It was just one of those days. The next day, I would be indifferent and forget it all. It was a usual morning. Exactly on time to office due to oversleeping after throwing my alarm away; for the fourth time this week. Half brushed hair. Empty stomach. Half awake body cells. A day already lined up with things to do. Packed. Walked inside the office concentrating on avoiding yawning with stretched jaws, took deep breaths, drank some water and started my computer. That was when a colleague shouted over from her cubicle. ‘Hey, Amy Winehouse died.’ All my cells suddenly awake, my Mongolian-supposed-to-be chinky eyes suddenly became huge. Not because I am a huge Amy fan follower. Not because I have listened to All of her songs. But because I have listened to a few and think that twenty seven is an extremely young age to die; be it anybody. Plus the point that she was musically talented, despite the criticisms from people who mark her as ‘not very exceptional’ After that, a few hours were actively devoted to web feeding myself about the 3 W and the 1 H. What. When. Where. How. That was when I realized The trend, although it seemed like a larger percent of the world had already realized it before me.

 

If you take some time out to conduct a little research over the web, you will be shocked; just like me; to see the list of musicians who died young. Do not misread the situation and have me labeled as a stereotype who is yapping ‘just’ because some popular person is dead. No. It is due to the very strange situation of the co-incidence. Isn’t it too much a co-incidence of a co-incidence that most of the musicians who died at a young age died at the same age? Twenty Seven. Isn’t it doubtful? Why the Twenty Seven?

 

 

The causes ranged from suicides to sclerosis to gastrointestinal hemorrhage to murders to unknowns. All of them had different stories. All of them came from different parts of the world. All of them had their own niches carved. All of them were different. There were only three things in the area of intersection for them all. All of them were popular. All of them were into drugs. All of them died at the age of twenty seven. The former two did not concern me extremely. What concerned me was the third point. Why?   

 

While my computer screen loaded numerous websites together, I thought. I thought about Amy. I thought about Janis. I thought about Kurt. And I thought about Hendrix. I thought about the worst thing that can ever happen to music; I thought about drugs. And I thought about twenty seven. And on my way back home, a faded memory of incomplete sentences that were pasted on a friend’s room’s walls hit me.

 

‘They kept us on the same line and shot us backwards and forwards to create what they called a pattern.’

 

As I went to sleep that night, this very line made the perfect sense. On the same line. Shot us. Pattern. Then that I thought of it, weren’t all of them together in the same line called life? Were they all not shot with success, fame, talent, emotions and drugs? Did they all not die at the same age? Didn’t it create a pattern? Was it the 27 pattern? Is the 27 doomed? Should this be a warning for all musicians while they are 27 then? With a gradually emptying stomach, and a half awake self at 2 am in the morning, I went back to my thoughts. It was not clear why and it will never be clear why, for no matter how successful human beings are at marketing about their superiority, death is always going to have the exclusive ability to fool us. And my thoughts are never going to make much of a difference. With sighs of uncertainty, mystery dancing over my half painted walls and my thoughts lost over why I wasted my time, I fell asleep. It was just one of those days. The next day, I would be indifferent and forget it all.