The Man in the Mirror

It’s not that our bit of the world jumped onto a time machine and woke up in a Karan Johar film with the year 2000,but some things were not willing to court the photoshopped psychedelia that waited to welcome the 21st century. The nineties teenager didn’t go to bed making tattoos in his head or gatecrashing Roadies in his dreams. He wouldn’t hop over to Someplace Else on Saturdays or do a Coldplay in his imagination in boring Chemistry classes. And that’s why he would probably miss Michael Jackson more than his college hopping,or senior school cousin today. Not because he mutters Heal the World in his sleep and lights up at the sight of shiny black leather jackets. Not even because he thinks Wong Kar Wai should’ve worshipped every bit of the Thriller video. But probably because the sound of ‘Jackson’ made him feel all smart,spunky and ‘Western’ as he negotiated middle school hormones and a broken voice. Probably because Jackson was how he woke up to the importance of being crooked,despite the cloistering Bengali goodness that was pushed down his throat. Or probably because he knew Jackson longer than he knew his own dreams. From the middle school fests where he envied how the seventh grade’s music sensation crooned Black and White. From the junior school fancy dress competitions where the Jackson hat-jacket-twin curls-around-the-face number was always a runaway hit. From the after-cricket show of vainglory,where the neighbour’s son tripped while trying a moonwalk. From how the domestic help knew Michael Jackson like she knew her ‘cup-dish’. From bhashan evenings,where the bidi wielding,paan spitting para lout invoked the ghost of a Texan cowboy-turned-Mithun Chakraborty,as the country liquor told his unfortunate witnesses that he was ‘puro Maikel Jyacksun’. And from the subconscious that made Jackson his favourite metaphor for everything outrageous,everything otherworldly,his own little fairytale come true.