This Is It! (2009)

Gone for over a couple of weeks, and I need to choose my comeback vehicle rather carefully. Kerala Varma Pazhassi Raja demanded that I write about him. But I will save that for another day. I prioritize and tonight, I recall moments that tell me why he is always the King. Not Elvis. The other One.

Perhaps it was only because the word Michael Jackson was a household name that I feel so strongly. I come from a humble background where Western Music was Michael Jackson. But I have a feeling that I am not the only one in my generation for whom this was a reality. We grew up listening to Thriller. Uttering those words as mere sounds and being excited whenever that one hour of MTV was shown on DD2 because it meant one thing; Michael would be on the screen. I remember the time when buying cassettes was the way of showing love. At a hundred and ninety five rupees a tape, Dangerous was a little out of reach. A lot of coaxing my brother resulted in getting a pirated copy; a cherished artifact from an ordinary childhood.

Back then, as children, we loved unconditionally. No questions to whether he was really black or white. Of course, the odd urban legend circulated amongst bewildered children, ranging from ones which claimed that Michael's Thriller was based on a real life experience where he had to pretend to be a monster to save his girlfriend to other things like, somebody set fire to his head and that's why he keeps changing his face. I was young enough not to know a truth by its face when it came under the guise of a gossip. There was no judgement on what kind of a person Michael was. When he said that he loved children, we believed that he meant it. As one grows up, cynicism creeps in and the same person whom we loved is fragmented into many layers; of a careless father, an abused child, a possible paedophile, an eccentric musical genius who could not adapt to the changing forms of the industry and a man obsessed with the magical Neverland and thought himself to be Peter Pan himself - expressing a pathetic desire never to grow old and whither away. So much was said about how he tried holding on to that image; with hair implants, countless skin grafts and surgeries. The fragility behind the genius was so striking. Today what I saw made me connect with something deep inside. Not that I could grant pardon for what he did wrong; its not my job. If he was a paedophile, that was a very bad thing he did and no matter what else he did takes away the fact that he irrevocably damaged children's lives. However when a case presents itself with ambiguous evidence; it is a matter of faith and I choose to believe that Michael was innocent. Not that I have not cracked Michael Jackson child-molestation jokes; but I knew, deep down, I would always choose to see my heroes in a light befitting them.

Today, I once again became the boy who chose to buy a Michael Jackson disc when the first discplayer arrived at the house. It was a fake with versions by lesser singers. But I still loved it. When the computer became a household item, I collected the entire discography and waited for the day Invincible released. An album which bombed globally became my favorite. There was a time when 2000 watts ran in my head more than it ran on my computer. One of my fondest memories was when I was about ten years old, I tried so hard to get a photocopy made of the Michael Jackson songbook - from where I tried hard to follow the notations on the keyboard. Sucess did come but in a very limited way. I could only master the first few lines of Billie Jean. I am sure that the copy still exists somwhere in my house. I can tell you where a small pocketbook with lyrics of Michael Jackson's songs released by Channel [V] is in my house. There was this three VCD History which I have seen countless times. Michael Jackson; no matter how many Rock bands, Boy Bands, Girl groups, Goth performers, Latino Superstars and Hip-Hoppers come and go; you are still the greatest.

As I tried and participated in a lot of group activities as a kid and as a part of the group, you do not get to say no to anything before you try it at least once. The very first song that I learnt to sing was Jamaican Farewell, where the teacher made the switch on the word Rum to Coke. Today, I know that those two go best together and only a few streaks of incidents stay on in my mind from that age. One of them was learning how to sing Heal the world. I was the weakest singer in the group. And for probably the very same reason, I was given the part of the lead. It needed me to hit notes that I still cannot manage. But on the day of the performance (before a small crowd of about 20 housewives and a couple of dozens of other kids) we sang, and it is a happy memory.

Today, after watching the limited edition movie, I was telling my mother how disappointed I felt when I saw that hardly a score people had turned up. And in a theatre where mediocre movies are priced at tickets over 200 rupees, this one was priced at a mere 90. Not that I regret having paid less. But there was a feeling of hurt. As if he was being disrespected. My mother does not know much about Michael's music, but when I described what I saw, her eyes welled up too. When the movie was over, everyone left the hall except for four people. My companion was not a Michael fan and she still was impressed. And these four people standing there waiting for the credits to end had a sudden feeling of oneness. It was an innocent moment, as if we were waiting for a miracle. As if Michael would come back. Just for one moment. At those fading moments, even the glimpse of the man gave a feeling of peace. We waited for him to return. But he did not. And we reconciled that he will live in our hearts, as cliched as it may sound. His message was simple. We should care about each other and the planet we live in; for if we do not, this world cannot heal itself.

And perhaps, That is it!