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.
***

Interview with Milkmen - Redux

Hi, I got interviewed by a proper journalist properly - this lady called me up and asked me all sorts of questions regarding financial security and the like. It was great fun. I feel so celebrity-like already. Thank you, Francis, for giving my phone number to these people.

Also, Xebo (remember him?) interviewed me a couple of days back about Subtle Subramanian and other related issues. And while I stated earlier that I wouldn't let Xebo contribute to my blog again, too many people are asking me these questions, and so I thought I'd answer them here. Its only now that I realise that Xebo is always a bad idea.
***

Xebo: Good evening, Danser. Its bloody lovely to have you here...
Me: Just get through with the Questionnaire.
X: Okay. But let me go through some assurances from your side first - a) you will report everything honestly b) you will not censor anything...
M: Hey da, DansGuardian, the dreaded netnanny type thing blocks this blog within the Law School network. I have to be careful. So, all four-letter-words shall be replaced with 'Dans' and its derivatives.
X: Oh, that explains that mutilation in the first line. (Smiles all around - aandthirtyeights is happy with the non-confrontational start to the interview) Okay, first question. Initially, we were under the impression that with Subtle Subramanian, you had finally matured - that you didn't need to be inspired by your own life to write these romances. CENSORED. (aandthirtyeights laughs meanly!) DANSER, YOU DANSING SAID YOU WOULDN'T DANSING CENSOR ANYTHING!
M: Dans you. (more mean laughter) Its my blog. I am King.
X: Power corrupts. (aandthirtyeights laughts meanly again) Why don't you audition for the role of a villain in an 80s Kannada movie? That laugh goes well with your unshaven look.
M: To answer your question, I auditioned for the sequel to Sarkar Raj.
X: Oh, you wont make that. Your look's too intense for that also. But getting back to the issue of real life inspiration in Subtle Subramanian...
M: All writers have inspirations for their stories - often from real life...
X: Dans you. Answer in specifics.
M: No, there was no inspiration whatsoever.
X: No inspiration? Lila?
M: Lila?
X: Yes, Lila.
M: I'm going to censor you.
X: No, I was talking of the more obvious inspiration, not the really subtle one that even you didn't notice!
M: Who?
X: Tanvir Gill.
M: Tanv... What nonsense... T-T-That was just a... um, a coincidence.
X: You watch her three times a day. Google her every time you get bored, and then you write a story about a hot newsreader.
M: Dude, it was Dansing coincidence. Lila in my head looked very different from Tanvir Gill.
X: What did Lila look like?
M: Hmmm. I never described her in the series, except in vague superlatives. I think I want to leave her look a little ambiguous. People have imagined Lila in their own ways. I don't want to spoil it by setting a look now.
X: Translation for readers - "She looks just like Tanvir Gill, but our man doesn't want to admit it." Is it also true that you left her a message on Facebook telling her that she was really pretty?
M: Would I do something like that? I mean, what do I look like?!
X: Are you denying it?
M: Categorically.
X: I can prove it.
M: How?
X: A criminal always tells people of his crimes.
M: Danser, what are you talking about?
X: Tra-la-la...
M: Danser...
X: People will believe me anyway, because you're the kind of guy who'd think leaving such a message is romantic.
M: It is, in a way...
X: Its creepy. Not romantic.
M: How would you know? No one leaves you any messages. On anything.
X: Lets take independent opinion, Creep. People, readers, don't you think its creepy?
Readers: Of course. Especially if it comes with aandthirtyeights' Facebook photograph.
M: What's wrong with my photograph?!
X: It features a guy with sunken eyes and a evil half-grin. Creep.
M: Dans you.
X: Haha, your biting wit and retort has given way to a series of 'Dans you'. Haha. You're under pressure. Khair, lets talk of your upcoming ventures. What's this Love Theme in Ritigowla?
M: Point number one: you just used the term 'khair'. You're turning into You-Know-Who. Point number two, yes, I'm planning to serialise and extend Providing Apt Support, and the series will be called The Love Theme in Ritigowla.
X: Ah. Suggested reading, guys - here. And suggested listening - here. So, dude, again its something inspired by real life...
M: What'd'ya mean?
X: I mean, again, there's the same trail - smite, Googling, unanswered Facebook message, and now serial...
M: Dude, you have to be careful of what you say. Even when you talk nonsense, everyone believes you. People trust you more than they trust me...
X: What a sad cover-up!
(At this point, the subject of the interview inflicted horrible physical damage on the interviewer and left the building. The interviewer struggles in hospital for his life. No, the interviewer is just lying - he is in grave danger of losing seventeen skin cells on his neck, and a nerve that controls his sense of direction. Dans you. I am struggling for my life. Dans you, too. The next time you see the aandthirtyeights, please ask him about Facebook messages. If you do, I'll inflict horrible pain on you.If you don't believe me, you can ask the recepients. You know who they are!)
***
"Doctor, is Xebo alright?"
"Xebo cant Dans, saala."

Feeling the Gamakam

As I stopped at the Bhashyam Cirle signal on my way to T.M. Krishna at Gayana Samaj, I ejected the O.S.Thyagarajan tape that I was listening to for the last five drives, and fished out a KVN at San Diego from the dashboard. The tape started off somewhere in the middle of his simmering pallavi in Bhairavi. It took me hardly three seconds to figure out what taalam, and where the pallavi started - it was a simple adi taalam, with the pallavi starting on the beat. The pallavi reminded me that one doesn't need to sing in Sankeerna Jati Ata Talam, with the pallavi beginning three and three-quarters beats into the talam, and changing to tishram in the middle for four and two-thirds of a beat, to create riveting music. Simplicity has its own beauty. And this was as beautiful a Bhairavi as one can come across.

The swaras were reaching their crescendo, and I had Ctrl-C ready in my mind, waiting to pounce on the mukthaayam, when the tape stopped. The tape was over, and when it reversed to the other side, the concert would start again. I found myself in the middle of a nasty Cottonpet traffic jam. Surprisingly, I hadn't even realised that I had endured all that traffic near 8th Cross, Nataraj theatre, Rajiv Gandhi Circle, Swathi Hotel and the Railway Station! It was only at Cottonpet when the tape stopped playing, and I was robbed of my Bhairavi that it mattered!

The tape reversed, and KVN announced, "I shall start with a varnam by Pacchimirium Adiyappier..." I was stunned. Bhairavi again! Pacchimirium Adiyappier's Viribhoni. His story is a fascinating one - the composer of Carnatic music's most famous and arguably its greatest varnam is known for nothing else. I've heard that he spent years composing Viribhoni - and it shows. There is enough in that varnam to be studied for a lifetime. Nearly every phrase in Bhairavi finds a place in that Varnam. Every gamakam, and every nuance of every gamakam is explored. Adiyappier composed nothing else of note in his life, but has ensured himself of immortality with this monument of a varnam.

I reached Gayana Samaj and found parking, but waited for the varnam to end before leaving the car. At the concert, T.M. Krishna started with Bhairavi again!
***

When the concert ended, I went for a dinner with three other flutists - my teacher, a 'boy' from the US who's a fellow student, and a Western Classical flutist who's spending some time in India learning Indian music, and trying to find peace and quiet in Srirampuram to finish some composing assignment. At the end of an enlightening discussion on the two forms of music, he said, "Yeah, I can play a couple of simple geetams on the bamboo flute now." I smiled, and he continued, "For the first time in my life, I felt a gamakam on the flute. I've never been this happy!"

I remember that feeling all too well. On the flute, you're taught Mohana Raagam before anything else, and two weeks after picking up the flute, I was playing Ninnukori like it would have been played on a harmonium. It was only when I reached geetams that I felt my first gamakam - it was the first slide in Padumanabha - the ri that had to rise from the depths of the da. From there, to handling the GmR in Kanada has been a long and enthralling journey, but the joy of feeling my first gamakam remains unsurpassed!
***

Snippets from Yesterday: 2 Nos.

First, A Phone Conversation with a Good Friend

"Macha, I really like that song from Jaane Tu Ya Jaane na..."
"The Aditi song?"
"Yeah - I mean, there's something about songs with people's name in them..."
"Hey Mickey, You're so fine..."
"No da."
"The Obama Song by the Obama Girl?"
"Hey..."
"Monicaaaaaaaaa, O My Darling!"
"Wait..."
"O Raveena raveena raveena oooooo."
"Dai..."
"Oye Raju, pyaar na kariyo, dariyoooo, dil toot jaata hai."
"Um, I was thinking more along the lines of 'Dil Kya Kare', or 'Tu hai Meeeeeri Kiran!' or 'Meri Bheegi Bheegi Si...'
"My name is Manjeetttu."
"Hey da, something like 'Onnavidaaaaa'!"
"En peru Padaiyappa..."
Click.
Jokes apart, there is something about songs with names in their titles. Like right now, after listening to the Aditi song six times in a row, I want to find an Aditi and sing it to her. (No, I didn't feel similar reactions with the Mickey song.)
***

Second, The Day of the Freaks

(Yes, yes, that title is inspired by this. Yes, yes, I haven't read it yet.'Yet' being the crucial term. Just acquired a copy. Also, this is a long and rambling post. You are warned.)

I spent a fruitful last evening eating cheese sandwiches, with homemade ice lemon tea and watching two sporting freaks weave their magic around much-fancied opposition - the first was a 22-year-old upstart with a forehand that caused many tornadoes, none bigger than the one yesterday; and the second was a, um, a spinner (in the most liberal sense of the term), who reminds me of a Mak Lubricant advertisement with the tag line, "Legspin, Offspin, aur yeh bowled!" I watched a lot more of the Spaniard than the Lankan.

I was nervous even before the evening started. I felt underprepared for the final, and that was largely because I had watched only one Federer game this year, and that was his first round match against Hrbaty. A the first set got under way, and there was this torrent of whirling topspinners, scurrying, indefatigability and improbable angles, the nervousness grew. Federer wasn't playing all that badly, but Nadal still got his nose in front. Federer gave it his all, to be fair, but Nadal made him play one extra ball each time, and the errors came. The second set was more of the same angles, the body-serves, the gruelling down-the-line backhands. I could feel it two continents away - the champion's will weakened, as breakpoint after breakpoint slipped through his fingers.

At two sets down, depressed as hell, I switched to the cricket. Sehwag - 59 off 33, the TV read. I was stunned! Along came Mendis bowling his Right Arm Guile - for that's what he bowls. And its not just variations in direction of turn, but in length, flight and pace. One over, and Sehwag and Yuvraj were out. Before I could digest that news, Raina and Sharma fell. Now, both channels were depressing.

I switched back to the tennis and watched Federer grind out service games, and spill chances on Nadal's serve. It was going well till the ninth game. After looking comfortable for most of the set, Federer got himself into 15-30. He barely wriggled out of that when the rain came. I gathered that Nadal had chased down each ball, and used the wind to his advantage to disturb Federer. And Federer refused to play the slice return. I was aghast, and needed some consoling. I called a friend, great Federer fan, but he sounded gloomier than me. Vijay Amritraj spoke of mental blocks. I logged on to orkut, and checked out the Federer community. That was most distressing - most people were already speaking of revenge next year (often in Portuguese). What gave me confidence was the Goran-Henman game in the 2001 semifinal. Goran came back a different player after the rain break.

Federer, too, came back with a vengeance. He played a few brilliant points, as he had done in the game until then, but ensured that he didn't allow his serve to be broken. After playing a solid tie-break, he unravelled more drama in the fourth. On each Championship Point, I felt more nervous than I had ever done in my life. And when he saved one with the shot of the match - a bachkand down-the-line, I was convinced that he would win.

The fifth set, all was even, when rain came again. The Borg-McEnroe tiebreak aptly played in the break. The second break hadn't changed the tense atmosphere - it was gloomier than ever before, and the players produced tennis that only they could produce. This rivalry beats all that I've seen in my life. Sampras-Agassi was a stop-start, and there were times when one was better than the other. On Sampras' home turf, Agassi couldn't make a dent. In this rivalry, Federer doesn't have a home turf anymore. And Nadal sits proudly on two thrones. Just last year, people spoke of invincibility, ultimate greatness and everyone on the men's tour fighting for second spot. Only a fool or an optimist would do so today.

What makes Nadal so special? He's got this style that's entirely his own - I don't think there is a single player with that forehand, with that superhuman athletic ability and the sheer tenacity to gnaw away at a player's will. He's also got this uncanny court sense - he sees passes and winners that others cant see, he is excellent at guessing where the next ball will come, and when the rallies get longer, he uses this same court sense to small dents on the opponent's hits until he creates a chance for a winner. Above all, he hits the ball so bloody hard. So, if his unorthodoxy doesn't trouble you, the weight of his hitting sure will.

All unorthodox players need a second, more consistent, weapon to make up for players getting used to their unorthodoxy. Nadal has two - his backhand that hardly ever fails him, and his ability to retrieve. Anil Kumble, another bowler who would fall under the category of Right Arm Guile had many such weapons - his accuracy, his lionheartedness, his love for the longest spells, and his supremely sharp brain. Mendis needs to develop these weapons to sustain himself over a period of time. In the one-day game, when players are trying to take him on, he might get away easier. But in the Test matches, when a Rahul Dravid decides that he will wait endlessly for the bad ball and just block everything else, or a Laxman begins to read his mysterious fingers like he read Warne's, he might not be this effective.

The true test of an unorthodox player comes then - when he has to adapt to newer parameters and better opponents. Nadal came out with flying colours yesterday, when he showed why he was better than an unorthodox Fabrice Santoro, and put his name amongst the greatest in tennis history. Kumble did it when he picked up all those wickets on a comeback in Australia. Chanderpaul has been doing it for nearly two seasons now scoring runs everywhere and against everyone. Mendis, therefore, has a fair distance to go.

A New Theory of Life

(Spike informs me via email of a couple of facts that I've gotten wrong. The post has been suitable modified and his email has been reproduced at the bottom of this post.
***

Now, I've been giving a lot of thought to philosophy and all things related - especially, the Purpose (or lack thereof), the Meaning (or lack thereof), the Answer (or lack thereof) and the Question (or lack thereof) of life. Now, it all boils down to one issue, ok, maybe two - first, reorganising one's life based on devotional serials on Sun TV, and second, the secret of sweetening cappuccino served at Barista? The latter is still waiting to be solved - my last experiments involved three sachets of Barista sugar. The former, whose mysteries have been unlocked, will be discussed in detail here.

Now, devotional serials are of two sorts - the Traditional School and the Adventurous School. In the Traditional School, a well-known mythological tale is re-enacted for educational/ recreational purposes. Lots and lots of gold paper, fake jewellery, cardboard sets, bare-chested men, and overly made-up men are employed to generate feelings of unimaginable devotion amongst the masses. While the venture sometimes succeeds, often, it only generates mass narcelepsy and acute cases of chronic boredom. A good case in point is the new and 'improved' Ramayan, where Rama's wedding (in an bizarre accurate interpretation, princesses were found for the other three princes at the same time - orey kalliley naalu maanga) was shot over five episodes in excruciating detail. This even included a whole ten-minute segment where the everyone looks at wedding photographs. Sharp, aren't you? There were no photos at the time. You're puzzled aren't you? Well, technology, it seems, was available - highly skilled painters painted each scene, and such paintings were on display! Only, the paintings looked at lot like they were Photoshopped photographs.

Life, we gather, from these serials, is gloriously fake. It is the world's worst illusion. And the production values are really bad.

And then, there is the Adventurous School. This is where Gods and Demons fight out their rivalries in the modern era - amongst corporate rivarly, warring siblings, estranged lovers and multitudes of mustachioed men. In these serials, unlike the Traditional School, evil and virtue is demarcated very clearly. The evil are unabashedly, relentlessly, incurably evil. They have no reason for being evil - they just are. The good, on the other hand, are unabashedly, relentlessly, incurably good. God, of course, protects the good, and the Bad God protects the Evil. Good God is, unsurprisingly, stronger and better looking. Bad God wears black, has bad teeth and unkempt hair. (Rumours are that Ishant Sharma is auditioning for a couple of roles.)

Funnily enough, its the Bad guys who are more enterprising than the Good guys. They also show more spirit, and a greater will to achieve their goal. The Good guys just wallow in self-pity and desperate devotion. The Good guys, in turn, get to see God as often as we see Australia winning a cricket match. They react to this with a half-in-tears expression of extreme gratefulness coupled with generous measures of expression of helplessness. The Bad guys also have two stock expressions. The first is the Plotting Expression - this is usually a long-speech explaining The Plan, followed by resounding evil laughter. The second is the Plan Foiled Expression - this is one of uncontrolled anger (may involve the throwing of a couple of cardboard props) and followed by The Plotting Expression unveiling the next Plan to destroy the Good.

The Good suffer for long (at least as long as the serial runs), and the Bad have a great time coming up with plan after plan. It is only at the end of the serial that the Bad is eternally destroyed.

Therefore, I have a new theory of life. The choice before each man is three hundred episodes of laughing and plotting followed by destruction, versus three hundred episodes of crying and praying, followed by destruction of Baddie (I've also heard that God has stopped providing the No New Baddie Guarantee with his package these days - three hundred episodes could become six hundred, and God forbid (quite literally), nine hundred). The choice, hence, is clear.
***

Spike's mail:
"Valmiki, The Ramayana (Abridged and Translated by Arshia Sattar) (2000) p. 89 (Balakanda)

"Best of men, the clans of Janaka and Dasaratha are matched beyond all expectation. None other can equal them' said Visvamitra 'Rama and Sita, Laksmana and Urmila are matched in virtue and beauty. There is one more thing that I would like to add. Kusadhvaja, my younger brother is a righteous king and he has two daughters who are unrivalled on earth for their beauty. Let them marry prince Bharata and the wise Satrughna...

Janaka saw that Vasistha agreed with Viswamitra's proposal and so he joined his palms in respect and said to the two sages '... Let Kusadhvaja's daughters be given as wives to Bharata and Satrughna, for then the alliance between our clans will be strengthened! All four couples shall be married on the same day, the one determined by the wise as the best for the marriages.""