The Love Theme in Ritigowla - Part VI

I just heard that the man who took many of my passport size photographs passed away. I remembered this post I wrote about him many months ago. Oh, as usual, the previous parts are here.
***

While I sat there at Barista's on MG Road, trying to figure how one remedies point b, she got a phone call.
"What?" she seemed worried, "How did that happen? Oh God!" I looked up at her. She was genuinely worried. "Now, what's the alternative?" Pause, "Who? Me?! But solo?" Pause again, followed by, "Yeah. I can. Hmmm... No, no. Yeah. Yeah. Ok." Pause. "Okay. I'll be there, then. See you... Wait! Mridangam? No, he cant. They're brothers, remember? Hmmm... No, I don't know... Wait. I found just the guy. Okay. He'll come. No, no. I'm sure."

I knew what was coming. "Some kacheri got cancelled. You're filling in. And I have to play mridangam?"
"Pretty much..."

Just then, Amma called.
"Where are you? You were supposed to come back from Trichy this morning. Here we're all getting worried about you, and you've just disappeared."
"Amma, if you were worried, you'd've called a little earlier in the day. What is this about?"
"I was actually worried. But there's been some excitement today," she said, conveniently forgetting to find out where I was.
Something told me that I needed to be worried. Maybe it was Ni's eyes searching me again. Amma spoke really loudly on the phone. I wondered if Ni could hear her.
"What excitement?"
"We've found a girl for your Anna."
"Wonderful! Who is this kind soul?"
"I'll tell you when you come back. Where are you?"
"Bangalore."
"Bangalore-aa?! Why?"
"Oh, some kacheri here ran into some trouble, and my friend asked me if I'll play for her. So, I urgently came here." I was surprised by my quick thinking. Ni gave me one of those glances that caused a colony of butterflies to flutter around my tummy.
"Oh, ok. We are coming there tomorrow, to see the girl!"
"What?! She's from Bangalore?" Ni seemed curious about this conversation.
"Yeah. Apparently, you know her."
There it was. I didn't need to hear any further, but these things have an irritating habit of making themselves absolutely clear, removing the last dregs of hope that lie at the bottom of your heart, "Some girl called Nikhila - a violinist." I was in shock. Ni looked interested in the conversation, but there wasn't any other expression on her face. I wondered if she knew about this storm brewing in the background.

I ended the call. "You didn't tell your Amma that you were in Bangalore?" she asked.
I took some time to reply to that question. In that time, I kept asking myself the same question - did she know that she was to marry the dreariest person alive?
"What happened?" she asked.
"What?"
"No, you didn't answer my question. That phone call has had some effect on you."
"Not half the effect you're having on me right now," I replied earnestly.
She laughed. I wondered if Anna would ever be capable of making her laugh - he hadn't laughed himself in seven years. I suddenly asked her, "So, you met my Anna in the US!"
"Yeah, I did," she said excitedly, "And you're absolutely wrong. He's not boring at all."
"I love the way you can be so subtly sarcastic."
She laughed again. Two laughs in ten seconds. Anna couldn't do that unless people were laughing at him. "I'm not being sarcastic - he's got a sense of humour, your brother."
"Nonsense."
"And he has all kinds of theories on everything in the world."
"Like?"
"Like why people think he's serious. Apparently, your family has a habit of labelling people. You were labelled the funny one, and because he wasn't as funny as you, they labelled him the boring one."
"He has this persecution complex. He's neurotic."
"Such rot. He's very lovable. You're irrationally hostile."
"I'm not! You know, he calls himself Mr. Mishrachapu! You cant call Mr. Mishrachapu lovable!"
"I know you'll never agree, but he is 'Mr. Mishrachapu' if ever there was one. He's quite a man when it comes to sevens."
That was a line I never thought I'd hear in my life.
"Incidentally," she said again, "I heard about the love of your life!"
I was puzzled. What had Anna been telling her?
"Kaishiki," she said.
"Oh! That!" I was relieved.
"I prefer the sadharana gandharam."
"Its so sadharana - ordinary!"
"The ga in Thodi is? What about Kaanada? Ritigowla? Kharaharapriya?"
"Bhairavi," I added guiltily.
"Exactly!"
***

Anna went to our family Travels Guy, the one who sold us bus tickets for fifteen years, to buy the most important tickets of his life. The Travels Guy was a middle-aged man who had worked his way up the ticket business. He was the little 'payyan' who directed people to their buses in the private bus stops. He then turned into an assistant to his employer and handled ticketing. Soon, he broke away, and our family decided to break away with him. Amma decided he was more competent because he was fairer in complexion than his previous boss.

"Two to Bangalore. Tonight?"
"Only two?"
"Parents."
"Oh, ok. AC-aa? Non-AC-aa?"
"Either way. But tonight!"
"Only non-AC available. Last seats."
"We'll take them."
"Why urgent, saar?" he asked, concerned.
"Some family matter," Anna said, as always, making the issue seem more serious than it actually was. The Travels Guy assumed that there was a death in the family. He didn't know of any of our close relatives in Bangalore - at least, they hadn't bought tickets from him. He assumed that they were from another wing of the family - the over-careful wing - the ones who always planned trips well in advance and bought train tickets.

Out of compassion, he gave a hefty discount on the tickets.
***
Watermelon still liked Ni, vaguely. But he avoided her concerts - it was when she played that she looked all the more alluring. Her hands glided across the strings like an ethereal lady walking on water, the violin had a tendency to produce some of the softest, most lilting, music. The notes were never played, they were caressed. Above all, there were those dancing eyebrows. He'd always believed that the eyebrows were the most defining features of the face - and hers were the most defining eyebrows he's come across.

"Where are you off to?" his mother asked him.
"Some new guy is singing at Fort High School. Newspaper wants a review," he said, getting into his car.
***

"I got only two tickets."
"The Travels Guy didn't have another one?"
"No."
"You should have asked for some other bus."
"Its okay, ma. You guys take this bus. I'll go to Koyambedu and figure something out."

Anna went to the airport instead.
***

Anand reached Fort High school, and read the board outside. "Today's Scheduled Concert by GS Arunkumar is cancelled. Today's Programme: Violin Solo by Nikhila A. Mridangam: S.H. Anil (Madras)." He thought for a while before entering.
***

She seemed very comfortable. She went straight on stage as soon as she reached, and in a businesslike manner, tuned her tambura, and her violin to the sruti of the tambura, and settled down. While I tuned my mridangam, I noticed Watermelon in the first row with a writing pad and pen. He looked even larger than I had remembered him, and had grown a funny beard. He smiled at Ni, but she stared at him coldly. She started with a brisk Darbar varnam. She kept looking at him throughout the song - there was something going on, surely. She took off in tisram, and I followed her. His face assumed a wide smile that made him look like Shrek. She still had the same frigid look. I didn't understand what transpired between them, but Watermelon got up and left by the end of the varnam.

I was relieved. She played a Sahana immediately after, still a little unhappy about something. The last time I heard her, almost a year before, there was an enthusiasm to her music, it was quirky, playful and yet not gimmicky. On that day, she was troubled, and it showed. A Raghuvamsa Sudha followed, and she managed to make even that seem dull.

At the end of that song, she said to me, "Listen to this."

I didn't know what to expect. She played four notes- ni sa ri ga - and stopped at the ga. It was the sadharana gandharam. She held that note in the upper octave for a few seconds. She then played a torrent of swaras that revealed that she was playing Gowrimanohari. The whole alapana was centred around the ga, and the swara donned various moods - the happy, the thoughtful, the odd, the eccentric, and the sadharana - the ordinary. Sometimes, she glided over it, other times, she paused at it. She started phrases with it, she ended on it. And each time, she challenged me with her eyes, defied me to still maintain that I loved Kaishiki more!

But Gowrimanohari was just the start. Kaanada that followed revelled in its fluid sadharana gandharam. She seemed to pluck swaras and phrases out of an impregnable abyss and throw them at the audience. The brahmastra was Ritigowla. She didn't play any improvisational embellishment, just Janani Ninnuvina. My heart couldn't take this overflow of love. Anything more superlative, and I'd burst, I thought. I wanted to spend the rest of my life listening to this sadharana gandharam, I decided at that moment.

Love intensified over an exposition of Dhanyasi. She was fixated on that gandharam! Shyama Shastri's monumental Minalochani was executed with such finesse that you could almost see those eyes before you. I felt like a complete unnecessary element to the concert. What a misnomer, I remembered thinking - the 'sadharana' gandharam! And she had set out to prove it.

Mid-way through the Dhanyasi, Anna walked into the concert. His face revealed the fact that he clearly didn't expect me to be sitting on stage. What are you doing here, he seemed to ask. I didn't answer the question, I just turned to Ni and followed the Dhanyasi with renewed concentration. But I wanted to ask him the same question. He wasn't supposed to arrive till the next morning, and my plan had been to hang out with Ni till he arrived.

Minalochani was in Mishrachapu, Anna's favourite. Anna settled down in the first row and played the mridangam on his lap, in an almost confrontational fashion - me versus him. She was right. He was way ahead of the rest of the crowd with his ideas in this talam. I borrowed whatever ideas I could understand. The rest of the time, I just kept up with my own simple rhythms. Ni didn't notice him for a while. When she did, the brightest smile came across her face. It was mirrored on his face. I was shattered. He led her through the neraval and the swaras with his talam. The chemistry was unmistakable.
***

To be concluded.

His Teacher's Tale

"When I was young," his teacher often told him, smiling wryly, "I was put on stage and asked to play. And I played. Sometimes, twice a day. Sometimes, thrice." The first time he heard this story, he was only twelve. He didn't comprehend the pain that hid behind this smile. "And did people come and listen to you?" he asked. "Sometimes, twice a day. Sometimes, thrice," his teacher replied. They both laughed. It was a regular ritual - his teacher would tell him the same story, he would ask the same question, and his teacher would say the same answer.

The story grew as he grew - it mirrored his slow transformation from innocence to cynicism, it changed from a mere tale to a warning. "Sometimes, I was made to play till I cried. Finish a concert, run for the next one. A bus here, a train there, and a bullock cart to the little village." He was upset when he heard this - he couldn't believe how someone could treat his teacher so badly - his teacher was such a nice man. Maybe, there was some purpose that his teacher was too young to see at the time, "But it made you famous, didn't it?" It did make his teacher famous. A vidwan, listening to his teacher, when he was still a little boy, told another vidwan sitting next to him, "I think we need to find another profession." The other man replied, "I'm at least educated. What will you do?"

"But at what price?" his teacher always asked.

The story wounded his teacher from the inside, and he bled slowly. It started with a reluctance to play, then a raging alcohol habit, sudden bursts of eccentricity on and off stage, temporary disappearings, and resulted in a trail of unfulfilled concert obligations. "Why?" he asked his teacher. His teacher didn't answer the question. Instead, he asked him some of his own, "Do you know what the word 'responsibility' means? Have you ever been responsible for the well-being of six other people?" He didn't understand why he was asked those questions then.

He began accompanying his teacher in many concerts. Sometimes he was stunned by his teacher's genius, by the sheer fact that he could play ten entirely different Shankarabharanams on ten consecutive days, by the fact that he could confound the best of the percussionists with his rhythm, by the fact that he could touch a commoner's heart and tickle a pundit's brain with the same phrase. On other days, he just covered up for his teacher's shoddiness, filling up the gaps in his teacher's drunken, broken raga explorations, finishing off songs that his teacher would start playing and get bored of, and finishing off concerts that his teacher didn't come for or left midway. Why did his teacher choose to be shoddy on some days? "Do you like the music you play?" he asked. "It depends." "On?" "Whether I'm playing because I want to, or I'm playing because someone else wants me to. Frankly, I've had too much of the latter in my life."

He once wondered if his teacher had ever been happy - he set such high standards for his own music that even a small slip led to sleepless nights. And on those days that he played because someone else wanted him to, he set his standards so low that he embarrassed himself.

The night before, he had been drinking with his teacher. A little high, he said, "I miss my childhood." His teacher replied, with that characteristic smile, "I missed my childhood!"

Six months later, towards the end of a concert in Bangalore, his teacher announced, "Tonight, there will be a very happy news, for me, at least. You know that I have been playing for more than the past forty-three years out of necessity only. I vow to retire from now. It may be a sad news for you, but a glad news for me. I know many of you must be sorry, but I am relieved. I mean, I have played throughout these years, but I had taken to music by accident, and played only for necessity so far. Necessity... burdening on my shoulders for so long... is gone! Today onwards, I will not play under obligation. I will play when I feel like playing. I will call you when I feel like playing, and you will listen to me, for no money. No obligation. Never any obligation. Never in my life again. No more. Sakaaithu!"

For the first time in his life, that night, he saw a genuine smile on his teacher's face.
***

Inpsired by this.

Trips and Suchlike

Sa (Note 1): Click on Images for phull sije. Also, this transperancy thing means that the background image of the blog will impose itself on the photographs. So, colours may appear different after clicking!
Ri: Long Post. You stand warned.
Ga: Our MDR post, which we loved a lot, got buried under the excitement over the Love Theme. We are sad.
***
I went to Belur-Halebeid-Shravanabelagola by the Karnataka Tourism bus yesterday with Radha (in photo with her favoured Gadget - a Sony Erricson phone with outgoing barred):

and Elsa (in photo with her favoured Gadget - an Olympus SLR - model unsure):

It was fun, yes. But like all trips on tourist buses, it was like the little tasting spoon at Baskin Robbins. You taste it. If you like it, you decide to come back for more. Else, you try another flavour. I decided that this flavour was excellent. I'm definitely coming back for a whole scoop. Who knows, maybe even a double scoop!

Our getting-ready-early-in-the-morning process was surprisingly smooth - only some hot water issues we had to endure. Ergo, we boarded the bus in fairly sleepy state:
But AC bus and Himesh Reshammiya (I swear, the "Assalamu 'Alaikum" song played at least seven times!) made for a god nap till we stopped at random highway place for breakfast. Good filter coffee we got. Some chips were purchased and consumed. Some bad jokes were cracked concerning Mr. Chiplunkar. Bus resumed, but now with Kannada music. I switched on iPod and listened to excellent 'Kanakana Ruchira' (my favourite of the five) by the great Dr. M. Balamuralikrishna - very whatay, it was!

Shravanabelagola was reached. Random man, "My name is Johnny!" bugged Elsa and asked her to buy some photographs and a guide book for 10 bucks. A board at the base of the hill read, "Kniees and sharp objacts not allowed. Please preserve Silance." With my almost non-existent right knee, I partially qualified. We climbed the climb.

The knee took the burden well. Except for some discomfort at the top stages, I was fine. And, as always, the sight of the Gomateshwara made the climb worthwhile.


This is how tall he is. Check out the men at the base.
V Chitappa called Radha around that time for updates on how the trip was going. I heard her say, "Yeah, Appa. We just saw the naked man thingy." (No, she didn't say, 'the naked man's thingy') Anyway, I vowed to come back again for the Mahamastakabhisheka!

Did I mention that the view of Chandragiri from the top was lovely?
The bus then proceeded towards Belur. We decided that Kannada music must be heard - our homeland, our culture, after all. We came across two gems. One went:

"Nimbehannu tara hudugi bandlu, node Balu, node!"

(Lemon-like girl is here. Look Balu, look!)

The other, a duet, featured the following lines - cant remember them in Kannada, but they vaguely translate to:

"MAN
When I look at you, there's fire in my eyes, Fire that can set a haystack ablaze!
WOMAN
You know that the fiery eyes wont do; You know that you need to do more to make me a mother!"

After all this entertainment, we reached Belur. I was overwhelmed by all the excitement, but had to wait - because the bus was "Shtapping for dinner. Farty-five minits!" Earliest dinner of my life (1 pm), a simple South Indian Thali, was had at tourist 'complex' at Belur. Interesting plaque:
(Wonder what/who Shri H.C. Srikantaiah co-operated with!)

Language isn't developed enough to convey what the temples at Belur and Halebeid are. The sculptors were geniuses, no doubt, but genius is a much-diluted word these days, what with the two Andrews - Symonds and Flintoff - being called geniuses! But they were not just ace sculptors - their imagination, conceptualisation, architectural prowess is second to none. Their astute knowledge of mythology and aesthetics is undoubtedly supreme, but the use and execution of this knowlege, laced with excruciating attention to detail and a keen sense of humour is what puts them in a league of their own. For instance, this mantelpiece at Belur:
This is a picture of Ugra Narasimha (their family God) on Garuda, flanked by Jaya and Vijaya. But, you'll almost miss the dasavataram carvings in the circles around the main god (The photograph doesn't cover all ten (my bad!) - it misses out Vamana and Parasurama).

Then, there's the famous one of the monkey and the lady:
You can almost feel the force of her pull, cant you? And remember, we're talking of stone!

(I just realise at this point that there are many many pictures of many many sculptures that need to be put up and written about. That will be done in detail in a few days. For now, I continue with my journey. From Belur and Halebeedu.)

There was an irritating Delhiite bunch in the bus who decided that Halebeedu was pronounced Hell-e-bed (the Hell of Bed), like Sher-e-punjab (Lion of Punjab) or Jaan-e-mann (Love of Mind). Aargh. They also played Antakshari throughout and produced the most apashruti noises for the most part. No good Hindi song was spared - Antakshari for six hours ensured that. Double Aargh. Why aren't such people just banned?

Halebeedu was even better - a temple twice as large as Belur, with twice as many sculptures and two dieties. There were the oddities, like Shiva in the middle of the Trimurtis, instead of being the third, a Ganesha whose trunk faced left instead of right, and some cheeky ones like the Arjuna with his multiplying arrows, and a Bheema killing many elephants:

Simply lovely, I tell you. Simply lovely.


There was a minor incident with a guy selling photographs again. He was very persuasive and wanted me to buy it. When all arguments failed, he pulled out his trump card, "Saar, punya kshetradalli daana madidare nimige tumba olleydu!" Yeah, dude. He'd worked out his role in the food chain perfectly. He wasn't selling photographs at all. He was trading in 'punya'. Give him some money, and God gives one 'punya'. This rendered me thoughful for most of the journey after that.

On the way back, the bus guy then took to playing videos of songs from Krishh followed by Dhoom 2 and Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham. An overdose of Hrithik Roshan! Meanwhile, there were these two hills with beautiful windmills, and a discussion followed on whether the fan of the windmill turned equally fast irrespective of the height at which they were placed. I felt, somehow, that this one fan, at a lower height than the others, was turning slightly slower. The only innovative method I could think of to test this idea was to sing a song to the rhythm of the windmills. The experiment was incolcusive.

The videos were followed by a comedy movie called Sunday. The movie was a pleasant surprise - it wasn't bad at all. Arshad Warsi and Irrfan Khan act really well. Ajay Devgan is, well, Ajay Devgan. The surprise element is Ayesha Takia. I must say, in the movies that I have watched her, I've really liked her - Dor, No Smoking and finally Sunday.

Finally, I leave you with a series of potographs from yesterday featuring various skies and bits of buildings. As you will find, these photos are fairly repetitive.




We came back, dumped Radha at home, and headed to Pecos. It was fairly late, and with the new rules, we were just in time for the last order. We ended up being the last people to leave Pecos. Kiran said, "This BJP Government is bad for business," and added with his usual genial smile, "See you tomorrow!"

Today, I had some other work to do, and Elsa went alone to Lal Bagh. Apparently, two men asked her to pose for a photograph with their wives! And then, another set of men asked her to pose for a photograph with them. God!

The Love Theme in Ritigowla - Part V

Fr the other parts, click here. I didn't find the password, but I had this part written down elsewhere.
***

I didn't sleep at all that night. I don't know if it was the excitement, the randomness or the sheer stupidity of it all that didn't make the atmosphere conducive for sleep. Actually, it might just have been a freaky dream I had, coupled with the constant banter between the driver and the conductor. They needed it to stay awake. Most times, it was inane talk about their wives cooking, childrens' future plans, family weddings and the like. They were cousins, I surmised. They lived beyond RT Nagar in Bangalore - some ghetto whose name I couldn't place. They also engaged in some shop talk on how the gaadi was running, its screwed-up suspension, what latest movie they could play, or about the other bus owner who had bought new Volvos.

Amidst all this, I stared out of the open window, an icy wind blustered against the sides of my face. Occasionally we'd overtake another lorry, and I'd wave at them. Sometimes, the lorry drivers waved back, most times, they were just too stunned to see someone waving at them at night. Occasionally, there was enough light for me to look at the milestones. Bangalore approached slowly. The driver declared that he'd make it Bangalore before the sun rose and the rest of the ride proceeded like a race. The conductor teased the driver with his updates on the increasing light, and the driver responded with a violent push of the accelerator and noisy change of gears.

So, dawn dawned, as dawn tends to do. The number next to "Bangalore" on the milestone was in double-digits. I still had no idea of what I was going to do once I reached Bangalore. I had this vague plan of staying with this friend of mine who worked in one of those large, glass buildings in Electronics City and lived in one of those many one-bedroom apartments in Koramangala, but I didn't have his phone number.
***

"How'd you find my number finally?"
"Asked a long chain of people. I'm not in the mood for that story now!"

When I rang the bell outside DG's house, I had no idea what to expect. DG, Devarajan Gangadharan, alternately expanded as Dirty Guy, had always been the volatile sorts, and him settling down into a software job was a relief to his parents, and an anti-climax to his friends. We always thought he'd end up in jail for piracy, theft, consumption and sale of narcotics or all of the above. He'd introduced us to every one of our vices, his house was the designated place for teenage porn-watching, he always got the chicks, and had the reputation of being a wasted genius. He was an amateur magician - legend had it that he'd learnt from the celebrated P. James himself, he read extensively, wrote brilliantly when he bothered to sit down and write, was a famous debater in college - known for his humour, and tried unsuccessfully to play a guitar and yet featured in three bands for sheer coolness value. I hadn't heard much about him in a while, except for excerpts of his exploits with exotic women - a red-haired Turkish woman, a Bangalorean ballerina, a Chinese girl with a Ph.D in economics, a half-Bihari-quarter-Tamilian-and-quarter-Irish who was an assistant director in Bollywood. I had a weird dream in the twenty minutes that I did sleep where I turned up at his house, and Ni was there. I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.

When he did open the door for me, he looked just like I had imagined him - in an old T-shirt and boxers, bright orange Adidas chappals, a large mug of hot chocolate in one hand, newspaper in the other, and a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

"Motherfucker!" he exclaimed when he saw me at the door. I smiled. "What the fuck are you doing here at five-thirty in the morning?"
"You're fuckin' awake, motherfucker," I said, "At five-fuckin'-thirty in the fuckin' morning. That's more shocking."
"But, dude, why the fuck are you here?" and then suddenly realising it, "Oh, dude. Come in!"

A long explanation ensued over a large mug of Milo. I told him the tale of my romance with Ni - about the first concert, then meeting her at the concert when she was with Watermelon, following her around during the season, our meeting at coffee day, and those cryptic messages.

He declared at the end of it all, "You've met her like six times in your life. Fuck, dude. You're crazy!"
I laughed, "Dude, if you've seen her, you wouldn't think so."
"She's from Bangalore?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Violinist, right?"
"Yeah."
"Really hot."
"Yeah."
"Looks like one of those Godesses in those Murugan-type calendars."
"Murugan-type calendars?"
"Those ones where you tear the page off each day."
"Yeah. She looks like one of those Goddesses."
"You said her name was Nikhila?"
"Yeah."
There was an eerie silence, at the end of which I said, "Dude, you know her?"
"Yeah. I've met her a couple of times."
I was suddenly mortified. "Dude, have you, um," I didn't know how to ask him, "Have you, um, you know, um..."
"No, dude. I haven't, um."
"Thank god!"
"But I must say, I tried."
"And?"
"She seemed very happy with this large guy..."
"... who looked like a watermelon. Tell me about it!"
Both of us sighed. I said, "Dude, she's got a really bad taste in men."
"You have a chance, then."
"Fuck, I walked into that one."
"I know."
***

Anna came back from the US after a triumphant visit. Mamas and Mamis who had either settled down in the US or had gone to take care of their grandchildren spoke in hushed tones of this boy who would one day become a towering legend. Only his seriousness stood between Anna and fame now.

The next morning, Mridangam Sir landed up at home. For five years now, we started going to his house for classes because he'd grown too old to travel around the city. So, this was a fairly unexpected visit. Anna was as servile as ever, and Amma brought him his dose of filter coffee. Appa sat across him on the sofa and made pleasant conversation about the weather and newer models of the veshti.

Two sips into the coffee, Sir, having had enough of the veshti conversation, pronounced, "I think Arjun should get married."
Amma almost dropped the tray on which she brought salt biscuits, Krishna Sweets Mysurpa and mixture. Appa coughed into his coffee. Anna looked on seriously as ever.
"No, when we went to the US," Sir continued, "He was very close to this girl. She's a violinist from Bangalore."
Appa turned to Anna, as if to silently ask him if there was anything to the story. Anna determinedly looked away. Amma gazed alternately at each person in the room trying to get a grip on things, as Sir continued, "She's very good looking. Brahmin family. And she plays really well. Same level as our Arjun."

Silence was all wet - it reigned.

Sir seemed to be the only one who had it in him to speak, "I made some enquiries. She is not married. She doesn't have anyone - you know, nowadays, youngsters... Nothing like that. And her parents are looking."
There it was - the keyword - 'looking'. It didn't need to be qualified. When the parents of a twenty-something-year-old girl are 'looking' you can safely assume that they aren't looking for a lost key or a credit card. The word was music to the ears of any parent with a twenty-something boy.
Sir had this speech prepared, "See, Arjun is like my son, and when my children got married, I insisted that they marry only musicians. Some compatibility is required, no? And Arjun, he definitely needs to marry a musician. You wont find one better than this girl."

Amma needed to hear nothing more. She joyously proclaimed that all efforts would be made to seal the match. Appa asked Anna, "What is your take on the matter?"
"I'm fine with it."

Amidst all this excitement, they forgot that I hadn't returned from Trichy as scheduled.
***

I called Ni, but cut the call before it connected. I had to gather myself. I repeated this thrice when DG noticed.
"Dude, you want me to talk to her?"
I laughed, and tried once more. I failed. I was wrecked by nervousness. But I didn't know why. Maybe it was because I knew I had done something crazy, and didn't know how the object of the craziness would react to it.

I finally managed to call her.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"What happened?"
"Um, nothing happened."
"Oh."
This was going nowhere.
"Hey, listen. I'm in Bangalore. Now what is point b?" That was my prepared speech. No beating about the bush - straight to the point. Only, I was so eager to say it that all the words seemed to come out at the same time, making me sound like an idiot. She didn't say anything for a while.
"Hello?" I tried.
"Yeah. Hi. I'm here. I, um, I don't know how to react."
"Why?" God, why was interrogating her?
"Um, I think, I didn't expect you in Bangalore."
"Well, I'm here."
"Okay. Wait. I'll call you in a while."

She called, and we set up a meeting to discuss the mysterious point b.
***

If the dabbawalas are Six Sigma, the Mami networks when it came to matchmaking at least eight or nine. They never made a mistake. Now that a girl was identified for Anna, the networks started working overtime to get messages across. Amma called her youngest sister who lived in Bangalore to find out if she knew this family. Her sister didn't. Appa then called his Bangalore cousin, who said he had a vague idea. Amma's sister meanwhile, called another relative of her husband's who also said he had a vague idea about this family.

These vague ideas became clearer as more Mamas and Mamis were contacted - more Mamis than Mamas - and in three hours, three sources told Ni's parents of a match from Madras. Ni's parents, as the girl's parents must be, were excited, yet cautious. They wanted the best for their daughter, and they had heard of Anna and his prowess, but seeming too eager was also a problem in this market.

As is custom, the girl was told nothing of the 'match' until she was required to be told. There were many hurdles to be crossed before that stage. She was Kannadiga, but both parents were okay with that. They muttered something about modernity to each other. Their Gotrams didn't clash, which came as a relief to everyone. Horoscopes had to be exchanged - each family had a family astrologer whose word was crucial for any match to proceed. Astrologers worked in soft copies and email, and the exchange process took less than half a day. Both astrologers had computer programs that analysed matches, looked for the dreaded doshams, and determined if either party had to marry a tree first.
***

I reached the Barista on MG Road early. Surprisingly, she was already there. She didn't notice me as I entered, and I walked up behind her, and tapped her on the head. For some reason, I thought it was cute. Her eyes darted in my direction, and I felt that feeling again - as if she was reading me like a book.

"What is point b?" I asked, without even bothering to sit down.
"Sit first."
I sat.
"You want some coffee?" she asked.
"Point b."
"Point b is that I am incapable of liking someone I hardly know."
I stared at her blankly. I made a detour across South India to hear this?
***

Both astrologers gave the match a green signal - it was as green as signals come, they said.
***

To Continue.

Today, amidst some mega downloading, I came across this extraordinary recording of MD Ramanathan singing Nee Madi Challaga in Anandabhairavi, a classic composed by Kavi Matrubhootayya, rarely heard in the concert cirlces these days. What makes this rendition so brilliant is not MDR's characteristic drawly, listless style, coupled with his sudden bouts of frenetic pace, but the fact that he gives the listener the time to let the Anandabhairavi seep in. He pauses after each phrase, as if to give you time to take it in, experience the swaras, the gamakas, the glides that make Anandabhairavi. Anandabhairavi, as a raga, needs that space to blossom. It rejoices as much in the silences as it does in its sound. And the most powerful Anandabhairavi renditions are those that get these silences right. They are also those that get their eccentricities right - the ambiguous suddha daivatham, the bright antara gandharam, and the slight kakali nishadam.

Something else makes this recording so endearing - the fact that he's not trying to convince anyone of his talents or putting on a show - he would have sung the same way humming to himself in the verandah of his house lazily reading a book. For instance, he takes a couple of attempts to get the tisram correctly on the chittaswara, but he jokes about it and moves on. He even has a conversation with the violinist (V.V. Subrahmanyam?) on the matter. He's almost laughing when he sings it again, and the audience laugh with him.

Most importantly, he seems to have all the time in the world. He sings the same sangati three, sometimes four, times. He sings that chittaswara a total of nine times. Yet, the music doesn't drag. Each time, he has something new to explore in the same line. Each time, the listener has something new to pick up on. It is this experience that is missing in much of the music around today - a strict two-and-a-half hour slot (when will people understand that Indian classical music shouldn't work in 'slots'?), the need to pander to different audiences within this time frame, the audience's urge to head for dinner precisely at eight o clock (the cooker will take half an hour, and "Kasthuri" is at eight-thirty), and the Sabha secretary's desire to show off his oratory talents.

Until someone wakes up and changes the way we listen to Carnatic music, I shall continue trawling sangeethamshare.com for more leisurely music!
***

Oh, The Love Theme in Ritigowla has run into all kinds of trouble. In a fit of madness, I set a password to the file I was working on, and I cant remember what this password is. Any ideas on how to open such a file? Or any ideas on what the password might be?

Subramaniapuram and the Tamil Film Song Aesthetic

Hi. Yes, delay in publishing next part of Love Theme in Ritigowla. Yes, yes, I know. But, believe it or not, I have some "administrative issues" with that. Meanwhile, chew on this. And wait. One more announcement - a series of essays on my favourite ragas will come up once I'm done with the Love Theme. So, wait. And while waiting, read this.
***

I engaged in two one-and-a-half hour drives in the first half of today. Ten minutes into the first drive, I realised that I hadn't taken any music for the drive. I wasn't in the mood for excited RJs and Telugu smash hits on FM, and silence through Tarnaka traffic was not an option. And then, I had a moment of sudden, extreme brilliance. I remembered that I had my laptop bag with me, and there would be some CD in it.

The only CD was Subramaniapuram.

There's a fascinating story of how I discovered this album. The idea of Love Theme in Ritigowla had been kicking around in my head for a while, and one night, I had this vague idea of an actual theme in Ritigowla. Nothing concrete. Just a thought. I woke up the next morning, humming some Theme in Ritigowla that I had presumably heard in my dream. I was damn excited about the whole thing, but certain other works kept me from getting down to crystallise this idea. In my TV watching break, I flipped by Vijay TV when I heard "Kangal Irundal" from Subramaniapuram, in Ritigowla! It was very very close to the theme I had in mind!

I downloaded the song off somewhere, and fell in love immediately.

I was in Madras on the next day, and I looked in three shops for the CD. All shops (in Pondy Bazaar area) told me that they were out of stock. Now, I was stunned. Finally, after romantic coffee with A.X. at Spencer's, I managed to find the CD at Landmark. (I just realised that people reading this paragraph in isolation will think that Madras must be a supremely British place - 'Pondy' Bazaar, a Spencer's and a Landmark.) I spent most of the next three weeks just listening to that one song. Only this morning, driving in Hyderabad, did I manage to check out the whole album in its entirety.

Subramaniapuram is a great album. No question about it. "Kangal Irundal" is very beautiful, and features this magical interlude after the first verse. If anything, the rest of the album is even better. The second song, "Madera Kulunga Kulunga" is a Tamil folk odyssey of the highest order. It works in movements, like a symphony, from the catchy choruses, to the haunting folksy, old lady voices, to the electric koothu drumming, and back to the choruses. Then comes Shankar Mahadevan's "Kaadal Siluvayil", and this is where this weird feeling of deja vu begins to set it. You've heard stuff like this all before, and yet, this album has something about it. The same for the first two songs, but its only with the third that this feeling strengthens. By the time you're in the Subramaniapuram Theme, you're all too familiar with the music, but that other feeling sets in even stronger - the feeling that you're listening to something special. The last song, "Theneeril Snehitam" featuring some rap (thankfully not Blaaze again!) confirms it: Subramaniapuram is one of the best Tamil albums of this decade, in the league of Virumaandi and Ayutha Ezhuthu.

But Subramaniapuram also confirms one other thing - that without the work of those music directors before him, such music wouldn't have been conceivable. Ilayaraaja set an aesthetic for Tamil film music in his heydey - he is the forefather of fusion, he is the granddaddy of using Tamil folk and Western orchestration in the same song, he is the one who defined how many people after him would approach composing music for Tamil cinema. After him, came another genius - some people say, an even bigger genius (I'd just point them to Thiruvasagam and ask them if they can still hold that opinion) - who had it in him to refine that aesthetic, and then set out to create his own. If Ilayaraaja brought a large Yamaha keyboard from the West, Rahman brought a computer. Both borrowed extensively from Western Classical, Carnatic and Folk music. Ilayaraaja used jazz, even a cappella, Rahman went a step further and used hip-hop and rap (and thus game Blaaze, who was originally a Gopalakrishna languishing in Zimbabwe, a career).

What they have done though, is set an aesthetic for Tamil music - a crude term would be a formula. This is what creates the familiarity when we listen to Harris Jeyraj or Yuvan Shankar Raja. This is the deja vu in Subramaniapuram. And it is, quite possibly, the best deja vu feeling in the world.

This, singularly, has saved Tamil music from going the way of its North Indian counterpart - newer Hindi music is either infernal or Korean or French.
***

Update: Circumstances have reminded me of "Om Namaha" from Geetanjali, one of my favourite Ilayaraaja albums. Listen to the beat closely - the lub-dubbing of the heart - in the background. Lub-dub, lub-dub. Lub-dub, lud-dub. The first lub-dub and the second one aren't symmetrical. The lub-dubs are of equal length, but gap is longer on the second. That beat is just pure genius. Its nothing new - it is 3 (lub-dub plus one gap)+4 (lub-dub plus two gaps)=7. But simplifying the seven to a heartbeat, and weaving a whole song around that heartbeat is magical. It takes an Ilayaraaja to do that!

I'd Like To Thank...

We have gotten our first award for ze blog. It is a very happy moment for us. We'd like to thank God, the Devil and Shankari. God for being there through all the tough times that the blog has seen. The Devil for inspiring most content on the blog. And Shankari for giving us the award. We also thank the chettas who own Aishwarya Bakery, Canteen Devaraja, Truffaut, George Bush and Thalaivar for varied support, including profile picture and inner mental peace.

We like to thank Tamil actor Surya for his stellar wireless internet in times of crisis - we could never have blogged from Madras if not for you.

So, we must apparently spread the cheer. To seven blogs. Here goes:

1. Our highly senti and inspirational thambi. Or chhota bhai or other Daalhiite thing that he likes to call himself these days.

2. Our highly senti and inspirational cousin-thangai. Your blog is thangam, I say.

3. The Odd Man In (who is also our cousin - yes, yes, we have manys cousins) who writes occasionally, but very well.

4. Ze incomparable Varali who writes free verse and prose about Palayamkottai amongst other things.

5. The man who runs a choultry - sheer humour and the effect he has on our style of writing.

6. Madame dust of the pixies... She's back, she claims.

7. The great, obscurantist, romantic, vague, enigmatic, nostalgic, London-rain-loving, alone-in-coffee-shop-sitting, Bengali, intellectual disktop. Its just the kind of blog I wished I had - personal, but not private.

Ah, the fine print:
Awardees must:

1. Award seven other people. (This way, there will be no unawarded blog left in the world!)
2. Write a post about this award, and link to our blog in that post. (The second half is optional.)
3. Be eternally grateful to us for the award. (This is compulsory.)
4. Tell their awardees that they've won awards. (This is just common-sense.)
5. Buy me a pitcher of beer for giving them the award.

Okay, we made the last one up. But if it is followed, we will like it a lot.

Random Update that has nothing to do with the post: We just found out that someone had reached this blog with a Google search for "wedding pictures of beautiful sun tv tamil newsreaders". Man, this guy's preferences are very particular. However, that is only a distant second to "aunty vegetable buying music"!