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.
***