In Search of Martin and Johnny

Maggie aunty, as we called Martin’s mother, always looked sophisticated and fashionable in her bright floral dresses. Johnny on Christmas, wore a three-piece suit and looked a miniature of his father. Immaculate. Martin strummed a guitar like his cousin from Bandra, who was a member of an occasional band. They played Jim Reeves and Cliff Richard among the other songs thatI cannot remember, and went to church schools named after Christian saints. Meanwhile, we went to vernacular schools and grew up on Hindi films songs and stars. I often went back home to long evenings of Yakshagana encounters between my father’s friends, while my mother waited upon them with idlis, tea and a keen critical ear.

My father, still working hard to feed his big family, decided that we move to distant Ghatkopar. I lost touch with Martin and Johnny.

I wanted to be an artist. Well, I already believed I was by virtue of the fact that I could reproduce an Amitabh Bachchan on paper from a film magazine. After five long years of studying Commerce in a suburban college, and much against my father’s urging to join a bank, I joined the School of Art.

Here was a new world. Many students listened to rock. Some impersonated a mix of Jimmy Hendricks and Jim Morrison. Torn jeans, long hair and most importantly an attitude of irreverence. In the library we were making discoveries of America, RobertRauchenberg, Jasper Johns and the rest, quite apart from what we got lectured at in our History class. This seemed to be the right spirit to stick by. We derided the curriculum as we tipped our cigarette ash into empty tea cups in the canteen, often late into the nights at the beautiful J J campus. I was now a part of the gang. I remember, I thanked Martin and Johnny many times.

Last night, the band at Jazz by the Bay seemed entertaining in their act of defiance. The gestures were earnest in its pretense of a protest. A few people chose to engage in head banging in the beat. Some simply concentrated on the food and drinks and others stared, numb, at the band and clapped on waking between the numbers. Some of which sounded vaguely familiar. The smell of mixed perfume, air-conditioning, beer and smoke seemed pleasant. I remained on my feet, trying hard not to betray any of my ignorance. I needed to look like I knew the sound. My friend kept turning to me for acknowledgement of his appreciation for the band.Somehow, at some point, the band had begun to embody its own establishment of a professional rebellion. I wanted to stay on but my watch would not stop. I had to catch the last train.

Today, I wonder where Martin and Johnny are. I know where I am. At least for the time being, in my small but beautiful rented studio space in Kala Chowki.

Sudarshan Shetty is an artist