Slowly dying in concerts

Every fortnight that draws curtains to a concert my friends buy tickets to, I have visions. Visions of me standing on a ledge, six feet above a hundred thousand people with a guitar strapped around my back, lips hovering over a microphone that breathes the same breath as me. The lights stalk me. The stage is my meadow. And the people chant words I wrote over a summer.

But today, I find myself queuing up outside the temples where they visit us. The bands of our time; some diva riding on a chariot; a shiny teenager in all his glam. Someone slaps the pilgrim tax on my wrist and I follow everyone inside. I like their music because they play to perfection. From a distance, I watch the skies glow in admiration. Their harmonies are impeccable and it stirs my envy. But through the clamour of the tank-top girls and the jostle of people beside me, I feel the heavens cast me an ugly look. My heart winces at every chord they fire from their weapons.

I stand there in cold feet after everyone’s left, between the cola-cans and plastic bags on the empty stands. My skin is stung by sparkling volcanic ash that rained down moments ago, owing to “A magical eruption of symphonies”. And in the present deafness, I stand like a mannequin while my 10-year-old self tugs at my hair in a state of hysteria. His sobs swarming me with memories of my living room concerts from over a decade ago.