04.12.2002 | 1:04 p.m.
The Concert for George - finally.

"Aw look how little you are! How old are you,honey?" The first sentence I heard as I opened the door into the balcony apprehensively. I smiled at the woman who asked me the question; "19", I answered, walking to my seat, still trying to digest the fact that I was, indeed, at the Royal Albert Hall. That its grandeur was not another simulcra-created delusion. That I would be sitting on these red velvet seats, watching the worlds' finest musicians performing together. "Aw...you weren't even born when The Beatles were around! That is so precious!" I laughed,shrugged and leaned against the railing in front of my seat. In the direct line of my vision was an orange silk banner, with the word 'Om' written on it. Behind it, an enlarged black and white photograph of George Harrison, circa 1968. If I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, it felt like I was home. The smell of agarbati was present everywhere. The thirty-odd minutes of anticipation before the show was characterised by disbelief and excruciating excitement. "I'm going to bawl through the entire thing!" I prophesised to Josie, whose hands were clutching her stomach to get rid of the butterflies that had invaded it. Silently, she handed me a roll of tissues as we waited for the dream we had dreamed all our lives to become a reality.

Soon,the lights were dimmed, and instantly, the sounds of murmuring stopped. Men and women dressed in traditional Indian clothes walked on stage to the beat of applause and cheering. Stage managers scurried on and off stage, carrying various instruments and lighting the diya that lay inconspiciously on stage right. From among the darkness, a figure emerged, a voice said, "Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen...." Catcalls and whistles reciprocated his greetings. It was Eric Clapton. Nervously, he thanked us for being there. He thanked Olivia and Dhani - who he accidentally referred to as 'George's wife' much to everyone's childish delight - for organising the show. Briefly he explained how the performances were going to be divided before proceeding to introduce the legendary Ravi Shankar. Frail and visibly emotional, George's guru spoke fondly of "his son",saying he was certain he was with us that night. "How could he not be when everyone who loves him so much is here?"

The first half of the evening, as it turned out, was devoted entirely to Indian classical music. Anoushka Shankar and a large group of Indian musicians and singers performed a piece called 'Arpan', composed by Ravi Shankar specially for that evening. Anoushka was breath-taking; her father must have been exceedingly proud to see how passionately she played and conducted. "And she's so beautiful too!" like the lady behind us commented. Jeff Lynne joined the all-Indian crew and with them performed 'The Inner Light', perhaps one of the songs' we would least expect to hear live. What seemed like a few minutes, but in reality was a whole hour later, Eric Clapton came back on stage and announced the intermission.

Once everyone had returned to their seats and settled down, the second half began - Those ninety minutes will be among the most memorable events of my life. When I'm lying on my death-bed, scenes from the 29th of November 2002 will run gleefully across my eyelids; even in a state of delirium I will know that that was among my life's defining events. To list every song and every artist who performed it would read tediously, and detract from the utter beauty of each performance. It seemed like each one unwittingly outdid the previous. Never before had I heard voices singing so earnestly, or music so pure, it reduced a large hall full of adults to tears. The thunderous applause was not obligatory; it was earned. Yet it seemed inadequate to express the kaleidoscope of emotions that each one of us was experiencing. For the majority of the crowd, each song was a slice of nostalgia that they ate hungrily, relishing and revelling in its sweetness. For the rest, myself included, the music was emblematic of everything that had until then existed only in dinner-table stories. But now, the people who had merely been inhabitants of dusty tapes were standing right in front of us, singing songs that had been etched into the our souls. We sang along, our lips procuring a life of their own.

From early favourites like "I Need You" and "If I Needed Someone", the gems like "Here Comes the Sun" and "My Sweet Lord" to the lesser known but equally brilliant "Photograph" and "Handle with Care", the lyrics lent understanding and empathy to us like never before. I feel compelled to say here that the highlights of the evening were "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" and my personal favourite,"Something." Not surprisingly, the former was sung by Eric Clapton, with Paul on piano and Ringo on drums, recreating almost perfectly one of the most poignant songs of George's career. "Something", on the other hand, started off differently. Paul picked up a ukelele, played and sang the song in a rather silly manner. Disappointment stabbed me; this was the song I had been looking forward to most. "I guess...I guess it's just a way of preventing it from being too sentimental. It's good to be facetious sometimes...", I rationalised to myself. But when I realised that a stage manager was handing Paul a rhythm guitar, Ringo was joining in on drums, and that Clapton was now playing the infamous riff, I was overjoyed. The rest of the song remained faithful to the original - almost painfully so. The puffiness of people's eyes stood testament to the power of the melody. The rendition was everything I had dreamed it would be and so much more. I was shaking so hard, I had forgotten to breathe. When I finally exhaled, the only thought in my head was "Now my life is complete."

With so many musical giants present, the show was always at a risk of turning into an 'extravaganza' that would crudely cash in on cheap sentiment. Or a black-tie affair where the audience sipped champagne and clapped politely after each song. But Eric Clapton's humility, Tom Petty's hair, Jeff Lynne's dark glasses, Monty Python's bare backsides, Ringo's red velvet jacket and Paul's ukelele all added a human touch to the evening. They weren't superstars. They were merely people in love with a man and his music, just like the rest of us. They had purged their grief by playing songs that must have been the storehouses of a myriad of memories. Because of Dhani's uncanny resemblance to his father, Paul voiced Olivia's sentiment that it felt like George had stayed young and the rest of them had just grown old. Towards the end, Dhani Harrison mumbled briefly into the microphone and then composing himself said, "Hi! I'm Dhani Harrison. I'm George's...uhh...wife,"glancing mischieviously at a blushing Eric Clapton. He thanked his father's "best friends" for being there. "Dad loved you very much", he said, turning away from the microphone and into Clapton's paternal embrace. Contrary to most people's expectations, the evening was not punctuated with a sing-a-long to "My Sweet Lord." Instead, it ended on a bittersweet note as Joe Brown sang 'In Dreams,' ostensibly one of George's favourite songs. The audience stood on its feet, swaying to the music and cheering as Paul hugged Ringo. Feelings of warmth and affection washed over me as I fought stubborn tears that were making their way down my cheeks. My hands sore from clapping were now reaching out to catch the orange, yellow and white paper petals that were descending majestically from above. They were the only tangible proof I had that the evening was not just another futile dream.

As I walked out into the London night, shivering with the intensity of emotion and winter, I smiled to myself knowing that these feelings would never ever be replicated. I glanced at the petals vestigial of the power of George Harrison's music and wondered if what Ravi Shankar had said was true. I wondered if he had heard all of us, singing to him, for him, with him. I wondered if he had seen all the tears shed out of happiness, or had felt the inexplicable calmness that had seized all of us. I like to believe he did, and if he did, I have no doubt that he approved heartily.

deja vu? | jamais vu?