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.
***