The Love Theme in Ritigowla - Part IV

All the parts are together here.
***

"Hi!" she said.
I'd been waiting there for nearly an hour. I was too eager to meet Ni and turned up disgustingly early. She was half an hour late. I spent most of the one hour glancing curiously at these two guys who seemed to be rating each woman at the cafe. They weren't being to discrete about it, but none of the women noticed them. They'd look at her, and then look at each other, say something and turn to make notes on the paper napkins. I was staring at them, when they froze. They suddenly seemed speechless. I turned to see what they were looking at, as Ni walked in through the door. She had that effect on people.

She wore a green top and brownish skirt, and looked a little like a tree. I had never seen her in anything but a sari before.

"Hi!"
"Been waiting for a while?"
"Nah. Five minutes or so."
"So, you've been here for about an hour."
"No!"
"I can tell when guys lie."
And there it was again - the shimmer in her eye, and those eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own. I smiled wryly.
"You wanted to tell me some stuff," I said, not wanting to waste time.
"Oh yeah. Why I disappeared. Yeah."
And then she went silent for about ten seconds. I didn't mind. The longer she took, the longer I could legitimately stare at her. Her phone beeped just as she was about to talk. I noticed that she had the most exquisite hands in the world. I hadn't felt them yet, but I could tell that they were really soft. Yet, there was a firmness to the way she held her phone. Her fingers, furiously typing a message, moved with such artistry and finesse, that they would have put the best dancers' feet to shame.

She put her phone down on the table and said, "Yeah. Why I disappeared."
"I got that part."
She smiled, and her eyes darted mischievously in my direction. The Love Theme in Ritigowla played automatically in my head - the Hindi smash hits from the Coffee Day speakers were drowned out.
She spoke, "I had this feeling that you had romantic intentions."
I didn't fully understand what she meant. But before I said anything, she continued, "I mean, you were interested in me. Or at least, I got that feeling. And I was with Anand by then..."
I laughed my fake laugh and said, "That's ridiculous! I had no romantic intentions."
"I can tell when guys lie."
What did she have in those eyes? It felt like she could actually see through you with them. She said something more, but the Love Theme was so loud in my ear that I couldn't hear it.
"You don't believe me?" I asked.
"No, I don't."
"I asked Sharanya out that very night. I'd been interested in her for quite a while."
"So, when I disappeared, you thought you might as well do something about it?"
Those eyes were at work again. I laughed again, and this time my laugh convinced her.
"So, you were in love with her!"
"Yeah. But I think the love's sort of fading now." I wanted to smack myself on the head with a violin for saying that.
"That happens, I guess. I broke up with Anand a month ago." That image of Watermelon rolling down the hill flashed before my eye again.
"Love faded?" I asked her.
"Not really, we still like each other. But its unworkable."
I didn't ask her for more details, and she didn't seem too inclined to offer more to a guy she's meeting for the second time in her life.
***

I spent most of that music season trying to guess what concert she would be at. I got very good only towards the end. The December Season just isn't long enough for a romance - especially if I'm the guy.
***

Despite everything that was not going for us, Sharanya and I managed to last for nearly a year. When it ended, we were too jaded to even have a fight - we'd prolonged the inevitable for too long. We were on different tours when it happened - I was in the Western Ghats in Kerala, and she was in Dharamsala on the Himalayas. We had always operated in different altitudes.

She sat in a rundown internet cafe on the main temple street of Dharamsala and composed the email ending everything. She talked of how all the trekking gave her time to reconsider relationships in her life, and that it was clear that ours had to end. Ours was probably the easiest relationship to sort out for her. Her father left home when she was seven, and his whereabouts were unknown. Her brother was last known as a small-time crook in the seedier areas of Bangalore, working his way through the ganja business.

She walked through the arrival gate at the Delhi airport when she saw a cab driver standing with a board that had her father's name on it. He had a very common South Indian name, but she decided to wait anyway. His flight arrived an hour late, and Sharanya went through a range of emotions - from curiosity to nervousness to anxiety to doubt. Would they recognise each other? Would he choose to recognise her? What if there is another woman with him? What is he like?

A man in very British clothing emerged through the makeshift gate - the airport being under renovation. In a bowler hat and overcoat. It was like he was on the sets of some old movie. She took some time to recognise him, he didn't take even a second. Without warning, he took her in his arms, like when she was seven and tried lifting her. Laughing, he said, "Oh, you've grown heavier!"

She never told me where he was all those years, or why he had come back, or why he was suddenly this friendly with her. She spent a week with him in Delhi, before deciding that she needed some time to think her life through. She was walking down Janpath when she saw a bus leaving for Dharamsala. Quick enquiries told her that there were lots of seats empty on the bus. She took it.

By the time she came back to Delhi, her father disappeared. As far as I know, she never met him again.

For months, I asked myself why I'd let Sharanya go. She was almost perfect. She read a lot, watched the coolest movies and plays, and was a regular on the Madras fabindia-wearing, coffee-drinking, pontificating circle. She was really pretty, smart and had a great sense of humour. She wrote very well. She had fervent opinions on everything - she once passionately argued with me on why water was better than toilet paper. Neither of us had put enough effort into keeping the relationship going - it started on a whim on a drunken evening, and we spent the year behaving like that drunken evening never ended.

I was fifteen kilometres away from getting network on my phone - only BSNL provided network to the elephants, bisons and the tigers in the jungles of Kerala. Four friends, three guides and I sat on a fallen branch of a tree waiting for elephants to pass. The elephants ate with great care - plucking grass out of the earth, cleaning it with dextrous flicks of the trunk and depositing them in their large mouths. Something told me one of the elephants wasn't enjoying its grass too much. I don't know why I got that feeling - maybe it was the little shake of the head each time it digested one lot of grass, or maybe it was the fact that it tried cleaning the grass for too long. Clearly, It was only eating here because it was lazy to find better grass.

They seemed to eat forever while my thoughts wandered.
***

"God, you're incompetent!" Sharanya said.
"This guy's bowling really well, di. I cant read the spin from his fingers," I replied.
The bowler, a twelve-year-old kid, who could bowl seven different underarm spin variations with almost no change in action, laughed. She snatched the bat from my hand.
"Seven runs in four balls!" the boy announced. Tension mounted as close-in catchers waited for the one-tup catch. She took her stance - its languorousness matched Laxman's. The first ball was tossed up. It hit the cement floor. She moved towards it spryly and hit off the front foot. The ball spat off the pitch and beat her outside edge.

"Seven runs in three balls!" the boy laughed.

She took her stance again - I could watch her move all my life, it was so gracefully unhurried. The ball was tossed up again. This time she moved back, waited for the ball to jump off the track, adjusted her shot late and punched it between two cover fielders who fetched the ball as it rebounded off the far wall the marked the boundary.

"Three runs in two balls," the boy said and added, "Akka, if you hit it outside the wall, you're out!"
"I know."

The next ball was the deadliest - the boy maintained that even he was never sure of what it would do off the pitch. She countered it in the most obvious manner - she took it on the full and guided it through mid-wicket. The ball reached the boundary in a hurry. Ravi Shastri would have spoken of tracer bullets. She handed the bat to the kid standing at cover and walked away triumphantly. I remember being bowled over by her sheer coolness.
***

Pluck, flick, chomp.
***

"When you go away, it feels like someone's reduced the colour setting in the world with a remote control."
"Yuck. But I can do worse. When you go away, a thousand needles pierce my heart, rendering me lifeless..."
"...and you come back to life with my magical kiss..."
"The kiss that causes whirling winds, lightning, rain..."
"The romantic sort of rain."
"The sort that comes in just when the hero and the heroine feel deep love for each other."
"Like we're feeling now."
We laughed until we drowned out the radio playing in her car.
"I love you."
"I love you more."
"Impossible. Nobody can love someone as much as I love you."
"You don't know me."
"Always a step ahead of me, eh?"
"Please tell me we aren't going to fight about this."
Without warning, or saying a word, she kissed me.
***

Pluck, flick, chomp. Now, a group of wild boar sauntered along purposelessly.
***

"Ah, you seem to have settled down with this girl."
I smiled.
"So, I can leave?"
"Why do you have to leave? And, where does your sort leave to anyway?"
"We don't leave. We're always around. But I might not talk to you as much."
"Kaishiki, no!"
"Don't worry, you'll manage fine."

Amma walked into the room, "Who were you talking to?"
"Phone."
"Oh."
***

Pluck, flick, chomp. The elephant that didn't like the grass settled himself in a corner next to a rock. I couldn't tell the grey of the rock from that of the elephant. The boars walked around as aimlessly as ever.
"Dude, it'd be awesome if Obelix jumped at the boars from behind that rock!"
***

"Why are you lying to me?"
"What?!"
"You have no composing assignment. You're just hiding, that's all."
"You were there when I met that guy the other day. He said..."
"He said that if the two guys he has in mind don't take it up, he'll give it to you."
"But I have to be ready. And, in any case, its good to keep a couple of pieces ready."
"You're just using this music excuse because you know that when you're with your music, I cant be around."
***

She was right. That's where the screw up came. Pluck. She had everything going for her. Flick. Except the fact that she was musically uninclined. Flick again - man, this piece of grass is dirty. I think she wasn't too badly off musically - I mean, she danced well, and had a decent sense of rhythm. Chomp. She just came under too much pressure from me.

The elephants walked away after their hearty meal. The one that thought the grass wasn't good enough, gave the grass some thought. It wasn't too bad. It was quite good, actually. Just that, he'd closed his mind - he'd always thought it was greener on the other side. The Love Theme in Darbar wasn't bad at all, but Ritigowla just seemed better.
***

It was mid-June and I was in Trichy playing at a concert when my phone beeped on stage, leading to some hasty movements and turning off. Anna had travelled to the US with my teacher, and was supposed to come back around that time. I wondered if it was him.

When I opened the message after the concert, I read, "I heard you tackled point a!" The sender was Ni. I didn't realise what she meant for a while. When I did, I replied, "Yeah. Two months ago... Who told you?" "Your brother - I went to the US to play in the same set of concerts." "Now tell me - what is b?" "In person. Come to Bangalore if you really want to know."

I didn't even pause to reply to the last message. I packed my bags hastily and headed to the bus stand. The next bus to Bangalore left in ten minutes, but there were no seats on it. I bribed the conductor who let me sit with him and the driver in the front. This wasn't going to be a pleasant overnight journey.
***

To continue.

Joanna Mary John

(This is to celebrate Godawful Poetry Week Fortnight)

I dream of you, Mary John;
Night, evening, noon and morn:
Since the dreaded day I was born
In the yellow field of corn.

Joanna Mary John!
Mary piari piari John!
Where have you gone
On this very lousy, interminable, undesirable, loathsome, yellow August evening?

Mary John, you're like ice-cream,
You come each day in my dream,
Light up my day like sun's beam;
I write poetry filling paper-ream.

Joanna Mary John!
Mary meet-hi meet-hi John!
Where have you gone
On this lonely, drowsy, diabolical, amphibian, blue Thursday evening?

Like the chord to the song,
Like the rosogulla to the Bong,
Like the right to the wrong,
You're as beautiful as the day is long.

Joanna Mary John!
Mary misplaced simile John!
Where have you gone
On this ugly, sad, bad, mad, fad, cad twenty-first evening?

Update: To further celebrate, I thought I'd remind people of my earlier posts on poetry - here (an interpretation of Frei De Fisch's incomparable "Freedom from Early Morning Phlegm") and here (extraordinary concepts in recent Tamil film song lyrics).

The Love Theme in Ritigowla - Part III

"You mustn't shake your head while singing," my teacher told the my nine-year-old self as whiff of paan wafted in my general direction, "You can do that when you're a great singer."
"But, sir, I'm not able to sing this Ni without tilting my head to one side."
He held my head with his two hands, and commanded, "Sing!"
I started the avarohana of Kambhoji, "Sa-ni..."
"Wrong. Again."
"Sa," and my head titled despite the strength in my teacher's hands, "ni,". I grinned mischievously. I was right.
"Don't tilt your head. Sing again."
"Sa-n-ni..."
"Again. Why are you bleating like a goat?"
"Sa Ri..."
"What are you singing?! Arjun, you sing it for him."
Anna sang, his head as stiff as a flagstaff. He sang it right. And, as always, he seemed over-earnest and serious about the whole affair. The teacher beamed at him.
I repeated soon after, tilting my head alternately to either side impishly, inviting the teacher to hold my head again in anger. "Don't play with me! Sing properly!"
Over the next one hour, I tried in vain to sing the Ni without tilting my head. Instead of getting better, I only got worse. My teacher's grip over my head tightened with each mistake, but my grip over the note didn't. A coffee arrived for the teacher. He instructed Anna to hold my head, and made him sing, as the teacher cooled the coffee by pouring it back and forth from his tumbler to his davara. I began to get worse. Tears stood at the brink of my eyes. When the tumbler was drained of the last dregs of the coffee, and I still hadn't sung it right, the teacher announced, "Okay, enough for today. Keep practising this same thing. Arjun, hold his head when he practises. I'll see you on Thursday."

I woke up the next morning, with my neck feeling unusually stiff. To my surprise, my teacher was sitting in the drawing room with Appa, the noxious mixture of paan and coffee making its way down his system. I wondered if I had slept for three days, and it was Thursday already.

"I think Anil should learn an instrument."
"But he sings well," Appa tried.
"The boy couldn't sing Mandaradhaare, how will he handle Evarimaata?"

Appa, who had great faith in my musical abilities, strangely, gave in. It must have been the Kambhoji dialogue. Appa was obsessed with the raagam. The same teacher was a mridangist, and so, mridangam classes started soon. Anna joined too, as Amma felt that it was good for even a vocalist to have a good grip on taalam. This meant that, again, for two days a week, I was subject to the same cocktail - of the stench of paan, the foam of the filter coffee as it fell from the tumbler into the davara, the rudeness, and Anna's sincerity.

But on the day that I was branded a non-singer, something else happened. I was telling you about my stiff neck. It turned out that I'd sprained it. My neck was strapped up. While settling disputes with Anna over an intense game of Mortal Kombat 2, I sang Kambhoji in despair. To my amazement, I sang it right. And, my strapped up neck meant that I hadn't tilted it at all! It took a sprained neck and Liu Kang losing to Sonja for me to get a taste of the beauty of the Kaishiki Nishaadam.

Vocal lessons continued, although not as strictly as earlier, for a percussionist must know the music he plays percussion for. I dreaded them. Anna's voice broke first, when he was just thirteen, and he gave up signing during this transformation period. Around the same time, his mridangam-playing was noticed by some Sabha secretaries who gave him his first chances. Soon, he played for people far senior to him, and the "little boy who never smiled" became a regular fixture at music festivals, always escorted by his father and his mischievous younger brother.

The mischievous brother, on the other hand, was falling in love. Not with a movie actress or a cricket player, as eleven-year-olds do, but with one of the sixteen notes - the Kaishiki nishaadam. First, I learnt its use in BIlahari. What was until then an up-and-down raagam with a fixed scale, suddenly acquired a quirk. A rare, elevating quirk that broke the monotony of its recurring phrases; at the same time, a quirk that devalued the feel of the raagam when used too often. The ni fascinated me even more when I encountered Bhairavi. There, it hardly had a fixed spot - it was an amorphous mix of the most wondrous sounds, each carefully picked to suit the mood around it. Then I learnt, in quick succession, Thodi, Ritigowla, Sriranjani, Madhyamavathi, Mukhari. It wasn't a note anymore, it could never be: it was a person, and I was in love with her.

Each day, I wrote letters to Kaishiki - some short, some long, some happy, some angsty, some admiringly, some lovingly, some like she was an unattainable goddess, and others like she was a lover nestled in my arms. I told her everything one tells a loved one, and his from her just what one hides from them. But she wasn't like any other love - she travelled with me wherever I went. She was, quite literally, the song on my lips. And so, I had this feeling that she perceived anything that I didn't tell her - celestial concepts like herself have these ways of knowing.

Amma, on the other hand, grew worried. It wasn't natural for an eleven year old boy to write a diary. The fact that I was frequently talking to myself worried her even more - snippets of my soliloquies that my mother heard, like, "Will I ever find one as beautiful as you?" and, "Why are you acting up this morning? I controlled you fine last evening," weren't encouraging words to parental ears at any age. Anna was the first to tell me about my madness. He asked me if I had a crush on Priya who lived down the road. I was spending too much time with her, he said, and reminded me that she was much too old for me. I found out many years later that Anna liked her, and had even told her at the age of sixteen that he wanted to marry her. They were boyfriend and girlfriend for a while, whatever that meant in the tenth standard.

An uncle, who was a shrink, examined me and found nothing wrong with me. It came as a huge relief for Amma, and as an eye-opener to me. I quickly learnt that to survive in a cynical, unromantic world, I had to learn the art of consciously keeping a part of my being completely private. I locked my fantasy world of a relationship with a woman who didn't exist, who wasn't actually a woman, who was so alluring that the real world unable to describe her beauty denoted her by a single note, in a dark corner of my mind where I lived and loved.

Suddenly, that evening, when I saw Ni on stage for the first time, my daydream played out in front of my eyes - there she was - Kaishiki in human form. I wondered if it was only a coincidence that her name was Nikhila, "Call me Ni".
***

I sat with Sharanya in the back row of the down-market but traditional Parthasarathy Swamy Sabha at the concert of a young singer whom Anna rated very highly when I saw Ni for the second time in my life. It had been seven months since she famously stood me up, and seven months of my flimsy relationship with Sharanya. She sat four rows ahead with this guy who resembled a large watermelon. It didn't help that he wore a billowing green and black kurta. Something made me want to take him to the top of a hill, push him and watch him roll down like a football.

Meanwhile, the singer started Teliyaledu Rama Bhakti Margamunu in Dhenuka.
"Not that we were going to do something if we knew," I whispered into Sharanya's ear.
"Huh?" I cowered.
At the same time, the Watermelon whispered excitedly in Ni's ear and she laughed. I turned to Sharanya and saw a blank expression on her face. It was unfair. Why wasn't I with someone who got the joke? Or at least cringed at its badness. Why was I with someone who wouldn't understand when I commented on a musician's learning curve when he sang Saraswathi? The pattern followed throughout the concert. I'd appreciate or make fun of something and turn to Sharanya, only to find her either dozing off or looking like a foreigner coming to terms with eating off a banana leaf. At the same time Pumpkin and Ni had many things to say to each other.

Then, it got worse. Ni rested her head on Watermelon's shoulder, and Sharanya, having noticed it, rested her head on mine. The world had turned into a cruel place. I felt like the geek in the underwear ad who screamed, "What's he got that I ain't got?"

"A nasty sense of humour," I heard Ni say as she passed us after the concert.
"Nikhila!" I gathered the courage to call out.
"Hey!" She recognised me almost immediately, which was a good sign. "I was hoping I'd bump into you!" she added.
"Yeah? Me too. I was hoping the other day also, at Murugan..."
She just laughed. There was nothing funny about it. Sharanya decided to jump into the conversation, "Hey! I'm Sharanya."
"Oh. This is Sharanya, my g-g..."
"Girlfriend."
"Yeah, girlfriend."
"Oh, hi! I'm Nikhila. I'm a violinist."
"And I'm Anand," Watermelon interjected.
"Yeah. This is Anand - he writes reviews..."
"Oh my god!" I said before I could stop myself, "Are you the one who wrote that really nasty one?"
Anand recognised me immediately, "Hard-hitter!"
He wasn't just a Watermelon anymore. He was a Slimy Watermelon. He was green on the inside. It was horrible.

"You guys know each other?"
"I reviewed one of his concerts. With the flute guy you really liked."
"Oh."
"Yeah. And he wrote a horrible review for a very good concert."
"I know - Anand hates him. I don't know why."
"Its because you think he's cute," Anand said. I couldn't tell if he was serious or joking. Nasty guys have this way of speaking that makes it hard to tell. The vision of him rolling down the hills flashed vividly before my eye.
"Oh, shut up."
"So, I'm sure you have some really nasty stuff to say about today's concert."
"No, I quite liked it."
"Even I liked some of the grooves," Sharanya added unsurely.
"Oh. No comments on the artistes' bladders?"
He laughed, "No!"
"Will you not write a review because there's nothing damaging to say?"
"Man, you were really upset about that, weren't you?"
"Have you ever tried being on the receiving end?"
"Anand sings very well..." Ni said. My blood boiled.
"Oh, you sing? Is your singing stately? Does it have 'bhakti-laden renderings'?"
Anand laughed even more. I didn't understand the guy at all. He was either stupid or supremely confident of his abilities. Often, the two are the same thing. But you could never be sure.
"Why don't you come and listen to a concert? Maybe you can write a review. I can ask my paper to let you publish the review."
"Anil writes really well. He doesn't tell people about it..."
"Yeah?" Ni asked.
"Yeah. He's also a music composer."
"Are your compositions like your mridangam playing?"
"Devoid of bhakti? Yes. I compose songs about love." I didn't know why I said something as daft as that. Everyone around me started laughing. Maybe it was the way I said it.
"Listen, we have to run to this other concert," said Ni, "Gimme your number. I'll give you a call."
I gave her my number. I hoped she would give me a call at least this time around.

"She's rather cute, isn't she?" Sharanya asked.
"Yeah. I cant believe she's with that guy!"
"He's okay."
"He's a green ball of nastiness..."
"Heh. They could just be friends. I mean, she didn't say what their relationship was."
For the first time that evening, I liked something she said. Just then, my phone beeped, and there was a message, "Sorry about the other day. I guess I owe you an explanation. Tomorrow? Tell me what concerts you're going for and we can figure."

I smiled.
***

Announcement

I have these many little things I like to write a line, a paragraph, or a couple of paragraphs about - usually, vague rants about vague problems or vague thoughts on the purpose of life. So, I've started another blog here. So, all those things will be posted there. Expect posting every day. This blog will continue as it is. More convolution here.

The Love Theme in Ritigowla - Part II

Continued from here. Read this if you haven't.

***
"Fourth time in two days! If I didn't know you, I'd think you were in love with me," Ni said, as we found ourselves in the same concert yet again.
It was funny - love was written on my entire being with a red marker pen. With little hearts around it in shiny silver.

"Listen, marry me?"
She laughed. The mama standing behind me in the queue winced.
"I'm serious. Just marry me."
"I cant."
"Why?"
"Well, a, you have another girlfriend." The mama looked shocked.
"She can be gotten rid of." The mama was now morally outraged.
"Gotten rid of?"
"Yeah. There's no chemistry left. We've just been lazy to go through the entire process. What's b?"
She raised her eyebrow, and this shimmering twinkle overcame her eye, "Take care of a first, and I'll tell you what b is!"
"Are you still with that nasty little football?" I asked. She turned away, and disappeared into the crowd entering the auditorium, leaving me in the queue for the tickets.
"Kids these days," the mama muttered, as I reached the head of the queue.
***

The week that followed my first concert with Ni was amongst the worst of my life. Anna behaved funnily through dinner and after. He needed a lot of help with his hand in a sling, but refused to take any from me. For those four hours before we slept, I missed him dearly - there was no one to needle, and that hurt. Yet, I had this feeling that he'd be okay by morning.

In the morning, he behaved even weirder. I was woken up forcibly at five. Anna had already bathed, and was halfway through his morning cup of coffee. He suddenly declared, "Lets practice!" and sat with his mridangam, playing it with one hand, almost challenging me to match him with two. I failed to comprehend some of his rhythms - I even had a sneaky suspicion that he was playing wrongly. Either way, I couldn't match him. He launched into a diatribe about my slackening technique, lack of discipline, obsession for the theatric, and a penchant for playing to the gallery.

Unfortunately, criticism didn't stop with Anna. I played at a concert the next day, substituting for him again. This time it was for this young flutist with keen eyes and an unkempt mop of hair. The concert was, in my opinion, the best I had played in years. The flutist played at shattering tempo, the percussionists matched him, and sparks flew around the auditorium. The audience supported us with resounding taalam, and booming applause.

The review on the next morning was harsh, to say the least.

Appa read out, "The flutist seemed in a hurry, as if on a full bladder..."
"Who is this guy?" I asked.
"Some new critic - Anand V."
"Its called a brigha. Has this guy even heard of GNB?"
"Read on!" Anna said from the adjacent room.
"The music seemed bereft of any emotion, and sitting in the auditorium felt like being caught in carpet bombing. The notion of bhakti, so crucial to the music was ignored in favour of the misplaced notion of splitting eardrums."
"That is such a bad line, irrespective of its import! I mean, the metaphor is so... misplaced."
"Misplaced. Just like your playing..." Anna said.
"Wait. There's more. While the more liberal amongst us are comfortable with the idea of treating God as an equal, the artistes yesterday seemed to deal with him as a subordinate - they didn't ask "Evarimaata vinnavo" in Kambhoji, they questioned him like a policeman trying to get a confession out of an innocent man. They ordered Swaminatha to protect them in Naata. They traded gifts with God like cheap businessmen in Paridaanamichite in Bilahari."
"Who is this guy?! What happened to the usual soporifics?"
"He must be right," said Anna, "you're always hitting the mridangam like you're a descendant of Afridi."
"Anna, please. You have no sense of humour, so don't make any attempts."
"This reviewer has a couple of lines about the accompanists also. The only person on stage with any composure in him was the violinist, S. Rammohan. He was the lone representative of the stateliness of Carnatic music, whereas the others only believed in vulgar bombardment. Special mention must be made in this regard of S.H. Anil on the mridangam and Bangalore Umakanth on the ghatam - they seem to be unmatched in the art of producing high volumes from their instruments. Then again, the sound 'engineer' sitting cluelessly with his mixer might have had something to do with this."
"The only reason the violin sounded 'stately' was because he couldn't keep up with the others yesterday," I protested, "The poor guy was too stunned to play anything. And this reviewer - I-I sincerely hope that the choicest of calamities befall him and his coming generations. I mean, this guy's hampering careers with his misplaced notions of bhakti."
"If it was anyone else, I might have thought the guy was harsh. But you are a twenty-twenty player - hit as hard as possible. You don't even comprehend the beauty of a Test," Anna said.
"What is with you and your cricket references?"
"Well, at least I don't get everyone else around me to speed up so that I can hit hard. How many times should I tell you, 'You don't..."
"...hit a mridangam, you play it. Get over it."

None of this made it a bad week. Anna had been telling me for years that I was incompetent and excitable with the mridangam. Something else happened.

I was supposed to meet Ni the evening after the concert at Murugan Idli. She'd taken my number and told me she'd call me and we could fix plans. She never called. I spent two hours at Murugan Idli waiting for her, knowing fully well that there was another branch. She didn't turn up.

I called a friend who had invited me to some sort of house party. When I reached, I was depressed and hungry. But the food hadn't arrived. The only consumables were placed on a bar table where they belonged. It didn't take long for me to lose track of what was happening around me - the food came and went, loud Tamil music pierced the ears of all present, and sent us contorting away into movements called 'dance'. When I woke up the next morning, I found myself on a bed with four women around me. That's never a bad feeling. One girl, Sharanya, was a lot closer to me than the others, which isn't usually a bad thing. Only, we had both expressed vague interest in each other over a period of time and I had this bad feeling that in between the inebriation, the vagueness had crystallised into something more.

She woke up, looked at me groggily and without warning, kissed me. My worst fears were realised.
***

Anna came home looking happier than I had seen him in a while. His cast had been removed on the previous day, and he celebrated with four hours of practice after which he complained of pain. He fished out a little CD from his bag and said, "You might want to watch this."
Just then, Sharanya came home. "You should also definitely watch this," Anna said.

The CD was a cheap one with the words, "Aunty No. 3" written in black. It lived up to its name. No self-indulgent, proud banner of a production house played before the movie. Just a black screen with the words, "Aunty No. 3" in white, followed by a shot of an ample aunty buying vegetables from the local market. When the first notes of the title music began to play, I froze. Sharanya took a little longer to recognise them. Anna sniggered.

I was too stunned to even reach out for the remote. A shot of a pumpkin held suggestively against the Aunty's bosom accompanied the title "Music by S. H. Anil". Anna fell off his chair. I managed to stop further carnage. My piece-de-resistance in Durbar had been reduced to this!

"I thought you composed that Love Theme in Durbar for me!" Sharanya screeched.
"I think I should leave the room," Anna said.
"Listen, it was composed for you, b-b-but I sold it to this guy... Wait. I have an explanation. It fit some sequence in the movie he was going to make. I-I-I have n-n-o idea what its doing here!" She didn't seem convinced. I knew she'd never believe me. I had lied, of course. I had composed it long ago. But our First-Month-Anniversary came up, and she expected a present. So, it was a half lie. And she didn't get the piece anyway. The only comment she could make was the fact that it was 'upbeat like our romance'. She didn't understand the complex layering, the odd usages in Durbar, and the two lines of the varnam that I had woven into it. I was glad I hadn't presented her with my Love Theme in Ritigowla.

Immediately though, there were more important matters to settle.

I made a phone call, "Dude, what have you done with my music?"
"I sold it, da."
"To some pornographers?!"
"Dude, the movie you composed all that music for got shelved and I had to recover costs. And I told you I was selling it. You only wanted your name to go with your music."
"Dude, but this is disgusting!"
"Nobody else wanted to buy it. I mean, its lovely music. Really lovely. But its not the Tamil mainstream film music types. Its semi-classical instrumental pieces. Nobody wanted it. Anyway, you can buy it from him - I sold it for thirty thousand. Pay the porno guy some fifty, and I'm sure he'll sell it back to you..."
"What the fuck, da!"
"I'm really sorry da. But I was desperately short of cash. How much of the movie have you seen?"
"The titles."
"Ok. Stop watching. Your percussion theme plays with some really disgusting imagery."
***

"Yeah, tell me," I barked into the phone.
"If you're going to talk like this, I'll talk to you some other time," she replied.
"What is it? Tell me, Ni."
"Some other time. Its chill."
"Listen, I'm driving. The phone is on speaker, and there are four other people in the car. I cant be more romantic."
The four other people greeted her with cacophony.
"Oh... Wait! I know exactly what we can do now," Ni said, suddenly.
"What?"
"Wait. Let me get my violin."
"No..."
Ganesh grabbed the phone from my hands. "Get your violin, quick!"
A couple of notes were heard crackling through the phone as she tuned her violin. Then she said, "Okay. I am going to play this piece composed by the guy driving the car. He composed it for me. Its called, 'The Love Theme in Ritigowla'!"
The passengers were overcome by a bout of hooting, while the driver started off a mini-riot trying to get his phone back. Someone murmured, "Ritigowla? What's that?" "Settle down, guys. Listen," she declared.

And it played through the phone - an unusually light-hearted Ritigowla - the notes dancing in the joy of being relieved of their weight. Yet, every now and then, the more classical side peeked from behind the its veil, reminding us that it was only taking a temporary break. Phrase after phrase darted around the kaishiki nishaadam, the flattened seventh, whose glory was celebrated in the piece. Ni, was, after all, the Kaishiki Ni - the most beautiful note in all music.

"Awwww," everyone in the car went, as the piece ended.
***