Rangarajan Invests in the Markets

This is inspired by a true story I heard about someone I know. If you ever read this, thank you for all the jokes!
***

The front page of the newspaper was as drab as ever. One politician made allegations against another, the other took offence and threatened to take this one to court. The Prime Minister assured the nation that the borders were safe, the Finance Minister rubbished statements linking the price of onions to an economic slowdown, while the opposition played watchdog, barking at everything in sight. The pages inside didn't make for pleasant reading either. A man killed his neighbours for the flimsiest reason. Three bus accidents on the highway caused deaths. Old men wrote letters to the editor about the dog menace in their neighbourhood. Someone wrote a lengthy opinion on the changed law of pesticide control.

Rangarajan skimmed through all these pages out of habit before settling into his favourite part of the newspaper - the sports page. He read the cricket match report in great detail, even though he watched the replay of the entire match the previous evening. His tea steamed away on the little side table next to his chair, and his wife scurried around the house finishing all the small things she had to do before they left for work. He scrutinised all the irrelevant sports news - about Canara Bank having defeated Union Bank in a twenty-over game by nine runs. He imagined a bunch of unfit, middle-aged, balding bank employees like himself running around a little red ball. He then glanced at the crossword, and nothing had changed - for years, he hadn't solved a single clue, and that morning was no different.

He left for work first, at exactly eight thirty-five. His bank was fifteen minutes away on his scooter, if the traffic wasn't too bad. He needed a five minute buffer for his conversation with his Malayali neighbour, who asked him the same question each morning, "So, have you thought about investing in the stock market?" This was followed by a report on how much money he had made in the last week, and how he was thinking of buying a new car with his earnings. Then, he'd point to his fridge, visible from the corridor through the half-open door and say, "That was from the stock market."

For Achyutan, the stock market was not only a money making enterprise. It was more. "It is such a complicated set of numbers - a summary of the actions of so many people, all acting in their own interest. Yet, there is a logic to the thing. It is more calculated than a gamble, but not yet a science." He followed this up by applying his latest pop-science theory to the stock market, either, "Oh, of course God plays dice - but even the dice follow the laws of physics!" or, "The Butterfly effect, I tell you - a workers' strike in a steel plant in Khazakhstan can cause a dip in the markets in India."

This morning, Rangarajan had had enough of all this talk. He declared, "Yeah! I bought Tata Steel yesterday. A 100 shares." The confidence with which Rangarajan made this statement got his neighbour thinking. Tata Steel was, perhaps, a good buy. He replied, "At yesterday's prices, I should have bought too. What price did you buy at yesterday?" Rangarajan was trapped. He hadn't the foggiest idea of what range the Tata Steel share operated in. He wasn't even sure when he said it if Tata Steel was an existing tradeable commodity in the stock market. But confidence was the key. "It was just off the day's low," he said.

Achyutan didn't want to seem unaware of what the day's low was. He didn't probe further.

The next morning, Rangarajan said again, "ABB is a good buy. I bought 150 shares." He'd heard this from some colleagues at the bank. Achyutan wondered if Rangarajan had some advisors, "Who is your broker?"

Rangarajan said, "Oh, you mustn't put all your eggs in one basket. Better to have more than one broker, no?" It was rubbish philosophy, and both men knew it. But again, confidence was the key. Achyutan bought ABB that evening, and over the next few days, the stock shot up. Achyutan asked Rangarajan for advice each morning. Rangarajan's portfolio also grew each day, as he cited purchases and sales with gay abandon.

But a new problem came up. Rangarajan soon lost track of his portfolio, but Achyutan didn't. "But I thought you had only sixty shares of Infosys? How did you sell a hundred?" Rangarajan escaped with the shady, "I bought more during the day - day trading, you know." The bigger problem was questions like, "Oh, so you booked losses on Ranbaxy? You bought it at a much higher price!" Rangarajan realised he had no idea of where his investments were going. He needed to be more scientific about this.

He subscribed to the Economic Times.

Each morning, after reading about the Prime Minister's repeated statements, the Chief Minister's support for violent revolutions, and the detailed scores of the football games between the local schools, he looked up stock prices in the Economic Times. He picked any stock that took his fancy, and announced to his neighbour, "Chennai Petro was a good buy yesterday in the early 200s. I think I'll sell it off in the first hour of trading today." Achyutan agreed, "Yeah. I noticed last evening that its price was abnormally high." Both men nodded intelligently.

Rangarajan had a small windfall. His ailing bachelor uncle, who was gifting away his properties to his nephews and neices, left him a large beach house on the outskirts of Madras. Rangarajan sold it, and bought a swanky car. He told Achyutan, "You see that car? Its from the stock market." Achyutan had made some money too, but he realised his neighbour had somehow been one step ahead. "You're a natural," he kept telling him, "In just about a year, you've mastered the stock market!"

However, the pressure was mounting on Rangarajan to keep track of his fictional investments. They were so large and diversified that his stories had too many holes and inconsistencies. He either used his standard weapons of day-trade, short sell, I-forgot-to-tell-you, or blamed Achyutan's bad memory to get himself out of sticky situations. But he'd had enough fun. Achyutan had already begun to suspect Rangarajan's source of funds for the investments.

One morning, Rangarajan announced, "I took all money out of the stock market. I've made enough." That very day, the Sensex fell by a record number. There were rumours of a global economic slowdown. Bad mortgages and the dubious 'sub-prime crisis' were blamed. Next morning, Rangarajan woke up early, opened the door for the newspaper guy and said, "Please stop my subscription to the Economic Times!"

Frauds

Its been acknowledged for years that Frei De Fisch is one of Modern Poetry's greatest exponents. When he writes stuff like this, its hard to disagree.
***

Artistic Fraud

Pen. Paper. Sheet. Music.
Ohmygodi'minlove.
Artsy lighting, drunken cameraman.
Monologues, Nomogolues. Curtain, shurtain.
Faked it, as usual.

There are, in the world:
Two kinds of frauds.
Mist thickened and settled
On my drying underwear.

The first sort thrive on
Ununderstandability.
Like the mist that
setted
on my underwear.
Why my underwear?
Why the mist?
Does mist ever
settle? Or does it remain mist until the
Mystery of its mistiness wears off. And then just disappear?
Rohinton, are you listening?

And then there's the second sort.
Oh, the second sort.
The sort that doesn't wear underwear.
Or experience mist.
Oh, the second sort.

Its the funner sort.
The funner sort.
The sort that tells the world they're frauds,
They tell the world they're frauds!
Because the world then thinks,
"Man, this guy might not be one!"
And then another guy says,
"Holy. He's referring to John Traicos' obscure book, Jude!"
"Mother of God. My life's changed! I'm now a right-winger!" says the midfielder.

There it is.
Overworn or underworn underwear -
depending on whether you have

great power (and hence, great responsibility) or not.

***

Also, my laptop's back. Not the data, only a new hard disk.
Further, I must thank She Who Doesn't Want To Be Named for uploading lots of music for me.
Lastly, Happy Deepavali in advance - some travels might keep me busy!

Crash

My hard disk crashed. I didn't know Macs did these things. I'm devastated. The Dude at the Service Center said, "Sir, we'll do our best to recover anything we can." But it was written on his face clearly, "Loser, you've lost your music. Now deal with it."

See, if it was just music, I would have dealt with it. Tons of work related stuff was also lost. But, I can find them on office computers and move on with life. But, there were movies also. Lots of them. Diligently downloaded over the years. Lots of stuff off archive.org, and lots of other stuff off torrents.

But again, if it was just music and movies, I'd deal with it. There was photographs also. Trips to Andamans were made last year. Many many pictures were clicked. Hostel was left. Many pictures were taken again. Kerala was paid a visit to. New camera was bought. Many arty pictures were taken. See, this is getting repetitive. That's how many photographs I've lost.

Again, music, movies and photographs one can come to terms with. But I wrote a lot of stuff on random rtf files. Lots of stuff. One-third of two shelved novels - and one was planning to be unshelved.

But again, I was unlikely to have finished any of those novels. There were various recordings of practice sessions, of cousins screeching to background music from GarageBand, and some failed attempts at composing a Love Theme in Ritigowla. Then, there were my playlists - my Kapi playlist, my chai playlist (I'm not kidding - I did have a playlist called 'chai' consisting of old-world Hindi songs to listen to while drinking chai. It is a different matter that I never listened to it while drinking chai), my sad songs playlist, my arbit jazz playlist, my non-arbit jazz playlist, my GNB playlist. Aargh.

Then, there was this most beautiful series of letters I wrote between December and February last year, that was saved only on my mail client. That hurts the most.

The Love Theme in Ritigowla - The Conclusion

The thermometer reads 101, but my dedication to this blog is astounding. Click here for previous parts in reverse order. Mail me for the entire file.
***
To this day, Anna reflects on those few hours between when the concert ended and when Ni said those magical words, "I like you. I'd like you better if you shaved more often." He remembers even the most insignificant details from the scene - this green, glowing Laughing Buddha on a shelf mocking the scene with his full-hearted laugh, the television playing some business news, the dimness of the lights in DG's drawing room, the wrinkles on the sari Ni had worn to the kacheri, the exact shape of the curl that fell on her forehead, the exact shade of her lipstick.

But I revisit those times more often.
***

The Love Theme ended. People aww-ed away. I ended the call. The noise in the car didn't die down for a whole five minutes. When it did, someone pointed brought our attention to a milestone that read, "Bangalore - 100 km". The noise started again, when another call came. The ringing was received with much catcalling, but when announced that Anna was the caller, it died down. I put the phone on speaker and held it against the steering wheel.

"Hello?" There was silence. "Anna?" We distinctly hear a sob at the other end. "Anna?" I asked again.
"Anil?" Amma's voice came, instead.
"Tell me, ma?"
"Stop driving," she said.
The concern in her voice made me obey her. The car stopped on the side of the highway, the emergency lights blinking away to glory.
Amma collected herself, and said, "Mridangam Sir passed away."
I dropped the phone. "Anil?" her voice came through the speaker, "Kanna, are you there?"
I managed to pick up the phone and mumble something.
She said, "Come back to Madras. I'm going to call Nikhila's parents and tell her that the wedding will have to be postponed."

The next three-and-a-half hours were nothing like the previous three-and-a-half.
***

The thirteenth day ceremony was much more lively than the first. The shock wanes, a little. People are able to bring themselves to have conversations about subjects other than the deceased, they manage to laugh, they reminisce, but not with sadness, and most importantly, they come to terms with the loss. And they do it in the pleasantest of ways - by participating in a social gathering followed by a heavy lunch.

Anna hadn't yet recovered from his depression, but it wasn't surprising. Sir had always been more dear to him than anyone else. Sir always told people that Anna was his son, and Anna took it to heart. He still sat in a corner and looked on cluelessly.

A mama in a sparkling white veshti and light blue shirt stared at me suspiciously. I stared back. Then, he walked up to me and said, "Have I seen you somewhere?"
"I play the mridangam - maybe some concert," I explained.
"Hmmm."
Just then, Ni arrived. The mama recognised us suddenly, "Oh! You're that boy who wanted to marry that girl!"
When I recognised the mama, we laughed. Ni smiled at me, and then noticed Anna. Ni walked to Anna and put her arm around him.
***

The Dhanyasi was followed by Bhogindra Shayinam in Kuntalavarali. She barely started this song when Watermelon walked in again. She noticed him almost immediately - large targets are very hard to miss. He seated himself beside Anna. Irritation creeped into her music, but Anna, oblivious to this, kept his talam going. She summarily finished off the concert after this - playing a vague song in Kalyanavasantam before proceeding towards Madhyamavati and the Mangalam.

I had a plan. I'd somehow smuggle her away from Anna. It was a vague plan - it involved improbables like her agreeing to be smuggled, getting an auto on KR Road immediately, and Anna and Watermelon not giving us major chase.

The final notes of the Mangalam were followed by a sudden rush of activity. She packed her violin with shattering speed, and rushed backstage. Anna and Watermelon walked towards the stage, but she beat them. Anna smiled at me, but I bolted. My mridangam bag slung across my back, I ran backstage where Ni stood. I ran up to her, held her hand, and said, "Run!"

We ran through the backstage entrance where Anna waited with Watermelon. They were so stunned to see us running hand in hand, that they took too long to react. We reached the main road, and flagged down an auto. I got in, and immediately said, "Koramangala!"
"Why?!" she asked.
"Why what?"
"Why are we going to Koramangala?"
"My friend's place. That's where I'm staying."
"Actually," she paused, and continued, "Why are you running?"
"Um..."
"From your brother!"
"Why are you running?"
"From Anand. He's too irritating. Your turn to answer the question."
"I have a question of my own."
"I wont answer it unless you answer my question first."
"You don' t know what my brother is doing in Bangalore?"
"No."
"See, I asked you the question, and you answered it. Ha!"
"What is he doing in Bangalore?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
Suddenly, the auto driver asked, "Saar, shall I take the left here or go on the flyover?"
I had no clue, "Flyover!"
She interrupted, "Saar, left! Why do you direct him when you don't know the road?"
"The flyover looked pretty - the view of Bangalore from the top and all that."
Anna called. I cut the call.
She didn't say a thing. After a while, she asked again, "What is your brother doing in Bangalore?"
"I said, I'm not telling you!"
She summed up the situation in her head, and said, "Ok. Your brother is up to something shady in Bangalore, and you're running away from him. So, I'm being dragged to your friend's house for no reason." She turned to the auto driver and said, "Saar, auto nillsi."
The bewildered driver stopped. She got off. I got off after her. She began walking in the opposite direction. I followed her, screaming, "Ni! Wait!" The auto driver followed both of us. He caught up with me and demanded a hundred bucks. I gave it to him. Anna called again. I cut the call again. The auto driver muttered some choice curses about my family before walking back to his auto.
I stopped Ni, and said, "My Anna's marriage is being fixed. With you."
***

Watermelon sat with his notepad in a room, talking to various senior musicians. He was writing a long piece about Sir's contribution to music for Sruti and had made the trip to Madras specially for this. He noticed Ni sitting with Anna, left an interview mid-way and went to her.

"I hear you're getting married?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said.
"When?"
"Its been postponed. All this happened two days before the wedding day."
"I'm also getting married," he said.
"Oh! Congrats! Who is the girl?"
"Some girl called Aparna. Software. Lives in the US. I'm going there to study history."
"That's wonderful."
They looked at each other uncomfortably for a few seconds, before Watermelon said, "Okay, I have to get going!"
"Good luck, and congrats!" she said.
"You too."
***

So, there we were - in a silk sari and jubba-veshti, with musical instruments in our hands - looking ridiculous on Hosur Road.
"Can we sit somewhere quiet and think things over?" she asked.
"My friend's house."
"Any other place?"
"I cant think of any. You're the Bangalorean!"

DG opened the door. His house was just the same. Business news played on TV. He stood in boxers and T-shirt with a mug of hot chocolate in his hand.
Ni exclaimed, "God! DG!"
"Babe! You look even better in this sari." All the running had made it lose some of its neatly ironed nature.
I intervened, "Dude, please. I don't need this new complication now."
Both of them laughed.
"Complication is on its way," he said, "Your brother knows you live here."
***

Anna made desperate phone calls to everyone in the world, trying to find out where I was going. He was joined in his hunt by Watermelon, for some reason - it was Anna's seriousness, I was convinced. He would have told Watermelon sketchy details of the matter, and Watermelon would have assumed that one of us had blood cancer and we were going to die.

Finally, Anna called Amma, who called another Mami, who called DG's mother, who called DG and found out where I was staying. Watermelon raced down to Koramangala, constantly assuring Anna that he knew the best routes and shortcuts.
***

"Who is that girl?" I asked, looking at the newsreader on TV.
"Hot, isn't she? You remember the guy who lived above my paati's house in Madras?" DG replied.
"Vinod?"
"Yeah. He's doing her, apparently."
***

Watermelon led Anna from traffic jam to traffic jam, and kept cursing Bangalore roads and trying newer routes. Twice, they came across Bangalore's famous one-ways - the traffic-regulation innovations that mock your sense of direction. Yet, Watermelon strived on, making extraordinary judgments of the size of his car and the gaps between buses, driving through petrol bunks to avoid signals, making u-turns where they weren't allowed, all to the background music of MS' Kharaharapriya.

He hummed along, and Anna played the mridangam nervously on the dashboard.
***

"See, if you want to marry my Anna, its fine," I said.
"What?!"
"I mean, you like him and all."
"Yeah, but marrying him is a different ballgame."
"Ballgame - you choose your words well," DG said.
"A little privacy, Deej?" I asked.
He smirked and walked into the kitchen with his mug of hot chocolate.
***

Sharanya's mother attended the ceremony, she learnt music from Sir for a while many years ago. Sharanya came with her.

I went to her immediately and tapped her on the head from the back. It was a habit.
"Hey!" she said, "How are you?"
"Coping. Anna's still a bit down. What's up with you?"
"Nothing much. My novel's been accepted by some publisher."
"The one you were writing long ago?"
"No. I shelved that. This is sort of, um, autobiographical. With copious amounts of masala."
"Do I figure?"
"You really think you're that important?" she asked. I didn't answer the question, and she didn't offer any information. I guessed I had to wait till it released to find out.
***

"Ok, lets channelise this conversation. Do you like me?"
"Hmmm. That's a tough one. I hardly know you."
"From whatever you know."
"Its like asking me if I like Ritigowla."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"I hardly know Ritigowla."
"What?!"
"I mean, I played it today solo for the first time and all. But I never feel like I've gotten the hang of it. You know, even when I'm accompanying someone, I'm very curt in my replies in Ritigowla."
"But you played really well today!"
"I surprised myself."

Both of us went quiet suddenly. She was sitting on a bean bag, and me, on the floor by her. She looked at me, smiled and patted me on the head.

"What was that?" I asked.
"Affectionate pat on the head. You are a crazy guy, you know."
"I think you should listen to this," I said, hit by the craziest of ideas.
I fished out my iPod, and played the Love Theme in Ritigowla. "I composed it the day I met you," I said.
"I can tell when guys lie."
"How do you do that?"
"Actually, I know this one because your Anna told me of the porn movie!"
We laughed, as the Theme played in her ear. "Ritigowla?" she asked me. I nodded. I watched her eyes widen as the Theme intensified. I only heard it whisper

When it ended, she said, "Lovely! Pity it ended up where it did."
"I still haven't come to terms with it!"
She patted me on the head again, affectionately. "You're a really cute guy," she said, "Not looks-wise. Your look needs some makeover. But as a concept, you're very cute." She proceeded to kiss me on the cheek.
I was shocked.
Just then, the door was thrown open and a large figure seemed to fill almost the entire frame. Another figure pushed this large one aside, and barged into the room. Ni, oblivious to this, said, "I like you. I'd like you better if you shaved more often."

I saw Anna and panicked. "Lets make a dash for it?" I asked Ni, who just noticed Anna and Watermelon.
"Wait!" Anna said.
"Anna, let us go. Or you'll have to fight us," I said, in my firmest voice.
DG entered the room and said, "Looks like the gang's all here."
"Dude. I wanted to tell Ni that I liked someone else. Which is why I came today."

DG dropped his mug of hot chocolate. Watermelon realised what a waste of effort all this had been. I realised what a waste of effort all this had been.

"Anna? Who?" I asked.
"You don't know her."
***

The lunch was sumptuous. The who's who of Carnatic Music munched away, their teeth chewing rhythmically, trying out their latest musical mathematics. Large streams of payasam flowed on the plate, and they were scooped up in one swooshing movement of the hand and consumed. Not a drop was spilt. It isn't a very pretty sight for those who haven't experienced it all their lives, but it alleviated Anna's mood. He complimented the cook on the payasam as he scooped and swooshed away.
***

I never found out who this other girl was. Anna merely told me that she'd "rejected his proposal". I wondered if he'd made all this up, if this was his big sacrifice. BUt again, it was Anna. You never knew anything with him.

Anna fell in love again, on stage, and married that vocalist. Possessively, he played for each one of her concerts for the next nine years!
***

I got a phone call from a producer asking me if I'd compose for his film. He described his film as a thriller-romance. I was super excited.
***

After the lunch, Ni came and gave me a hug.
"When are we finally getting married?" I asked her.
"A month from now?" she said.
"Yeah, that seems likely."

The last batch of eaters finished their meal and got up. Old mamas and mamis, chattering away, left in droves. The crowd thinned, till there were only the closest left. His immediate family, and his students. Soon, even I left. For the first time in those thirteen days, did I fathom the extent of Sir's contribution to my life.
***

See, Francis, I believe in happy endings!
Thanks to all the great musicians who have provided background music for writing this!

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!