The 80s...

When all you wanted was a buck and a half to buy the latest issue of Sportstar, to get a poster of Srikkanth, to paste it on your bedroom wall. To come back from school and watch India play, watch him bat, heart in your mouth, thinking he will get out any moment, half wanting him to get out, to relieve the tension, the stress you feel watching him take on Imran Khan.

Watching your kid brother grow up, watching him take his first steps, having him trot behind you, calling your name. Getting irritated at him being there all the time, wanting to play with your friends, your buddies, taking him with you wherever you go. Fighting with him, playing with him, taking him for movies and buying him samosas and a cold drink, feeling guilty about him sitting there in the movie hall with you and your friends, wanting to tell your friends that it was your mothers idea, taking him along. Watching him sing at the school play, feeling proud, watching him wear his uniform, watching him dress up like Mohan Lal, watching him play with his friends, watching him get his own crowd, his own buddies.

Going to school by the school bus, hoping to get a window seat, hoping your friends will sit next to you. Watching out for the bullies from the senior classes, afraid they will ask you for that new Asterix comic you brought along to lend to your best friend in school. Smuggling a porn magazine back home, reading it in the bathroom, hiding it from your parents and lending it back, slightly worn, sharing the secret with your friends.

Hanging out with your buddies - at the bus stop, at the small open land near your house where you play cricket, at a movie theatre, at the best music store in town, listening to Madonna. Studying. Mugging your way through history texts, geography, physics and chemistry. Trying to work out math, keeping in mind your mother's words that math was the only subject where you can get a perfect score, never succeeding, always falling short. Getting a star at school, along with scores of others, jealous of the topper, knowing that he succeeded because of his smarmy ways and being the teachers pet.

Falling in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, waiting for her at the bus stand for hours, returning home without a glimpse, returning home after talking to her, walking on air. Writing to her, reading her letters, awaiting her call on the phone, talking , talking, talking to her. Walking past her house in the evenings, hoping that she would appear, somewhere near the door near the window near the gate. Walking with her all along the streets of your town, you in your school uniform and she in hers. No cares in the world, no one watching, no one near you, the town is empty, the town is deserted, its just the two of you.

Fighting with your mother, angry with your dad. Shouting, walking out of the house. Coming back with an empty stomach and a long face. Waking them up in the middle of the night after a bee stung your arm, having them fuss around you when you had a fever, when you had the most awful pain in your belly and needed to have your appendix removed, when you fell and cut your knee and needed to have it stitched. When you were caught for copying and them not saying a word of blame, being with you always and loving you like you were their most precious possession in the world.

Waiting in line to watch the new Mohan Lal movie, first day first show. Going to school the next day and telling your friends in an offhand way that you saw it already. Waiting for your uncle to visit, to take you out and buy you the Dire Straits album, the Paul Simon album , the Madonna album. Listening to Springsteen belt out Dancing in the Dark and being hooked for a lifetime. Thinking Wham! were the greatest group alive. Knowing that Michael Jackson was the ultimate superstar, the best dancer in the whole world. Watching Thriller, watching Billie Jean.

And now, more than a decade later ...

Sitting alone in a dusty room, paint flaking off the corners, wood peeling off your chair. Feeling sorry for yourself. Watching Mohan Lal again, watching the movies of Priyadarshan, watching Back to the Future, watching Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron, listening to Springsteen, George Michael, Def Leppard and Guns N Roses. Thinking that these were the best movies ever made, the best music ever composed. Watching a retrospective of Michael Jackson on the eve of his new album. Thinking - knowing - knowing that Michael's best era was the eighties. Knowing that he can never be the same again, never capture the same magic again, never be innocent again.

Watching him dance at the Motown Reunion concert, watching him dance that walk of his, watching him dance to Billie Jean. And suddenly you break down and cry.

Not knowing why, you break down and cry.