For every Naga, rhythm is in their blood and music in their genes. Almost every girl sings pretty well and boy strums the guitar. Throw in a little bit of marketing savvy and you have a music group. Nagaland could possibly be the one State with the largest number of performing music talents. Exports have gone as far as Delhi and Bengaluru and set up lucrative bases there. Attend any church service and you wonder why the music is not out on the shelves: the singer sends you to raptures on the high octaves like an accomplished soprano and the pianist plays with the flourish of Yanni. Little wonder that the rock concert was indeed the star attraction of the Hornbill Festival among the local youngsters. The stands which were largely empty during the fashion show during the earlier days of the festival were packed to capacity during the concert night. “Did you come for the fashion show?” I asked a youngster. “No,” she replied with a straight face, “that is for people like you. As you might have noticed, we don’t actually use any of those jute bags or cotton trousers.” She was right – she as well as her entire group were turned out in what looked like a strict dress code: skin tight jeans, shiny leather jackets, checked Puma shoes and a Pashmina shawl casually draped around the neck. Some also had the oversized knitted hats worn on Derby Weekends.) Belt out any number from those doing the latest rounds in the metro pubs – ‘Rise up’ by Yves Larock or ‘Baby’ by Justin Bieber – and you have a sing-along crowd. Their skill and knowledge of music can only be matched by their love for it. Coming back from the concert with my brother (yeah, every guy is your brother under the circumstances...) the ‘guitar guy’ as uncle called this son, I was taken to a side road a little away from town. My brother was bristling with excitement and it was 2:00 a.m. I was happy too that I still could make my date with the suicidal sow. Well, maybe he has somebody... Our bike halted near a cheering group standing around in a square space illuminated by four pairs of headlamps from four parked cars. Right in the brightly lit up space, two guys were slugging it out, with bare fists. One already had a bloodied nose and kept staggering over to the other brawnier chap for more sickeningly thudding blows to the chest and the stomach. Beneath all those beautiful faces and charming wardrobe was angst, directionless and unaddressed. And of course, there was ‘I gotta feeling’ by Black Eyed Peas in full blast from one of the car’s nerve numbing woofers.