A few weeks ago, out of the blue, appa fainted.
Amma dislikes my taste in music that goes beyond Carnatic music. So, every time I am blasting something that does not fall under the 3-hour kutcheri category, I have my room door closed so we do not get into an unnecessary argument. With my room door closed on one such evening, I was standing in front of the mirror and examining the expanding bald line on my head, and I heard the sound of a vessel falling on the ground. Usually, that sound indicates amma rolling something around the kitchen alone, because she refuses to take help, because none of us clean and arrange and do anything generally as perfectly as she does. I simply sighed and continued with my inspection when I heard the sound of a vessel hitting the ground again, and a muffled thud. This probably meant she tried to lift and shift some heavy vessel, too proud to ask for help, and it slipped out of her hands. Fully prepared to fight her, I opened the room door, only to see appa on the floor, fainted, with an empty plate a foot away. I sank to my feet without as much as a word, and amma walked out of the kitchen to check what the sound word. I gently lifted his head and placed it on my lap, and my brain and mouth stopped working. I was neither thinking nor speaking. Amma was holding his hand and very calmly, calling out to him, asking him if he was okay, asking what had happened, like she was continuing a conversation. Appa was not responding. His eyes would not open. My brain would not understand squat of what was happening. It was a few very long minutes until he stirred, and amma continued to talk to him like he was responding fine, and between a lot of vague answers, we got him pillows to rest on, and eventually moved him to his spot to lie down and rest. After maybe 10 whole minutes, I called thambi to let him know he had to get home as soon as possible, appa had fainted. He told me ‘Check and let me know what’s up. Text me after that.’ Well, no. Appa fainted. And fell. He needed to come home.
The next few days were the longest. Appa was throwing up every half hour, he did not have the strength to stand up, he was struggling to even prop himself up from the pillow, and everything would have been a thousand times harder but for thambi. The night of, although amma specifically told us not to stay awake the whole night because then, by morning we would have no energy to take care of him, I could barely sleep. I left the room door unlocked and open for the first time. I kept waking up every 15 minutes or so, to check if thambi was doing okay, holding him, or helping him, or if I was needed for something. I could not wrap my head around the fact that I shot photographs for a living and I did not have a single picture of this man that I took. Who told him it was okay to randomly collapse?
Our family doctor, the only person with the talent to convince appa, was not in town. After a lot of pleading, several doctor opinions were taken, a bunch of tests were run. The old man kept saying ‘How much was this? How much was that? I have some cash at home, we should take that and use. Why won’t you tell me how much you paid there?’ Appa curled up like a c-shaped worm, and thambi perpetually sleeping by his side through day and night - because he had disturbed sleep as he had to be up every time appa was up – became a regular sight. He had a thermos and his regular water bottle next to his head. One hand was always under his head. His breathing a little uneven, huffing now and then like a feather being shaken out of slumber on the grass by a breeze continuously changing pace. He looked so weak and so fragile and so small, it reminded me of his father, and I hated it. The problem was, thatha was always old. He was old, frail, he got weaker as I progressed into another new year at school, and he slowly stopped walking to the garden and reading his newspaper, and got bound to the bed with saltless food that he detested, and well, he eventually died. I could not understand what business appa had looking like thatha. Appa needs to be appa. What was wrong with him? Why could he not get that?
His entire arsenal of ‘blade’ jokes was somehow out and ready. Man could barely stand up on his own without feeling dizzy, but somehow, everything was a joke. Thambi and him seemed to be almost always cracking up about something. A painfully slow week later, and almost all test results pointing towards nowhere, we were told to take a brain MRI, just to be sure what did or did not happen, because that was the last step to confirm or eliminate the possibility of a heart attack. Heart attack. For this man. Who sleeps well, eats well, has his nutrition set right, has always done house chores, almost never asks for any help with his own personal chores, cooks, cleans, hobbles his way to the supermarket, post office, and wherever the hell else he decides he needs to go. When the first doctor who saw him asked me to get his reports and medical history and last hospital discharge report, I had nothing to tell or give. There has been none. How does this make sense? He started exhibiting sides to himself I did not know existed not too long ago, and how am I expected to be ready to say bye? Shouldn’t he know?
Older parents are harder to convince. They have spent 60-70 years experiencing experiences and forming opinions about things for so long, they have seen and had to roll and adjust with so many changes in life and the world in general, it is near impossible to get them to listen to you when you have a contradictory idea or opinion. It is not really fair to blame them, is it? Even app updates are enough to annoy us. Appa is hard to convince, but at least he will hear you out fully before he decides to agree or disagree. Disagree mostly, but he listens. Several strategically made moves and arguments were executed, and we had him on board for the MRI. I had travelled across half the city to get the prescription for the test, and I was grabbing a very hurried bite for lunch, and I heard thunderous laughter from the hall. A friend who had come over to help was laughing loudly and appreciating appa that he had cracked a good joke. The old man looked feeble, but quite pleased. At the lab, the lady at the counter looked at the form I had filled out and asked, ‘Patient’s age is high. Will he cooperate with the test or should we inform the technician to get help ahead?’ I could understand this was their daily process, and they were asking out of genuine concern. How do I explain that this is appa, not thatha. Appa listens. He has been at least, for quite a few years now, trying in whatever way he can.
Thambi went with appa, helping him go from one room to another, telling him which had what test zone. I sat with my friend who had come to help at the waiting area, thinking about how terribly alone I felt. It had taken me over 10 minutes to get my voice and say or do something the day he had fainted. My brain only told me to put his head on my lap and hold him. All my friends who could have come and helped, save one, were somehow out of town at the exact same time. I could not stop thinking I did not have a single photo of him on any of the million hard disks I had. I kept wishing I had an elder sibling who knew what to do, and tell me how to feel, because now, I was the elder sibling, and I had no clue what to do, and I could not help but wonder how thambi was coping with this, because he had so much to do, and I did not know what to tell him, or how to carry the conversation forward when I asked him ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ and he said ‘Yeah, okay.’ I could not stop thinking about how level headed amma had been through it all, even telling me to step out for work if I had to, they had the home fort under control. She did keep saying that the incident meant they could not go to our hometown as planned earlier to have coconuts plucked, and the house cleaned. She kept repeating the thing about coconuts a thousand times, over and over again, but I let it go because maybe that was her thin rope to believing everything was normal and maybe, the biggest issue was rebooking tickets on a convenient train? I felt exhausted and hopeless and alone as hell, I broke down, rambling random things and telling the one friend sitting next to me that I had no one. He listened, and let me cry.
I remembered that it was a Saturday, and Saturday means dance class. We got appa home. I was exhausted beyond words. The test results were expected in a few hours. I do not know what came over me, but I asked if my friend could drop me at the dance class, changed clothes, and just went. I cannot really ‘dance’ dance. I’d taken up the class because I wanted something that would get me out of the house in regular intervals, get me stick to some physical activity, and hold myself accountable on maintaining the routine in some way. On most days, my legs stung every step of the way back home, muscles throughout the body made their presence known in acute detail and extent of pain, and if it was a lucky day, I had caught on 3 steps. But it genuinely helped me hold my shit together a little. I reached class a little ahead of time like every other time. I liked having a few minutes alone with the floor and the mirror, to remind myself that I was doing this, I was sticking to this, and I was taking one step forward, every time I showed up.
Ananya came. The class flowed. 30 minutes into the class, I felt like my body would give up. 45 minutes into class, I felt like I was ready to conquer the world of dance. These are routine feelings. She almost beats you down entirely with some kind of workout I was so happy and relieved to never learn the name of, and then, she eases you into some choreography that looks so easy and effortless when she demonstrates, and just when you feel like you may have gotten the hang of it because you are becoming a ‘dancer,’ it is time for warm down and stretching. Truth be told, this is my favourite part of class. It is one big flow of movements, and your body is aware, alive, breathing, flowing, thanking you.
Ananya tells us it’s time to stretch. The music changes. It shifts to a pace your breath tries to calm down to. It’s reassuring, telling you you’ve got this. Most of this is a fixed pattern, with small changes there and here to help keep up with the workout for the day – whichever body part she aimed to kill. Her voice calls out the usual instructions: ‘Legs together... deep breath. Lift your hands upppp… bend forward… get to a flatback… observe your breathing…’ It is familiar territory. The non-scary one. The one where I know what she is going to call out next. My eyes are closed as I move and stretch, watching my breath, listening to her voice. We are back up, standing, arms folded, as she switches the last part of the warm down.
‘Lie down, close your eyes, feet apart, palms facing upwards, relax, let go, take a deep breath.’
The song on the audio system switches.
‘Take a deep breath in… hold it… now breathe out…’
‘If I’d met you a few years ago
I wonder how life would’ve been before…’
Appa is a feather, curled up, so small.
‘Think about how your day was. What you did today. Where you walked. What you spoke...’
‘But I can go
back to the places when we were four
But I can go
Back to the places when we didn’t know…’
Appa is cracking PJs, barely able to laugh heartily in pride at the laughter it is evoking in his audience, consisting of thambi, and my one friend in town.
‘Think about how you moved, how you pushed yourself, what you learned today…’
‘You go to the hills for a month or two
But pack me in your plans like I would too…’
Appa’s face and body is so different, and I do not have one single picture I shot of him.
‘Think about how your body feels. Think about where it pains. Think about how it feels. It is all the work you have put in today…’
‘I’ve played it cool and it might be too soon
I wonder how life will be with you, fool…’
Appa is wearing his crisply ironed white shirt and military green pants, sitting cross-legged on a plastic chair, visibly annoyed at my report card that had marks more in 80’s than 90’s, and the knowledge that I had not touched my homework until 8pm because he wasn’t home.
‘Concentrate on all that pain. Concentrate on every part of your body the pain is throbbing in, reminding you of your efforts.’
‘But I can go
Back to the places when we are alone…’
Appa is done with me and my life’s choices, so much so that he has barely spoken 4 words to me all week. And I sit quietly, unable to find words, at my therapist’s office.
‘Give it shape, give it colour, give it a form, if you will, and see for yourself everything that pains you, everything that bothers you, float in front of you as one unit…’
‘We climb those trees
But my words are on the ground…’
Appa is on the floor, motionless, his ever-silver dinner plate a foot away.
‘…and now, let it go. Watch it, whatever shape, whatever colour, whatever form, leave you. You are letting it go…’
‘…and I can’t go back in time…’
Appa is crouched in the steel chair, in the lobby of the lab, his left hand holding his head in place, tired, as thambi sits close, always on the ready to hold him. I am watching him breathe.
‘…and now, in your own time, whenever you are ready, turn over to one side, support yourself with a hand, and sit up and open your eyes. In your own time… In your own time…’
‘…and I can’t go back in time…’
I opened my eyes, brimming with uncontrollable tears, and went and gave Ananya a really long, really unexpected hug, said a few muffled thank yous, and left from class.
An hour or so later, the test reports came, and thankfully, every doctor I could run it past told me that the worst can finally be ruled out, he is okay, he needs to up some kinds of nutrients in his diet, but he is okay. He needs to destress and take a breather in life, but he is okay. He needs to rest and take it slow, but he is okay. I know nothing is permanent, but now, he is okay. He is okay. Okay.
We have started taking him up to the terrace for small walks. We sit down, watching the sun go down. I sometimes sit and knit a single pattern, repeatedly, not even glancing at the knots I make or how the thread moved in my left hand. There is comfort in knowing it is the same, again and again and again. We wait to watch the moon and Venus come up. Sometimes amma pops in for 5 or 10 minutes. I try not to argue with her about whatever it is she has to tell me. We argue anyway. Appa tells me I should try to be calmer. Today, I am thankful for this time. I am thankful for the one friend who was in town that day, weeks ago. I am thankful for the few who were not, and still took efforts to keep tabs on me, because I did not know I needed someone to ask me, the person who did not faint, the person who did not possibly have a heart attack, whether I was doing okay until someone actually did. I am thankful for the mother keeping her cool throughout it all, taking it one hour at a time. I am thankful for the brother who had walked out mid-interview when I had called him with the news, and continued to be by dad’s side all the time, quite literally. I am thankful for our family doctor who knew how to handle my parents and still give sound medical opinion, never once making them feel small, stupid, or unheard. I am thankful for dance class for showing me things I did not know my body or heart could feel. Today, I am thankful for the mundane, everyday things. And today, I wish you find your own class or your own Ananya, or simply, a thing to call your own, because, as new and scary it might sometimes seem, the new territory in brings you to, and the familiar territory it keeps you in with its ‘once again… 5,6,7,8… tap-tap… wah-tuh-uh-uh… jazz square-hands swing-jazz square-and-dip-and-pull…’ is probably what will save you for the day.
[The song was 'Back in time' by Raghav Meattle]
Amma dislikes my taste in music that goes beyond Carnatic music. So, every time I am blasting something that does not fall under the 3-hour kutcheri category, I have my room door closed so we do not get into an unnecessary argument. With my room door closed on one such evening, I was standing in front of the mirror and examining the expanding bald line on my head, and I heard the sound of a vessel falling on the ground. Usually, that sound indicates amma rolling something around the kitchen alone, because she refuses to take help, because none of us clean and arrange and do anything generally as perfectly as she does. I simply sighed and continued with my inspection when I heard the sound of a vessel hitting the ground again, and a muffled thud. This probably meant she tried to lift and shift some heavy vessel, too proud to ask for help, and it slipped out of her hands. Fully prepared to fight her, I opened the room door, only to see appa on the floor, fainted, with an empty plate a foot away. I sank to my feet without as much as a word, and amma walked out of the kitchen to check what the sound word. I gently lifted his head and placed it on my lap, and my brain and mouth stopped working. I was neither thinking nor speaking. Amma was holding his hand and very calmly, calling out to him, asking him if he was okay, asking what had happened, like she was continuing a conversation. Appa was not responding. His eyes would not open. My brain would not understand squat of what was happening. It was a few very long minutes until he stirred, and amma continued to talk to him like he was responding fine, and between a lot of vague answers, we got him pillows to rest on, and eventually moved him to his spot to lie down and rest. After maybe 10 whole minutes, I called thambi to let him know he had to get home as soon as possible, appa had fainted. He told me ‘Check and let me know what’s up. Text me after that.’ Well, no. Appa fainted. And fell. He needed to come home.
The next few days were the longest. Appa was throwing up every half hour, he did not have the strength to stand up, he was struggling to even prop himself up from the pillow, and everything would have been a thousand times harder but for thambi. The night of, although amma specifically told us not to stay awake the whole night because then, by morning we would have no energy to take care of him, I could barely sleep. I left the room door unlocked and open for the first time. I kept waking up every 15 minutes or so, to check if thambi was doing okay, holding him, or helping him, or if I was needed for something. I could not wrap my head around the fact that I shot photographs for a living and I did not have a single picture of this man that I took. Who told him it was okay to randomly collapse?
Our family doctor, the only person with the talent to convince appa, was not in town. After a lot of pleading, several doctor opinions were taken, a bunch of tests were run. The old man kept saying ‘How much was this? How much was that? I have some cash at home, we should take that and use. Why won’t you tell me how much you paid there?’ Appa curled up like a c-shaped worm, and thambi perpetually sleeping by his side through day and night - because he had disturbed sleep as he had to be up every time appa was up – became a regular sight. He had a thermos and his regular water bottle next to his head. One hand was always under his head. His breathing a little uneven, huffing now and then like a feather being shaken out of slumber on the grass by a breeze continuously changing pace. He looked so weak and so fragile and so small, it reminded me of his father, and I hated it. The problem was, thatha was always old. He was old, frail, he got weaker as I progressed into another new year at school, and he slowly stopped walking to the garden and reading his newspaper, and got bound to the bed with saltless food that he detested, and well, he eventually died. I could not understand what business appa had looking like thatha. Appa needs to be appa. What was wrong with him? Why could he not get that?
His entire arsenal of ‘blade’ jokes was somehow out and ready. Man could barely stand up on his own without feeling dizzy, but somehow, everything was a joke. Thambi and him seemed to be almost always cracking up about something. A painfully slow week later, and almost all test results pointing towards nowhere, we were told to take a brain MRI, just to be sure what did or did not happen, because that was the last step to confirm or eliminate the possibility of a heart attack. Heart attack. For this man. Who sleeps well, eats well, has his nutrition set right, has always done house chores, almost never asks for any help with his own personal chores, cooks, cleans, hobbles his way to the supermarket, post office, and wherever the hell else he decides he needs to go. When the first doctor who saw him asked me to get his reports and medical history and last hospital discharge report, I had nothing to tell or give. There has been none. How does this make sense? He started exhibiting sides to himself I did not know existed not too long ago, and how am I expected to be ready to say bye? Shouldn’t he know?
Older parents are harder to convince. They have spent 60-70 years experiencing experiences and forming opinions about things for so long, they have seen and had to roll and adjust with so many changes in life and the world in general, it is near impossible to get them to listen to you when you have a contradictory idea or opinion. It is not really fair to blame them, is it? Even app updates are enough to annoy us. Appa is hard to convince, but at least he will hear you out fully before he decides to agree or disagree. Disagree mostly, but he listens. Several strategically made moves and arguments were executed, and we had him on board for the MRI. I had travelled across half the city to get the prescription for the test, and I was grabbing a very hurried bite for lunch, and I heard thunderous laughter from the hall. A friend who had come over to help was laughing loudly and appreciating appa that he had cracked a good joke. The old man looked feeble, but quite pleased. At the lab, the lady at the counter looked at the form I had filled out and asked, ‘Patient’s age is high. Will he cooperate with the test or should we inform the technician to get help ahead?’ I could understand this was their daily process, and they were asking out of genuine concern. How do I explain that this is appa, not thatha. Appa listens. He has been at least, for quite a few years now, trying in whatever way he can.
Thambi went with appa, helping him go from one room to another, telling him which had what test zone. I sat with my friend who had come to help at the waiting area, thinking about how terribly alone I felt. It had taken me over 10 minutes to get my voice and say or do something the day he had fainted. My brain only told me to put his head on my lap and hold him. All my friends who could have come and helped, save one, were somehow out of town at the exact same time. I could not stop thinking I did not have a single photo of him on any of the million hard disks I had. I kept wishing I had an elder sibling who knew what to do, and tell me how to feel, because now, I was the elder sibling, and I had no clue what to do, and I could not help but wonder how thambi was coping with this, because he had so much to do, and I did not know what to tell him, or how to carry the conversation forward when I asked him ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ and he said ‘Yeah, okay.’ I could not stop thinking about how level headed amma had been through it all, even telling me to step out for work if I had to, they had the home fort under control. She did keep saying that the incident meant they could not go to our hometown as planned earlier to have coconuts plucked, and the house cleaned. She kept repeating the thing about coconuts a thousand times, over and over again, but I let it go because maybe that was her thin rope to believing everything was normal and maybe, the biggest issue was rebooking tickets on a convenient train? I felt exhausted and hopeless and alone as hell, I broke down, rambling random things and telling the one friend sitting next to me that I had no one. He listened, and let me cry.
I remembered that it was a Saturday, and Saturday means dance class. We got appa home. I was exhausted beyond words. The test results were expected in a few hours. I do not know what came over me, but I asked if my friend could drop me at the dance class, changed clothes, and just went. I cannot really ‘dance’ dance. I’d taken up the class because I wanted something that would get me out of the house in regular intervals, get me stick to some physical activity, and hold myself accountable on maintaining the routine in some way. On most days, my legs stung every step of the way back home, muscles throughout the body made their presence known in acute detail and extent of pain, and if it was a lucky day, I had caught on 3 steps. But it genuinely helped me hold my shit together a little. I reached class a little ahead of time like every other time. I liked having a few minutes alone with the floor and the mirror, to remind myself that I was doing this, I was sticking to this, and I was taking one step forward, every time I showed up.
Ananya came. The class flowed. 30 minutes into the class, I felt like my body would give up. 45 minutes into class, I felt like I was ready to conquer the world of dance. These are routine feelings. She almost beats you down entirely with some kind of workout I was so happy and relieved to never learn the name of, and then, she eases you into some choreography that looks so easy and effortless when she demonstrates, and just when you feel like you may have gotten the hang of it because you are becoming a ‘dancer,’ it is time for warm down and stretching. Truth be told, this is my favourite part of class. It is one big flow of movements, and your body is aware, alive, breathing, flowing, thanking you.
Ananya tells us it’s time to stretch. The music changes. It shifts to a pace your breath tries to calm down to. It’s reassuring, telling you you’ve got this. Most of this is a fixed pattern, with small changes there and here to help keep up with the workout for the day – whichever body part she aimed to kill. Her voice calls out the usual instructions: ‘Legs together... deep breath. Lift your hands upppp… bend forward… get to a flatback… observe your breathing…’ It is familiar territory. The non-scary one. The one where I know what she is going to call out next. My eyes are closed as I move and stretch, watching my breath, listening to her voice. We are back up, standing, arms folded, as she switches the last part of the warm down.
‘Lie down, close your eyes, feet apart, palms facing upwards, relax, let go, take a deep breath.’
The song on the audio system switches.
‘Take a deep breath in… hold it… now breathe out…’
‘If I’d met you a few years ago
I wonder how life would’ve been before…’
Appa is a feather, curled up, so small.
‘Think about how your day was. What you did today. Where you walked. What you spoke...’
‘But I can go
back to the places when we were four
But I can go
Back to the places when we didn’t know…’
Appa is cracking PJs, barely able to laugh heartily in pride at the laughter it is evoking in his audience, consisting of thambi, and my one friend in town.
‘Think about how you moved, how you pushed yourself, what you learned today…’
‘You go to the hills for a month or two
But pack me in your plans like I would too…’
Appa’s face and body is so different, and I do not have one single picture I shot of him.
‘Think about how your body feels. Think about where it pains. Think about how it feels. It is all the work you have put in today…’
‘I’ve played it cool and it might be too soon
I wonder how life will be with you, fool…’
Appa is wearing his crisply ironed white shirt and military green pants, sitting cross-legged on a plastic chair, visibly annoyed at my report card that had marks more in 80’s than 90’s, and the knowledge that I had not touched my homework until 8pm because he wasn’t home.
‘Concentrate on all that pain. Concentrate on every part of your body the pain is throbbing in, reminding you of your efforts.’
‘But I can go
Back to the places when we are alone…’
Appa is done with me and my life’s choices, so much so that he has barely spoken 4 words to me all week. And I sit quietly, unable to find words, at my therapist’s office.
‘Give it shape, give it colour, give it a form, if you will, and see for yourself everything that pains you, everything that bothers you, float in front of you as one unit…’
‘We climb those trees
But my words are on the ground…’
Appa is on the floor, motionless, his ever-silver dinner plate a foot away.
‘…and now, let it go. Watch it, whatever shape, whatever colour, whatever form, leave you. You are letting it go…’
‘…and I can’t go back in time…’
Appa is crouched in the steel chair, in the lobby of the lab, his left hand holding his head in place, tired, as thambi sits close, always on the ready to hold him. I am watching him breathe.
‘…and now, in your own time, whenever you are ready, turn over to one side, support yourself with a hand, and sit up and open your eyes. In your own time… In your own time…’
‘…and I can’t go back in time…’
I opened my eyes, brimming with uncontrollable tears, and went and gave Ananya a really long, really unexpected hug, said a few muffled thank yous, and left from class.
An hour or so later, the test reports came, and thankfully, every doctor I could run it past told me that the worst can finally be ruled out, he is okay, he needs to up some kinds of nutrients in his diet, but he is okay. He needs to destress and take a breather in life, but he is okay. He needs to rest and take it slow, but he is okay. I know nothing is permanent, but now, he is okay. He is okay. Okay.
We have started taking him up to the terrace for small walks. We sit down, watching the sun go down. I sometimes sit and knit a single pattern, repeatedly, not even glancing at the knots I make or how the thread moved in my left hand. There is comfort in knowing it is the same, again and again and again. We wait to watch the moon and Venus come up. Sometimes amma pops in for 5 or 10 minutes. I try not to argue with her about whatever it is she has to tell me. We argue anyway. Appa tells me I should try to be calmer. Today, I am thankful for this time. I am thankful for the one friend who was in town that day, weeks ago. I am thankful for the few who were not, and still took efforts to keep tabs on me, because I did not know I needed someone to ask me, the person who did not faint, the person who did not possibly have a heart attack, whether I was doing okay until someone actually did. I am thankful for the mother keeping her cool throughout it all, taking it one hour at a time. I am thankful for the brother who had walked out mid-interview when I had called him with the news, and continued to be by dad’s side all the time, quite literally. I am thankful for our family doctor who knew how to handle my parents and still give sound medical opinion, never once making them feel small, stupid, or unheard. I am thankful for dance class for showing me things I did not know my body or heart could feel. Today, I am thankful for the mundane, everyday things. And today, I wish you find your own class or your own Ananya, or simply, a thing to call your own, because, as new and scary it might sometimes seem, the new territory in brings you to, and the familiar territory it keeps you in with its ‘once again… 5,6,7,8… tap-tap… wah-tuh-uh-uh… jazz square-hands swing-jazz square-and-dip-and-pull…’ is probably what will save you for the day.
[The song was 'Back in time' by Raghav Meattle]
