More Reflections on the Season

I'm still in Madras, internet access is still limited. Not being able to access net on my laptop means that I'm not able to upload more of the latest series. In any case, we shall continue with reflections on the Music Season.

Varali suggested a couple of days ago that I put up something on the perils of attending kacheris. Here are some:

1. Irritating Mamis/ Mamas: There are many varieties in this category.

The first are the Singing Mamis/ Mamas. They probably attended paattu class at the age of ten, and believe today, at the age of sixty-five that their voice is in perfect shape. More irritatingly, they believe that they can match the singer's voice. They get emotional and sing along. Cold stares help sometimes. But the really stubborn ones sing until you tell them to stop. Then they act all wronged, and look at you angrily throughout the concert.

The second sort are the Cell Phone Mamis/ Mamas. These people have full-fledged, loud phone conversations in the middle of a Bhairavi Alapana. You will hear Bhairavi from one side and instructions on chaadam and rasam from the other side. It doesn't make for a great mix. There is also the variety that doesn't know the existence of a silent mode on their phone. I've educated two Mamas on this matter.

The third sort are the Chatty Mamas/ Mamis. It starts innocuously with, "Enna Raagam idu?" Soon, they're talking about the kacheri they attended at the other Sabha where the 'young boy' (now, for a seventy year old, most singers are 'young boys') sang really well. And then he shows off his Kutcheri Buzz, and his notebook where he has noted down each song and ragam rendered at each concert.

Next come the Wrong Taalam Mamis. I haven't seen a Mama in this category, strangely. But I've seen all kinds of wrong taalam Mamis. The funniest one was at Mylapore Fine Arts who decided that she must put Khanda Chaapu taalam to every song in the kacheri. It led to some of the most interesting situations. When the singer finally sang in her favourite taalam, she had the tempo all wrong

Then, there are the super-appreciative Mamas/ Mamis. They shake heads vigorously. They mtch-mtch away. They exclaim 'Shabhash!' or 'Bhale!' to the most innocuous singing. They move their hands about too much.

2. The Queue: The most frustrating feature of the Music Season is the queues. They're unavoidable. And I guess it is better than having stampedes. But, why do Tambrams reach venues disgustingly early and form queues? For instance, at Music Academy, the afternoon concert ends at 3.45. The evening concert starts at 4.15. But people for the evening concert start queueing up at 3.15. So, for people like me who listen to the afternoon concerts, it becomes a pain. You're flushed out at 3.45, and you have to join a queue that starts in Pondicherry and leads to the Music Academy gate.

3. Choice of Ragas: During the season, artistes try and show off their vast knowledge and the ragas they've learnt most recently. I've been in the situation where a raga seems exciting one afternoon, and you're dreaming of performing it elaborately in a kacheri. But, over a period of time, you realise that as pleasing to the ear as Karnaranjani might be, you'd much rather explore Dhanyasi or Thodi. Sometimes, artistes don't understand that. Nithyashree chose Karnaranjani. The Hyderabad Brothers chose Hamsavinodini. Some years ago, I went to Yercaud. It was a nice, little holiday with the family and all that. But by the second evening, we realised that Yercaud had just one view from the top of the hill. It was a random one-off hill, with a one-off view. There wasn't much more to it. Same with Karnaranjani - there's one (and a half, maybe) interesting turns to the raga. But one the whole, it is just a lot of the same thing. Hamsavinodini was even more random because the Silent Brother sang the neraval and swaram for it as if he'd heard the raga for the first time in his life. Really, the raga isn't worth all that time.

Bring out the heavy artillery any day - Bharavi, Kalyani, Shankarabharanam, Mohanam, Kambhoji, Thodi. Sometimes, there is nothing wrong in being cliched.

4. Exhaustion: In many singers (more than instrumentalists), by the end of the season, exhaustion shows in their music. I remember listening to Sanjay Subramaniam early in the season last year, and again at Music Academy late in the season. They was two different singers. Saketharaman (who is a must-hear, I think) was much more vibrant and fresh on the 20th as compared to this afternoon. Neyveli (who sang my favourite Kacheri of the season so far - last week at Music Academy) also showed signs of faitgue today.

5. Seating: While seating is by and large comfortable, getting in and out of your seat in a crowded kacheri is a pain. The gap between the rows is are minimal as it can get. My aunt aptly described it as a 'surangam'. So, if you're not going to last the whole concert, or have a weak bladder (which will be fuelled by the air-conditioning), sit at the edges.

6. Air-Conditioning: Most sabhas with air-conditioning want to prove to you beyond doubt that they have air-conditioning. This makes you feel like you're in the Arctic and the singer's oscillations are caused by all the shivering. If you're particularly affected by the cold, carry a shawl. Only, you'll look ridiculous outside the hall in the Madras heat.

In the non-airconditioned halls, carry copious amounts of mosquito repellants. Astute research tells me that the mosquitoes in Mylapore Fine Arts and Parthasarathy Swamy Sabha are immune to Odomos. I think it is a sign of evolution. Himalaya has some mosquito repellant. I've shifted royalties to that.

Oh, another peril at Mylapore Fine Arts. Make sure you sit in the front. The back part of the open air hall is adjacent to the canteen. You will hear wiater chatter, grinder grinding, dosas hissing on the dosa-kallu and various other cooking noises.

There. That's the list. You know any more?

Lastly, I wrote this (with pen and paper) sitting in the fourth row of Music Academy at some kacheri (don't remember which one). It is unedited - reproduced just the way it was written that day. (The photo has nothing to do with the rest of the piece. Its the only photo of a violinist in my collection)

His eyes twinkle with mischief as he sings those cute phrases. They widen when his scale gets larger, and they close when he concentrates. His hands flail about, his head shakes with the music. He smiles, he laughs, he pleads, he cries. And the most beauteous Behag ensues.

On his left, you sit. Your eyes are devoid of all emotion. Cute, grand or meditative, they look on coldly. Your head doesn't sway, it stands stiff on your neck. You don't smile, you don't laugh; your face looks like it is cast in stone. Why, you're long earrings don't even dangle. Yet, your violin emotes for you. It laughs, it pleads. It traverses Behag's passages with rare softness.

I sit in the fourth row wondering how you do it. What do those pretty eyes hide?

There's been a hiatus. There's a series waiting to be finished. There are a million thoughts. A million ideas. One short story. One real-life tenth-standard type meaningless non-romance to write about (just for the sheer hilarity of the thing). One movie to review. Couple of super-interesting train journeys to share. But, since I have limited internet time, it is 2.20 am and I have a long day ahead tomorrow, I shall just state some brief observations on the Season so far:

1. The crowds at the Music Academy canteen have thinned since last year. The food is still equally good, though prices have gone up.

2. After many discussions with various Mamas and Mamis over the last week, I conclude that it is better to hit the T Nagar Sabhas - Vani Mahal, Germal Hall, Bharat Kalachar - all of them have 3 hour concerts in the evening. As opposed to Music Academy or Narada Gana Sabha, where the slot is two and a half hours. Sanjay Subramanian for more than three hours at Vani Mahal was one of the most satisfying kacheris I've been to in a while.

3. The girls at Academy have gotten prettier. Or maybe, my expectations and standards have come down.

4. Some people working at NGOs know nothing about the world they're out to change. They still are self-righteous about their work and take great pride in it. The attitude sure helps them. You don't want chronic acute self-doubt in NGO people.

5. Abhishek Raghuram's Neelambari was simply exquisite.

6. I have severe internet addiction.

6. Short story written a while ago. Tried to strip down my writing to its barest essentials. Lots of description, emotion etc was actively deleted. Some sentences make me cringe. I must edit this, but I don't have the requisite energies. Here it is:

His Daughter

He was relieved when he heard the man say, "She got married. Lives with her husband now." But he didn't end his search there. He had to make that trip to his hometown in the hills to see her. His friend (and prime advisor) never understood this part of the plan. "But you know she isn't a whore or a cabaret dancer or a terrorist! That's a huge relief. She's married. Now leave it at that!" He never listened. He found her address and made the trip back home.

Now, he stands at the gate of her house. Her garden is lush and beautiful, like the rest of the little hill town. There is a jeep in the driveway and a driver sleeping in it. "Hi. I am a friend of Mr. Nayak, your neighbour. I came here for a holiday, but I don't have the keys. Mr. Nayak is on his way. Can I wait inside? Its a little cold..." he practices. It wont be that easy when she actually stands before him.

He gathers courage and walks to the door. An ornate door has an even more ornate knocker. He hasn't seen one in ages. He knocks. He waits. There isn't any response. He knocks again. This time, the driver wakes up, walks to the door and rings a bell hidden behind a bag hanging next to the door. The driver goes back to his jeep and resumes his nap. After an eternity, the door opens.

She opens the door, they look at each other, and freeze.
***

His last trip home was eight years ago. That was a year before he got married. It was a month before he met his wife. A week before his college results came out.

The bus made its way up the narrow, snaking road. It was off-season for the tourists, and the bus was nearly empty. He sat at a window reading a book. A girl sat at the other window on the same row. Twenty minutes into the climb, the light faded, and he put down the book.

Almost immediately, the girl asked him, "What book?"
He noticed in the semi-darkness that she was pretty. Plain, but pretty. He showed her the book. She said, "Oh! I love this book!"
"You do?" he asked, "That's lovely. I like it so far..."

They smiled and said nothing for a couple of seconds. Then she asked again, "Are you a lawyer?" He was. He asked her how she had guessed.
"Oh, you have an advocate sticker on your bag."
He smiled. Without asking him, she sat next to him. She made conversation over the din of the bus. At times she was screaming to be heard, other times, she whispered in his ear. He said a lot of things too, whenever she gave him the chance to speak.

Soon, her head was on his shoulder and his hands were in hers. He was telling her something about his hometown, and how it had changed over the years, when he realised that she had fallen asleep. He rested his head on hers and dozed off. When he woke up in half an hour, she had her arm around him. He watched her sleep until they reached the town at the top of the hill. He woke her up. She looked around groggily, stood and left without a word. By the time he could collect his bags and his thoughts, she had disappeared in the market.

The next afternoon, his friends convinced him to accompany them to a whorehouse. Though he always knew it existed, in all his years of living in the town, he had never been there. He almost predicted that he'd find her there. But when she appeared at the end of a hazy, dingy corridor, he hoped he was imagining things. He wanted her to be a student at the college, or a caretaker at one of the tea estates. But she wasn't.

It was like a scene from his dream. She was dressed in exceedingly white clothes, and she didn't walk towards him: she floated down the corridor. Mist entered through every inlet and blurred the scene. She came to him and said, "Thanks." He asked her why. She said, "I wasn't okay last night. I tried running away. This guy who used to come here quite often promised he'd take me away. I was to meet him in the bus stand down the hill. He never turned up." He asked her what she was thanking him for. She said, "You held me. And did nothing more. Few men do that to me."

He wanted to ask her why she left, but he couldn't bring himself to. They stared at each other for a while before she said, "Can I kiss you?" He was embarrassed. She said, "Don't be shy. People do a lot more here." She kissed him, and he could feel her gratitude. At first, he had an inexplicable feeling of guilt, but that soon turned into a strange sort of affection. The kiss degenerated into a lot more, like kisses tend to do. Especially in whorehouses.

It was morning when he got up to leave. He asked her for her name. She smiled, "You don't need to know."
***

The resemblance is evident - the same lips, the same eyes. She gave birth to his adopted daughter! Now, if his daughter asked him, he could tell her that her mother was the loveliest of women. He had planned to subtly find out who the father of the girl was, but he struggles to say anything. He mutters something about having come to the wrong house. She asks him a couple of questions about his life before he leaves.

As she watches him disappear beyond the bend towards the market, she hopes that the girl they conceived all those years ago found a good home.
***

In the last two weeks, there have been all kinds of responses to the Mumbai attacks in the blog world. Like most blog posts on 'issues' (and I'm not referring to the 'my girlfriend/boyfriend dumped me' type issues), the quality of opinion varies vastly.

One stream of thought has been most preposterous - Ratan Tata or Narayan Murthy must lead the country (see here and here).

WTF?!

Nero: Shavasamudra (Part I)

Ramanan didn't make for a pretty sight. The wrinkles on his face made him look twenty years older, his hair was white and ruffled, his clothes always hung loosely and uncomfortably on his frame, and he walked with a perceptible limp. The women who saw him as a young man swore that he was amongst the most handsome men they had seen. Twenty years ago, his shoulders were broad, his dark hair, ruffled as ever, glowed in the sun, his large eyes never expressed much, but gave one the sense that they hid many mysteries, and he had a glistening set of perfect teeth. That morning though, looked worse than he had in years. Poor man couldn't help it. He had no control over what he looked like anymore. His eyes were shut to the world, and his body, robbed of its heat, had stiffened. His face, hacked with the most brutal of weapons, was barely recognisable. Only his daughter identified him by the clothes he wore on the previous day.
The fisherman who found him in the morning reckoned that he'd been tossing about for a few hours. He must have been let into the sea near the fort, the fisherman guessed.

The Police arrived at the scene and asked the standard, pointless questions. His daughter cried in a corner in her fiancé's arms. His best friend, Sujata, looked on expressionlessly. A crowd collected and gossiped. He dealt with the wrong people, they told themselves. He was never a straightforward person, someone commented. Someone else pointed out that no one knew where he was from or what family he belonged to. He just landed up one afternoon and never left. This was his mysterious past catching up with him, a man suggested, much to everyone's agreement.

But Ramanan himself couldn't reply to all this. He just slept through it, and let the living slander his existence. He allowed his body to be dragged out of the sea and examined by various policemen and a doctor. He let them take notes in their pads on what they saw. When they were done, it was night, and he let his body be lifted on to a pyre on the shore and burnt.
***

Even today, if you take the third turn towards the sea from the road on which the Kapmannu Bus Stand stands, you will find yourself on a zigzagging road that narrows gradually until the two-storeyed buildings that line it almost converge into a single, indistinguishable mass of old-world construction, forming a canopy through which light struggles to penetrate. Then there are the wires - telephone wires, cable television wires, electricity wires, and these days, internet cables - all knotted in a disorganised mesh of struggle for survival, with the odd clothesline adding colour to the confusion. Constable Krishnaprasad dropped his nephews off at the Bus Stand, from where they would take a bus to Mangalore to their school, and turned into that street on his morning patrol. It was formally named after an obscure freedom fighter, Kapmannu's sole contribution to the freedom struggle, but was known only as Market Road, for its buildings housed myriad merchants - starting with the chilly sellers, their shops washed in the steamy red of dried chillies and chilly powder, and then the grocers with their rice and dals, followed by the silver shops, the jewellers, the dry fruits traders, and finally, in the most cramped parts of the road, the gold merchants with their glittering wares.

Its inhabitants had lived there for generations. Each shop-owner will be able to tell you about his ancestor who moved to here in Haider Ali's time, when Kapmannu was a bustling port town. Remnants of Haider Ali's port and fort stand unused now, except by mischievous boys playing hide-and-seek, and mischievous lovers playing their own form of hide-and-seek with the police. Back in those days, the merchants will tell you, goods that came in by sea from Cochin and Bombay were sold to wholesalers who sold all over the Mysore province. Kapmannu rivaled Mangalore for a while, but the British changed all that. In the Fourth Mysore War between the British and Tipu Sultan, the fort was captured by the Marathas, who were temporarily allies of the British, and the port was closed down. At this time, the merchants tell us, their ancestors made a mistake. Instead of surrendering to the British, they formed a civilian army and revolted.

News of the victory in Srirangapatna reached the Maratha soldiers camped in the fort, and they celebrated that night amidst talk of turning against the British and restoring Maratha splendour. The little civilian army, headed by the cult-figure, Kapmannu Nagendra, stormed the fort from the seaward side and caught the Marathas in the middle of their revelry. The unprepared, drunk Marathas made feeble attempts at putting up a fight but failed and fled. Nagendra, a muslin merchant by profession, declared himself the King of the new province of Kapmannu in a showy coronation. But in two days, the Marathas were back with a stronger, soberer and motivated force. Kapmannu fell, but Nagendra survived and hid amongst the forests of the Western Ghats near Mudabidri. In less than a month, Nagendra recaptured the fort for three days. But this time, the British quelled his resistance completely. He was killed in the fort, and his body was mutilated and left on the beach, tossing amongst the early-morning waves.

Minor revolts broke out every now and then for almost six years, and control over the port changed every few weeks. Each change of control would be marked by the body of the opposing leader being left on beach in the morning, tossing amongst the waves. The beach is known till today as Shavasamudra, the Corpse Beach. Kapmannu's economy sutffered badly as ships preferred the more predictable Mangalore. Slowly, the population of Kapmannu thinned until it was considered too unimportant to fight for. The British, who acquired control over the area, didn't bother to redevelop the port or reinforce the fort. Trade through land revived, though, and the merchants who stayed on in the troubled years, exist in their idyllic world to this day.

The descendants of Nagendra all inherited his name. Even if a Nagendra had two sons, they were both Nagendras, and their sons were more Nagendras. Only the daughters were spared this torture. In the early twentieth century, Nagendra the Eighty-Third will tell you, there were twenty-one Nagendras, all living in his ancestral house on Market Road. That was when a new system of nomenclature was devised. They would all be called by their number. Nagendra the Fifty Seventh, called Aivatyelu, a man who had studied Political Science in Madras University, objected to this system because he thought it was communist. His name was immediately changed to Sonne Nagendra, or Nagnedra the Zeroeth by the head of the family, Nagendra the Fifty First. Sonne accepted his new name proudly, and gave it to all his descendants. He also moved with his family to Bangalore.

Embatmuru (eighty-three in Kannada), the last Nagendra still living in Kapmannu, ran a tea stall on Market Road. It was where Krishnaprasad had breakfast each morning.

"Idlis and tea," he called out, getting off his motorcycle.
Embatmuru peered at him through his glasses and said, "Seven hundred and nine rupees, including today."
Krishnaprasad didn't reply to the pronouncement. He just adjusted his hair in front of the little mirror. Ganesh, who was sitting at one of the two tables in the stall asked Embatmuru, "You really think a policeman will pay you?"
"He did pay me some time ago when it reached a thousand."
"He paid the whole amount?" he asked, sipping his tea loudly.
"No. He paid me five hundred and asked me to adjust the rest."
Krishnaprasad behaved as if he hadn't heard a word, and sat down at the same table as Ganesh. His idlis and tea were kept on the table by the boy who worked in the stall. Ganesh kept up the chatter about corrupt policemen and how they take the world for granted. When Krishna finished his idlis and poured the tea into his saucer for cooling, Ganesh got up to leave.
He was paying Embatmuru at the counter when he suddenly asked, "I completely forgot to ask you! What about Ramanan? What have the police found out?"
Before Krishna could react, Embatmuru said mockingly, "He cant tell us. Its confidential."
"He cant tell us because the Police know nothing," Ganesh said, laughing.

Krishna finished his tea and left on his bike without paying. Embatmuru reminded him of the amount again, and Krishna nodded. He got a call from Lalitha. She said, "Come back here quickly? This inspector is asking us all kinds of questions." He said he would.

Like everyday, he stopped next at the little paan and cigarette shop - a box of steel, really, adorned by a tray with ingredients for paan, variety of mints in plastic containers, colourful, shiny, hanging ghutka packets, a daily supply of nippat and chakli, packets of chikki, an odd collection of unsold biscuits, and Veeresh. Veeresh was an index of the mood of the town. His eyes, magnified by the large, brown glasses he wore, his nose, mangled in a street fight years ago, his greying hair, thin lips and Gandhi ears were bursting with information. His face brightened on festivals and fairs, and shrunk when there was a death or epidemic (even if it was an outbreak of the flu). On days when exam results released, many people looked at Veeresh before the results, because a look at him would tell them what the general trend was.

Krishnaprasad barely got off his Police motorcycle, when Veeresh held out two Kings' accompanied by a sombre expression. Krishna expected this, it was understandable. Veeresh, though, didn't fail to ask him the same question he asked him every morning, "I thought you have quit, saar?" The constable replied, like he always did, "These are my last two."
Today, Veeresh had another question, "Police found out anything?"
Krishna put the cigarette in his mouth and picked up a match, "About?"
"Ramanan."
The match hissed and the flame neared the tip of the cigarette. An orange glow was followed by grey smoke, "I cant tell you."
Veeresh allowed himself a half-smile and added, "Your boss will tell me when he comes this afternoon."
Krishna smiled, mounted his motorcycle, cigarette in one hand, kick-started it and sped along Market Road towards Shavasamudra where, after two-hundred years, a body had been tossing in the morning waves.
***

Nikamma Kiya Is Dil Ne

I shall do this post in bullet-point format, for my soul is the wit of brevity:

1. My birthday just got over, although birthweek celebrations continue. I turned 24. I was telling a close friend yesterday afternoon that 24 is such a whorish number. It is divisible by 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, and 12. She reminded me of 48. But seriously, I suddenly feel like there's this loss of independence. When I was 23, it was just me and 1. Now, there's these million factors (OMG factors!) competing for mindspace etc.

2. Two VVS Laxman jokes (Please note: People didn't get my sorry sarcasm the last time around, but this time I'm making it amply clear. I am a HUGE Laxman fan, and I've always been. These jokes are just jokes and mustn't be held against him.)

a) Laxman gets caught in a hit-and-run case, and he says, "Dude, if I ran after I hit, I'd be in the one-day team!"

b) Laxman is playing as a defender in a football game, and the defence is playing for the offside trap. It doesn't work because Laxman keeps flicking the ball onto the onside.

3. Checked out two very nice places in Hyderabad yesterday and today. One, Extreme Sports Bar. The music isn't loud, brash and thumping. Its lazy and laidback (at least when I went - apparently, a cousin DJs at the Bangalore branch). There will always, obviously, be sports on the big screen. (I hope WWF isn't classified as sport). Two, Punjabi by Nature. Pat warned us that it'd be highly expensive. And it was slightly on the wrong side of expensiveness. But when you look back at those extra extra large rotis, delectable dishes, an out-of-the-world dahi ka kabab (who would've thought the homely thair could be this exciting!), and the signature vodka golgappas, and then examine the bill again, you realise it was worth it. The best Punjabi food I've had in a while.

4. This morning, the first song I heard on TV was Nikamma Kiya starring the incomparable Tushar Kapoor as a part of the advertisement for the movie. There was also a dialogue, "Uske saath, saath phere kya, me saath inch bhi nahin chaloonga!" Wah, wah.

This year will be good. I can feel it.

(He smiles to himself, puts his laptop down, and as he walks towards the water filter, sings, 'Oooh, Nikamma Kiya...')

Old-fashioned Tag

Tagged by Shankari.

My oldest memory:
Weird Memory - I distincly remember, and I know I remember nothing before in such vividness - I'm sitting in my LKG class. Lalitha Somayaji Teacher (who used to live in the street behind ours - thin, fair lady with glasses) is making us write alphabets. I've forgotten to take my slate to school that day, so I have to use some crummy school slate. But the advantage with the school slate is that there are these dots (basically, spots of rust). I love connecting dots. And so I connect. Lalitha teacher sitting at least twenty feet away somehow realises that I'm not writing alphabets and tells me off.

What shocks me is the detailing - it was a slate with an orange border. Lalitha teacher was wearing a green sari. There used to be this girl in my class (whom I got teased with by the entire family for years) called Avantika whose birthday it was on that day.

Ten years ago:
I was in the ninth standard. I wore black-rimmed glasses. I used to sing Kalyani at every given opportunity (nothing's change on that front!).

I built a time capsule, what would it contain:
WTF is a time capsule?

This year:
Isn't over yet. ('Pickchar abhi baaki hai mere dost')

14 years from now:
I'll be 38. Aargh. Its not even a prime number. Digressing, that's what worries me these days. From next Wednesday, for six years, I wont encounter a prime number.

Therefore, I tag anyone reading this, whose age is a prime number.

Bowl, Jumbo!

Kumble's retirement, though in the pipeline for a while, came a little suddenly - in the middle of a crucial series, when he was captain. It was like one of his iconic jumbos - tossed up slightly, coming straight towards your bat, and you expect to hear a tonk as you defend it silly point, but hear a thud instead, as it takes off from nowhere and hits the 'keeper's glove shoulder-high. Kumble hardly did anything sudden or unexpected off the field - he was never involved in any disputes or controversies, he didn't shoot his mouth off against his opponents, he never had anything bad to say about the selectors and the administration (even when he was unceremoniously dropped from the one-day team, or was made to sit out while Harbhajan played). And this, to me, made his retirement, even more surprising - in the middle of a Test Match, announced on commentary!

Expectedly, articles have been written on blogs (like this one), on cricket websites, in newspapers, and they all give us the same catchphrases - 'grinding the opposition', 'large heart', 'tireless', 'brave' - and they speak of the same things - that match in Antigua, that match in Sydney, that match in Delhi, the fact that he wasn't 'pretty to watch', his superior record at home, all kinds of other statistics to show that he was just as good as the best of his time, his comeback after shoulder injury, and that the loss of his retirement will be felt now. Amidst all this, they forget the most important aspect of his persona - his bowling.

Kumble's bowling has never been just about wearing the opposition down into submission. It isn't about bowling ball after ball, over after over of the same stuff until the batsman plays a loose shot. Kumble's genius, and I use that word knowing fully well that it isn't to be used lightly, lies in little things he isn't often credited for. Kumble was always more misunderstood than underrated. True, he was a hard worker, but he was also a master craftsman. 'Grind' is a cruel, cruel word to describe his bowling. Granted, his bowling was never about the ball that pitches in the adjacent town and hits your off-stump, but it hinged on far subtler variations. He had a traditional legspinner, a googly, a topspinner, a flipper, a shooter, a yorker and the straighter one. To a casual eye, they all seemed like glorified titles for the same thing - the ball that just goes on straight. But batsmen, for years, have tried playing him as a one-trick pony, and they've failed, because they weren't good enough to perceive those small variations. They defend one ball confidently, and the next one looks fairly similar. But by the time their bat comes down on it, its shattered their stumps.

These small variations in flight, turn, bounce made Kumble so much fun to watch. When Kumble is at his best, not a single ball is played comfortably - there is this sense that a wicket might fall at any time. The close-in fielders chirp along, the keeper oohs too often, and before you know it, the batsman has misread one. The ball has turned maybe an inch or two - just enough to take the edge and land in one of the fielders hands or miss the bat completely. That was Kumble's magic. That made for many afternoons of exciting Test Cricket.

I was at a quiz when I overheard two people talking of Anil Kumble's sudden retirement. The news spread almost suddenly as one quiz ended and the other was about to start. Then, I heard from someone that India had declared and Kumble would come out to bowl for the last time. I really wished I'd stayed home to watch that last spell. I know it wouldn't have been his best spell, and I highly doubted whether he'd even pick up a wicket, but that rhythmic three-jump run-up, those flapping arms, that googly you can recognise from a mile, and that shout of "Bowl, Jumbo!" deserved one last look.

In this decade, I've begun to lose some of my favourite sights in cricket - Ambrose retired, and I never saw frightening West Indian pace bowling again, Lara retired and took the Nataraja pull shot with him, Mark Waugh's silkiness disappeared as quietly as his cover drive, Azhar's turned-up collar could only hide his face in shame. This series will see the passing of two more - surgical cover drives that defined off-side play for a generation, and a variety of bowling that I like to call Right Arm Guile. While the latter has found an able practitioner in a young Sri Lankan upstart, its granddaddy will be missed dearly.

One-liners

This idea came to me when I watched the concluding moments of one of my favourite movies. If you can guess what movie I'm talking about, you get a prize. Please note, that while I've joked about this issue in the past, I'm very very serious when I say that this story is completely fictional.

Update: I received the correct answer to the movie by email. The prize has been given. And, the scene, for all of you, is this.
***

White fluorescent lamps lit the airport cafe fairly unimaginatively. Their coffees were nearly finished, and their conversation was on its last legs. There was much to be said, but neither of them was in a mood to say anything. An announcement through the PA told them that she should be leaving soon.

"Writer's block, eh?" she asked him, grinning.
Sullenly, he said, "Its only going to get worse now."
"Right," came a sarcastic reply.

He picked the spoon out of his coffee mug and twirled it in his hands. She watched the spoon slip and slide all over his left hand, like a performing gymnast.
"You inspired most of what I've written so far," he said.
"Rubbish."
"I'm serious."
Now the spoon weaved in and out of his palm.
"For instance, I'm not older than you," she said.
"You are."
"By two months, not five years."
"But you remember that line about fish and the oceans? You said that to me once."

As a climax, the spoon jumped up in the air, spurred on by a flick of his thumb, and landed on the back of his hand. He turned his hand around, held it, and put it back in the mug.

"When?"
"You remember that time when I dropped you at the old Bangalore airport?"
"You've dropped me many times."
"The first time. The morning after that night..."
"Oh, the refugee night!"
"When you missed your train."
"Because I thought 20:10 was bloody ten-ten!"
"Yeah."
"I said something about fish and oceans?"
"You did. Out of the blue."
"Dude, you were meeting me for the second time in your life, but you seemed like you were majorly line-maroing. Throughout the bike ride to the airport, I thought you'd ask me out. And you didn't."

He picked up the spoon again. She pulled it out of his hand, and said, "Its fucking distracting!" She paused, and recollected where her narrative was before the distraction, "Yeah, and then you bought that over-expensive ticket to get into the airport, and walk those fifty metres with me."
"Di, there was no love. But you must understand, when a guy interacts with you for the first few times, you have this tendency to make quite an impact. So, one is always keeping options open."
"Rubbish. You were in 'lowe'!"
"You said that line just before you walked through the departure gate. Fish, oceans, hug, and you were away."
He remembered that scene clearly - the bewilderment, the love.
"I thought I said something about your sense of humour?"
"You told me that if I was slightly funnier, I'd've had a chance."

"But the rest of her character isn't me!"
"Come on. All the three women are. They're all beautiful. They're all sarcastic. They're all impulsive. And they all treat the guy like shit."

"Excuse me, but if I remember my life correctly, you left me!"
"Circumstances. You'd've left me anyway."

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. And then he said, "You even once gave me that speech about one party loving the other too much, and hence some guilt ensuing. That was Lila's speech, if you remember!"
"I recognised that."
"See, again. Its all you."

"By the way, I don't play the violin."
"But you are Ni. In every other way. I watch you type messages all the time. Your hands are exquisite."
"Thanks. That's the most flattering thing I've heard in a while."
"And, a crucial line is something you said... Oh wait, two crucial lines."
She once said, "Three times in three months! If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were in love with me!" And on another occasion, she said, "I like you. I'd like you better if you shaved more often."

An announcement came for Security Check. She had to leave. "So," she said, "I provide one-liners. That's all. I can still send you some by email when I think of them."
"Don't go?" he asked.
"You left me, dude. Its too late now."
"But I'm back now. I travelled across the breadth of the country, and then from the railway station to this bloody airport in the wilderness. All because I realised I was an ass."
"Dude, this ticket costs quite a bit. And I don't think I'm going to cancel it just because you took a train and a bus."
"See, that's the kind of line I was looking for. I can weave a story around it now."

She half-smiled, and unsurely hugged him. "When will you come back?" he asked.
"Two years, at least. Unless I find a job after that."
"Economic slowdown. You'll come back. But I'm sure you'll bring some white guy with you. I can see it."
She laughed. "I've given you many lines now. Go."
But neither of them left. And then she said again, "I think we need this time. Apart. For you to grow up a little, and for me to think."
It was clear that he wasn't feeling too good. She kissed him on the cheek and said, "Chill da. There are other fish in the ocean. You might never find them, but they are there."

She wheeled her suitcase through the departure gate. He stood till he saw her move out of sight. Maybe, they did need some time apart.

Rangarajan Invests in the Markets

This is inspired by a true story I heard about someone I know. If you ever read this, thank you for all the jokes!
***

The front page of the newspaper was as drab as ever. One politician made allegations against another, the other took offence and threatened to take this one to court. The Prime Minister assured the nation that the borders were safe, the Finance Minister rubbished statements linking the price of onions to an economic slowdown, while the opposition played watchdog, barking at everything in sight. The pages inside didn't make for pleasant reading either. A man killed his neighbours for the flimsiest reason. Three bus accidents on the highway caused deaths. Old men wrote letters to the editor about the dog menace in their neighbourhood. Someone wrote a lengthy opinion on the changed law of pesticide control.

Rangarajan skimmed through all these pages out of habit before settling into his favourite part of the newspaper - the sports page. He read the cricket match report in great detail, even though he watched the replay of the entire match the previous evening. His tea steamed away on the little side table next to his chair, and his wife scurried around the house finishing all the small things she had to do before they left for work. He scrutinised all the irrelevant sports news - about Canara Bank having defeated Union Bank in a twenty-over game by nine runs. He imagined a bunch of unfit, middle-aged, balding bank employees like himself running around a little red ball. He then glanced at the crossword, and nothing had changed - for years, he hadn't solved a single clue, and that morning was no different.

He left for work first, at exactly eight thirty-five. His bank was fifteen minutes away on his scooter, if the traffic wasn't too bad. He needed a five minute buffer for his conversation with his Malayali neighbour, who asked him the same question each morning, "So, have you thought about investing in the stock market?" This was followed by a report on how much money he had made in the last week, and how he was thinking of buying a new car with his earnings. Then, he'd point to his fridge, visible from the corridor through the half-open door and say, "That was from the stock market."

For Achyutan, the stock market was not only a money making enterprise. It was more. "It is such a complicated set of numbers - a summary of the actions of so many people, all acting in their own interest. Yet, there is a logic to the thing. It is more calculated than a gamble, but not yet a science." He followed this up by applying his latest pop-science theory to the stock market, either, "Oh, of course God plays dice - but even the dice follow the laws of physics!" or, "The Butterfly effect, I tell you - a workers' strike in a steel plant in Khazakhstan can cause a dip in the markets in India."

This morning, Rangarajan had had enough of all this talk. He declared, "Yeah! I bought Tata Steel yesterday. A 100 shares." The confidence with which Rangarajan made this statement got his neighbour thinking. Tata Steel was, perhaps, a good buy. He replied, "At yesterday's prices, I should have bought too. What price did you buy at yesterday?" Rangarajan was trapped. He hadn't the foggiest idea of what range the Tata Steel share operated in. He wasn't even sure when he said it if Tata Steel was an existing tradeable commodity in the stock market. But confidence was the key. "It was just off the day's low," he said.

Achyutan didn't want to seem unaware of what the day's low was. He didn't probe further.

The next morning, Rangarajan said again, "ABB is a good buy. I bought 150 shares." He'd heard this from some colleagues at the bank. Achyutan wondered if Rangarajan had some advisors, "Who is your broker?"

Rangarajan said, "Oh, you mustn't put all your eggs in one basket. Better to have more than one broker, no?" It was rubbish philosophy, and both men knew it. But again, confidence was the key. Achyutan bought ABB that evening, and over the next few days, the stock shot up. Achyutan asked Rangarajan for advice each morning. Rangarajan's portfolio also grew each day, as he cited purchases and sales with gay abandon.

But a new problem came up. Rangarajan soon lost track of his portfolio, but Achyutan didn't. "But I thought you had only sixty shares of Infosys? How did you sell a hundred?" Rangarajan escaped with the shady, "I bought more during the day - day trading, you know." The bigger problem was questions like, "Oh, so you booked losses on Ranbaxy? You bought it at a much higher price!" Rangarajan realised he had no idea of where his investments were going. He needed to be more scientific about this.

He subscribed to the Economic Times.

Each morning, after reading about the Prime Minister's repeated statements, the Chief Minister's support for violent revolutions, and the detailed scores of the football games between the local schools, he looked up stock prices in the Economic Times. He picked any stock that took his fancy, and announced to his neighbour, "Chennai Petro was a good buy yesterday in the early 200s. I think I'll sell it off in the first hour of trading today." Achyutan agreed, "Yeah. I noticed last evening that its price was abnormally high." Both men nodded intelligently.

Rangarajan had a small windfall. His ailing bachelor uncle, who was gifting away his properties to his nephews and neices, left him a large beach house on the outskirts of Madras. Rangarajan sold it, and bought a swanky car. He told Achyutan, "You see that car? Its from the stock market." Achyutan had made some money too, but he realised his neighbour had somehow been one step ahead. "You're a natural," he kept telling him, "In just about a year, you've mastered the stock market!"

However, the pressure was mounting on Rangarajan to keep track of his fictional investments. They were so large and diversified that his stories had too many holes and inconsistencies. He either used his standard weapons of day-trade, short sell, I-forgot-to-tell-you, or blamed Achyutan's bad memory to get himself out of sticky situations. But he'd had enough fun. Achyutan had already begun to suspect Rangarajan's source of funds for the investments.

One morning, Rangarajan announced, "I took all money out of the stock market. I've made enough." That very day, the Sensex fell by a record number. There were rumours of a global economic slowdown. Bad mortgages and the dubious 'sub-prime crisis' were blamed. Next morning, Rangarajan woke up early, opened the door for the newspaper guy and said, "Please stop my subscription to the Economic Times!"

Frauds

Its been acknowledged for years that Frei De Fisch is one of Modern Poetry's greatest exponents. When he writes stuff like this, its hard to disagree.
***

Artistic Fraud

Pen. Paper. Sheet. Music.
Ohmygodi'minlove.
Artsy lighting, drunken cameraman.
Monologues, Nomogolues. Curtain, shurtain.
Faked it, as usual.

There are, in the world:
Two kinds of frauds.
Mist thickened and settled
On my drying underwear.

The first sort thrive on
Ununderstandability.
Like the mist that
setted
on my underwear.
Why my underwear?
Why the mist?
Does mist ever
settle? Or does it remain mist until the
Mystery of its mistiness wears off. And then just disappear?
Rohinton, are you listening?

And then there's the second sort.
Oh, the second sort.
The sort that doesn't wear underwear.
Or experience mist.
Oh, the second sort.

Its the funner sort.
The funner sort.
The sort that tells the world they're frauds,
They tell the world they're frauds!
Because the world then thinks,
"Man, this guy might not be one!"
And then another guy says,
"Holy. He's referring to John Traicos' obscure book, Jude!"
"Mother of God. My life's changed! I'm now a right-winger!" says the midfielder.

There it is.
Overworn or underworn underwear -
depending on whether you have

great power (and hence, great responsibility) or not.

***

Also, my laptop's back. Not the data, only a new hard disk.
Further, I must thank She Who Doesn't Want To Be Named for uploading lots of music for me.
Lastly, Happy Deepavali in advance - some travels might keep me busy!

Crash

My hard disk crashed. I didn't know Macs did these things. I'm devastated. The Dude at the Service Center said, "Sir, we'll do our best to recover anything we can." But it was written on his face clearly, "Loser, you've lost your music. Now deal with it."

See, if it was just music, I would have dealt with it. Tons of work related stuff was also lost. But, I can find them on office computers and move on with life. But, there were movies also. Lots of them. Diligently downloaded over the years. Lots of stuff off archive.org, and lots of other stuff off torrents.

But again, if it was just music and movies, I'd deal with it. There was photographs also. Trips to Andamans were made last year. Many many pictures were clicked. Hostel was left. Many pictures were taken again. Kerala was paid a visit to. New camera was bought. Many arty pictures were taken. See, this is getting repetitive. That's how many photographs I've lost.

Again, music, movies and photographs one can come to terms with. But I wrote a lot of stuff on random rtf files. Lots of stuff. One-third of two shelved novels - and one was planning to be unshelved.

But again, I was unlikely to have finished any of those novels. There were various recordings of practice sessions, of cousins screeching to background music from GarageBand, and some failed attempts at composing a Love Theme in Ritigowla. Then, there were my playlists - my Kapi playlist, my chai playlist (I'm not kidding - I did have a playlist called 'chai' consisting of old-world Hindi songs to listen to while drinking chai. It is a different matter that I never listened to it while drinking chai), my sad songs playlist, my arbit jazz playlist, my non-arbit jazz playlist, my GNB playlist. Aargh.

Then, there was this most beautiful series of letters I wrote between December and February last year, that was saved only on my mail client. That hurts the most.

The Love Theme in Ritigowla - The Conclusion

The thermometer reads 101, but my dedication to this blog is astounding. Click here for previous parts in reverse order. Mail me for the entire file.
***
To this day, Anna reflects on those few hours between when the concert ended and when Ni said those magical words, "I like you. I'd like you better if you shaved more often." He remembers even the most insignificant details from the scene - this green, glowing Laughing Buddha on a shelf mocking the scene with his full-hearted laugh, the television playing some business news, the dimness of the lights in DG's drawing room, the wrinkles on the sari Ni had worn to the kacheri, the exact shape of the curl that fell on her forehead, the exact shade of her lipstick.

But I revisit those times more often.
***

The Love Theme ended. People aww-ed away. I ended the call. The noise in the car didn't die down for a whole five minutes. When it did, someone pointed brought our attention to a milestone that read, "Bangalore - 100 km". The noise started again, when another call came. The ringing was received with much catcalling, but when announced that Anna was the caller, it died down. I put the phone on speaker and held it against the steering wheel.

"Hello?" There was silence. "Anna?" We distinctly hear a sob at the other end. "Anna?" I asked again.
"Anil?" Amma's voice came, instead.
"Tell me, ma?"
"Stop driving," she said.
The concern in her voice made me obey her. The car stopped on the side of the highway, the emergency lights blinking away to glory.
Amma collected herself, and said, "Mridangam Sir passed away."
I dropped the phone. "Anil?" her voice came through the speaker, "Kanna, are you there?"
I managed to pick up the phone and mumble something.
She said, "Come back to Madras. I'm going to call Nikhila's parents and tell her that the wedding will have to be postponed."

The next three-and-a-half hours were nothing like the previous three-and-a-half.
***

The thirteenth day ceremony was much more lively than the first. The shock wanes, a little. People are able to bring themselves to have conversations about subjects other than the deceased, they manage to laugh, they reminisce, but not with sadness, and most importantly, they come to terms with the loss. And they do it in the pleasantest of ways - by participating in a social gathering followed by a heavy lunch.

Anna hadn't yet recovered from his depression, but it wasn't surprising. Sir had always been more dear to him than anyone else. Sir always told people that Anna was his son, and Anna took it to heart. He still sat in a corner and looked on cluelessly.

A mama in a sparkling white veshti and light blue shirt stared at me suspiciously. I stared back. Then, he walked up to me and said, "Have I seen you somewhere?"
"I play the mridangam - maybe some concert," I explained.
"Hmmm."
Just then, Ni arrived. The mama recognised us suddenly, "Oh! You're that boy who wanted to marry that girl!"
When I recognised the mama, we laughed. Ni smiled at me, and then noticed Anna. Ni walked to Anna and put her arm around him.
***

The Dhanyasi was followed by Bhogindra Shayinam in Kuntalavarali. She barely started this song when Watermelon walked in again. She noticed him almost immediately - large targets are very hard to miss. He seated himself beside Anna. Irritation creeped into her music, but Anna, oblivious to this, kept his talam going. She summarily finished off the concert after this - playing a vague song in Kalyanavasantam before proceeding towards Madhyamavati and the Mangalam.

I had a plan. I'd somehow smuggle her away from Anna. It was a vague plan - it involved improbables like her agreeing to be smuggled, getting an auto on KR Road immediately, and Anna and Watermelon not giving us major chase.

The final notes of the Mangalam were followed by a sudden rush of activity. She packed her violin with shattering speed, and rushed backstage. Anna and Watermelon walked towards the stage, but she beat them. Anna smiled at me, but I bolted. My mridangam bag slung across my back, I ran backstage where Ni stood. I ran up to her, held her hand, and said, "Run!"

We ran through the backstage entrance where Anna waited with Watermelon. They were so stunned to see us running hand in hand, that they took too long to react. We reached the main road, and flagged down an auto. I got in, and immediately said, "Koramangala!"
"Why?!" she asked.
"Why what?"
"Why are we going to Koramangala?"
"My friend's place. That's where I'm staying."
"Actually," she paused, and continued, "Why are you running?"
"Um..."
"From your brother!"
"Why are you running?"
"From Anand. He's too irritating. Your turn to answer the question."
"I have a question of my own."
"I wont answer it unless you answer my question first."
"You don' t know what my brother is doing in Bangalore?"
"No."
"See, I asked you the question, and you answered it. Ha!"
"What is he doing in Bangalore?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
Suddenly, the auto driver asked, "Saar, shall I take the left here or go on the flyover?"
I had no clue, "Flyover!"
She interrupted, "Saar, left! Why do you direct him when you don't know the road?"
"The flyover looked pretty - the view of Bangalore from the top and all that."
Anna called. I cut the call.
She didn't say a thing. After a while, she asked again, "What is your brother doing in Bangalore?"
"I said, I'm not telling you!"
She summed up the situation in her head, and said, "Ok. Your brother is up to something shady in Bangalore, and you're running away from him. So, I'm being dragged to your friend's house for no reason." She turned to the auto driver and said, "Saar, auto nillsi."
The bewildered driver stopped. She got off. I got off after her. She began walking in the opposite direction. I followed her, screaming, "Ni! Wait!" The auto driver followed both of us. He caught up with me and demanded a hundred bucks. I gave it to him. Anna called again. I cut the call again. The auto driver muttered some choice curses about my family before walking back to his auto.
I stopped Ni, and said, "My Anna's marriage is being fixed. With you."
***

Watermelon sat with his notepad in a room, talking to various senior musicians. He was writing a long piece about Sir's contribution to music for Sruti and had made the trip to Madras specially for this. He noticed Ni sitting with Anna, left an interview mid-way and went to her.

"I hear you're getting married?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said.
"When?"
"Its been postponed. All this happened two days before the wedding day."
"I'm also getting married," he said.
"Oh! Congrats! Who is the girl?"
"Some girl called Aparna. Software. Lives in the US. I'm going there to study history."
"That's wonderful."
They looked at each other uncomfortably for a few seconds, before Watermelon said, "Okay, I have to get going!"
"Good luck, and congrats!" she said.
"You too."
***

So, there we were - in a silk sari and jubba-veshti, with musical instruments in our hands - looking ridiculous on Hosur Road.
"Can we sit somewhere quiet and think things over?" she asked.
"My friend's house."
"Any other place?"
"I cant think of any. You're the Bangalorean!"

DG opened the door. His house was just the same. Business news played on TV. He stood in boxers and T-shirt with a mug of hot chocolate in his hand.
Ni exclaimed, "God! DG!"
"Babe! You look even better in this sari." All the running had made it lose some of its neatly ironed nature.
I intervened, "Dude, please. I don't need this new complication now."
Both of them laughed.
"Complication is on its way," he said, "Your brother knows you live here."
***

Anna made desperate phone calls to everyone in the world, trying to find out where I was going. He was joined in his hunt by Watermelon, for some reason - it was Anna's seriousness, I was convinced. He would have told Watermelon sketchy details of the matter, and Watermelon would have assumed that one of us had blood cancer and we were going to die.

Finally, Anna called Amma, who called another Mami, who called DG's mother, who called DG and found out where I was staying. Watermelon raced down to Koramangala, constantly assuring Anna that he knew the best routes and shortcuts.
***

"Who is that girl?" I asked, looking at the newsreader on TV.
"Hot, isn't she? You remember the guy who lived above my paati's house in Madras?" DG replied.
"Vinod?"
"Yeah. He's doing her, apparently."
***

Watermelon led Anna from traffic jam to traffic jam, and kept cursing Bangalore roads and trying newer routes. Twice, they came across Bangalore's famous one-ways - the traffic-regulation innovations that mock your sense of direction. Yet, Watermelon strived on, making extraordinary judgments of the size of his car and the gaps between buses, driving through petrol bunks to avoid signals, making u-turns where they weren't allowed, all to the background music of MS' Kharaharapriya.

He hummed along, and Anna played the mridangam nervously on the dashboard.
***

"See, if you want to marry my Anna, its fine," I said.
"What?!"
"I mean, you like him and all."
"Yeah, but marrying him is a different ballgame."
"Ballgame - you choose your words well," DG said.
"A little privacy, Deej?" I asked.
He smirked and walked into the kitchen with his mug of hot chocolate.
***

Sharanya's mother attended the ceremony, she learnt music from Sir for a while many years ago. Sharanya came with her.

I went to her immediately and tapped her on the head from the back. It was a habit.
"Hey!" she said, "How are you?"
"Coping. Anna's still a bit down. What's up with you?"
"Nothing much. My novel's been accepted by some publisher."
"The one you were writing long ago?"
"No. I shelved that. This is sort of, um, autobiographical. With copious amounts of masala."
"Do I figure?"
"You really think you're that important?" she asked. I didn't answer the question, and she didn't offer any information. I guessed I had to wait till it released to find out.
***

"Ok, lets channelise this conversation. Do you like me?"
"Hmmm. That's a tough one. I hardly know you."
"From whatever you know."
"Its like asking me if I like Ritigowla."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"I hardly know Ritigowla."
"What?!"
"I mean, I played it today solo for the first time and all. But I never feel like I've gotten the hang of it. You know, even when I'm accompanying someone, I'm very curt in my replies in Ritigowla."
"But you played really well today!"
"I surprised myself."

Both of us went quiet suddenly. She was sitting on a bean bag, and me, on the floor by her. She looked at me, smiled and patted me on the head.

"What was that?" I asked.
"Affectionate pat on the head. You are a crazy guy, you know."
"I think you should listen to this," I said, hit by the craziest of ideas.
I fished out my iPod, and played the Love Theme in Ritigowla. "I composed it the day I met you," I said.
"I can tell when guys lie."
"How do you do that?"
"Actually, I know this one because your Anna told me of the porn movie!"
We laughed, as the Theme played in her ear. "Ritigowla?" she asked me. I nodded. I watched her eyes widen as the Theme intensified. I only heard it whisper

When it ended, she said, "Lovely! Pity it ended up where it did."
"I still haven't come to terms with it!"
She patted me on the head again, affectionately. "You're a really cute guy," she said, "Not looks-wise. Your look needs some makeover. But as a concept, you're very cute." She proceeded to kiss me on the cheek.
I was shocked.
Just then, the door was thrown open and a large figure seemed to fill almost the entire frame. Another figure pushed this large one aside, and barged into the room. Ni, oblivious to this, said, "I like you. I'd like you better if you shaved more often."

I saw Anna and panicked. "Lets make a dash for it?" I asked Ni, who just noticed Anna and Watermelon.
"Wait!" Anna said.
"Anna, let us go. Or you'll have to fight us," I said, in my firmest voice.
DG entered the room and said, "Looks like the gang's all here."
"Dude. I wanted to tell Ni that I liked someone else. Which is why I came today."

DG dropped his mug of hot chocolate. Watermelon realised what a waste of effort all this had been. I realised what a waste of effort all this had been.

"Anna? Who?" I asked.
"You don't know her."
***

The lunch was sumptuous. The who's who of Carnatic Music munched away, their teeth chewing rhythmically, trying out their latest musical mathematics. Large streams of payasam flowed on the plate, and they were scooped up in one swooshing movement of the hand and consumed. Not a drop was spilt. It isn't a very pretty sight for those who haven't experienced it all their lives, but it alleviated Anna's mood. He complimented the cook on the payasam as he scooped and swooshed away.
***

I never found out who this other girl was. Anna merely told me that she'd "rejected his proposal". I wondered if he'd made all this up, if this was his big sacrifice. BUt again, it was Anna. You never knew anything with him.

Anna fell in love again, on stage, and married that vocalist. Possessively, he played for each one of her concerts for the next nine years!
***

I got a phone call from a producer asking me if I'd compose for his film. He described his film as a thriller-romance. I was super excited.
***

After the lunch, Ni came and gave me a hug.
"When are we finally getting married?" I asked her.
"A month from now?" she said.
"Yeah, that seems likely."

The last batch of eaters finished their meal and got up. Old mamas and mamis, chattering away, left in droves. The crowd thinned, till there were only the closest left. His immediate family, and his students. Soon, even I left. For the first time in those thirteen days, did I fathom the extent of Sir's contribution to my life.
***

See, Francis, I believe in happy endings!
Thanks to all the great musicians who have provided background music for writing this!

The Love Theme in Ritigowla - Part VI

I just heard that the man who took many of my passport size photographs passed away. I remembered this post I wrote about him many months ago. Oh, as usual, the previous parts are here.
***

While I sat there at Barista's on MG Road, trying to figure how one remedies point b, she got a phone call.
"What?" she seemed worried, "How did that happen? Oh God!" I looked up at her. She was genuinely worried. "Now, what's the alternative?" Pause, "Who? Me?! But solo?" Pause again, followed by, "Yeah. I can. Hmmm... No, no. Yeah. Yeah. Ok." Pause. "Okay. I'll be there, then. See you... Wait! Mridangam? No, he cant. They're brothers, remember? Hmmm... No, I don't know... Wait. I found just the guy. Okay. He'll come. No, no. I'm sure."

I knew what was coming. "Some kacheri got cancelled. You're filling in. And I have to play mridangam?"
"Pretty much..."

Just then, Amma called.
"Where are you? You were supposed to come back from Trichy this morning. Here we're all getting worried about you, and you've just disappeared."
"Amma, if you were worried, you'd've called a little earlier in the day. What is this about?"
"I was actually worried. But there's been some excitement today," she said, conveniently forgetting to find out where I was.
Something told me that I needed to be worried. Maybe it was Ni's eyes searching me again. Amma spoke really loudly on the phone. I wondered if Ni could hear her.
"What excitement?"
"We've found a girl for your Anna."
"Wonderful! Who is this kind soul?"
"I'll tell you when you come back. Where are you?"
"Bangalore."
"Bangalore-aa?! Why?"
"Oh, some kacheri here ran into some trouble, and my friend asked me if I'll play for her. So, I urgently came here." I was surprised by my quick thinking. Ni gave me one of those glances that caused a colony of butterflies to flutter around my tummy.
"Oh, ok. We are coming there tomorrow, to see the girl!"
"What?! She's from Bangalore?" Ni seemed curious about this conversation.
"Yeah. Apparently, you know her."
There it was. I didn't need to hear any further, but these things have an irritating habit of making themselves absolutely clear, removing the last dregs of hope that lie at the bottom of your heart, "Some girl called Nikhila - a violinist." I was in shock. Ni looked interested in the conversation, but there wasn't any other expression on her face. I wondered if she knew about this storm brewing in the background.

I ended the call. "You didn't tell your Amma that you were in Bangalore?" she asked.
I took some time to reply to that question. In that time, I kept asking myself the same question - did she know that she was to marry the dreariest person alive?
"What happened?" she asked.
"What?"
"No, you didn't answer my question. That phone call has had some effect on you."
"Not half the effect you're having on me right now," I replied earnestly.
She laughed. I wondered if Anna would ever be capable of making her laugh - he hadn't laughed himself in seven years. I suddenly asked her, "So, you met my Anna in the US!"
"Yeah, I did," she said excitedly, "And you're absolutely wrong. He's not boring at all."
"I love the way you can be so subtly sarcastic."
She laughed again. Two laughs in ten seconds. Anna couldn't do that unless people were laughing at him. "I'm not being sarcastic - he's got a sense of humour, your brother."
"Nonsense."
"And he has all kinds of theories on everything in the world."
"Like?"
"Like why people think he's serious. Apparently, your family has a habit of labelling people. You were labelled the funny one, and because he wasn't as funny as you, they labelled him the boring one."
"He has this persecution complex. He's neurotic."
"Such rot. He's very lovable. You're irrationally hostile."
"I'm not! You know, he calls himself Mr. Mishrachapu! You cant call Mr. Mishrachapu lovable!"
"I know you'll never agree, but he is 'Mr. Mishrachapu' if ever there was one. He's quite a man when it comes to sevens."
That was a line I never thought I'd hear in my life.
"Incidentally," she said again, "I heard about the love of your life!"
I was puzzled. What had Anna been telling her?
"Kaishiki," she said.
"Oh! That!" I was relieved.
"I prefer the sadharana gandharam."
"Its so sadharana - ordinary!"
"The ga in Thodi is? What about Kaanada? Ritigowla? Kharaharapriya?"
"Bhairavi," I added guiltily.
"Exactly!"
***

Anna went to our family Travels Guy, the one who sold us bus tickets for fifteen years, to buy the most important tickets of his life. The Travels Guy was a middle-aged man who had worked his way up the ticket business. He was the little 'payyan' who directed people to their buses in the private bus stops. He then turned into an assistant to his employer and handled ticketing. Soon, he broke away, and our family decided to break away with him. Amma decided he was more competent because he was fairer in complexion than his previous boss.

"Two to Bangalore. Tonight?"
"Only two?"
"Parents."
"Oh, ok. AC-aa? Non-AC-aa?"
"Either way. But tonight!"
"Only non-AC available. Last seats."
"We'll take them."
"Why urgent, saar?" he asked, concerned.
"Some family matter," Anna said, as always, making the issue seem more serious than it actually was. The Travels Guy assumed that there was a death in the family. He didn't know of any of our close relatives in Bangalore - at least, they hadn't bought tickets from him. He assumed that they were from another wing of the family - the over-careful wing - the ones who always planned trips well in advance and bought train tickets.

Out of compassion, he gave a hefty discount on the tickets.
***
Watermelon still liked Ni, vaguely. But he avoided her concerts - it was when she played that she looked all the more alluring. Her hands glided across the strings like an ethereal lady walking on water, the violin had a tendency to produce some of the softest, most lilting, music. The notes were never played, they were caressed. Above all, there were those dancing eyebrows. He'd always believed that the eyebrows were the most defining features of the face - and hers were the most defining eyebrows he's come across.

"Where are you off to?" his mother asked him.
"Some new guy is singing at Fort High School. Newspaper wants a review," he said, getting into his car.
***

"I got only two tickets."
"The Travels Guy didn't have another one?"
"No."
"You should have asked for some other bus."
"Its okay, ma. You guys take this bus. I'll go to Koyambedu and figure something out."

Anna went to the airport instead.
***

Anand reached Fort High school, and read the board outside. "Today's Scheduled Concert by GS Arunkumar is cancelled. Today's Programme: Violin Solo by Nikhila A. Mridangam: S.H. Anil (Madras)." He thought for a while before entering.
***

She seemed very comfortable. She went straight on stage as soon as she reached, and in a businesslike manner, tuned her tambura, and her violin to the sruti of the tambura, and settled down. While I tuned my mridangam, I noticed Watermelon in the first row with a writing pad and pen. He looked even larger than I had remembered him, and had grown a funny beard. He smiled at Ni, but she stared at him coldly. She started with a brisk Darbar varnam. She kept looking at him throughout the song - there was something going on, surely. She took off in tisram, and I followed her. His face assumed a wide smile that made him look like Shrek. She still had the same frigid look. I didn't understand what transpired between them, but Watermelon got up and left by the end of the varnam.

I was relieved. She played a Sahana immediately after, still a little unhappy about something. The last time I heard her, almost a year before, there was an enthusiasm to her music, it was quirky, playful and yet not gimmicky. On that day, she was troubled, and it showed. A Raghuvamsa Sudha followed, and she managed to make even that seem dull.

At the end of that song, she said to me, "Listen to this."

I didn't know what to expect. She played four notes- ni sa ri ga - and stopped at the ga. It was the sadharana gandharam. She held that note in the upper octave for a few seconds. She then played a torrent of swaras that revealed that she was playing Gowrimanohari. The whole alapana was centred around the ga, and the swara donned various moods - the happy, the thoughtful, the odd, the eccentric, and the sadharana - the ordinary. Sometimes, she glided over it, other times, she paused at it. She started phrases with it, she ended on it. And each time, she challenged me with her eyes, defied me to still maintain that I loved Kaishiki more!

But Gowrimanohari was just the start. Kaanada that followed revelled in its fluid sadharana gandharam. She seemed to pluck swaras and phrases out of an impregnable abyss and throw them at the audience. The brahmastra was Ritigowla. She didn't play any improvisational embellishment, just Janani Ninnuvina. My heart couldn't take this overflow of love. Anything more superlative, and I'd burst, I thought. I wanted to spend the rest of my life listening to this sadharana gandharam, I decided at that moment.

Love intensified over an exposition of Dhanyasi. She was fixated on that gandharam! Shyama Shastri's monumental Minalochani was executed with such finesse that you could almost see those eyes before you. I felt like a complete unnecessary element to the concert. What a misnomer, I remembered thinking - the 'sadharana' gandharam! And she had set out to prove it.

Mid-way through the Dhanyasi, Anna walked into the concert. His face revealed the fact that he clearly didn't expect me to be sitting on stage. What are you doing here, he seemed to ask. I didn't answer the question, I just turned to Ni and followed the Dhanyasi with renewed concentration. But I wanted to ask him the same question. He wasn't supposed to arrive till the next morning, and my plan had been to hang out with Ni till he arrived.

Minalochani was in Mishrachapu, Anna's favourite. Anna settled down in the first row and played the mridangam on his lap, in an almost confrontational fashion - me versus him. She was right. He was way ahead of the rest of the crowd with his ideas in this talam. I borrowed whatever ideas I could understand. The rest of the time, I just kept up with my own simple rhythms. Ni didn't notice him for a while. When she did, the brightest smile came across her face. It was mirrored on his face. I was shattered. He led her through the neraval and the swaras with his talam. The chemistry was unmistakable.
***

To be concluded.

His Teacher's Tale

"When I was young," his teacher often told him, smiling wryly, "I was put on stage and asked to play. And I played. Sometimes, twice a day. Sometimes, thrice." The first time he heard this story, he was only twelve. He didn't comprehend the pain that hid behind this smile. "And did people come and listen to you?" he asked. "Sometimes, twice a day. Sometimes, thrice," his teacher replied. They both laughed. It was a regular ritual - his teacher would tell him the same story, he would ask the same question, and his teacher would say the same answer.

The story grew as he grew - it mirrored his slow transformation from innocence to cynicism, it changed from a mere tale to a warning. "Sometimes, I was made to play till I cried. Finish a concert, run for the next one. A bus here, a train there, and a bullock cart to the little village." He was upset when he heard this - he couldn't believe how someone could treat his teacher so badly - his teacher was such a nice man. Maybe, there was some purpose that his teacher was too young to see at the time, "But it made you famous, didn't it?" It did make his teacher famous. A vidwan, listening to his teacher, when he was still a little boy, told another vidwan sitting next to him, "I think we need to find another profession." The other man replied, "I'm at least educated. What will you do?"

"But at what price?" his teacher always asked.

The story wounded his teacher from the inside, and he bled slowly. It started with a reluctance to play, then a raging alcohol habit, sudden bursts of eccentricity on and off stage, temporary disappearings, and resulted in a trail of unfulfilled concert obligations. "Why?" he asked his teacher. His teacher didn't answer the question. Instead, he asked him some of his own, "Do you know what the word 'responsibility' means? Have you ever been responsible for the well-being of six other people?" He didn't understand why he was asked those questions then.

He began accompanying his teacher in many concerts. Sometimes he was stunned by his teacher's genius, by the sheer fact that he could play ten entirely different Shankarabharanams on ten consecutive days, by the fact that he could confound the best of the percussionists with his rhythm, by the fact that he could touch a commoner's heart and tickle a pundit's brain with the same phrase. On other days, he just covered up for his teacher's shoddiness, filling up the gaps in his teacher's drunken, broken raga explorations, finishing off songs that his teacher would start playing and get bored of, and finishing off concerts that his teacher didn't come for or left midway. Why did his teacher choose to be shoddy on some days? "Do you like the music you play?" he asked. "It depends." "On?" "Whether I'm playing because I want to, or I'm playing because someone else wants me to. Frankly, I've had too much of the latter in my life."

He once wondered if his teacher had ever been happy - he set such high standards for his own music that even a small slip led to sleepless nights. And on those days that he played because someone else wanted him to, he set his standards so low that he embarrassed himself.

The night before, he had been drinking with his teacher. A little high, he said, "I miss my childhood." His teacher replied, with that characteristic smile, "I missed my childhood!"

Six months later, towards the end of a concert in Bangalore, his teacher announced, "Tonight, there will be a very happy news, for me, at least. You know that I have been playing for more than the past forty-three years out of necessity only. I vow to retire from now. It may be a sad news for you, but a glad news for me. I know many of you must be sorry, but I am relieved. I mean, I have played throughout these years, but I had taken to music by accident, and played only for necessity so far. Necessity... burdening on my shoulders for so long... is gone! Today onwards, I will not play under obligation. I will play when I feel like playing. I will call you when I feel like playing, and you will listen to me, for no money. No obligation. Never any obligation. Never in my life again. No more. Sakaaithu!"

For the first time in his life, that night, he saw a genuine smile on his teacher's face.
***

Inpsired by this.

Trips and Suchlike

Sa (Note 1): Click on Images for phull sije. Also, this transperancy thing means that the background image of the blog will impose itself on the photographs. So, colours may appear different after clicking!
Ri: Long Post. You stand warned.
Ga: Our MDR post, which we loved a lot, got buried under the excitement over the Love Theme. We are sad.
***
I went to Belur-Halebeid-Shravanabelagola by the Karnataka Tourism bus yesterday with Radha (in photo with her favoured Gadget - a Sony Erricson phone with outgoing barred):

and Elsa (in photo with her favoured Gadget - an Olympus SLR - model unsure):

It was fun, yes. But like all trips on tourist buses, it was like the little tasting spoon at Baskin Robbins. You taste it. If you like it, you decide to come back for more. Else, you try another flavour. I decided that this flavour was excellent. I'm definitely coming back for a whole scoop. Who knows, maybe even a double scoop!

Our getting-ready-early-in-the-morning process was surprisingly smooth - only some hot water issues we had to endure. Ergo, we boarded the bus in fairly sleepy state:
But AC bus and Himesh Reshammiya (I swear, the "Assalamu 'Alaikum" song played at least seven times!) made for a god nap till we stopped at random highway place for breakfast. Good filter coffee we got. Some chips were purchased and consumed. Some bad jokes were cracked concerning Mr. Chiplunkar. Bus resumed, but now with Kannada music. I switched on iPod and listened to excellent 'Kanakana Ruchira' (my favourite of the five) by the great Dr. M. Balamuralikrishna - very whatay, it was!

Shravanabelagola was reached. Random man, "My name is Johnny!" bugged Elsa and asked her to buy some photographs and a guide book for 10 bucks. A board at the base of the hill read, "Kniees and sharp objacts not allowed. Please preserve Silance." With my almost non-existent right knee, I partially qualified. We climbed the climb.

The knee took the burden well. Except for some discomfort at the top stages, I was fine. And, as always, the sight of the Gomateshwara made the climb worthwhile.


This is how tall he is. Check out the men at the base.
V Chitappa called Radha around that time for updates on how the trip was going. I heard her say, "Yeah, Appa. We just saw the naked man thingy." (No, she didn't say, 'the naked man's thingy') Anyway, I vowed to come back again for the Mahamastakabhisheka!

Did I mention that the view of Chandragiri from the top was lovely?
The bus then proceeded towards Belur. We decided that Kannada music must be heard - our homeland, our culture, after all. We came across two gems. One went:

"Nimbehannu tara hudugi bandlu, node Balu, node!"

(Lemon-like girl is here. Look Balu, look!)

The other, a duet, featured the following lines - cant remember them in Kannada, but they vaguely translate to:

"MAN
When I look at you, there's fire in my eyes, Fire that can set a haystack ablaze!
WOMAN
You know that the fiery eyes wont do; You know that you need to do more to make me a mother!"

After all this entertainment, we reached Belur. I was overwhelmed by all the excitement, but had to wait - because the bus was "Shtapping for dinner. Farty-five minits!" Earliest dinner of my life (1 pm), a simple South Indian Thali, was had at tourist 'complex' at Belur. Interesting plaque:
(Wonder what/who Shri H.C. Srikantaiah co-operated with!)

Language isn't developed enough to convey what the temples at Belur and Halebeid are. The sculptors were geniuses, no doubt, but genius is a much-diluted word these days, what with the two Andrews - Symonds and Flintoff - being called geniuses! But they were not just ace sculptors - their imagination, conceptualisation, architectural prowess is second to none. Their astute knowledge of mythology and aesthetics is undoubtedly supreme, but the use and execution of this knowlege, laced with excruciating attention to detail and a keen sense of humour is what puts them in a league of their own. For instance, this mantelpiece at Belur:
This is a picture of Ugra Narasimha (their family God) on Garuda, flanked by Jaya and Vijaya. But, you'll almost miss the dasavataram carvings in the circles around the main god (The photograph doesn't cover all ten (my bad!) - it misses out Vamana and Parasurama).

Then, there's the famous one of the monkey and the lady:
You can almost feel the force of her pull, cant you? And remember, we're talking of stone!

(I just realise at this point that there are many many pictures of many many sculptures that need to be put up and written about. That will be done in detail in a few days. For now, I continue with my journey. From Belur and Halebeedu.)

There was an irritating Delhiite bunch in the bus who decided that Halebeedu was pronounced Hell-e-bed (the Hell of Bed), like Sher-e-punjab (Lion of Punjab) or Jaan-e-mann (Love of Mind). Aargh. They also played Antakshari throughout and produced the most apashruti noises for the most part. No good Hindi song was spared - Antakshari for six hours ensured that. Double Aargh. Why aren't such people just banned?

Halebeedu was even better - a temple twice as large as Belur, with twice as many sculptures and two dieties. There were the oddities, like Shiva in the middle of the Trimurtis, instead of being the third, a Ganesha whose trunk faced left instead of right, and some cheeky ones like the Arjuna with his multiplying arrows, and a Bheema killing many elephants:

Simply lovely, I tell you. Simply lovely.


There was a minor incident with a guy selling photographs again. He was very persuasive and wanted me to buy it. When all arguments failed, he pulled out his trump card, "Saar, punya kshetradalli daana madidare nimige tumba olleydu!" Yeah, dude. He'd worked out his role in the food chain perfectly. He wasn't selling photographs at all. He was trading in 'punya'. Give him some money, and God gives one 'punya'. This rendered me thoughful for most of the journey after that.

On the way back, the bus guy then took to playing videos of songs from Krishh followed by Dhoom 2 and Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham. An overdose of Hrithik Roshan! Meanwhile, there were these two hills with beautiful windmills, and a discussion followed on whether the fan of the windmill turned equally fast irrespective of the height at which they were placed. I felt, somehow, that this one fan, at a lower height than the others, was turning slightly slower. The only innovative method I could think of to test this idea was to sing a song to the rhythm of the windmills. The experiment was incolcusive.

The videos were followed by a comedy movie called Sunday. The movie was a pleasant surprise - it wasn't bad at all. Arshad Warsi and Irrfan Khan act really well. Ajay Devgan is, well, Ajay Devgan. The surprise element is Ayesha Takia. I must say, in the movies that I have watched her, I've really liked her - Dor, No Smoking and finally Sunday.

Finally, I leave you with a series of potographs from yesterday featuring various skies and bits of buildings. As you will find, these photos are fairly repetitive.




We came back, dumped Radha at home, and headed to Pecos. It was fairly late, and with the new rules, we were just in time for the last order. We ended up being the last people to leave Pecos. Kiran said, "This BJP Government is bad for business," and added with his usual genial smile, "See you tomorrow!"

Today, I had some other work to do, and Elsa went alone to Lal Bagh. Apparently, two men asked her to pose for a photograph with their wives! And then, another set of men asked her to pose for a photograph with them. God!