Man On The Edge

You stand on a small bit of dry dusty earth, the only patch allowed to you. Thirty thousand pairs of feet stand like you on their allotted areas. A shove, displaces you from your territory, you in turn crash into one of your numerous neighbors and invade their area. This domino effect creates a minor ripple diffuses slowly through the throng, till it dies down. You crane your neck high, your nose, in vain seeks out a few milliliters of fresh air, air free of the humid stench of sweat, nicotine and grass. A damp arm presses against yours and someone rests their weight on your shoulders, you rest your weight on someones shoulders too. It's a dark night and the powerful spot-lights fail to penetrate the mass of the crowd. You struggle to raise your hand to your face, an inch from your nose, you inspect it to check if you still have all your fingers on, its been a while since you lost all feeling in that arm. The other arm is held above your head, a glowing red firefly periodically descends towards your mouth, only to be chased away by a stream of thick smoke.
But the crowds tire now. Someone somewhere propels an inflated condom your way, with screams of glee, you and dozens of others around you reach up to be able to direct it further along its erratic Brownian path.
Your throat is parched from hours in the sun, washed down with a dozen cigarettes, your body is soaking with perspiration and you wish it was the other way around.
A searing pain has begun shooting through one leg, forcing you to shift your weight. Around you, a slow, persistent trickle of people head back, towards the promise a drink and a chance to sit.
But then, a slight breeze flits across the field and all around you, people close their eyes and arch their necks further still, trying to expose as much of themselves as they can to it's healing touch.
Then as the breeze begins to die down, the lights dim to the accompaniments of a loud roar from the assembled hordes and a deep loud voice is echoes.

“Woe to thee o' earth and sea, for the devil sends the beast with wrath, for he knows the time is short.
Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the beast,
For it is a human number,
Its number is six-hundred-and-sixty-six.”

And the crowd goes wild as simultaneously, six of the devil's own explode into action on stage, from the minute the opening chords are struck till the last dying note, thirty thousand odd throats shriek in unison in hellish glee.
The flickering lights rest momentarily on your neighbors face and you find the same ecstatic, trance-like expression that you bear reflected on her face too.
As the six, work their way through the set, your body forgets all the pain, the dehydration and discomfort. Your hands pound away above your head and your head, bangs in unison with the drums. When they jump, you jump, when they sing, you scream. For an hour, you respond to their every signal, their every whim, their every command.
And when its all over, you stand dumbfounded, surely not already? You wait expectantly for it to start all over again, just like the empty upended bottle of beer, you wait for the last few drops to come trickling down but they never do. People as shocked as you shove at you as they head away, but you remain rooted to your spot, the you waited your whole life to be in and the spot where you will remain for the rest of your short life.

On the 17th, for the first time ever in India, Iron Maiden played at the Palace Grounds and I was there. Even a few month if someone had told me I would be within a hundred feet of the beast, I'd have called them mad. But the day before, thats exactly where I was, I head-banged to 'Trooper', I screamed my way through 'Two Minutes To Midnight' and all of my other favourites. And of-course, after what seems like decades of envying the crowd while listening to live versions of 'Fear of the Dark' on CD's, I too, yes, me. I, Kartik Rajan, sang Fear of the Dark, live, with Iron bloody Maiden.