The Clash of Boyzone and BBC

Listening to songs new and old on my iPhone while at work.

Was listening to Lumineers when one of their songs had the similar scale to Boyzone's, "Words" and I thought, "Hmm, that's next."

Song reminded me of the time when it used to be on top of the charts and I was in love with Ronan Keating's husky voice and how his breathiness would come through in the second bridge and he would sigh, "Hhhit's only words, and words are all I have, to take your heart away."

That song used to be #1 for weeks.. perhaps months in my teenage mind.

That meant it would be the song that would wrap up the top of the charts show on television, drawing closer to the hour.

Just in time for Abu's headline news on BBC.

We'd fight over the controls, more like siblings than father and child. I'd protest that the news were the same as the hour before, and the one before that. He'd say the song was unchanged.

I'd be shushed into silence by Ami and she would point out that I was being rude. Which I probably was, and she was right to do that.

Except, Abu started calling me out of the room nearing the hour so I could listen to my song instead of him watching the BBC headlines.

It's things like these that I cherish. That make me want to be more and more like him. To figure him out more as he's getting older and returning towards his childhood. So I can be that kind of child. That kind of adult. And that kind of parent.

I get it. He's a man, and I'm a (girly) girl and the thought of wanting to emulate my dad to be that kind of human, as compared to being the kind of human my mum is, might be surprising.

Just that Abu is squishy. He is vulnerable. He has always been generous with saying that he's sorry. And telling me, and all those who matter, that he loves them. He closes his eyes when he hugs me. I see his dimples when I kiss him on his cheek.

I've shared more reflection with him on human relationships and the human condition itself than any other human being. Even Ryz.

Not because of the number of words we shared, or the hours we've spoken.

Rather it was the sheer timeliness of the moment that we shared it in. When I felt vulnerable. Lost. Confused. Or when he felt that he must be strong, and my father, the protector. He would let me speak words of encouragement to him, and allow himself to listen.

It was one of those exasperated heart-to-hearts when I exclaimed to Abu, [about Ami]: "It's like I have to wait in line for her attention!"

To which he replied, "I have to wait in line too."

Whether he did or didn't, or whether I was correct in summing up Ami's distribution of love in such a trite sentence was besides the point.

Content was never the issue. Nor was it ever about being politically correct. It was about understanding the root, and accepting it. It was the context.

Even now Ami half-complains, half-marvels at how Abu and I argue like siblings, like equals.

So yeah, I'm a girly girl who wants to be every bit of my father because my father raised me to disregard content and value context.

The Drive To School in The Mornings

Recently signed up for the trial version of Apple Music and it's digging up the songs from near and distant memory that's got me hooked.

Friday night Ryz picked me up from work, and well the drive down 152 Street towards White Rock is just beautiful.

I was exploring Bally Sagoo on my phone and found a remix of, "Tumhein Dillagi" which was performed by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

The remix was awful. Realized why Bally Sagoo couldn't make waves after the days of Aaja Nachle.

15 seconds into the remix and I put on the original version.

Qawwali starts and I remembered the drive from my home to my school every morning. This would be the last song on one side of the audiocassette and I would want to hear it at a single stretch.

I don't remember whether Arif Bhai drove fast enough or slow enough for the song to start at our driveway when he would be backing onto the street, and end when we'd pull in through the gates of KAS.

Each time. Every morning.

I made Arif Bhai listen to a lot of great and crap songs in my teenage years, each one on repetition because hey, once would never be enough.

Tumhein Dillagi was one song that we'd both hear with shared appreciation. I'd spy the fingers on his left hand gently tap the steering wheel. Random taps despite himself, since he was too proper to tap in sync.

And I in my teenage longing for that kind of love that makes one sing out in rhyme and refrain loved that qawwali every day.

Until the next passion rolled in and took over me.

Sixteen minutes and twenty-three seconds of bliss.

Hearing it more than a decade later in the car and the perfect weather, sitting next to my lifelong crush who is also my husband, the song seemed too intense. Too self-destructive, when my definition of love is constantly changing and evolving with myself.

For a brief moment I did remember those feelings as they rushed back. Though I didn't know what to do with them. Like meeting that one person you had a brief connection with way, way back in school years later. You marvel at how time flies, smile and walk on.

Except Arif Bhai is still working with my father, and I'm not shy to tell him that I appreciate all that he's done for me.

And that boy that I fell in love with in my twenties is behind the wheel next to me while we listen to happier songs together.