Before Sunr-eyes!

The other day, when I watched Before Sunrise (again), I spent the entire movie watching their eyes. Through quick glances, fluttery glimpses, stares, glares and glints, their story unfolded, and the movie was even more enchanting than it used to be!

I love that stupendous scene in the listening room of a record store - their eyes truly rule it. The record starts playing, a guitar plays a repetitive string of chords, they look at each other briefly, smile and look away immediately. The scene is slightly claustrophobic (they're closer than they are comfortable being?) - the low, close camera angle, them leaning against the corner of a presumably small room, music all around them. They turn away from each other for a few seconds, and slowly, her gaze sets upon him. A smile is beginning to develop on her face when he suddenly turns to her. Deftly, she looks away - as if she had never been looking at him at all.

Now, he looks in her direction - his expression shows that he likes looking at her. Julie Delpy's cuteness sure is infectious. The song starts, she smiles to herself. He smiles, his eyes are still on her. She turns to him suddenly and catches his stare, he turns away uncomfortably and there is an impish smile on her face. They both look away at the soundproof walls around them.

It's her turn now. She barely looks in his direction when he turns to her. Has he caught her? The moment is too brief for her to really know. Then, he gets a good, long look her her as she pretends to take in the music, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes a couple of times. For a second, their eyes meet. They smile, but it is a fleeting one. Then, they're back to playing their game. She looks longingly while he stares at the ceiling and turns away just as he turns to her, he does the same, they flash slightly longer smiles at each other just as the singer croons, "I have never wanted you so much/ Come here." Then, the scene cuts to them walking down a road.

The scene in the listening room isn't more than a minute long, but their relationship strengthens from this point onwards - it is almost as if that closeness, those glimpses and that music somehow convinced them that their idea might not have been such a bad one after all. Maybe, it gave them time to be with each other, but not talk - something they didn't have until then.

Later that evening, they're sitting in a church (one of the few places open at that time of the night) and they've just had an aimless conversation about how she feels like a very old woman, and how he feels like a thirteen-year-old boy. She jokes about how, earlier, on the ferris wheel, it was a very old girl kissing a very young boy. She finds it funnier than he does. Their eyes meet, his hand reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear.

He asks her, "Have you heard about the Quakers? The Quaker religion?"
She tells him she hasn't.
He says, "I went to this Quaker wedding once. It was fantastic." He goes on, "This couple comes and kneels down in front of the whole congregation, and nobody says a word unless they feel that God moves them to say it. Then, after about an hour of," a slight pause, he turns, fixes his eyes on her, "staring at each other, they're married."
"That's beautiful. I like that," she says.
He's staring at her now, watching her eyes, hoping she will also stare at his. Three or four seconds pass, she looks away. The look on his face tells us that he has realised that they still have a long way to go.

Somehow, they traverse that path very fast, for by morning, they cannot take their eyes off each other. They hear a harpsichord play from a house on the street, they look through the window to find a man actually playing it, peering nervously into the notation in a book. They watch him for a bit, and they launch into a brief, impromptu dance to the music. He asks her if she has ever danced to a harpsichord, she says, "Of course not..." He twirls her and releases her. She stands a foot-and-a-half away from him now.

Their eyes are locked, and he says, "Wow."
"What?" she asks, unsurely.
He puts his hands on her shoulders and says, "I'm going to take your picture... So that I don't forget you, or... or... all this."
"Ok. Me too."

Then, they face each other and just stare at each other, like the Quaker wedding, soaking in each other, till their mind cannot forget the scene. Their eyes look tired, because they haven't slept all night, but there's still a freshness about their gaze, there is longing, nostalgia for just the previous day, there is this urgency, there is even a touch of sadness. The photograph they take is not of that second, or that street, or of their faces, or the harpsichord-player - it is a photograph of an entire day - of the train, the men in the cow-play, the record store, the poet, the church, the concert in the bar, the wine, of making love. The photograph captures the fact that they will probably never be together like this again, and yet, that they are just where they want to be.
***

(I just realised that two of my favourite movies are set in Vienna. I wonder if that is just a coincidence.)

Break an Egg

Here are some choice comments and observations on Wake Up, Sid (in bullet point format for easy reading):

• The Director seems to have watched Dil Chahta Hai too many times (which is not a bad thing). And I think he liked parts of Lakshya also. So, there's either tons of internalisation (a la Kavya Vishwanathan) or lots of nudge-nudge-wink-wink-check-out-this-tribute to DCH (that scene where Ranbir Kapoor tells someone on the phone - "Mard ban. Be a man!").

• Every father seems to tell his son to "kal se office aa jaao" at the breakfast table after the son has scraped through (or, as in this case, not scraped through) college. We saw it in DCH, in Hero No. 1 and so on and so forth. Moral: chilled out sons must avoid the breakfast table.

• I have no issues with understated drama. But no drama? Instead, a series of highly convenient (non) events - not my tumbler of filter coffee. Even Sooraj Barjatya films are slightly edgier than this.

• Do all rich kids drink orange juice in the morning? If so, I want to be a rich kid. Yum. Orange Juice.

• I want to understand Konkona Sen's revenue model. The way she moved into a new home, painted and decorated it in a highly un-struggling-writerly manner even without having gotten her job was a bit much. Then, she just allowed Sid to stay with her, not thinking of how she would feed him two square meals a day. Maybe she was also a rich kid masquerading as a non-rich kid.

• Wasn't the Background Score highly elevatorly? Yet, it failed to elevate. (Ok. Fine. Bad joke. Sorry.)

• The paper birds in on the wires in the house represent the fact that the inhabitants are aware of the fact that they can fly, but they prefer sitting on a wire. If this were a Fellini film, I'm sure this interpretation would be welcomed with open arms in the psuedo circles. Unfortunately, this just seems to be the art director being arty and the director going along with the idea.

• Am I the only one who found it significant that Sid had major senti feelings towards the rain and his father's company manufactured showers?

• Is there any reason why one would cry at the end of the movie? (Other than crying out of sheer frustration.)
***

(a) No. I didn't hate the movie this much. Feeling slightly uncharitable currently.
(b) Oh, super super girl, Francis Buchanan (swalpa gender-identity-crisis) has a hilarious blog. Go read.

I am sorry if this post comes across as a rant. I don't have the energy to be funny right now.
***

For the last three months, I've been subject to Tamil serials in the evenings - from when I come back to work until ten-thirty. Thankfully, work ensures I get home only by nine-thirty on most days. Tamil serials are loud, brash, depressing. Characters only show the most disgusting emotions - of hate, jealousy, taking offence (a la the Culture Vultures), anger, 'honour', revenge.

The "bad" are intolerably bad - they always (and I mean ALWAYS) talk as if they're scheming (For instance, there was this scene where an evil mother-in-law was asking the cook to get milk for her granddaughter. She somehow made even that line sound evil!). Usually in the pettiest of manners. For instance, there is this lady who is behaving like she's unwell so that she can take advantage of her divorced daughter-in-law who takes pity on her. There's this other lady (in another serial) who (with her son) is trying to play some really really random politics in her brother's house - like creating a huge fuss when her nephew buys some expensive (Rs. 6000) jewellery for his wife. There was this other scene where the man's family troubles his pregnant wife only because she's earning and her husband is jealous of the whole deal. They complain that the coffee she's made is watery, that the cups in her house are too small, that the house is too uncomfortable.

Then there's all the ridiculous corporate battles they fight. Where they kill each other off without any trouble or remorse. Nobody is ever happy. Nobody is ever nice to another person. Except the VICTIM. The VICTIM is a central character who is simply too nice to everyone around her. (No, the VICTIM is never a man. A correct reflection of society, although a bit exaggerated.) Her niceness is always taken advantage of. People are always screwing her over. Always. And she still finds the strength to be intolerably nice to everyone. Only, she cries so much that you'd prefer her just getting screwed over instead of trying to be nice about it.

I wont even begin on the gender issues - every stereotype is reinforced. The thaali sentiment, dowry (In one serial going on right now, a wedding is stalled due to dowry issues, and not one voice is raised against the practice itself. Not even in the households watching these serials, I bet.) (Ok. Right now, as I type, the mother and daughter are having major issues because the daughter spilt rasam, thereby creating food shortages in the household.) Then there's the ubiquitous chinna veedu (literally, small house - "second family" of a man). Everyone seems to have one. And the domestic political possibilities of such a situation seem endless. There are always people to be jealous about, people to cry for, people to kill, illegitimacy and status to squabble over.

The music - can it be a little less harmful on the ear? Slightly?

I know that Tamilians as a class are highly petty people. But even by those standards, these serials are a bit much. Surely there are better stories to tell, no?

Eccentric and Happy

Based on vague facts. Largely fiction. Written partly in 2007 (found the first few paragraphs in my gmail account), and finished in the last two hours.
***

I picked out a maroon crayon from my box and began colouring the shirt when I felt a hand twisting my ear. I turned around to see my Geometry teacher, a short, fit man with a Chaplin moustache frowning, as his right hand turned my ear almost upside down.

"What are you drawing in my class?" he bellowed, his other hand reaching for my notebook. He picked it up, still holding my ear and examined the drawing. If he was a man with any ability to look at the larger picture, he would've noticed that I was a natural artist. He would've noticed that I had a eye for picking the right features to exaggerate and a hand that drew bold, clear lines. He would've also noticed that my lettering was sharp, readable and yet not print-like. In other words, I was an ace cartoonist.

One cant blame him for being thoroughly disgusted though. He was staring at a cartoon of our physics teacher - a tall man, with longish, straggly hair, slight stubble, luxuriant moustache, sunken eyes and a slight hunch standing with one foot off the ground with a bottle in one hand, looking unnaturally happy. The word, "Kuduka" was written in Kannada at the bottom of the page in cheery red letters.

Our physics teacher was a kuduka - an alcoholic. It was an open secret. Hell, it wasn't even a secret - he sometimes came to class smelling of cheap rum! Yet, our geometry teacher reacted just the way he was scripted to react. He tore the page off my book, folded it up, put it in his pocket, slapped me twice, told me off with an unintelligible roar and said he would let my physics teacher deal with the matter.
***

Each time I think of my physics teacher, I am flooded by this vivid image of him announcing that he wouldn't teach anything that day, and proceeding to pace up an down class with a smirk on his face, lost in thought as the class created a fish-market-like ruckus around him. (I have often wondered if fish markets were actually this noisy. Just like the tune in which school kids sang, "Good Morning, Teacher", the fish market metaphor seemed to transcend generations and geographies.) He did that often. He also sometimes announced in his lovely, deep, singsong voice, "Go to the playground! Go to the library! Do whatever you want!"

On days like this, we would get bored of ourselves. Someone would ask him, "Sir! Tell us a story." He would look around the class dreamily and say, "I know no stories!" At twelve, we found it hard to believe that a teacher would no know stories. So, we probed, "Sir, what countries have you seen?" This is where our physics teacher had an advantage over every other teacher in our school. The rest of them read stories off books and told them to us. He had lived those stories.

"I was in Vienna for five years, working in a laboratory there," he would start and then proceed to tell us about the wet, cobbled streets, the old European construction, the art, the sculpture, the coffee shops, the waffles, the pancakes, the ice coffee (to a twelve-year-old growing up in small-town Karnataka in the nineties, coffee that was not hot enough to burn a hole in your tongue was quite a novel concept). He told us about this old man who walked the streets in the evenings in Vienna selling balloons. "He was the nicest man in all Vienna," our teacher told us, "He had this dirty beard - it looked like that broom!" he said, laughing loudly. "I used to talk theoretical physics with him. He never understood much, but he listened to me with great interest." Each evening, my teacher walked with his old man around Vienna, selling balloons and discussing physics. Each day the old man took the teacher to a different part of town, an unknown corner, a new bar, through a different bylane. The old man also made lovely sketches with a broken pencil in an old notebook. My teacher asked him many times for a sketch the man had made of the road on which my teacher lived. "I never part with my drawings," he said. When my teacher had to leave Vienna, he took the old man's address. "I wrote to him. Twice or thrice. And he wrote back. But after that, I didn't get any replies from him for seven years." We feared the worst. The man must have died, we thought. "Then, one day, there was this huge parcel for me from Vienna. When I opened it, I saw this framed sketch of that road I lived on! The glass had been broken in transit, but the clarity of his vision remained intact." With it, our teacher told us, there was a note, "My father died last evening. In his will, he gave this away to you." 'You still have that drawing?" we asked. "It must be somewhere in my room," he said.

There were more stories - of how he found himself in South America with invalid papers and didn't even know what country he was in, of how he hurt himself trying to imitate a kangaroo in Australia, of the magnificence of the Grand Canyon ("Nothing even remotely as humbling!"), of seeing a Gandhi monument in South Africa, of winning a bottle of champagne in a roadside fair in Portugal, of Casablanca, of the pyramids of Egypt, of the Middle East, of China, Japan, Canada and even Iceland.

"I won a silver medal for my research in the US," he once told us. He explained what his research was on. But beyond vague references to atoms and other really small particles we couldn't see, we didn't comprehend most of what he said. I still don't know what his research was exactly on, or what he won medals for. I heard from someone that his research hit a bad dead-end, and he was devastated. But nothing more. I asked my uncle who was a physicist if he knew my physics teacher. My uncle had never heard of him, although his colleague muttered vaguely about having read one of his papers years ago, "No one really knew if he was right."
***

My physics teacher sat in the common staff room drawing shapes on his table with chalk, pausing every now and then to write out an equation. I was summoned to explain that drawing, and I entered nervously. He ordered me to sit and wait. No student ever sat in the staff room - we respectfully stood and did what teachers asked us to do. So, when he asked me to sit, I stood at his table, head facing the ground. He looked up and said again, "Sit." I sat in an empty plastic chair.

After ten minutes of writing on his table, he said, "You draw really well." I went over that statement in my head a hundred times to see if there was any sarcasm in it. There wasn't. Two teachers walked into what was until then an empty staff room. "I'm supposed to shout at you now," my physics teacher continued without noticing his colleagues, "And tell you that you need to learn to respect your elders. I am expected to tell you that a teacher is God. But you know all that." He paused. The other two teachers looked bewildered.

He stood up and said, "Come with me."

He took me to this messy room at the back of the school where he lived. His beige shirt was drying on the rope in a corner. He would wear it the next day, and the maroon one would hang on the rope. There were books everywhere in his room - dusty volumes of physics textbooks, on heat, electromagnetism, dynamics, light, the quantum theory; detective novels of all sorts - from the Arthur Conan Doyle to Agatha Christie to all those noiry American writers (he even had a couple of Indian detective novels that straddled that thin line between detective fiction and soft porn!); lots of books on Vedanta and Bhagavad Gita (he dismissed those with, "God and I don't get along. Still, I need to know what my enemies are up to."); and some stray history books.

"All these are yours?" I asked.
His eyes twinkled as he said, "The physics books are. The others are from the school library. None of you ever go there anyway!" It was true. We only went to the school library to hide from teachers when we hadn't done our homework. The last time I went there, I flicked The Complete Plays of Oscar Wilde.

He took The Red Harvest off a chair and asked me to sit down. He made some space for himself on his bed and sat on it, leaning against the wall. "What class are you in?" he asked.
"Eighth standard..."
"Ok. So, in two years, you'll be asked to decide what you want to do for the rest of your life." He said that and went silent. I didn't know where this conversation was going. He was silent for a very long time. A lizard on his wall ran all around the room twice before he spoke again. "If you like to draw... tell them you want to draw!"

Again, he went silent. I didn't know if I was expected to leave at this point. After a while, I asked him, "You chose to teach?"
He laughed. "I hate teaching! I was doing a lot of research. People called me all over the world to speak on my work."
"Then what happened?"
"It all came to a standstill suddenly. Wrong hypothesis. No results. I was a bit depressed. I immersed myself more into work to try and salvage something. In the process, my family lost patience. My wife and daughter left me."
I was not sure I wanted to hear all this. But I was stuck. And he was extremely open about his life. Yet, I felt, strangely, like an intruder.
"So, I came back here. Trying to live as close to them as possible now. Teaching here..."
"You gave up your research?"
"It was going nowhere anyway!"

When I left his room that day (after he made me draw four portraits of himself), I felt inexplicably happy. His mood lightened very quickly and he joked about all the other teachers. I made cartoons of them for him. He filed them away in this folder he fetched from his cupboard.
***

For the next few months, we were great friends. I never grasped physics very well, but we had enough to talk about. I spent many afternoons in his room talking about literature and school politics. The summer holidays came and I went to Bangalore and Madras. The next academic year, I found he wasn't there. He had quit the school and shifted to Mangalore. No one really knew where he was or what he was doing.

I found out a week later that his wife had found a new job in Mangalore.
***

I bumped into my physics teacher in Mangalore almost twelve years later. He didn't look a day older. But I had changed beyond recognition. It took him some time to place me, but when he did, his face turned into the brightest of smiles. We talked and laughed about many things in a nearby restaurant over dosa and coffee. He only told me he worked in a college there teaching physics to post-graduate students, "The library here is better and is more unused!"

"What do you do now?" he asked.
Almost guiltily I told him I worked for an investment bank. "I still have your drawings!" he said, "I look at them every now and then..."

He didn't volunteer any information about his wife and daughter, and I didn't ask. But he seemed very happy - much happier than he was in my school.

When we parted, I asked him for his address or phone number. He just said, "Nah. Remember me like this. Eccentric and happy. Who knows when I'll turn eccentric and sad again?"
***

The Supreme Court Speaks on Sex (Part I)

Our Supreme Court has been around for sixty years and in this interim, it has given expert opinions on various issues of utmost importance. Recently, I started looking for the Supreme Court's orders on sex. It started because I remembered this famous judgment I read years ago. Phul Singh v. State of Haryana (for those who have access to legal databases, the citation is AIR 1980 SC 249). When I read the order again, I realised it was far funnier than I remembered it.

Justice Krishna Iyer, in his inimitable style starts his order thus:

"A philanderer of 22, appellant Phul Singh, overpowered by sex stress in excess, hoisted himself into his cousin's house next door, and in broad day-light, overpowered the temptingly lonely prosecutrix of twenty four, Pushpa, raped her in hurried heat and made an urgent exit having fulfilled his erotic sortie."

After setting out some more facts, he goes on:

"We must, however, direct our attention in a different penological direction. For sentencing efficacy in cases of lust-loaded criminality cannot be simplistically assumed by award of long incarceration, for often that remedy aggravates the malady. Punitive therapeutics must be more enlightened than the blind strategy of prison severity where all that happens is sex starvation, brutalisation, criminal companionship, versatile vices through bio-environmental pollution, dehumanised cell drill under 'zoological' conditions and emergence, at the time of release, of an embittered enemy of society and its values with an indelible stigma as convict stamped on him-a potentially good person 'successfully' processed into a hardened delinquent, thanks to the penal illiteracy of the Prison System. The Court must restore the man.

"A hyper-sexed homo sapiens cannot be habilitated by humiliating or harsh treatment, but that is precisely the perversion of unreformed Jail Justice which some criminologists have described as the crime of punishment.

"It may be marginally extenuatory to mention that modern Indian conditions are drifting into societal permissiveness on the carnal front promoting proneness to pornos in life, what with libidinous 'brahmacharis', womanising public men, lascivious dating and mating by unwed students, sex explosion in celluloid and book stalls and corrupt morals reaching a new 'high' in high places. The unconvicted deviants in society are demoralisingly large and the State has, as yet, no convincing national policy on female flesh and sex sanity. We hope, at this belated hour, the Central Government will defend Indian Womanhood by stamping out voluptuous meat markets by merciless criminal action...

"This reflection apart, we must, as part of the sentencing package, design a curative course for this prisoner to rid him of his aphrodisiac overflow and restore him into safe citizenship."

Sire, take a bow. Now to cleanse myself (a libidinous brahmachari) of bio-environmental pollution.

(I have discovered some other gems. Will put them up when I get the time to mine them and produce relevant extracts.)

Half-Dream

This image has been kicking around in my head for a while now, getting clearer by the day. By the night, rather. The same half-dream, over and over again. My new bright red car on top of a nameless cliff overlooking a nameless city. It is well past midnight. Dim streetlights flicker. The odd car, the odd lorry on a distant road, moving silently.

The doors of my car are open. There is music playing from inside the car. This music. I sit on the cliff, legs dangling and watch the city till sunrise.

A Personal, yet Performing Art

Mining the internet's Carnatic music resources and databases, I came across a curious recording of one of Mali's speeches at a concert in Bangalore. After announcing his retirement early in the speech, he proceeds to tell the audience that he had become a musician by accident and that until then, he had been performing only out of necessity. He then says that when he feels like playing, he will let people know, and that they can come and listen to him. "Free of cost," he adds, and ends his speech with an emphatic, "I've had enough. Saakaithu!"

Indian classical music is an extremely personal art. While an artist can (and often does) produce music mechanically, it is only when she looks within herself and withdraws from the world around her that she produces something truly special. In other words, you might sing a really good Bhairavi by using standard phrases and keeping the typical outline in mind and play around with svaras and patterns. But if the Bhairavi has to be exceptional, you need to lose yourself in its vastness, understand each svara, explore each gamakam, delve into the mysteries of its two daivatas, revel in the magic of that unbound, floating nishada.

Despite the personal nature of the art, the Carnatic concert stage is not viewed as a necessary economic activity to keep artistes going, but as the pinnacle of artistic achievement. The concert is not about exhibition of talent as much as it is about expression and exchange of ideas. The kacheri is a spontaneous melting pot of styles and traditions. Each of the artistes comes from his own school, understands and performs music in his own way. In other words, each of them has gone through a highly personal journey, and they get together to exchange notes on what they have seen. While this can lead to contrasting, or sometimes conflicting approaches, the intention is always to create synergy.

If the Carnatic concert is such an enriching experience for the performers, then what is the reason for Mali's outburst? Why did he crib and complain constantly? Why did he avoid and evade engagements?

We are forgetting another factor - the audience. The kacheri is not just a place where four or five musicians jam together. If this were so, they could have got together at one of their houses. (Frankly, the sound systems take away more than they add.) The stage is a place where they play for listeners, and sometimes, these listeners can come in the way of the performers' art. It is when a singer, in the middle of her probing Dhanyasi alapana, where he is exchanging deep phrases with his violinist, finds the mama in the third row snoring away, two others peering into their cell phones and wristwatches, and large groups at the back exiting lazily, that she asks questions of herself. Who does an artist perform for? Is her art an outpouring of what is within her? Or is it something she offers for the audience's pleasure? Is her art then moulded by her audience, tweaked to their tastes, sculpted by their desires?

Perhaps, she wants to devote three hours to meditate on the myriad forms of the kaishiki nishaadam - its quirky appearance in Bilahari, its amorphous mix of the most wondrous sounds in Bhairavi, the striking double-use in Ritigowla. Maybe she wants to go one step further and sing Ahiri, Dhanyasi, Thodi and Punnagavarali in succession to put across the finer distinctions between the four nishadas. What holds many artistes back in taking upon such an exciting assignment is the fear that to a not-so-discerning listener, the concert might become monotonous.

Planning for a concert then becomes a major exercise. The artist often ensures variety in selection of pieces - a mix of shuddha and prati madhyama ragas, janya and janaka ragas, contrasting ragas, songs in different talas, varying tempos and emotions. The next level of mixing is ensuring various composers and eras have been represented, all languages have been given their due, all compositional forms have made their appearance. Often, the artist does this mechanically. She feels like singing Shankarabharanam as the main raga, she will choose a contrasting Ranjani is the other important raga. She will then sandwich an Anandabhairavi between the two and plan her concert around it. Her personal expression is shaped by what the audience wants to hear. She should, maybe, pause and reflect on whether such perfunctory planning is worth the audience she gets for it.

Even so, the kacheri does not deserve to be belittled in this manner. It is, and it will remain, the most sacred space in a Carnatic musician's life. It is a challenging and rewarding activity. It involves great concentration on one's music and an acute understanding of the listener's response to it. Unlike an exam, you cannot scratch out a wrong answer and write it again. In other words, Carnatic music does not live and breed in homes or through recording studios - it comes alive on stage.

It is when faced with this dilemma that many artistes lose their sense of balance. Some choose to dilute their music to attract audiences - some such experiments succeed, most fail. Some others make no compromises - they perform for themselves and themselves alone. Mali's was, perhaps, an extreme case - even as a child, he played many concerts to support a large family. As he grew older, he often performed only when he desperately needed the money. Still, he was a fiercely independent performer, playing whatever he felt like whenever he felt like it. He would go through some of the most intellectual laya gymnastics (alienating most of his audience in the process) and then play a Bach piece with a nervous violinist following him! Even with all this, he was wildly popular.

Without an audience accommodating his eccentricities, he might never have been this famous - his imagination, his aesthetic and his techniques that have vastly enriched our music might never have been known outside limited circles. Maybe, audiences today need to be this understanding. They should, once in a while, forgive an artiste for embarking on journeys that might not be to their taste. In an old MD Ramanathan recording of Mivalla Gunadosha in Anandabhairavi, he sings the chittaswara about six times - each time offering a new spin on the same swaras. Even if these spins seem as dubious and mysterious as Anil Kumble's, the audience must be willing to be bowled over. This will, surely, make the kacheri a far freer, more intelligent space.