1
Raising Valhalla
Bloodstreets
Ved opened the door and let himself out on to the balcony of his second floor
apartment. He placed the glass of whisky on the parapet and extracted a cigarette
from its pack. Lighting it with a match, he took in his first drag and leaned on to
the railing with his hands, but soon withdrew them on feeling the layer of dust
underneath. Resting back with his heel against the wall, he muttered a curse
softly and took in the neighbourhood and what had become of it.
There were four fresh constructions going on around his building, obstructing the
once-clear view of the hills in the distance. Ugly monstrosities all with no sense of
aesthetics. Or ethics for that matter. The latter was a bit of a specialty of
architecture in this city, what with land let out for commercial purposes smack in
the middle of residential areas and minimum separation laws regularly flouted.
Much of the property in the city had been purchased and sat on for years by old
timers, allowed to appreciate until the IT boom hit the city. When skilled labour
eventually came, these same plots, less than a thousand square feet and once
bought for bargain-bin prices, started going for as much as a crore, even in places
that were still only seeing the very beginnings of development.
Bore well drilling would routinely go on till the wee hours of the morning, until
the earth itself groaned in agony at the violation, never stopping for breath or
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heed of the surrounding residents, young, old, or infirmed. Not once had Ved
seen the local police drive up to enforce night curfew, despite the station being
little more than a kilometer away. Was nobody else bothered? Didn't anybody call
to complain about the frequent power outages or the heavy vehicles that were
being serviced in the open lot next door ? Did the corpses of trees mercilessly
hacked down to make way for yet another mall evince no anger?
After having spent five years in this city, he had come to the sad conclusion that
people in this city just didn't give a damn. An indecent quiescence existed here,
one that the natives seemed reluctant to shake off despite the onset of rapid
urbanization. They took their suppers by eight, were asleep by nine, and didn't
care if the devil took the rest.
Ved had nothing against a people retaining their bucolic pace of life. There was
even something to be said for the quaint virtue of the countryside transplanting
itself into the voracious thread of city life. In theory, anyway. The disconnect
arose, and it invariably did, because of the cross purposes at which this lethargy
lay with the dog-eat-dog world of the city. Selfishness was king everywhere but
the city demanded a willingness of its denizens to take up cudgels on behalf of
their neighbours where interests intersected. Ved saw little evidence of such
symbiosis in this city and was not surprised at the spike in undesirable attitudes.
He heard the thump of a Bullet rounding the corner to his street. That would be
Saahas, Ved thought. The plan, tentative as always, was for the gang to gradually
assemble at his place in preparation for the gig tomorrow. There would be music,
laughter, arguments, and quite possibly a fight or two; all par for the course to be
sure. Ved was glad he had the lay of the floor all to himself. He shared it with a
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guy who divided his time between three cities and was frequently away for long
periods. Four of the other eight flats in the building remained unoccupied, and
the ones that had people in them consisted mostly of youngsters who did their
share of partying. Ved didn't expect any complaints.
Obliteration and Nekromantheon, solid death metal bands from Norway both,
would be playing tomorrow. The country had well and truly opened up for
international bands ever since Iron Maiden came calling eight years ago. Bands
entrenched in the underground were now coming to India, looking to ply their
trade before new audiences and tapping into a growing market. They were
greeted with unfailing hospitality here, with organizers routinely pulling out all
stops to create a good impression and fans eager to lap up live music that was
previously reserved for bedrooms and internet banter.
Saahas walked up the stairs with his AGV helmet cradled under one arm and his
trusty backpack as ever saddled over his shoulders. His bald pate had an
overwhelming sheen to it, probably the effect of a rare wax-and-shine treatment.
His beard was a cross between a fu-manchu and the Genghis Khan, and together
with the dome conspired to give him quite the malevolent LaVeyan air.
They shook hands with typically unbridled gusto, an unexpressed form of male
bonding that had existed between them since they first met. Saahas was known in
the city's metal circles for his wonderfully obscure collection of music and band
prints. Tonight, he was wearing a gorgeously handcrafted Path Of The Weakening
t shirt and combat boots, standard attire in anticipation of gig day. They shared a
cigarette and talked about Deeds Of Flesh for a while, and how they were unfairly
slotted as a brutal death metal band when they were so much more than just that.
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Deeds was true progressive death metal that only adopted the exterior of more
plebeian bands but composed their music with genuine evolution in song
structure.
"Fucking city's gone to the dogs, man," Saahas growled.
"What's up?" Ved asked.
"Nothing, dude. I'm coming from G.M. Road, right? So I'm peacefully stopped at
the red next to Unity Circle, right where the church is. This motherfucker behind
starts honking like a bastard. I just ignore him for a while but then he comes right
up to my ass, bumper to bumper, and tells me to move aside and let him pass,"
Saahas said.
"Been there, man. At that same spot even. It's notorious for assholes," Ved
offered.
"So I keep ignoring him but then he shouts saying he'll pass by through the little
space available to the right and that I shouldn't blame him if he damages my bike
while doing it! Can you believe the fucker?" Saahas exclaimed.
"Total asshole, man," Ved sympathized.
"And he was a puny one, too. He kept mouthing off so I finally took off the helmet
and turned back slowly, told him to put a can on it else I would knock him down
right there in traffic. He didn't say anything after that," Saahas said.
"He must've shat himself. What can you do, man? It's not just that they break
laws brazenly; you want to break laws, be my guest, break all the laws you can!
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It's the fucking sense of entitlement and the complete lack of consideration for
their fellow man that really gets me going. They're incapable of pausing and
thinking about right and wrong. Feel like it? Just do it already," Ved said
in exasperation.
"Yeah, yeah, it wasn't so bad when I was growing up. Things have just been going
from bad to worse these last ten years," Saahas said with a wistful air. "Chuck it,
what to do? So who all are coming tonight?" he asked.
"I don't know, the usual suspects I guess. Nishchay called to say he wanted to get
out. Long week and all. Nicky should be here any minute. That's it," Ved said.
"Fucking Nishchay. Can't have a good time without blowing some cash," Saahas
said, resigned to their friend's stubbornness. "Hey, your CDs arrived from
Germany today morning. Sorcier des Glaces and Running Wild," he said.
"No more eagles gonna ride the wind, turning circles in the sky. Badlands
growing and the bison's gone," Ved broke into impromptu song.
"Uaschitschun, tell me why?!" Saahas joined in concert.
"Fucking cool, thanks!", Ved said.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Saahas said, laughing.
"Want to head out for a drink? There's bound to be a rolling power cut here any
minute now," Ved asked, gulping down the last of his whisky.
"Yeah, sure. Let's go down to Jai Hanuman and put a few pegs," Saahas said.
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Metropolis
Jai Hanuman was one of the many small bars that littered the landscape. A
hallmark of the city and one that Ved was especially fond of was that you didn't
have to walk much more than five hundred meters in any direction before
bumping into one of these. Shunned by the sophisticates but a godsend to those
returning from work at late hours and also to those caught in the rougher straits
of life, they were a surprising melting pot of classes up to a certain ceiling. Those
that existed beyond this ceiling preferred the posher haunts that had
mushroomed up like warts all over in the last five years. You could spend more
than five thousand rupees through the night for bad food and watery alcohol in
one of these high-falutin places, and not have a decent buzz to show for your grief.
But you could see and be seen there, and that carried a certain currency in
certain circles.
Ved and his friends usually stayed shy of these places and much rather preferred
stepping out for a nip to the Jai Hanumans of the city before retiring back to their
houses for more extended drinking. It was cheaper on the pocket and their
conversation didn't have to be drowned out by overly loud, unforgivably bad
music and hundreds of teenagers, and adults behaving like teenagers, shouting
over it.
Jai Hanuman was located just around the corner from Ved's building. The main
bar enclosure contained a stone slab counter, liquor-stacked shelves stretching
across one wall with its peeling paint, a heavy metal fan above, perpetually in its
death throes, a small box CRT television set stacked on top of a column of empty
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crates, and a refrigerator. The place was all of about twenty square feet, and
consistently grimy with the detritus of the day's business. The room next to it,
hidden behind a frilly, soiled curtain, was a dank and dark storage cum staffresidence cum seating area, where customers in for the long haul could sit
nursing their drinks. Out front was a small kabab grill manned by a leper, serving
meat that only the most intrepid or drink-addled ventured to sample.
The selling point of such places besides their ubiquity was that you could simply
walk in and stand at the counter drinking in full view of passing traffic.
Authorities turned a willfully blind eye towards these establishments, as long as
the periodic collections never ceased. They were life givers during benders too,
usually manned by one or two of the help after closing hours. A surreptitious
knock or two on the steel door and out they would come to negotiate the price of
your illicit parcel of choice.
They walked into the bar to find Pradeep already working through a stiff 90 ml of
Royal Challenge whisky. His shift at the call center would be starting soon but he
made it a practice to tank up on some liquid endurance before the evening's
tedium. Little pot-bellied Pradeep was a sweetheart in all ways concerned, and
possessing of not too dim a bulb either. He had been preparing for his
business management exams for as long as Ved had known him but his drinking
habit never quite allowed him to build enough confidence to make a go of it. He
was also the only guy Ved knew who would be absolutely bombed by his second
drink and then maintain that same level of bombed'ness through the night and till
the next morning.
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Pradeep said that he wouldn't be making it to the gig but he would drop by after
his shift later in the night if the guys were still up. He emptied his drink, hugged
them both while standing on his toes, and left on his scooter. Ved ordered a large
Signature Premium whisky while Saahas opted for his favourite Khodays XXX
rum. They raised cheers and craned their necks to look up at the TV. The IPL, that
bastard corruption of the great game, was in full swing and, as usual, playing to
stadiums packed with people looking for the next quick fix in a life that was one
jazzed-up highlights reel.
Saahas turned aside, snorting in disgust. He lit a cigarette and struck up a
conversation with his neighbour, a day labourer, in for his nightcap. It was a
sobering sight to see these people - skin tanned to black from the unsparing sun,
all fat melted off their bodies from the back-breaking work they did, bodies ropy
and strained as if on leash - come in and drink from fifteen rupee sachets of raw,
undistilled alcohol. They truly needed it, in some ways not unlike the heroin
junkie but divested of his self loathing and egoism, and more as an expression of
primal survival impulse. You could see the effect of the unholy nourishment in
their eyes, the pupils dancing in animation with the resuscitating warmth of
liquid fire advancing through their veins, at first scorching, then soothing,
bringing deadened tissues and calcified joints back to life.
Ved's phone rang. It was Nishchay calling from work, saying he would be done in
about an hour, and that they should all head down to Acheron for the evening.
Ved didn't particularly want to but Nishchay was adamant about it being the
weekend and him wanting to "put some drinks". Acheron was one of the few pubs
in the city that played a blend of hard rock and metal, or what passed as hard rock
and metal in the DJ's eyes anyway. Many of the regulars would be there and it
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was just for that reason that he wanted to avoid going. He tapped Saahas on the
shoulder.
"Nishchay called again. Said he wants to go down to Acheron," he said.
"For what joy? I thought we were just going to chill out at your place. What's
wrong with that guy?" Saahas asked from under furrowed brows.
"God knows. That shady crowd is bound to be there tonight, man. Just to think of
running into them two days straight. Hell, I don't want to go but you know our
man," Ved said.
"Yeah, yeah, showy fucker. Anyway, maybe we could drop in for a bit and then
head off to your place or Rana's afterwards," Saahas suggested.
"That's what I was thinking. Let's set a few pony tails on fire while we're at it,"
Ved mused.
"Kidnap a hipster and tie him up in the Nilgiris," Saahas added.
"Pull his nails, burn his toes," Ved said.
"aah! My night would be made," Saahas exulted.
"Ok cool, let's take the metro to Lancaster. I don't want to be riding back drunk
on Friday night. The cops will be out in force," Ved said.
"Yeah, me neither. Let me call Nicky and ask if he wants to come along," Saahas
said.
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Nicky was the older of the two brothers in gore. He and little brother Keith were
the most dedicated adherents that grindcore had, at least in this country. Both
had been part of bands for the last fifteen years, specializing only in the loudest,
fastest and most socially inappropriate music imaginable. They were slated to
open for their idols Napalm Death later in the year, and were besides themselves
with the prospect, writing sharp new songs and jamming more regularly than Ved
had ever known them to.
Small things that lend meaning to a life, Ved mused philosophically. People were
eager to define a life well-lived and dismiss all that did not fall within their
narrow worldview. But a dream and an idea were only as potent as the amount of
importance you attached to it, growing in proportion with the enrichment you fed
it. Who was to play arbiter in this weighing of scales? Misery loved company but
what was appalling and maddening and stark lunacy was the sheer numbers of
people that signed up for this existence by rote despite knowledge to the contrary.
The world was a sewer and its inhabitants rats scurrying behind each other in
thrall of the approaching cliff around the bend.
Nicky soon joined them and called for a small brandy for himself. He lived a
couple of streets away from Ved with his parents and two brothers. Short but
compact in stature, he reminded Ved of a G.I. Joe action figure, perhaps a
miniature Duke; hair immaculately groomed and spiked in the front, and a little
pornographic goatee sprouting from a strong chin, he looked more like an
investment banker than the extreme grindhead and horror movie buff he was at
heart. The obvious giveaways today were the customized three-way shirt flaunting
Anal Cunt, Sore Throat, and Fear Of God logos, and torn denim shorts with an
Agathocles patch on the thigh.
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He had been practicing with his band in the morning. They talked about how the
new songs were coming along. Regenerate, Nicky's band, was planning a thirty
minute set consisting of twenty-five songs, in storied grind core tradition. Short,
rolling explosions of crusty power chords and blasting drums would be their
calling card, regurgitated before an audience whose initially bemused expressions
would soon turn into ill-disguised horror as their lacerated ears implored
surrender in the full glare of the onslaught.
"I couldn't wait to get out, man," Nicky began with a hangdog look on his face.
"Folks are on my case again to get married. They say either find someone for
myself or agree to hook up with a girl of their choice. But marry I must else I have
to find myself another place to live in," he lamented.
"Well, so who's stopping you from doing any of those things?" Saahas asked.
"Like balls this guy will move out and live on his own. He'll be a fucking mess in
no time, trust me," Ved laughed sadistically.
"Fuck you, dude. Look, man, I do stuff around the house that they don't realize
just now. But they sure will once I move out. Then they'll rag me out before
strangers saying what a cunt I was to desert my old parents," Nicky moaned.
"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Go marry then. What's wrong with that? Don't want arranged
marriage? Ask out one of your babes, you sure have more than a few to go
around," Saahas suggested with a smirk.
"Saahas! Bro! I thought you knew me, dude. I can't do the whole relationship
thing. It will just kill me, man. I've got the bands, I've got the zine. And fuck, I like
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pussy, dude! And I know how to get it too, you guys know that! What am I going
to do settling down? It's not going to be fair to me or the girl," Nicky said.
"Sucks to be you, dick," Ved cursed jealously.
"The Goregrinder's Dilemma. New song name, Nicky. Run with it!" Saahas said,
rubbing Nicky's head.
"You know what the problem is? You have too many friends and only two parents.
Your priorities are liable to be skewed. Give them more time and they'll cool
down," Ved advised in solicitude.
"Man's got a point, dude. Gotta know when and where to draw the line," Saahas
added.
"I hope you don't do that on-stage thing of yours at home. The one where you
stick your tongue through two V-shaped fingers. That wouldn't help much," Ved
laughed, imitating the obscene gesture, and arousing laughter from his friends
and amused grins from the bar's clientele.
"Fuck you, Ved and fuck this funk!" Nicky laughed, secretly gloating with pride.
"So what scenes tonight, guys?" he asked.
"We're going to Acheron. Nishchay should meet us there in an hour from now,"
Ved said, swishing the remains of his whisky at the bottom of the glass.
"Dude, Acheron? I had the runs from their chicken lollypop a couple of months
ago. Why not go to Suri Bar instead?" Nicky entreated.
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"Hey, no way, man. That place is a regular Urine Festival," Saahas cried. "I don't
want to spend the evening with the piss of the city’s finest soaking my feet
through the boots," he continued. The urinals at Suri Bar were notorious for leaky
pipes spilling their contents all over the floor. They had christened the place
Urine Festival in tribute to a ridiculous gore grind band of the same name.
"Fine, then. Let's get out of this dump at least. Take something for the ride,
yeah?" Nicky said.
"Yeah, let's pick up some tins. Did you manage to score from Rahul?" Ved asked.
"Got it right here, my man," Nicky replied, petting the pouch of grass inside his
front pocket.
"Ok cool, let's scoot," Ved said.
They paid up at the bar and bought six cans of Tuborg Strong along with a couple
of packs of cigarettes. Stepping out, Saahas shouted down a rickshaw in his
booming voice and asked the driver to take them to the metro station, some four
kilometers away. Nicky rolled an expert joint on their way, packed to perfection
with what he proudly announced in his best TV infomercial voice to be his
"patented formula with just the right balance between plant and tobacco, space
and constriction, for a liberating yet intense inhaling experience". He toked up
and passed the joy around.
They drank some of the beer inside the rickshaw and stowed away the rest inside
Saahas' bag before being frisked at the security check point. Drinking alcohol was
strictly forbidden inside the metro premises. So was any and all drinking,
strangely enough, and so was eating too. It maintained a certain sanitary sterility
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about the place but Ved knew from experience that the second baggage scanning
machine from the left malfunctioned frequently for verboten liquids. The walkthrough scanners probably weren't advanced enough to detect the marijuana
Nicky was carrying anyway. He let the others in on the observation and they
accordingly queued up at Gate Number Two.
They ran down the steps to the platform and made it into the train just in time. It
was moderately busy at this hour, most of the office crowd coming back in on the
other line. They took seats at the corner of the bogey, away from the other
passengers. It was one thing to run counter to rules and laws mandated by
nameless authorities, or to be coarse of speech in private intercourse, but there
were women and children among their fellow travelers that didn't need to be
subjected to their crude talk or foul breath. This was a point of integrity and civil
courtesy which they all agreed on, and on which they saw no room for
compromise. Ved had seen Saahas pick up scuffles on more than one occasion
with some boor who ignored this social compact.
Nicky started on one of his favourite subjects, extolling the virtues of Arnold
Schwarzenegger. He would become incredibly animated during one of these
rants, and grow visibly hurt at any insinuation of his idol being a less than stellar
thespian. Saahas predictably added fuel to the fire, saying Russell Crowe with his
far more significant acting chops would've made a better Dutch. Nicky looked
scandalized, and commanded him to stop blaspheming and comparing Arnie with
someone whose best movie was spent running around in a skirt.
Ved looked around their compartment. There was a smattering of young people,
both couples and loners, traveling with them and they all were uniformly glued to
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their smart phones. He often thought that the art of conversation and observation
was on its way out, unceremoniously dumped on its rear even, substituted with
the conveniences that modern technology offered. Existence was a lonely
phenomenon and this was fact, but people had reverted back in mass to an
infantile fear of being alone. The mind was an ugly companion to be with if you
didn't know how to run it through its paces. Most people would probably drive
themselves to the very brink of insanity if they spent time consciously analyzing
how insignificant the sum of the moments they spent on this earth truly was. But
teetering on this precipice and risking the probable fall into the black abyss below
was essential if one aspired to take wing and soar into the sun. Few did and, to
Ved, they were Gods.
Don't Fear The Night
They got off at Lancaster Road. Acheron was across the street from the station,
right in the middle of one of the busier thoroughfares in the city. It called itself
The Garage Pub; the place had actually been a well-known repair shop for fourwheelers once. The current owner had bought the space ten years ago and had
retained the garage's reputation for posterity in its new avatar and insignia. There
was a vintage Hindustan Ambassador frame that hung suspended from the center
of the ceiling. The rectangle-shaped place was laid with a sun-faded hardwood
floor and well-lit with lush, non-invasive ochre-hued lights concealed in the
corner panels. Cedar-coloured, stucco-layered walls went around the layout,
bedecked with frames displaying pictures of wrenches and hex keys and assorted
power tools. Ten single-stalk tables with circular tops and raised bar-stools
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occupied the center; at the edges were sofas that ran three fourths of the
periphery of the room. To the far-north was the bar with the DJ's nest
comfortably tucked alongside.
Friday nights were "Metal Nights" at Acheron; the label for some reason
reminded Ved of "Dandiya Nights", that curious form of folk dance from
Gujarat performed with sticks and an effete economy of movement. The DJ, a
skinny, dread-locked raver devoid of imagination and choking back a barelysuppressed disdain for metal, had a strict method of operation. He would begin
the evening with somewhat tolerable music that alternated between hard rock
and heavy metal but only from the more commercially visible end of the
spectrum. As the hours went on and the hipster crowd started coming in, he
would lapse to the mainstream's, and by conjunction his own, definition of edgy
music, in other words mallcore garbage. The hipster set did not care, they were
there to socialize and appear rebellious in their fake leather and black nail polish.
Real metal fans would simply pay their tabs in disgust and storm out.
On occasions such as the eve of a gig, however, when metalheads would be out on
the town in numbers to celebrate, DJs were under orders from the management
to adjust their personal inclinations and to cater to the demands of the slightly
different crowd in attendance. Requests would be taken, private CDs would be
spun from the console, and a surprisingly wide range of metal would be played
through the evening. The big high resolution flat screen on the wall opposite to
the bar would show metal videos and live concert recordings, with many a drinksodden metalhead either passed out or headbanging underneath.
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They waited in the corridor leading to the pub proper, smoking and finishing the
last of their beer. The place seemed like it was buzzing already; they saw a few
familiar faces pass by, and exchanged pleasantries and small talk. Strains of Fly
By Night-era Rush were emanating from inside. At least the evening was off to a
good start then, they commented. They discussed the following day's gig and how
they were going to get to the venue. Nobody wanted to drive in the condition they
were inevitably going to be in the morning, and the far worse condition they
would be eight hours later while coming back. Saahas said he would call the car
rental agency right away and book something for the day. Nicky asked him to
make sure that the car had a stereo in working condition inside.
"Yo Ved!" came Nishchay's voice as he climbed up the staircase. He was wearing a
Bathory t shirt, cargo pants and the Harley Davidson boots his sister had got him
from Dubai. He, however, rode an Enfield Thunderbird which he had modified
beyond all recognition into an ultra low-clearance, hardtailed chopper.
The resulting monster had a larger-than-life personality, much like its rider.
Steadily losing hair on top, Nishchay adamantly maintained his long mane,
saying he'd rather look like a mad scientist than compromise on his metalhood.
His beard was similar to Saahas' but far denser in growth and gaining
prominence with every passing week; it was a good three inches below his chin
now. Nishchay loved his booze and always carried a flask of whatever suited his
fancy at the moment. He loved his pot too which, together with the alcohol, gave
him an unrivaled penchant for telling anecdotal stories.
And Nishchay's stories were the stuff of legend. He had a knack for flying off on
all manner of tangents and making even the simplest affair seem like an
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unsolvable configuration of knots. Interspersed with a wise man's "aahs" and
"uhs", with regular tugs of the goatee, they touched on everything but the place
he wanted to reach when he started. His friends would have to gently goad him to
get back on course before the night ran out, but even they had to admit in private
that his tales would be far poorer without the random asides. Some people had an
innate talent for story-telling, and for subconsciously making even the longwinded, seemingly unrelated, a part of their recital. It didn't detract beyond the
momentary impatience, it simply added to the fond memories in the long run.
"Finally, huh fuckface? What took you so long?" Ved replied with a grin, shaking
Nishchay's hands.
"What to say, man? New manager at work has got me by the balls. She's still
learning stuff and since the other guys are jokers, she relies on me to get shit
done," Nishchay said.
"Nishchay! What's up, bro?" Nicky said in greeting, coming up to them with
Saahas in tow.
"Hey Nicholas! Saahas! What's up, guys? I thought we'll step out tonight, Friday
and all. What sitting in the same house every weekend," Nishchay explained.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm already feeling sick at the sight of the cartoons in this place. That
stupid Ajith came up to me with a bird on his arm while I was downstairs and
gave me some pompous gas about the sanctity of war and how Revenge and
Conqueror were transferring that idea to sound," Saahas said. "I just nodded
along but I felt like throttling his neck with my two hands and then taking a dump
on his face. Fucking overnight trendster prick! This guy didn't know jack beyond
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Cannibal Corpse till two years ago. And now he's giving me full gyaan on the
sanctity of conflict and how metal interprets war?" Saahas roared indignantly.
"Aye leave them, maccha. Waste characters, all of them. You did well to not
respond. You throw stones into shit, you'll be covered in shit," Nishchay offered
wisdom that he would no doubt reject later in the night once the alcohol started
asserting itself.
"Well, you're bound to meet a lot more of his type inside. Let's not keep them
waiting, shall we?" Ved ribbed teasingly.
"Ya ya, let's go inside, man. I'm thirsty," Nishchay said.
"Into the Acheron!" shouted Nicky, first in a falsetto and then in his best gore
grind retching voice.
"On ra Nicky, on," Saahas said cryptically.
"Huh?" Nicky asked, puzzled.
"You said 'Into The Acheron'. Acheron was the river of pain from Greek
mythology. You should say 'On The Acheron' instead. We're going to be gliding
On The Acheron tonight," Saahas explained officiously.
"Fuck you, Professor! I want to dive INTO the Acheron! You got a problem with
that?" Nicky cried out belligerently.
"No problem at all, goregrinder!" Saahas laughed, easily lifting Nicky in a bear
hug. Together, they entered the pub.
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They occupied a table having full view of the big screen. The place filled up very
quickly with a sea of black t shirts, so that even standing room was grown
precious by 9 o' clock. They asked their server to keep the beer pitchers coming
while they nibbled on some finger-food. Nicky went off to mingle with the crowd
and promote his band's upcoming show. The responsibilities of the celebrity, he
called it, before strutting off into the thick of things, easily donning the mask of
sociability that made him so approachable. Nishchay regaled the others with offthe-cuff recollections from his college life, most of it centering around one
especially hilarious episode concerning the communal toilets in his hostel.
The music was surprisingly good. Mostly heavy and speed metal, but the good
stuff. Classic Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Black Sabbath, Metallica, and Megadeth
built up to a familiar, easy-going vibe; long-adored songs were being sung
raucously all over the floor. The beer was flowing without end, as often is the case
when spirits are high. Mixed with the classics were some shockers like Manilla
Road and Liege Lord; it looked like requests were being entertained after all. They
looked around at the DJ console and confirmed that it was in fact the same raver
goof manning the controls. The orders from above must have been succinct
tonight; do whatever was needed to keep the money coming in.
Nishchay said that he felt like drinking something a little stronger than beer. He
went up to the bar to get some whisky and complimented the assistant manager
standing behind the counter for the great music in rotation. He was about to turn
back towards their table when he saw a couple of foppishly-dressed men
approach the manager and take him to the DJs booth. They talked about
21
something he couldn't make out over the din of the music, but he saw them
pointing towards a large seating area across the room where more of their kind,
both men and women, were sitting with bored expressions on their faces.
Nishchay shrugged and walked back to their table with his drink. Nicky had
joined the others again, and they were discussing the recent news about the fool
in the cinema hall who had refused to stand up for the national anthem at the
beginning of the movie, and had subsequently been beaten on by the irate, selfrighteous audience. Nicky liked to think himself an individualist anarchist and
was up in arms over the episode. He felt that the man had every right to not stand
up if he didn't so desire, random jingoistic laws be damned. Ved and Saahas were
a little more circumspect, noting the mob's overreaction but also taking a more
rounded and practical view of the symbolism invested in national artifacts and
their relevance to the country's psyche at large. Nishchay hedged somewhere in
the middle, agreeing with both sides by equal turn.
The Candlemass song that had been playing ground to an abrupt halt. For a while,
the singing and hubbub of conversation carried on uninterrupted on the crest of
the momentum that had accumulated through the evening. But soon that too
lapsed into a confused silence as the unflavored beats of an EDM abomination
corrupted the air. The trendy group to the corner raised a whooping cheer and
began gyrating to the music while the metalheads were left scratching their heads
in consternation. Some simply called for their checks and trooped out of the
place. A few others walked up to the DJ to inquire about the change in music, only
to return with shaking heads and been-there-seen-that looks.
22
Nishchay instantly connected the dots and knew this to be the result of the rich
dandies' settlement with the management. He got up and walked to the bar in a
confrontational gait. The others followed him.
"Excuse me, Guru. What's happening here? Why the sudden change in music?" he
asked the manager.
"Sorry, Sir. We received complaints from other customers about the loud music
so we had to switch to something else," the manager said with a servile smile.
"And this isn't loud? My ears are haemorrhaging here from the throbbing bass!"
Nishchay exclaimed in disbelief. "And besides, wasn't this supposed to be a night
for our kind of music?" he continued.
"I know, Sir, but we have played it all evening long. It's only fair we honor the
other customer's wishes as well," the manager said in self-defense.
Nishchay was going to say something more but Ved cajoled him into letting it go
and returning to their table to finish their drinks and leave the place. They had
enjoyed a good time till then and it wouldn't be wise to let expected
discrimination like this ruin the rest of their evening.
They were turning back when they overheard the raver DJ tell the manager, "Well
done. Those guys deserve it. Bloody nuisance playing that crap all night long and
to have these thug alcoholics come in here and ruin the place".
"What the fuck did you just say?" Nishchay turned around like a riled up viper.
"You heard me. Finish your drinks and get lost," the DJ replied insultingly.
23
"Watch your mouth, yeah? We've paid for our time here also. There's no need to
be rude," Ved warned, coming up beside Nishchay.
"Dude, what are you doing, bro? It's Metal Nights, man! Play some fucking
metal!" Nicky chimed in the DJ's face , not following the plot.
"Fuck the metal nights, Nicholas. This is basic disrespect he's showing here. Aye
bevarsi, who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" Nishchay expostulated,
banging his glass on the counter and spilling the whisky in the process.
"Let's just pay up and leave, man. Screw the drinks. I don't want to wait here
another minute," Saahas said, resignedly.
"Yeah, dude. Let's just go," Ved agreed.
"Out of the Acheron! Not coming back either!" Nicky pealed in forced laughter, as
they walked out.
They gathered outside the pub, smoking in the cool night air. Nishchay was
fuming and chomping at the bit to go back up and extract an apology out of the
management, but Ved reminded him of where they were and how things could get
ugly in no time. Establishments like Acheron had obvious connections with rogue
elements, not to mention cops on the take. One had to be wary of pushing an
issue too much; the line between harmless trash talk and the zone of no return
was remarkably fine in these parts, and could be trespassed unawares on nights
like these. Sometimes caution was indeed the better part of valor.
They deliberated for a while about where they wanted to go next. The initial plan
had been to crash at Ved's apartment and then freshen up and leave for the gig in
24
the morning. Rana, however, had left messages on Saahas' phone, asking them to
come over once they were done in the city. It was unanimously decided then that
they would be going to his place in the woods. They bought a bottle of Blender's
Pride and negotiated with the many auto-rickshaws lined up up outside the pub
for a decent night rate, finally getting into one that offered them something
reasonable.
Song To Hall Up High
Rana was one of Nishchay's close friends from college. Through Nishchay, he had
come to know a lot of the metal crowd in the city as well. Rana lived in Umravu,
and had in fact never moved out of Umravu as far as anybody knew. Situated on
the northern outskirts of the city, this used to be a veritable wilderness as recently
as five years back, but had lately seen a predictable spurt in development activity.
Still, areas of rare and raw natural beauty remained, gracing the
isolated tranquility of this backwater suburb with an old-world air.
Rana liked his privacy and so he liked Umravu. He had changed five apartments
over the last two years, and all within the same radius of distance. He was
married to Umravu and Umravu to him, both steadfastly refusing to part ways
with each other and consider other options, often at odds with convenience and
cost. There were two reasons for his self-inflicted retreat from the world: one was
that he liked playing gallant host to a large variety of friends, the other being that
he preferred the entertainment he provided these friends with to be enjoyed at
ridiculously loud levels. Only the seclusion of Umravu could offer him these twin
freedoms without constraint, convincing him to stay rooted within its fold.
25
He currently lived in a single-story individual house situated off the main road. A
winding dirt trail, leading through tall grass infested with snakes and surrounded
by lazy brick kilns and cattle-sheds, was the only approach to the place. The
southern facade of the house opened into a dense eucalyptus wood known as the
Nilgiris. In the middle of the trees was a huge, square-cinder water reservoir that
made for an ideal setting for passing the late night hours, waiting for the
returning dawn to set the horizon alight.
They reached his house a little after midnight. Pradeep was already there, having
left work early and, by the look of things, well past his second drink of the night.
He was with Rana in the kitchen. Rana, a terrific cook who didn't skimp on the
hot spices, was stirring up something particularly eye-watering. They greeted
each other warmly and opened the new bottle of whisky, passing fresh drinks
around. Pradeep, speech slurring and legs shaking, came up to Ved and hugged
him. Ved had no recollection of the incident but, apparently, he was the only one
who had stood up for Pradeep when he had wanted to play a song of dubious
choice in the middle of one of their intense metal sessions. This idea of Ved as a
compassionate fellow soul was firmly impressed in his mind, coming to the fore
in expressions of tender affection when the booze had worked its magic.
Out of nowhere, in the middle of his rambling panegyric, Pradeep fell to the floor.
There he lay spread-eagled and with eyes that had rolled up into their sockets.
The others gathered around him with only mild concern; Pradeep had blacked out
in this manner before and while it didn't augur well in the long run, they knew
that he was in no immediate danger at least. Indeed, there was a thin smile
playing around the corners of his mouth. They laughed and sprinkled drops
of whisky on him while their dazed friend tried to guard himself from the most
26
nebulous corners of consciousness. Finally, Ved lifted his complying form and put
him to bed in Rana's bedroom.
Nicky had passed out on the couch. Nishchay went into the studio room and
selected an Ares Kingdom album on the computer before Rana had time to
complain. Rana was notorious for jarring the mood of the gathering in several
strange ways. He was a big fan of A.R. Rahman and would play the composer's
sugary Bollywood songs with no advance warning, at times right after something
as intense as Dark Angel. On other occasions, he would sink into a nostalgic
melancholia, and play a sliding collage of photographs collected from his college
years that was set to a Deep Purple tune. Appealing to his better judgement would
be impossible then. His friends simply joined in and waited for the tide to retreat.
They passed the night thus. Surrounded by the music that defined their lives and
the friendships that it had inspired, they fought to guard this cocoon of theirs
against the prying ways of the world. This was their sacred space-time,
impenetrable to those unschooled in the lore, and all that they had to keep the
numbness at bay. Most of their fathers were dead, men who had been less than
perfect role models when they had been alive, men who had abused their wives
and kids, under the influence or otherwise. Men who in the grand telling had
been something less than men even. Was this the reason, Ved often wondered,
why they were drawn to each other? In the absence of a real male guiding light,
they looked to the words and songs and deeds of other men for direction,
struggling to erect their own view and philosophy of the world in the process.
Sons of their fathers they still were, painfully aware of their inheritance and
dancing a waltz that seemed to go back two paces for every step taken
27
forward. But dance they must, even as the planks in the floor beneath their feet
came undone; this knowledge they held unspoken yet with the deepest conviction.
He was on the verge of blacking out himself when Nishchay announced that they
were going out into the trees to smoke up. Saahas' drunken singing rang in his
ears as he went to sleep with a smile:
Northern wind take my song up high
To the hall of glory in the sky
So its gates shall greet me open wide
When my time has come to die
Beyond The Realms Of Death
It rained in the early morning but the sun now beat down from cloudless, azure
skies. Smell of baked bricks wafted in from the kilns nearby, their smoke
dissipating through the chimneys in curled fingers pointing to the heavens.
Cows grazed idly in the fields, their lowing rousing the belated crowing of a cock
at intermittent intervals. The eucalyptus leaves added their scent to the
surroundings, enlivening them with a minty crispness. Summer would make its
oppressive presence felt soon but for now nature held her inclemency in check,
gracing the earth with a rare but welcome generosity of spirit.
They only began stirring after noon. Saahas had rented the car for five o'clock.
The gig itself was scheduled to start at five but the opening bands were typical
metalcore that would have only worsened their hangovers. Underground bands
may have started playing with some frequency in India but the local scene here
28
was still dominated by nepotism and a despairing lack of musical honesty.
Organizers thought from the business end of attracting the widest possible
audience and accordingly threw in a random assortment of genres into the mix.
What this succeeded in achieving, however, was a hopelessly divided crowd that
only watched the bands of their choice and walked out on the rest. It wasn't fair to
the bands and it wasn't fair to the people who were paying full ticket money at the
gate only to enjoy two of the ten bands on the bill.
"Not exactly death metal weather, is it?" Ved joked between yawns, as he stood
outside on the verandah smoking with Nicky.
"It's bleeding gorgeous is what it is!" Nicky exclaimed, affecting a dodgy British
accent. "Makes me want to quit grind and take up the ukulele! Maybe romance
some flower child on a hammock," he said, mimicking the drawing of a bow.
"That's a violin, man," Ved pointed out.
"Huh?" Nicky questioned, still groggy from last night.
"Nevermind," Ved said, grinning. "I'm starving. We didn't eat much last night, did
we?" he asked.
"I sure didn't. Did you guys polish off the chicken that Rana cooked?" Nicky
asked, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.
"There's a little left, dude. Go help yourself, you two," Saahas said, coming out
with Nishchay. "We're both good for now. Maybe a light sandwich later
sometime," he added.
29
Slayer, Infester, and Monstrosity formed the dominant part of their morning
playlist, reverberating through Rana's house with a pugilistic fervour that struck
an initially dissonant note with its idyllic surroundings. Most outsiders, and even
those otherwise well-versed with the genre, thought of death metal as overly grim
and fatalistic music, at odds with the optimism prevalent in nature, especially on
a day like today. While that represented the exterior attributes of the music to be
sure, few realized the inherent honesty that lay concealed beneath all great
extreme metal, an honesty that dovetailed with the lack of pretense found in
nature. Its surface abrasions were but a testing ruse to guide the true seeker as he
strove to unearth some semblance of reason behind existence.
Firm believers all in the hair of the dog, they commenced the day's festivities with
the whisky left over from the previous night. The gig was to happen at a resort
located just before and off the newly constructed high-speed expressway leading
to the airport. These places implemented a strict "no-reentry" policy to boost the
bar's business. Food and alcohol prices would be hiked up obscenely, exploiting
the stockaded crowd who in their already inebriated state wouldn't think twice of
contributing to this travesty.
The logical alternative to this shameful invasion into basic freedom of movement
was to get sufficiently sozzled before venturing into the main venue. Ved and his
friends had no problem on that score, seeing as they were only going there to see
the two headliners anyway; they had plenty of time to kill outside and tank up.
But just to get their own back and spite the overbearing management, they made
it a point to smuggle in as many small 90 ml plastic bottles of liquor when they
did enter. They staunchly refused to add to the bar's coffers until it was an
30
absolute biological and spiritual imperative, by way of enjoying the music, to buy
the adulterated beer sold inside. It wasn't about money, it was about principle.
The rented car arrived on time at a quarter to five. Pradeep still snored in the
bedroom. Rana said that he had some work to take care of and would drive up to
the gig later. The others asked him to call when he got there, and then got into the
car. They asked the driver if it was ok to drink and smoke inside his vehicle; the
man was an abstaining Muslim, complete with fez, but was gracious enough to
allow them to do as they pleased as long as they didn't ruin the seats. They
stopped on their way at a retail liquor store to pick up a few beers and a bottle of
whisky along with some water. Saahas said they were good on smokes but picked
up a pack of Classic Milds anyway.
The journey took them the better part of an hour. Nishchay had his smart phone
out for directions, instructing the driver to wind his way through the numerous
bylanes of a village. Shows happening in the city were convenient but ones
scheduled in out of the way places such as these added a rare flavour of
adventure to the day. The Slayer concert from a couple of years ago was so
memorable because it was held in just such a place. The build-up to seeing the
legendary band was as gratifying as the performance itself; long scattered friends
from various parts of the country and beyond had congregated on the vast
grounds outside the venue, reminiscing over old times and playing metal loudly
from boomboxes. It was beautiful.
They had built a full head of steam by the time their car pulled up outside the
venue a little after six. Nishchay had plugged his phone into the car's USB port
and they had played and sung along to both Stained Class and Omen's Warning
31
Of Danger in their entirety during the journey. Saahas had embarked on one of
his diatribes against the proliferation of wannabes in the scene, people who were
attracted to a specific sound and genre because of the facile aesthetics associated
with it. Distros bringing in rare patches and CDs served to embellish an identity
that was, ultimately, only borrowed and not constructed naturally through a real
understanding of the music as philosophy.
By the sound of things, the metalcore bands were already playing their sets inside.
They got out of the car and asked the driver to park at a fixed spot. The street
outside the venue was crawling with metalheads, gathered in groups large and
small, drinking, smoking, talking animatedly, and playing music from their
private stereos. The local villagers walked by with confused expressions on their
faces, befuddled at this plague of black-clad freaks that had descended upon their
quiet land. Some were welcomed affectionately to share in the drinking, to which
they obliged with a polite curiosity to know more about these strange people who
seemed so different from the city slickers they were familiar with.
Saahas had assumed his drunken hessian avatar and was arguing with the guy
from the previous night at Acheron, the one who had given him the polemic on
war and metal. He wasn’t much more than a kid, but he towered a good head over
Saahas and was wearing a battle jacket covered in patches of bands like
Hellhammer, Beherit, Blasphemy, and Angelcorpse. All in mint condition, Ved
noted, and not seen their first wash. He sighed and walked up to see what they
were discussing.
32
"You people are fucking diluting this music, man," Saahas raged. "You think you
can download a hundred bands overnight and know shit about shit? It doesn't
work that way; how do you download heart, tell me that?" he demanded.
"It's just music, bro. Just music. What are you getting so worked up about?" the
guy, Ajith, replied, obviously cowed before Saahas' vehemence.
"IT'S NOT JUST MUSIC!", Saahas exploded. "It's a way of thinking. You keep
doing your war metal this and war metal that? What do you even know of war?
War is regrettable misery, you shallow cunt! Not something to be be worn on a t
shirt and a denim jacket!" he said, convulsing in a paroxysm of sheer feeling.
"I only mean it as a metaphor, bro. War metal as a soundtrack to war, that's all,"
Ajith said in conciliatory tones.
"YOU WANT WAR? I'LL GIVE YOU WAR, YOU HIPSTER MOTHERFUCKER!"
Nishchay came charging out of nowhere with his plastic bottle of whisky raised
overhead.
Ved and Nicky restrained him while bursting out laughing simultaneously. Ajith
the hipster quietly hightailed out of the throng, shaking his head and complaining
to his friends about people who couldn't handle their alcohol. Ved thought he
wasn't entirely false in making that accusation but it sure was a lot of fun.
They eventually entered the concert hall at around eight o' clock, little peg bottles
safely tucked along the sides of their boots and down the front of their pants. The
penultimate band before Nekromantheon took the stage was wrapping up its set,
a bastard fusion of Indian carnatic and metalcore. They rolled their eyes in unison
and went out onto the green lawns adjoining the main area. Most of the older set
33
in the audience, steeped in the ways of classic metal, seemed equally reticent of
the music inside and were biding their time before the main attractions came on.
Out came the peg bottles to be mixed in throat-burning mixtures, joints were
rolled and passed around, a few jeers raised demanding that the metalcore band
get off stage, and for once this crowd, ever at loggerheads, felt like they
represented a united front.
Nekromantheon and Obliteration shared guitarists among them. The organizers
had jumped up at this golden chance to bring down two bands for the price of
one. Luckily, for metal fans, both were some of the more promising acts in the
international underground, visceral and well-learned in the old arts.
The giant physical specimens from Nekromantheon came on to rabid cheers and
proceeded to decimate the venue with a take no prisoners style of death/thrash in
the European vein. Hearing them after the tepid efforts of the Indian bands
highlighted the chasm between the scenes; honest, hardworking bands like
Nekromantheon weren't exactly uncommon abroad but in this land, the contrast
made them appear like metal gods.
Saahas remarked, while in the middle of his Apache war dance, that all Indian
band members in attendance should simply cock up and take notes from the
masterclass being played out before their eyes. Nishchay was right up
front absorbed in his very unique style of headbanging; one foot planted on the
low-rise stage, head bobbing furiously and keeping time with both arms
simulating blasting drums. It was a drum set that had to be seen yet, what with
one of his arms held above the head, the other down by his waist, and both
34
alternating with unbiased frequency. It was a drum set of his mind and all the
more brilliant for it.
Ved was running around in circles, jostling with the frenzied crowd in the middle
of their mosh pits, when suddenly he felt someone shove him in the back with
obvious ill-intent. He went stumbling into the front row and turned back to look
at the offender. The sound technician, a stocky man wearing thick-rimmed
glasses, a checkered scarf, and a ridiculous Picasso cap, was glaring at him in
annoyance, insinuating that he had stepped on the sound cables.
Adrenaline coursing through him, Ved walked up to the technician and
said,"Dude, watch it, ok? It's a death metal show for fucksakes. What do you
expect, people to simply stand back and nod along like they are at a classical
recital?".
The guy jabbed his finger in Ved's chest. "Just get lost from the front of the
console. I have a job to do here," he said condescendingly.
Ved swatted the finger away and shoved him back. The technician came back with
a swinging right which Ved just about managed to evade. He, in turn, tried a kick
in his opponent's midriff. He felt it connect and make substantial impact, but the
technician grabbed onto his foot and swung it in a counter-clockwise motion
before he went crashing back into his console. Ved, drunk as he was, lost his
balance and twisted his ankle as he fell. He didn't realize it till much later.
A melee then ensued, set to Nekromantheon's blistering set. Saahas, Nishchay,
and Nicky noticed what was going on behind their backs and instantly ran to their
friend's help. Ved had gotten back up and wanted another piece of the Picasso
35
hipster, but Saahas forcibly controlled him with his bear-like strength and took
him back out onto the lawns, away from the ruckus. Nishchay and Nicky bickered
back and forth with the technician and his groupies, trying to make them see that
this wasn't their usual clubbing crowd and that aggressive tempers were bound
to get flared easily in a setting such as the one they were in.
But the technician wasn't having any of it. He came out to the lawns with the
resort management and demanded that Ved be ejected from the venue itself. This
was a mistake on his part as it fired up even those that were previously playing
peacemakers.
"This is not done, bro! This is a miscarriage of justice happening here, man!"
Nicky jumped up and down in fury, shaking his fist in their tormentor's faces. Ved
had to smile in spite of himself.
"Nicky, I know you well. We've worked together in the past but your friends are
bloody ruffians da," the technician said. "I need this guy to leave else I won't
continue," he added.
"Who are you calling ruffians, you Pablo Picasso wannabe prick?" Ved got up
again and reached for his enemy. He felt his sprained ankle twitch and sat down
again.
"Exactly! He's paid money just like everybody else!" Nicky clarified. "Throwing
people out ain't metal, man!" he elaborated with rectitude.
A sizeable crowd had gathered around them now, almost all of them siding with
Ved. They realized, for once, that despite whatever differences in opinion they
may share with each other, they were still on the same side of the fence. A
36
dysfunctional family they might be, but a family they remained, for better or
worse, fighting the world as the Manowar song went. They converged on the
technician and his lackeys, adding their voices to Saahas and Nishchay's as they
tried to make peace with the management. Ved felt a sense of gratitude.
The technician, visibly taken aback at this show of metalhead solidarity, returned
like a whipped cur to his booth. Ved and his friends sat out for a while smoking
and laughing at the escapade. A few scenesters approached them, wanting in on
the gossip, but Nicky, still excited from the drama, shooed them off with disdain.
Nishchay remarked that that didn't bode well for his upcoming show. Nicky said
he simply did not care. Not tonight.
They finally went back in to see Obliteration start their set. The stage was
converted into a mock graveyard, cardboard headstones and upright crosses
buried under emissions from the smoke machine. Obliteration played a crushing
form of Black Sabbath and Autopsy inspired death metal with a certain
psychological flair that translated well to the live setting. The crowd took a while
to gain its bearings and calibrate its response to the band's unusual songwriting
but with that achieved, all barriers between the two ceased to exist. Obliteration's
music was subtle yet direct in the feeling of palpable unease that it evoked in
those who witnessed it.
Obliteration ended their set to rapturous cheers from the audience. Saahas
sneaked on to the stage as soon as the band left, ripping out one of the crosses
from the ersatz cemetery. He had a cheeky grin on his face as he high-fived
everybody around him. The cross, he proclaimed, would assume place of pride in
his study back home. One for the memories, he declared.
37
They dragged their weary feet out of the venue towards where their car was
parked. People were exchanging final good byes and dispersing towards their
vehicles. Ved had a very pronounced limp by this time, his ankle swelling and
pushing against the hard leather of his boots. It was just after eleven.
He ran into Sinha near their car. Sinha lived in the same neighbourhood as he
and Nicky. He was a teetotaler and had come alone on his motorcycle, and asked
Ved if he wanted a ride back home. Ved figured that riding pillion would be far
more comfortable in his current condition than cramming into the sedan in which
they had come. He told the guys that he would be going home with Sinha. They
exchanged hugs and promised to meet soon. Ved waited for them to leave, and
then perching himself gingerly behind on the passenger seat, asked Sinha to take
them home.
Valhalla
He came to, under a twilight sky containing a magnificent hunter's moon. He was
lying on a grass embankment, with a dull thrumming in his ears. The air was
decidedly chilly, much more so than what he remembered while leaving the venue
on Sinha's bike. It smelled different too, he realized. There was a freshness about
it, spiked though it was with the stale odour of spilled beer. Cities and even spaces
as big as whole countries had very localized smells and colors that no other place
could sincerely affect. His senses instinctively told him that what he was
experiencing were not the smells and colors of his city.
Confused, he sat up slowly, feeling a hammering pain at his temples. Looking
around, he saw the embankment sloping down to what appeared like a camping
area of sorts. Countless tents dotted this space, with little figures moving between
38
them or lying sprawled out on the lush green grass. He rubbed his eyes and tried
focusing more intensely at the scene before him, and could scarcely believe what
he was seeing; the people in and among the tents were almost all uniformly of
Caucasian origin.
"I'm dreaming," he thought out aloud. "I have to be. Sinha dropped me home and
I'm passed out in a puddle of vomit in the living room, but I have got to be
dreaming," he told himself with growing desperation.
He slapped himself vigorously but the images did not fade away. They only grew
in relief. The ringing in his ears was slowly clearing out as well. Strains of
strangely familiar music were playing at a distance. He looked on past the
camping valley and observed what looked like a large stage at the far end. There
was a crowd in the thousands assembled before the stage; from this distance they
looked like the multi-colored blobs that pass for human heads in a child's
drawing. But he wasn't about to count out the possibility of them being real
people, rapidly losing all faith in the propriety of his judgments as he was at just
this moment.
He walked down the incline towards the tents. People - metalheads, it was
obvious - passed him by, smiling in greeting and throwing the horns in salute.
Dazed, he simply looked back at them, trying to make sense of this surreal affair.
White metalheads. Foreign land. Big concert stage.
It appeared like he had somehow landed in the middle of one of the large
European metal festivals that happened through the continent’s summer. Maybe
39
dream, maybe hallucination, but he was there and couldn't reject the coeval
testimony of his senses and his knowledge anymore.
"You're almost there," came a voice from his right.
Ved looked around and saw a middle-aged man sitting on a stone outcrop. He
was Nordic in physiognomy, with a prominent nose and eyes that twinkled from
thickset brows. A receding hairline hadn't stopped his magnificent golden locks
from reaching well below the waistline. His beard wasn't unlike those worn by his
friends Saahas and Nishchay. A pair of sunglasses lay perched on his forehead
while solid, round metal rings hooped through his ear lobes. He wore a Bathory t
shirt and camos tucked into his combat boots.
Undeniable aura peeled off in waves from this grizzled metal warrior, but there
was also something vaguely familiar about his visage. Ved approached him
diffidently and asked, "What do you mean?"
"White metalheads. Foreign land. Big concert stage. No bullshit. It's all real," he
chuckled.
"It can't be," Ved disagreed. "I am from India. I was leaving a show on my friend's
motorcycle. I am just drunk and stoned out of my mind. This has to be a dream!"
Ved remonstrated.
"It's no dream, friend. You're just dead," the man revealed with eyes not lacking
sympathy.
"I beg your pardon?" Ved asked, not believing he heard the man correctly.
40
"You're dead" the man repeated. "Your friend's bike skidded on loose gravel and
collided with a tree. He survived the crash but you received a bad bump on the
head. My condolences, but you're dead," he commiserated.
Ved sunk down on his haunches, his face a blank slate devoid of emotion. Was
this happening for real? He had spent all his life thinking about what it meant to
be dead, how an entire life could be effaced in as little as a moment. What he
hadn't bet on was for death to be a European heavy metal festival. It seemed too
absurd to be true.
"Well, what's all this then? You expect me to believe that dying is like going to a
heavy metal show? I should've died earlier in that case," he said, hoping he
sounded flippant and brave.
"It's no joke," the man reprimanded. "You and others just like you have invested
huge amounts of energy into feeling and thinking about this music. Significant
portions of your life have been spent trying to tie music and soul in one
unbreakable, indissoluble unity. Do you think all of that energy simply vanishes
into nothing once you die?" he asked. "Hear that," he told Ved with a knowing
smile.
So many centuries
So many Gods
We were the prisoners
Of our own fantasty
But now we are marching
Against these Gods
I'm the wizard, I will change it all
41
Ved recognized the song instantly. It was the Blind Guardian classic 'Valhalla'
from their Follow The Blind album. Its significance just now, however, was lost
on him.
"What's going on? Why Valhalla? Why now?" he asked, close to breaking down as
the implications threatened to overwhelm him.
"Most think of heavy metal as just music and little more. But it is far more than
just that. Heavy metal is a way of thinking about life. You could even call it a
synonym for life itself. When you truly fall in love with this music and embrace it
as a part of your own mind and heart, it begins to change you on a fundamental
level. You view the world and your place in it differently."
"New dimensions offer you their unique vantage points. Think of it in terms of a
massive canyon. If you are standing on the floor of this canyon, you can only look
up at the steep escarpments, feeling trapped by their imposing presence. But if
you can find a suitable viewing point on some rim of the canyon, you stand to
gain a far more complete view of that geological marvel. Metal takes you to the
rim of the canyon of life."
"As I said before, your energy was not wasted. It channelized itself into creating a
little pocket outside of space and time, a pocket that encapsulates all that you held
dearest when you were alive. Valhalla was the name given to it, to represent the
triumph over all that you found disagreeable in life. Here you can finally find
some measure of peace of mind, in the company of others just like you."
"It also created me," the man added mysteriously.
42
"Who are you?" Ved finally asked the question that had been gnawing at him
since he met this strange man.
"Friend? Chaperone? Steward? A Metal God?" the man chuckled. "Does it really
matter? But now, I think you should go and join in the song. It is a kind of
welcome for you, you know?" he told Ved as he lit a cigarette.
Feeling light-headed, Ved turned and started walking towards the main stage. He
had advanced only a few paces when he looked back at the man and asked,
"What's your name?"
The man looked up from the blade of grass that he'd been studying.
"I thought you'd know," he replied amused. "I was called Tomas in real life," he
sighed. "But you can call me Quorthon now."