slim shoulders and her long flowing hair. She can’t see you or him. Of course. Her shoulders are heaving with all the weight of the world. The sound from her throat is tormented. Tormenting. He is right behind her now. I guess karate is not all war cries and knife-hands. I guess karate is stealth and tenderness too! His hands are on her shoulders. She turns, her cheeks all tear-streaked and puffy. She gasps. The song explodes.
The man is now in a black muscle shirt. Damn, he looks good. Where did the black muscle shirt come from? Please refer to the preceding paragraph and quit asking irrelevant questions! The girl is in her Sari, smiling – all starry eyed like she just swallowed the entire milky way. So much smiling. So much dancing. Under the sycamore tree.
This is not where I was going when I said Indian music is sexy. I don’t know where I was going exactly. It’s not like I have piles of Indian music stashed away somewhere. I don’t. What I do have, is lots of links to online yoga. Yes. Yoga is my new thing. Not exactly new. I’ve been purporting to do it for quite a while now. Lately though, I don’t give up quite as easily as I did when I first attempted those bendy, stretchy poses. Matter of fact, I think I’m getting rather bendy and stretchy.
I quite enjoy starting my day with one of those instructional videos. Especially those that time the exercises for me. In fact, I can say with utmost certainty, that the only thing harder than holding a 60 second boat pose, is holding a 60 second boat pose while keeping an eye on the stopwatch. So, it’s a real load off my back when the guru does the counting for me.
Now, sometimes during a workout, I get interrupted by an ad. There’s nothing quite like an ill-timed ad. There I am in the 28th second of a 60 second elbow plank, then someone pops up talking about making Sukuma wiki meaty.
Errrrrm…Hello! I’m balanced on my elbows and toes, willing the timer to go a little faster…surely, the goal is to be less meaty, not more!
I want to skip the ad but I can’t. I just know that if I move, my arms will buckle. And I don’t want to buckle. I want to stare down those remaining 32 seconds. I want to hear the guru say that I’m a goddess of plank. I want it so bad, so I grit my teeth through the meaty Sukuma wiki ad and then I do the remaining 32 seconds. Then I collapse on my chest – heaving like I just ran the Lewa marathon, drunk.
I relish the guru’s praise even more because – thanks to the meaty Sukuma wiki ad – I know I’ve done more than 60 seconds. I’m tempted to call Royko and tell them to add a timer to their ads – that way, I know exactly how many seconds of punishment to thank them for! By the way, that would be Royko the food seasoning stuff, not Royko the 1972 Pulitzer Prize winner for commentary. Gee, I wonder how Royko the seasoned journalist would feel about Royko the food seasoning stuff? But I just read somewhere that Royko the journalist covered Cook County politics…I guess it’s all good up in here. I’ll just head back to my workout before the next ad interrupts me.
Sometimes though, the ad makes up for its ill-timing by soothing my nerves. Enter Indian music. Nowadays, Indian music is nothing like the scene under the sycamore tree. They’ve had a revolution over there. They’ve realized that other features can drip sex appeal. They have scenes under waterfalls. Kisses on foot bridges. They dance on walkways. They sit on park benches. A guy reading a book, while his girl runs her fingers through his hair. They have playful songs that make me smile; sleek choreography that takes my mind off the burn in my tummy; and sizzling people with super toned abs…which of course, is why I’m balanced on one foot and one elbow in a side plank pose…
I shouldn’t sound so surprised.
I mean, India gave us the Kama Sutra. Of course they know a thing or two about sex appeal. And now, they’ve gotten rid of those goofy sycamore scenes. Now, they’ve got power boats and champagne parties. They’ve got sari-clad belly dancers and shirtless Greek gods with run-your-fingers-through-my-beard looks. And the music, I daresay, has transcended the borders of India. I could totally get down to some of those songs!
twerking tweaking, never hurt anyone.
Tweak your thoughts. Tweak your dreams. Tweak your actions. Tweak your style. Tweak your handwriting. Tweak the freaking writing on the wall – paint the whole damn wall if it refuses to hear you! Tweak your friends – dump those who dampen your spirits and lift those who lift you. Be your own best caretaker – become a karateka if you must.
And if twerking helps…just do it baby!