Rahman's Fab Five

So, Rahman won two Oscars. The whole country rejoiced as if India was suddenly a legitimate place on the world map. Political parties fought over the rights for the winning song, different sets of people tried to outdo the other to honour him, people who claimed that he was overrated and repititive suddenly claimed he was godly. But, there were some of us Rahmaniacs quietly tut-tutting away. "This isn't vintage Rahman." "It's one of his poorer albums." "They should have given awards for his earlier stuff." Yes, we all knew that the Oscar wasn't for his best album of all time. It was for the song of the year in the movies. Yet, it is sad that he wins a major award for "Jai Ho" but not for "Hey, Goodbye Nanba!"

So, I wondered, if we were to actually give out awards to his stuff, what albums would we give it to?

Hence, this post. My Five Favourite Rahman Albums. I know, I know. One can never pick Five Favourites from a Galaxy of Genius etc etc. Yet, I've gritted my teeth and limited myself to Five. My taste in popular music has always been criticised - people have even threatened to kill me for suggesting that Kajra Re is one of Hindi cinema's greatest songs. I know some hardcore Rahmaniacs who will dismiss this list as 'populist' and not musically up there with some vague album like Uzhavan or Pavithra or Kangalal Kaidhu Sei. Other technicians will talk about some song from Kizhakku Cheemayile and rate it highly for its innovative use for the minor seventh as the dominant chord and blending the same with a gamakam-less Natabhairavi mixed with Shuddha Dhanyasi.

But, um, there's a reason why some albums do better than the others. There's also a reason why someone (and I forget who) said that intellectuals and critics are the most sorry lot, because they cannot enjoy anything without thinking about it!

After that needless and lengthy introduction, here's my list, in no particular order:

1. Meenaxi: A Tale of Three Cities - If I was forced to pick The One, I'd beg and plead and cry and kick up a fuss. But I'd pick Meenaxi at the end. I think it is his most layered, accomplished, intricate, powerful album. Each song is brimming with an energy that towers over most of his other work. The curvaceous Yeh Rishta (I know that this is a random adjective. But when I think of the song, I think in curves), the sexy Badan Dua Dua, the sheer energy of Chinnamma, the complexity, that bass line, and that meandering madness in Noor-un-alah, those interludes in Rang Hai, and those two lovely themes -Potter's Village and Cyclist's Rhythm - it is scarcely believable that all these adorn the same album!

2. Thiruda Thiruda - Thiruda Thiruda is a landmark in Rahman's career - it was the album that defined his style and sound for years to come. And, like most defining albums, it towers over the rest he composed in this style. I've always believed that even though he uses all kinds of influences in his music, the end product is indisputably Indian. Thiruda Thiruda, in particular, is a perfect blend of earthy Tamilian music with distincly Western influences. Take those violins Veerapandi Kottayile, for instance, that base guitar and flute in Thee Thee, or the distorted elec guitar in Kannum Kannum, the wondrous Puttham Puthu Bhumi, or that lilting a cappella Raasathi. Then, there's the famous indi-rap Thiruda Thiruda song (which could have come only from a genius - rap isn't an Indian music form at all. To Indianise it in a non-Apache Indian sense, and Tamilianise it to go with images of rural Tamilnadu is sheer brilliance!) and the glass-shattering Chandralekhaaaaa! Each song in the album is a masterpiece, a different blend, a different genre. Yet, they establish what was to be Rahman's distinctive sound for some years - a sound that had its beginnings in Gentleman and went on through the rest of the 90s until the next wave came about.

3. Dil Se - Dil Se is a highly personal choice. It is probably the album I've listened to most number of times in my life (followed by Alaipayuthey and Kandukondein Kandukondein). Chaiyya Chaiyya has its fan following all around the world - it was re-done in Bombay Dreams and used again on the soundtrack of The Inside Man. The real gems of Dil Se are the other ones. The title track is supreme - his edgy voice, the bass guitar again, the rhythm, and that weird sound in the background (listen closely on a good music system - there's this slight electronic sound running almost throughout the entire song) make it one of Rahman's best songs. The pained E Ajnabi sung with such emotional gusto by Udit Narayan and Jiya Jale (despite Lata Paati's fading voice) are excellent. But, my favourite songs in this album are Satrangi Re and Thayya Thayya. I absolutely love Kavitha Krishnamurthy's screech at the start of Satrangi Re and Sonu Nigam's expert handling of a difficult-to-hold tune. But I love this song most for its loose structure - each part of the song just blends into the next effortlessly, there are no real charanams and pallavis, or choruses, verses and bridges. The interludes just flow into one another. Thayya Thayya is quieter and more haunting than its cheery counterpart, and I like that. It was the song I woke up to on most mornings in my 11th and 12th!

4. Alaipayuthey (NOT Saathiya) - Alaipayuthey is Rahman's freshest album - its energetic without being loud, it is happy without being over-excited, it is peppy without being too upbeat - much like the film itself. Like all albums on this list, each song in the movie is special. The Bike Song (I refuse to call it anything else. Btw, I don't know how many of you remember, but when the cassette was first released, this song and the Mangalyam one weren't on it. I recorded this song by keeping a little recorder while the VCD was playing. Then, they released another cassette with this song, and the new cassette was bought again!) is hilariously good - just try listening to Blaaze's nonsense lyrics in the rap - they make no sense whatsoever, yet they have this funky quality about them (tried figuring them with the help of the song and some internetting):

Hey!! Here we go
I raved upon the ???
Singing with the hip-the-hop
Once again in effect
Feelin' the constant
Slammin' of the bass line
Never mess around with the funk
Because I'm sticking,
Kicking, always finger lickin'
I dont need Halloween
Just to be trick or trippin'
Cause I'm always on top
Ki wigdu wagdu
Jigdu jagdu

Hey...

Then, there's the energetic Yaaro Yarodi which, in addition to the lovely background music and pounding drums has some stupendous backing vocals. Kaadal sadugudu is too good, and so are Snehithane, September Matham (featuring the ageless Asha Bhonsle) and Pacchai Nirame. But then, my favourites are Evano Oruvan and Alaipayuthey (which is why I stated at the outset that I wasn't referring to Saathiya). Evano Oruvan doesn't click on the first hearing. But the more you listen, the more layers you discover, the more you love the vocals, and the more you understand how beautiful the flute is in that interlude. Alaiypayuthey (the song), on the other hand, is an exercise in restraint. The original is in the most beauteous Kaanada and has a lilting rhythm to it. In the hands of a lesser person, the 'remix' could have been overdone (I can almost hear the overbearing rhythm pads and the chords). Rahman uses just the tambura and the occasional 'ting' and beat to embellish it, leaving the magic of the composition to do the rest. Real genius is in recognising that need for restraint.

5. Azhagiya Tamizh Magan: Yes, it is an esoteric choice. I can hear clucks and tuts. I can feeling the anger through the computer screen. Better than Iruvar, Indira, Roja, Lagaan, Swades, Rang De Basanti, Kandukondein Kandukondein, Kannathil Muthamittal, Sangamam, Earth, Love Birds, Bombay, Puthiya Mugam, Kaadhalan? (Man, he's composed such an unbelievable amount of kickass music!) Yes. I insist that ATM is one of his best.

Underneath all the fun, all those ridiculous lyrics (see previous post on the same here. I mean, 'harmonuim' and 'hormones' are used in conjunction to create funniness.), its zaniness and mischief, it is supreme music. I think it is Rahman's realisation that he needs to impress no one anymore. The problem with the music of Elizabeth and even Slumdog Millionnaire to an extent was this feeling that Rahman was concious of the fact that his music would now be consumed by a different audience, and one got the sense that he was trying too many things. Here, it is his faithful Tamil audience that will lap up anything he throws at them. This feeling can lead to complacency, I guess. But it can also be freeing. And that shows in ATM. It is undoubtedly Rahman's best album in years - possibly his best since Alaipayuthey.

Maduraikku Pogathe made me want to jump up and dance - the lyrics are absolutely lovely, the music, the vocals, the tune, the pounding kootthu rhythms are splendid. Nee Marilyn Monroe is cheeky and peppy - listen to it from an Audio CD on a good system and you'll notice layering that your random comp speakers can do no justice to. I must admit that Kelaamal Kaiyile is slightly average (and is possibly the only average song on the five albums mentioned here) and sounds a bit like a random Harris Jeyraj offering. But it is made up for more than amply by the two magnum opuses - the resequencing of Ponmagal Vandaal and Valayapatti. Rahman owes a huge debt to MS Viswanathan for the tune of Ponmagal Vandaal, because it lends itself perfectly to a hep remix. But Rahman's resequencing is more than hep - it has everything one wants in a redo - a catchy bassline, a foot-tapping rhythm, some nonsense rap (Everytime I look into her eyes, I see butterflies. I'm so happy she's with me and not the other guys... And so on and so forth.), some sassiness. That part where the rapper says "Mutthukal Sirikkum..." and then the song starts is just too good. Valayapatti is on another level. No Rahman song (except maybe Come On, Come On, O and New York Nagaram on alternate Tuesdays) is more mood-elevating than this one (especially if you've seen the video, and supremely sizzling Shriya in it.). This song has some splendid magic moments - the extension on the word 'Nilambari', the loose first interlude, the words 'enna minor pola vaasiyada' and that raga-exchange (especially the Behag!). Too much!
***

Okay. Enough said. Your turn now. Your Rahman Fab Five?
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PS: Apologies to feed subscribers - editing and re-editing and all sorts of other things happened!

The Odds and Ends Post

So, every now and then, there's one of these - a collection of random angst, outpourings, jokes, links and suchlike. As always, in bullet point format.

My Brother's Birthday

Today is my brother's birthday. I wish him a great day, month, year. Wish him more writing, more fun, more jokes. A joke dedicated to him on his birthday (since I've spent most of the day in the hospital):

Munnabhai MBBS = Durjan Surgeon.

Rama's Birthday
Ramanavami happened. I have a ritual on Ramanavami (and have had it for 4 years now) - I give a concert privately to myself. Sit in a quiet place with a sruti box. Start with a varnam, and then sing/play various Rama songs for about two-and-a-half hours in concert format replete with alapana, neraval, swaram, a main ragam, a sub-main, some small tukkadas. This year, I made a concious effort to include as many non-Thyagaraja songs as possible in the list. I played Mohanam as main (Ra Ra Rajivalochana Rama), Nannubrovarada in Madhyamavati, Brochevarevarura (Khamas) - all compositions of Mysore Vasudevacharya, Ramachandram Bhavayami (Dikshitar), and of course Palukebangaramaayera, Rama Rama... There were some perennially favourite Thyagaraja songs also.

It is my favourite time of the year!

It's funny, though, that Rama is today associated with the most unwanted elements. First, and most prominent, is the Rama Sena and its culture-vulturing, its war against pub culture (that beats the war against Iraq to the most pointless war in the world), its war against immoral women, and its upholding of a warped, ancient Hindu Dharma. Then, there's the whole did-he-build-the-bridge-or-not controversy, where, ridiculously enough, the Supreme Court is called on to decide if he existed at all. Then, there's the Ramajanmabhoomi mess... I'd like to quote a Tyagaraja song right now, but I shan't.

Random Conversation on Love since Last Post

"Are you still in love with me?"
"No. I think its faded now."
"Yeah? I'm glad!"
"Yeah. Love is like a pair of jeans. If you're in it for long enough, it fades."
"What about pre-faded jeans?"
At that point, I had no reply. (And even if I did, it was some non-notable one.) But then I wondered, pre-faded jeans = arranged marriage?

This love and fading jeans analogy has much scope. Hmmm. Must explore.

A Wednesday

I watched A Wednesday today, fully and finally. I know this statement is politically incorrect and could lead to serious loss of social life, but I didn't like it. I thought the premise of the film was flimsy, and its execution was cliched. Go on then, excommunicate me.

Pyaasa

I watched it again last night. No one makes films like him. No one does. Really.

Of Two Plays

Finally caught a show of God - a play by Woody Allen. This new group in Bangalore called Tattvam Theatre was performing it. I thought it was fairly well executed, although it didn't go entirely with my interpretation of the script. I also felt in places that I had laughed a lot more when I read the script than when I watched it. Crucially, I was a bit disappointed with the half-hearted adaptation to Indian circumstances. All of Woody Allen's works are written in a context, and outside that context, many of the jokes lose their humour. Therefore, I think an a fuller adaptation (at the very least, Bangalore-ising the entire play instead of a half-hearted Bangalore- New York type adaptation) would have been much better. Also, I didn't like a couple of actors. Lastly, it looked like they had taken too many ideas from a Youtube video of the play being performed by some other amateurs. A little thought and a little research (for instance, Sardi's - often referred to in the original play - is a famous restaurant in the theatre district of New York. A Wikipedia search would have told them that. In adapting that to McDonald's takes away from the humour of those lines) would have made it much much better. In any case, it is a very difficult play to pull off, and despite a sluggish start, they really did a wonderful job, and deserve a round of applause for it. Oh, the guy who played the Actor deserves fourteen rounds of applause. Absolutely wonderful!

The second play was The Doctor Despite Himself by Moliere, performed at Alliance by a group called Miracle Entertainment. I had major reservations about this play.
1. The script wasn't the strongest around - and by no means is it Moliere's most revered work. Wonder why you'd still want to do it today in the same way. It is a story that could have been completely adapted to modern Indian circumstances and performed with more natural dialogue (I'm not too fond of Christ College type people playing Jack and Tommy and Lucas speaking sentences beginning with "Aye!")
2. The dialogue is a translation of some 17th Century French into 18th century English, and the actors just couldn't emote in that language. Hell, some of the actors just couldn't emote.
3. The production was super-tacky. The sets weren't imaginative, the lighting was really patchy, backstage work was much like college drama. The director dude (who spoke too much at the end of the play) said this was their fourth play, and still made some song-and-dance about amateur theatre. Boss, at some point, you must shed that amateur tag? And a fourth production is a reasonable time to expect that?
4. And, the curtain call. Um, why did you inflict that on us?

An Announcement

I'm seriously thinking of starting a Carnatic Music blog. No no, not one of those blogs with some technical discussions on vague ragas quoting from the Sangeeta Sampradaya Pradarshini. This will be a fun exercise - concert reviews, jokes, the occasional serious article on some issue (rants about bad amplification systems or mobile phones, for instance), photos and related items. Basically, a blog where one writes from the heart. Cheesy enough?

Anyone interested in being co-blogger, helping with design/technical fundae, angel investors, donors, mail me - swaroop dot mami at gmail dot com - or leave a comment here. The idea is still in my head. No concreteness yet. So, suggestions welcome.

A Stagnant Music?

'Guitar' Prasanna, one of my favourite musicians, says in this interview, "Jazz is constantly evolving, while Carnatic music is static. That is the reason Carnatic music is in such a pathetic state today." He goes on to state that musicians do not express themselves anymore, and that there aren't enough Balamuralikrishnas and GNBs around.

Even though the term 'express oneself' is a bit vague, he was making a fair point, I thought at first glance. But, the more I think about it, the less convincing it seems. When tradition and history are crucial ingredients of an art form, they are the form's greatest strengths and weaknesses. While on the one hand, they give the art its mystifying depth, its breadth, its microscopic subtleties, and crucially, its distinct identity; on the other hand, these traditions define boundaries, they channel innovation within these boundaries, and most disgustingly, they scoff at perceived transgressions. Yet, these art forms evolve constantly - outside influences seep in, the atmosphere within which this art is enjoyed changes. It is the ones that fail to adapt and evolve that die out.

However, to claim that Carnatic Music is stagnant is a bit dubious. Even an untrained ear will be able to tell the difference in style between Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar, Madurai Mani Iyer and Semmangudi, and Sanjay Subramanian, TM Krishna and Vijay Siva. The 'older' music is much different from the 'new', even though the compositions, ragas and structures remain the same. Although we don't have recordings of an even older era, I'm quite confident that even they were very different from the Ariyakudi generation. As a friend put it recently, "Dude, did Tyagaraja do neraval at 'Veda Shastra Purana...'?"

Speaking of Ariyakudi, it is true that the innovator that he was, he brought in the concert system followed till today. It is now nearly a century old, and while the structure largely remains the same, it has remodelled itself to suit its newer environment. Most concerts today are shorter (to the extent that even top musicians are often seen performing one-and-a-half to two-hour concerts), raga explorations are more structured and in a sense, more to-the-point, ragam-tanam-pallavis aren't always the crowning item in a concert (some people even complain that it is dying out), kacheris are far more formal than they were. Bolder innovators question the logic of Ariyakudi's system. TM Krishna often doesn't sing a varnam to start his concerts, and on occasions is known to sing a varnam as the main piece. Sanjay Subrahmanyan explores a lot of Tamizh Isai in his concerts and accords it as much time and respect as he does to Sri Tyagaraja's compositions, he also often chooses lighter or even hitherto unexplored Hindustani ragas for lengthy elaboration (the last four concerts of his that I attended, I came across (in order) RTPs in Darbari Kanada, Jaunpuri, Patdeep and Chandrakauns). U. Srinivas engages in fun and frolic, octave-jumping, flashes of unimaginable speed, and odd combinations in traditional ragas that the earlier generation wouldn't have approved of.

Concert structure is only one example of change. In the kind of compositions presented, MS introduced Mira bhajans and all sorts of other compositions in various languages, the Marathi abhang is very common today - especially amongst the female singers, and contemporary composers' pieces are sung with greater frequency. Newer ragas have surfaced like Kadanaluthuhalam and Revathi, and older ones have changed or withered away. Many of us know that Khamas takes both nishaadas only after Mysore Vasudevacharya used it in 'Brochevarevarura'. Abheri has lost its original shuddha daivatha and only takes the chaturshruti daivatha. Mali often played the shuddha daivatha in Kanada, giving it that hint of Darbari Kanada. Kalyani and Pantuvarali are ever so often sung with more than just a few traces of their Hindustani counterparts. Bhairavi and Manji have merged into each other! I once went to a lecture demonstration (years ago, when I was too young to even understand it to any degree) where a senior musician demonstrated the Bhairavi varnam as it had been taught to her. Even though I hadn't learnt Bhairavi at that point, and only knew it by ear, I realised that it was a version of Bhairavi that had been lost to its more popular avatar.

Further, violin duos increasingly use harmonies and chords to give their music a more modern feel. Much of 'fusion' is actually just Carnatic ragas with chords laid beneath them (while this sounds like a simple scam to pull off, it is an innovation that people hadn't thought of for hundreds of years - Western Music has been in India since Dikshitar's time!). Shrutibedham wasn't accepted by many musicians of the previous generation. Almost everyone indulges in it now.

Again, I think, approval is what holds many musicians back when it comes to innovation. On the Carnatic concert stage, a certain discipline and decorum is expected of the musician. In other words, a conformism is expected, from both the audience and fellow musicians. Innovators are often branded as upstarts and not accorded the same sort of respect as the traditionals. Often, a 'right' to innovate is spoken of - a musician must be of a certain standard, must command a certain respect before he can compose his/her own pieces (let alone perform them in his/her own concert). Even Balamuralikrishna is often criticised for singing too many own compositions in his concerts! Yes, super-strict adherence to school and grammar has hindered many an idea.

Our music still evolves. Prasanna speaks of how jazz takes influences from all over the world, and how "there are people who bring in elements from I Ching and speech patterns in African dialects". Those are evolutions in the form that can be seen and percieved clearly. The evolution in Carnatic music isn't one that can be seen or described in nuggets. It is far more subtle. It is far slower. Two and a half centuries ago, when the Trinity dealt with this music, it was, in a form recognisable today, about a century old. It was easier then to get bring in outside influences, make pioneering changes to the form and structure. With more baggage, the art is harder to move. Still, it moves.

Much of Tamil film music was born out of Carnatic Music. Old film songs were in immediately recognisable ragas, and largely followed Carnatic structures. Today, the music takes influences from all over the world. Rahman uses Carnatic, Hindustani, folk, african rhythms, jazz, rock, pop, hip-hop, R-n-B with almost equal ease to create a sound that is still unmistakably Indian. Many Carnatic musicians experiment with music forms that are alien to them with varied results. Some create dodgy 'fusion', and others do succeed in creating their own unique sound.

But they don't do it on a Carnatic concert stage. That place still has some rules, and it will continue to do so. It is a Classical art form, and it comes with its traditions that must be respected. Traditions do change, but they take their time. However, to treat tradition as an ironbound box is a mistake. The box isn't as flexible as the newer one, but it can, it has been, and will continue to be shaped over time. But as long as the box survives, it will be made of the same raw material, and encompass the same core.
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A Letter

Dear Pretty Girl Running Around Sankey Tank who was being stared at by a Weird Guy,

Hi. I am that weird guy. I know it sounds creepy and horrible that I am writing a letter to you, but I really felt the need to explain my actions to you. I was guilt-ridden when I realised what the whole incident must have seemed like from your perspective.

I realise that you must have seen me running in from a distance. Well, at least, I saw you running in from a distance. I realise that when you saw me staring at you, you must've begun cursing me, muttering under your breath. You must've been complaining about how an averagely pretty girl cant even run in a park without being stared at by random men. You must've been wondering how desperate the menfol in this country get, and how dirty their thought process is. You must've been fulminating against the backwardness, conservatism and horniness of Indian society and culture.

Well, I wanted to explain my actions. You see, I don't usually stare at women. (There are notable exceptions. But they are, well, notable!) I didn't stare at you because you are a pretty girl running around a lake. I never stare at someone just because she is pretty. I stared at you because you looked remarkably like a friend of mine who now lives in the US. The resemblance is almost as striking Rohit and Raj, Seeta and Geeta, Michael, Madan, Kaman and Rajan, Omprakash and Om Kapoor, the Prince and the Pauper. The resemblance, funnily enough, doesn't end with your face, you are about the same height and weight as her also. For almost ten seconds, I thought I was watching her! Which is why I stared at you curiously. I don't think you noticed, but I smiled when you came closer. That's because I realised that you were actually someone else. I apologise profusely for any inconvenience caused.

This letter is also to tell you that if you are actually Don, then beware. The police have a Vijay waiting for you. They'll just capture you and replace you with my friend. And then, she'll destroy your gang.

Thanking You,

Swaroop

Update: Just realised. This is my 100th post! Yay! Is it significant that the tags for this one are 'incidents, ramblings, women'?

This is Not Cricket

I don't know how to react to what happened this morning.

I could be shocked. Cricketers have never been attacked before. India's previous tours passed without any incident. Yes, there was an incident involving the New Zealand team some years ago, and another one near the English team hotel in 2005. England were also in Mumbai when the Taj attack happened. But in none of those cases were cricketers attacked so directly, rashly and boldly. None of them injured any cricketers.

All our years of cricket-fanaticism has, to use a cliche, lulled us into a false sense of security. Because cricketers in the subcontinent are honoured, respected and worshipped, because they have always been, to use another cliche, demi-gods, there's this sense that no one, not even terrorists would do anything to them. When India cancelled their Pakistan tour (which was replaced by this tour), I joked that the Indian team shouldn't be worried about their security because even terrorists want to watch India-Pakistan cricket. That was the first thing I thought of when I heard this news.

Yet, I'm not shocked. It has never happened before, but it was always on the cards. Someone would think its a good idea and order some other people to do it. Terrorist strikes happen so often that I've become numb to them. I glance at the first two paragraphs of the report, and move on to the inside pages of the newspaper.
*

I could be afraid. As Barkha Dutt has been telling us for the last hour on NDTV, Lahore is very close to the border. The terrorists could just cross over and open fire in Amritsar. The bigger fear is for the sport in India. Every cricket match, more than ever, is a likely terrorist target (this includes the IPL). For the big cricketers, like Sachin and (perhaps) Dhoni, every public appearance is a security threat.

But these risks have always been there. This incident has only given images to attach to this fear.
*

I could be angry. But there are too many people to be angry against. There's the ideologues and the terrorists for conceiving and carrying out this act. There are the Pakistan security agencies who haven't been able to arrange for something as simple as a safe journey from the team hotel to the stadium. There is the chaotic Pakistan Cricket Board run until recently by incompetent army officers which somehow believed that a successful and safe cricket tour could happen in these times.

However, the diffusedness of the anger dims it and renders it tame. Anger is replaced by sheer helplessness and frustration.
*

I think I'm only sad. Sad for the policemen who died because some people thought it was important now to play a game of cricket. Sad for the cricketers who were injured - they travelled from their own troubled land to another one hoping to alleviate the panic that seems to have spread amongst the cricket playing countries about touring the subcontinent. Sad for Pakistan Cricket - some of the most colourful and individualistic cricketers over the years have come from there. Sad for Cricket itself, because what seemed like a sacred line has now been irremediably crossed.

On Detective Fiction, Favourite Characters and First Novels

A Conversation with Aditya Sudarshan

Aditya Sudarshan, a close friend, fellow philosopher, Emerson fan, Sachin-worshipper, comedian and slime is an ace-storyteller. Although he's known to write in the horror and sci-fi genres, his first novel, A Nice Quiet Holiday is a thoughtful murder mystery set amidst the quaint hills of Bhairavgarh. It is a wonderful little novel bursting with unconventional ideas and and his trademark biting jibes. When I asked him about his book, he said, "Macha, I just read the advance copy. Its unputdownable." The book is unputdownable. I agree.

I had a broken email conversation with him on his book, on writing, and on his life in general.

Firstly, congrats! I absolutely enjoyed the book.

Thanks. I'm really glad you did.


I was told that holding that advance copy of your first book in your hand is a big step, elation-wise and growing-up-wise. Does it actually mean that much? Or does that moment happen when you finish it? Or when it finds a publisher?

They are all three nice moments, but the sharpest thrill is getting an offer from a publisher.

Finishing the novel is very satisfying, but you know you're going to finish it for a while before you do, so the happiness is more diffused. It gives you a lot of confidence though, so for that reason I'd say it's probably the most important moment. If you've written a novel, even if it's just lying on your computer, you're already a writer.

But getting an offer happens all at once, so it is a bigger thrill. Realizing that some stranger is willing to back your writing with their time and money is a good feeling.

Then you get to reading the contract and negotiating, and by the time the whole process of editing and production is over you're already very aware that publishing is a business, and there are many writers and many novels that sink without a trace. So by the time you get the advance copy of your novel, a large part of your mind is already worrying about how it will do. It's still nice to see it of course, but not an unalloyed pleasure.


When did you realise that you could actually write for a living? When did you start and finish this novel?

Answering the second part first, I started this novel in about February 2007 and finished it by about June that year. I got the contract for it almost a year later, in April 2008. (In the meantime I dilly-dallied about sending it to publishers, and plus they all take months to respond).

I didn't think clearly about whether I could write for a living until some time after I finished the novel. While I was working I was writing occasional short stories, and reading biographies of authors. It was a sort of gradual realization, that I understand how fiction writing is done, and that this is where my talent lies. Then I got the idea for a second novel, and wanted to write that. So at that stage I made a decision to focus full-time on writing.

But I still don't know whether I can make a living from writing. That depends on how my career goes.
You quit your job as a litigator in Delhi for this. How hard was that to do? Any opposition from people around you?

It wasn't hard ultimately, because by the time I quit I was quite clear that I wanted to give writing a full-blow shot. Trial litigation is a profession where you pretty much start at the bottom and work your way upwards, so it wasn't as though I was losing a great salary either.

Family was surprised, but not opposed. I think their attitude was, and is, let's wait and see how it goes (which I think is a fair attitude).

Another interesting thing about you is that unlike most new Indian writers, you have almost no web presence - you don't have a blog, you don't contribute to one, (as far as I know) you don't have a Facebook/ Orkut account. Is this a disadvantage? For instance, many of The Compulsive Confessor's readers would have bought her book, and many of Amit Varma's will buy it just because they read India Uncut.

I don't think I have no web presence. Some of my old short stories are on the net, like at The Scientific Indian's website. So people can get a sense of how I write by searching online. (And they can get a sense of how I write fiction, which blog posts don't always give you) As you say, I don't have a blog which means that I don't have pre-existing readers. That is obviously a disadvantage. But there isn't much I can do about it, because I don't think I could sustain an interesting blog (like you have done). (interviewer blushes at the compliment)

I'm not on Facebook or Orkut, because personally I find email and chatting is fine for keeping in touch with people. By the way, for readers who want to write in, my email is aditya.sudarshan@gmail.com. (he means women who have imagined him as this hot item)

The blurb portrays it as a typical murder mystery. But your novel is more than that. This is a question I'm sure you will get asked often - why did you choose to write in a fairly traditional murder mystery structure? (murder at a gathering, closed group of suspects, a 'detective', his assistant, and a long explanatory speech.) Is it an experiment - to deal with larger issues through a murder mystery? Or am I reading too much into your novel?

I really like and respect detective stories. Detective stories are full of mystery and therefore full of revelation- which means they better have something worth revealing. I think, almost more than any other story-telling device, the device of a detective story forces the author to have something to say. What I mean is: a bad book, that has nothing really to say, and no real ideas and insights, can pull the wool over the reader's eyes in almost any other garb. But if it is cast in the structure of a mystery novel, everyone will see at once that it's a failure. Maybe that's one reason why detective stories get derided more than others- not because there's anything wrong with the genre, but because a bad detective story has nowhere to hide.

I started this novel with the sense that I had something to say. And then, since my view is that detective stories lend themselves very well to thoughts and ideas, I chose that genre. The traditional structure you mentioned is a very natural and powerful structure- and that's why I agree that it has become a cliché. But I think the way to overcome a cliché is, not to be afraid of it, but to go at it as though it's the first time it's ever being employed. (Which, for me as a writer, it was.) Then what happens is that even though on an intellectual level the reader sees that this structure is not new, it feels new to him, because it's been written afresh and with enthusiasm.

This is not to say that the traditional structure can't be altered and re-worked. It can be.

Isn't that true of any novel? Most novels (or even films, for that matter) that aren't backed by ideas have nowhere to hide.

It's like this. When you frame a mystery you are making it very clear that some secret exists. That's what makes mysteries gripping. So when, finally, you reveal the secret, if it is unsatisfactory then everyone notices- because everyone was looking. On the other hand if you are not so upfront about having something to reveal, then, because you haven't focussed the reader's attention, he or she might not notice that you never said much after all.

Here is an analogy: If I'm on stage performing, everyone is looking. So every slip-up will be spotted more easily. But suppose I'm performing in the background (like musicians at a restaurant), then because the audience's attention is more diffused, there's a higher chance they'll overlook my error. They might feel: something was wrong with that experience, but I'm not sure exactly what. Maybe it was the food or the service.

Whereas really it was the music- so the musician got away with his mistake.

Your point on cliches: while Jab We Met (excuse the crassness of this example) was a fairly cliched story, the freshness worked in its favour. But cliches tend to not be taken seriously, and are constantly judged against their predecessors.

Yes, but there's nothing to fear in these judgments or comparisons. It's natural to compare stories of a similar genre. In fact it's natural to compare stories regardless of genre because ultimately all stories deal with the same fundamental material. So I think if a story is fresh and powerful, it deserves recognition as something new. After all, the essence of a cliché is its dryness. Take that away and it's not a cliché at all.

The attitudes of small town masses towards 'city' influences forms a key element of your book..

Yes. I think conflicts of sensibilities are all around us, all the time, in a country like India. For example, this latest 'pub culture' furore. I guess like many people, I'm interested in getting to grips with these problems. So that's why, in this novel, I set up one such situation- a small town's moral condemnation of the work of AIDS activists.

And my feeling is that when thinking through these issues, we usually tend to be too crude. They are always cast as 'liberal' versus 'conservative', or 'progressive' versus 'traditional' (or even 'young' versus 'old'). So then, depending on whether you are young and living in a metro, or old and living elsewhere, you pick your side. That doesn't help solve the debate. It's also a bit silly- as though youth is superior to age, or vice versa!

So in my novel, I wanted to present a clear-headed way of thinking that isn't prejudiced one way or the other. A sort of 'forward' thinking,that doesn't get bogged down in 'left' or 'right'.

The character who engaged me the most was the Judge. How much of the Judge's opinions are actually yours? Is it hard for a writer to disassociate himself from his favourite character?

I would say, whenever the Judge (or any other character) offers a serious opinion (as opposed to a light-hearted or moody opinion) and that is not disproved by anything else in the story, then I as the author have supported it.

That's a very good question, about a writer's treatment of his or her favourite character. I think it is a little tricky. You have to make sure the character is not being given an easy ride just because you want him to 'win.' On the other hand you also have to be open about the fact that you are on his side. So on the one hand the danger is of creating a God-like character who is never wrong or embarrassed or defeated as all real people are. On the other hand, if you over-compensate and perversely make the character suffer, you're just shooting yourself in the foot.

So it is tricky, but being aware of this problem is half the battle won. Then you can try and correct yourself when you find you are going wrong.

A writer's first novel is often his/her most personal. That doesn't seem to be the case with you. (Is your life that uninteresting? Could you update us on your love life?)

Thanks Mami. But I certainly do use my own experiences for writing material. Not for the essential plot elements, but for details of setting, bits of conversation, and for characters. I think the extent to which imagination borrows from experience varies from writer to writer. Many writers are more personal than me, but many are also less. I guess that's just the way it is.
In re: the other questions, well there is nothing to report, so...
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Photograph Courtesy: Arun Sri Kumar (A.X.)

Dummies' Guide to Making Aloo Curry

Aloo Curry making is an art form. It works on imponderables and intangibles. One must understand the subtle nuances of the art to appreciate its complexities. The handing down of its recipe through the ages would even make for a extraordinary study in pedagogy. At some level, it is divine. It is oddly elevating. It helps the cook and the eater experience the Supreme Being.

Bullshit.

Aloo Curry making is easy. It is done quickly and you can hardly ever go wrong. Trust me, I talk from months of experience.

Before getting to the recipe itself, a few words of advice on cooking in general:

1. Don't panic. Cooking involves fireworks. Cooking involves burning, fermenting, soaking and all kinds of other dirty things. But, little can go badly wrong.
2. There is no definitive recipe for anything. Experimentation is the mother-in-law of invention (necessity being the mother).
3. Read the instructions fully and clearly before embarking. (I made this mistake the first time I ever made Rasam. I followed step-by-step instructions and I was very happy that the liquid smelt, looked and tasted like Rasam. Then, I reached the last instruction, "Put Dal." Bleddy, I hadn't even kept any Dal in the cooker.)
4. Lastly, learning to cook is like learning to use Windows. You'll learn more as you experiment more. Don't worry. There's always ctrl-alt-del. (In this case, the nearest Shanti Sagar or Darshini with Thali meals).
   

So, here's how you do it. Listen carefully, because you wont get these detailed instructions ever again:

1. You take some potatoes (4 medium-sized potatoes if you're alone - for two meals - it took me almost five aloo days to figure that quantity out.) in a little bowl. Wash them (Yes yes. One must be a little clean also.).
   
2. Then put some water in the bowl, and dunk the thing into the pressure cooker. (You may put your rice along with this - in a different bowl, duh. Or even dal. In a different bowl, duh.) (Amma says you can even add salt and manjapodi at this stage, but I'm not too fond of that system). Remember: There must be some water in the bottom of the pressure cooker. Two steel tumblers of water will do.
   
3. Close the pressure cooker. Put the whistle thingy.
4. Turn on the gas. (Crucial step. Don't miss.)
5. Rice usually takes 3-4 hoots of the whistle. So does aloo. So wait. After the first whistle, reduce the flame. I don't know scientific reasons for this, but do it anyway. This takes some time. Meanwhile, some possible hazards: (a) Safety valve burst: So, there's steam all over the place and your kitchen looks like one of Bangalore's pubs. This happens, I'm told, when the outlets for steam get blocked, or there isn't enough water in the cooker. Chill. Your local cooker guy can fix it in five minutes. You can continue boiling your aloo in any other vessel. (b) Whistle doesn't come: Wait, da. It takes a while. (c) Whistle is intermittent, not continuous: Just tap the handle. (d) Whistle doesn't stop: Just take a ladle and hit it down.
6. Now, wait. Patience is the key. Wait until all the hissing sound from the cooker dies down. This takes more time than you think it will. Once it is soundless, open the cooker.
   
7. Take the aloo vessel out using (what we call at home as an) idukki. (Apparently, it is called a Pakkad in Hindi. And 'Tongs' in English.) (See picture.)
8. Now, the aloo is too hot to be touched. Therefore, drain out the hot water, and pour cold water on it. (No, there's no need to fetch cold water from the fridge. Tap water will do.)
9. Now, peel the aloo. This is a litmus test. If you can peel it with your hands, then the aloo is boiled. Else, go back and boil it in a vessel.
10. Now, my favourite step. Cut the aloo. You can cut it 'as you please'. (Those are the exact words in the recipe I've written down from my Periamma's dictation.) I usually take out all my frustrations on the aloo at this stage. As the famous line goes, "Tum Sita ho. Ise Raavan samajhke maar. Tum Draupadi ho, Dushasan samajhke maar. Tum Kali ho, mahishasur mardini ho. Maar, maar." Yes. So cut it. As you please. Smaller the pieces, the better it cooks. But don't kill yourself trying to cut it too small. Medium size pieces will do.
    
11. Okay. Now comes the real cooking part. Take some oil (don't take too much, because it isn't good for you), some kadugu (small mustard seeds) and ulutham paruppu (urad dal = white lentils?) in a kadai. Put it on the gas. Turn on the gas. Wait for it to start bursting. Once it sounds like a muted 100-wala, put your cut aloo into it. (You may, at this stage add cut tomatoes, onions. But it involves cutting.)
    
12. Then add a pinch of manjappodi (haldi) and salt (uppu/ namak) and chilli powder. (I prefer MTR rasam powder to chilli powder. You can even try green chillies. Or if you're really experimental, the podi you use with your dosa/idli. Don't try pepper.)
    
13. MIX. Mix till your hands hurt. Mix till your eyes water. Mix till the last rays of the evening sun disappear to make way for quaint moonlight. Okay. Serious. Mix till all the aloo gets the same colour. The same reddish-brownish-yellow. Leave it in the kadai. Count till twenty in the 'tic-tic-one' format. Turn off the gas. Pump up the jam.
    
14. There you have it! Your very own aloo curry!! (Oh, at the last stage, you can add some coriander leaves. I usually OD on this because I love coriander leaves. Else, you could squeeze a lemon.)
    

Man, I should write a cook book.