Return of the Odds and Ends Post

See previous such posts here, here, here, here. I'm sure there are more, but I can't find them now.
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Hanuman

I'm a slightly religious guy, although temples don't really interest me. I prefer finding my Gods elsewhere. Like lots of people in my generation, I've gone through an atheist phase, and then I've come around to where I started - although, in the process, my conception of this Being might have become slightly more sophisticated. Coming back to the point, temples don't really interest me. So, I often evade and avoid visits to temples (unless there are concerts happening there). Even so, the Anjaneya temple in Nanganallur has always intrigued me. Every single person who has gone there has told me that it is a must-visit. I haven't heard a single bad report of the temple - even people who tell me it is really crowded always add that it was still worth it.

The other day, I had an opportunity to visit such temple - Guru was getting an award from the Rotary Club of Nanganallur for his services to Carnatic Music, and I was the driver to Nanganallur. Mami (his wife - a most sweet lady) came along. He was least interested in seeing the temple (actually, he was worried there'd be too much crowd - Sunday and all that, given his advancing age etc.), so Mami and I (ooh, that makes it Mami and Mami) went to the temple.


Now, when people hype up something majorly, often it disappoints. The temple didn't. The idol ("32 feet high," Mami whispered in my ear, as I stared at it in awe) was large and beautiful. There was this stateliness about it (not easy to achieve when the statue in question is a plain black, monolithic monkey with folded palms), and there was a dignity to the way the temple was kept. I liked that. Don't get me wrong - I love my chaotic temples, but this had a real dignity to it. Really enjoyed myself there. (Also saw a Hayagreevar Temple where said Mami did an archanai in my name for my early marriage. That was a bit trippy.)

I even liked the awards function that evening. Except for the Rotart District Governor (who spoke too much and knew little), no one else engaged in mindless superlativitis (none of the he-is-an-avatar-of-Lord-Krishna-himself-type stuff - only some very well-written words about ). At the end of it, there was a heavy saapaattu. Felt like a wedding - two payasams, sambar, vetthakozhambu, rasam, chips, chepankazhangu (chamagadda) roast, ghee, fruid salad, curds etc. Yum.

I will soon forget the contents of the meal, I'm sure. I might even forget why I went to Nanganallur. But that Hanuman will stay with me.
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The Post Office

I went to the T. Nagar Post Office with aforementioned Thatha to collect his pension. Each year, in November, all pensioners must give this thing called an "Existence Certificate". Basically, you must certify that you exist. "Respected Sir, As evident from this letter, I still exist. Regards, TVKRS Subramanian" type thing. I once heard of a case in one of the High Courts where a man hadn't given this certificate for 3 years, but still got his pension. Suddenly, when he gave the certificate in the fourth year, the Government discovered that there was no certificate for the three previous years and demanded that he return his pension. He argued in the High Court, successfully, that if he exists now, he must have existed in those three years also. Unless he was Jesus Christ or Vishnu (who came back ten times).

Anyway, I went to the Post Office with Thatha. The pension section is on the second floor of a building with no lift - some basic planning, perhaps? (Thatha is surprisingly fit for his age, and I can think of people twenty years younger than him who'd find it hard to make the trek up the building.)

Nevertheless, he called the mobile number of a friendly lady who worked in the pension section, and she told him she was in Bombay. They had a conversation for about five minutes where they caught up on each other's lives (her Appa was not well, apparently, and Thatha informed her about his own recent sortie to the hospital), at the end of which she said she'd send someone downstairs to get the form and take his signature. He said he'd ask his grandson to go up and bring the form. Friendly substitute lady came downstairs with me, introduced herself to Thatha, asked about his health, he found out some basic info about her (Husband's job? How many children? Son? 11th Standard? Going to IIT class?) and took his signature.

The institution doesn't work, but the people still seem to make it friendly enough - just like how many nationalised banks and government departments work.
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Twins

When I was (much) younger, I couldn’t tell the difference between Anandabhairavi and Reethigowla, Darbar and Nayaki, Bhairavi and Mukhari (sometimes Huseni also!), Kedaragowla and Yadukulakambhoji. Today, I find it hard to understand why I couldn’t tell these apart! (I sometimes still don’t understand how people who know no music tell really close ragas apart, rarely, if ever, making a mistake.) I think it is like telling the difference between Sehwag and Tendulkar. When Sehwag burst on to the scene, I’d often look at him bat and presume it was Sachin. And he’d take a single, and the guy at the other end would look the same. Soon, you begin to tell Sehwag from his backlift, his slightly wooden legs, his bat-speed, his savageness on the on-side and his slapping cover-drive. Sachin’s legs are always in position, he doesn’t look brutal even when he lifts it over mid-wicket and his cover-drives are lovely punches. They haven’t changed over the years, you’ve learn to identify them better. When you first see them, you only learn to look at the patterns you already know. You’ve seen a Sachin. So, when your mind is faced with Sehwag, it only sees the similar stance, the build, the irreverent shot-making. Only after some time, do you begin noticing those differences. When I was first faced with Reetigowla (after I had already learned to identify Anandabhairavi), my mind immediately slotted it in the ‘Anandabhairavi’ folder. Only with time, did it see those differences.

Now it knows that for all their likenesses, Anandabhairavi and Reetigowla are very different animals. Anandabhairavi seems to enjoy meandering in the madhya sthayi – that glide from panchamam to nishadam to panchamam that defines the raga, the twisty sgrgm phrases; and has heart-rending tara-sthayi sancharas (recall the anupallavi in Marivere). It has been interpreted, reinterpreted, encroached upon over the years, but it retains its classicist nature – like Sachin. Reetigowla, on the other hand, has trademark mandhra-sthayi sancharas (unlike most Anandabhairavi interpretations), has a lovely plain double nishaadam (oh, I love that sound!), an odd symmetry amidst its jumpiness (the nn-s/ gg-m combination, for instance), and a different kind of joy from what its predecessor offers. I’ve always thought of Reetigowla as slightly moody. When the artist has got it right, he’s on a roll, but on days that he hasn’t, you’re waiting for the next guy to come in – like Sehwag. Reetigowla might have looked to Anandabhairavi for inspiration, like Sehwag did to his guru, but it has carved an identity that gives it its own flavour.
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('Twins' might appear in the next edition of Sruti - if you like Indian classical music/ dance, I'd strongly suggest subscribing to it. Check out maadi!)