Two Disappearances - Part III

Sorry for the delay. For those who don't know, all parts are aggregated in the label called 'the two disappearances'.
***
Untitled

As high school girls in Neyveli, we were unabashedly romantic. Brought up hopelessly mawkish mythology, drama and cinema, we believed that one day, a man would walk into our lives and change it forever. We would love him passionately, deeply, he would love us back; then we would bear his children, bring them up, care for them, get them married; we would weep when he dies, and he would if we died before him. Life taught us that romances, marriages and relationships are far more complicated. In this story, though, I am only seventeen years and eight months old. Forgive me if I'm a little naive.

I remember only the strangest details from that summer afternoon. I wore an olive green sari with a darker green border. Don't blame my aesthetic sensibilities - my mother bought it for me. That day, she also made my curd rice too milky - she overestimated the heat's curdling abilities. She also miscalculated the amount of time it would take for me to come from Neyveli to Thanjavur. I reached the station five hours before my train to Madras. My Chitappa, a lawyer, had some work in Thanjavur escorted me to the station and left me to my fate.

When a train slowed down at the station, accompanied by its hoot, I noticed a beard and grey eyes. I looked away immediately, because I could feel their gaze on me and it made me a little uneasy. Still, I wanted to see them once more. For a second, I toyed with the idea of getting on the train and seeking those eyes. But I contained that desire. The train began moving.

Like they do in the movies, I stood up suddenly, picked up my bag and ran with the train until I caught up with the nearest door. I was about to leap into the compartment when I felt the gaze on me again. This time, it was from my left. When I turned to the platform, I saw those very grey eyes, adorning a six-foot-two-inch-frame, a handsome face, long, unkempt hair and the prettiest of beards. I froze. Those eyes looked unfazed, and that face broke into a faint smile.

He asked me in a clear, young voice, "Looking for me?"

I was flooded by another image. Of a temple in Neyveli, gas lamps and a moonless night. Of laughing faces, waving hands, swaying heads. I could hear the music again - a clear, young voice, its clarity and tone untarnished by the high notes or speeds it was trying to negotiate. I felt that high again, that meaningless rush of romantic love!

"Are you who I think you are?" I asked, nervously.
He was.

The train had left by then. The platform was deserted again. There might have been a wind blowing, one of those comforting winds, or that might just be my romantic mind adding details to the event. I brought it to his notice that he had missed his train. He said, "I didn't even know where it was going." I looked at him incredulously. He only grinned.

"Let's go somewhere?" he asked.
I considered that offer for a second, before asking, "I know a place. Are you feeling up to a walk?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yes?"
"Your name?"
"Janani."
He liked my name, I think, for he repeated it with a certain fondness. "I'm Siva..."
"I know."

We first took a bus. I rested my head on his shoulder. I felt his initial uneasy excitement at my boldness, but soon he was comfortable, and leaned against me. My love story was playing out just as I had imagined it. We spoke a lot, of our families, of our friends, of childhoods, likes, peeves, idiosyncrasies, and music. He spoke of his music with a slight tinge of pomposity. He had the air of someone who believed he was the greatest, but wanted to hide this belief from the world.

I asked him, "What are you doing these days?"
"You've ever heard of wandering musicians?" I nodded. He said, "I'm not one. I'm just a musician in hiding!"
I asked him what that meant. "My brothers are trying to get me married off to my neighbour. She's a sweet girl. But I can't live with someone who's just sweet, no?"
"And that's why you ran away?"
He paused for a moment, before he said, "I was hoping I'd run into someone like you."

Our trek involved walking through paddy fields, a marsh, a thicket and finally to the summit of a secluded hill. It led to a little settlement of no more than thirty families. It was almost ten in the night when we reached there - the entire journey had taken us six hours.

He asked me, again, what we were doing there. I told him, again, to be patient.

I led him to a house from which the most haunting Vagadeeswari ensued. We entered the little hall, where an old man was playing the veena, with his eyes closed and six other men listened. If the artiste sensed our entrance, he didn't show it.

We sat at the back and soaked in the taanam. It was the most slow, detailed, heavy taanam we had ever heard. The old man gave each swara such care and attention, they seemed to come alive. He played phrase after phrase around the rishabham, grandharam and the madhyamam, going back and forth, up and down, sliding and staccato, over each of those notes, slipping in and out of a rhythm. My grey-eyed hero watched in disbelief. His aesthetic sensibilities, his theatrical style were all being dismissed by an old, frail man on a veena. The entire room was in a trance when the veena began booming in the ati-mandhra taanam. The variety and quality of the sounds of the veena were beyond anything he had heard before. In that small space, one could hear the subtlest of the veena's tones. And the old man had much to convey through the faintest of touches, and the subtlest of flourishes.

When the taanam ended, the old man fumbled for the glass of water that was behind him. His student, seated next to him, gave him the glass. Siva realised the man was blind. The man suddenly asked, "Janani is here? At this hour?"

I replied, "Yes... I'm with a friend. He sings."
I could feel Siva's nervousness when the old man asked, "Sing for us? Is this sruti okay for you?"
Siva hummed a Thodi phrase and said, "Yes. This sruti is perfect."
The old man said, "Can you sing Ritigowla instead of Thodi?"

Siva started with a striking tara sthayi phrase in Ritigowla and started adding layer after layer of sangatis over it; like garlands. The old man exclaimed, "Bale!" Siva's imagination was relentless - like cyclonic downpour! The little audience had never heard anything of that sort before. In ten minutes though, he was done. Exhausted by his own high, he was panting at the end of the alapana. He collected himself before launching into, "Janani Ninnuvina", the grey eyes twinkling naughtily in my direction each time he said "Janani". It was nearly midnight when his Ritigowla ended.

The old man asked us if we had eaten anything. We hadn't. Everyone in the hall walked with the man to a nearby house, where his sister fed us. When we were done, we settled down in the courtyard there. The old man started again. It was Ritigowla, again. Siva, who was chatty, happy and proud until then, went silent. If his Ritigowla rode on its sheer vitality, this one had pathos. Siva's was rough, even brash, this one was smooth, yet heavy. Siva snaked around the raga, like a young man on a motorbike through heavy traffic, the man drove along effortlessly, like the traffic didn't exist at all.

It was morning when we were done with the music session. Siva didn't dare sing again that night. One of the men invited us to stay with him. When we walked towards his house, Siva pulled me by my hand into a bylane and said, "Thank you..." Those grey eyes, in the early morning sun, moist, staring into my own, conveyed love and gratefulness in equal measure.

(This is a short story in Tamil by noted writer, P. Srivaralakshmi, who wrote under the psuedonym 'Janani'. The original, untitled, was found amongst the author's papers after her death and translated into English by Vasudev Iyer.)
***

"What happened to her?"
"We stayed in that village for almost a month. That veena player, Shanmugasundaram, taught both of us. We were nearly married, when her family caught up with her. They took her away..."
"You didn't go looking for her?"
"I went to Neyveli, where she claimed to be from. No one there knew any Janani!"
"You never met her again?"
"I'm sure I did, although she behaved like she was seeing me for the first time."
***

Nethra called Ajith excitedly, "Dude! I went to this book launch by this guy called Vasudev Iyer. He's translated these short stories by women writers in Tamil. As in, he's translated women's writing in Tamil to English... Short stories."'
"Okay?"
"Wait. The point is, there is this story... It is exactly the one that NV Mani told you..."
***

"There are some things I should tell you," Vasudev Iyer said, sipping on his Cappucino, "This piece was not very well written, I did a lot of editing, a lot of adding to bring it to a publishable form. My guess is that it was never intended to be published. A personal diary of sorts, I think..."
"And it ends there?"
"Rather abruptly, yes. A slightly pointless story, I know..." he said, and added, "God. Why don't they serve filter coffee here?"

After a brief silence, Ajith asked, "Then why did you include that in the anthology?"
"It seemed interesting, the idea. And it was rare and unpublished. I got it through her grand-nephew. No one's read it before. And it gives an insight into a young girl's mind..." Nethra's expression of contempt deserved to be photographed.
"How true is it? Any idea?"
"Srivaralakshmi lived in Bombay, though she grew up in Neyveli. She married someone who worked there and moved with him. Whether she met any musician when she was young is a mystery. No one remembers such a story, although some old man mentioned something about her wedding being sudden."
Nethra asked Ajith, "But if she died in Bombay when she was thirty, Mani couldn't have met her again..."
***

"You met her again?" Ajith's voice said through the recorder.
"Almost twelve years later." Mani's replied.
"Where?" Shankar's asked.
"That's a story for another day. I'm tired now," Mani's said.
"When?"
"I'll call you..." he said, and added, "I hope you will not publish these stories about women? I'll tell you enough about music. You can write about that..."

Ajith turned off the recorder.
***

That night, when Shankar rolled out his mattress on the floor, next to his teacher's bed, he couldn't help but wonder what Mani must have been like when he was younger. By the time Shankar met him, Mani was nearly seventy - he had just about retired, and Shankar thought of him as a musical sanyasi. He had never seen Mani talk about anything else with any passion or conviction. To think that he might have had a girlfriend, or even that he had women on his mind at some point was vaguely disturbing.

Ajith sat by his laptop, transcribing the interview. He heard the part about the woman over and over to see if there were any more hints on her identity. What did Mani mean when he said he had met her again? Was she his spunky grand-aunt who left their house suddenly? The story seemed to suggest she could have been, but some of the facts didn't fit.

Ajith's paati, Sharada, thought of her cousin endlessly that evening. The orphaned Saraswathi and she were the only two girls amongst eight boys in her house. Growing up together, they were co-conspirators in everything they did (they were even named after the same Goddess!), until Saraswathi committed a crime that Sharada couldn't be a part of. It was a continuing crime that lasted for years, but Saraswathi behaved like she did no wrong. It consumed her in the end, Sharada believed, as she breathed her last in a hamlet near Kodaikanal, away from all her friends and family. Sharada went to Ajith's room twice to see what Ajith was writing, but only saw Facebook on his laptop.

Mani, meanwhile, slept peacefully.
***

To continue.

Two Disappearances - Part II

Continued from here.

***
It was only when the bus left that Ajith realised he had gotten off one stop too early. He had to walk to the next stop now. This realisation coincided with another message from Nethra, 'dude, fifteen minutes...' His brisk walk graduated to a trot and soon turned into a sprint. He crossed a set of shopping complexes - typical Pondy Bazaar complexes with lots of small shops that sold fake mobile phone accessories (selling Noika, Panasoanic, Philiphs and other leading brands), computer parts, cheap clothes, expensive clothes, cheap glasses, expensive glasses, housed a watch mechanic or a photo-framer ('God Pictures and All Other Kinds of Framing'), a 'mens only' barber (with a/c and 'Style Cutting and Cropping'), a dry cleaner ('Devi Dry Cleaners - Clean as White'). Then, he reached an intersection that had a potti kadai where he stopped and asked for directions to the Big Bazaar. The man with his paan-filled mouth just pointed in a general direction without saying anything. Ajith ran past a petrol bunk, crossed what seemed like a small intersection that couldn't handle the traffic and sighted the Big Bazaar on his left. Nethra gave him only very vague directions, "It's a juice shop. I don't know what it's called. It's either before or after the Big Bazaar. I'm not sure. Oh wait. I think it is after. Because I usually walk along the flower market to get there... No. Wait.. I think it's before. I'm confusing it with the flower market image... Actually, I have no clue. Just get to the Big Bazaar and find the nearest juice shop."

As it turned out, the shop was behind the flower market, after the Big Bazaar. Nethra was there, her juice nearly finished. She pointed to the clock on her phone as soon as he reached.
He muttered an apology to which she said, "Every time, bastard."
"Hey," Ajith protested, "I have an excuse today. These musicians talk too much."
Nethra smiled. She was about to say something when the waiter arrived at their table. "Watermelon juice," Ajith declared.
"Watermelon ille, saar."
Ajith peered into the menu and spotted a '5-fruits cocktail' that he promptly ordered. The waiter replied, "Only four fruits today. Watermelon ille."
Nethra laughed, "So drink four fruits cocktail..."
They looked at the waiter, who, after consideration, said, "Saar, billing will still be for five fruits cocktail."

Ajith nodded his approval to the offer. The waiter left.

Ajith said, "What a place you've picked!"
"Heh. They let you sit here for as long as you want."
Ajith took a sip of her juice.
"So," Nethra asked, "How'd the interview go?"
"Oh, awesome. He's the strangest person I've ever met."
"Why?"
"Generally. He has these veils he hides behind, and makes it a point to let you know that he's hiding each time. He wants you to know that there are secrets, but he will not tell you what they are."
"Like what?"
"So, I asked him about his early gurus. Wait. Let me play you the recording of his answer..."
***

"Gurus... There were so many. Two or three men in the drama company knew a lot of Thyagaraja krithis... I learnt from them."
"Their names?"
"I don't even remember. I only called them 'Mama'."
"What was the name of the drama company?"
"Seethapati Drama Company."
***

Ajith paused the recording, "That is wrong. He was in the Sri Karthikeya Nataka Sangam. I read it in a book on his life by his student. He either lied to the student or he's lying now. Either way, he's being cagey about really random things."
Nethra paused for a moment before asking, "Dude, maybe he actually learnt from someone really big. But he thinks this 'self-taught' myth makes him cooler."
"Unlikely..."
***

"It was strange, you know. These teachers didn't know any theory in music. They didn't even know basic things like which swaras came in what ragas! But they sang the kritis perfectly. They would never, for instance, sing a Kedaragowla gamakam in a Yadukulakambhoji, or a Manji gamakam in a Bhairavi!"
"But how did you learn the, um... swara-structure of those ragas then?"
"By listening to concerts! It was all subconscious. I don't think I knew much of what I was singing back then. I just sang. I must've made many mistakes at that time, but people never told me anything... Except Musiri."
"What about Musiri?"
"He put me in the Music College. He thought I needed some structured learning..."

"But you didn't like the structured learning?"
"It was horrible. People were always telling me what to do and what not to do. This is allowed. That is not. This is correct. That is wrong. They never enjoyed the music for what it was. They always judged everything. I couldn't handle it. Those discussions... On what is tradition, 'paddhati' and what is lakshana and lakshya and all that... Mostly, people didn't know what they were talking about. But they would talk. And argue. And gulp litres of coffee while doing it."

There was a pause and Shankar walked in with two tumblers of steaming coffee and a few Marie biscuits on a plate.

"I didn't really appreciate the value of theory back then." he said, dipping a Marie biscuit into the coffee and eating it, "Which was a bit of a setback as far as my music was concerned. But it allowed me to explore, you know..."
"Not be bound by what books say," Shankar helped him. Ajith nibbled on his own biscuit.
"Yeah," Mani agreed, "I hated books back then. I used to think, 'What can a book teach you about Bhairavi raagam, that listening to all those great musicians can't teach you?' I still think that today. But I have a little more respect for books!"
***

"I spoke to this other man who was with N.V. Mani at the Music College. Apparently, Mani stole lots of books from the library just before he disappeared!" Ajith said, sipping on his 4-fruits-cocktail.
Nethra laughed. Ajith liked her laugh. "I asked him about it," he said.
***

Mani laughed. "Books were being stolen from that library all the time. I was just a convenient person to pin it down on! Because I was the rebel. I was the crazy one. And I disappeared!"
"But where did you go?"
"Nowhere. I just wandered around."
Shankar looked on curiously, and Ajith was still formulating his next question to prod Mani along when the doorbell rang. Shankar got up and went to the door.
"Can you elaborate a little more?"
Mani laughed again, "You're asking questions like a policeman!" Ajith smiled wryly. Mani said, "I wandered. All over South India. I would sing a song or two in return for a meal. I used to get into trains, and when I found a place that took my fancy, I got off. I went to that village and spent time with people there. Sometimes a week, sometimes two. I would sing for them at night, teach them small songs, learn their music from them... They shared their food with me in return. Then I would take another train in another direction."

Ajith wasn't convinced of this revenue model, but he didn't ask Mani about it. Shankar walked in around then with two other people who came with cameras. Ajith ignored them and asked, "You must've met very interesting people..."

"Musicians! I met such wonderful musicians all over the place... So unlike today when everyone gravitates towards Madras. For instance, I spent six months in a small village near Kundapur, in what is coastal Karnataka today. There was an ashram of sorts by the sea. Lovely place to practice... And no one there knew me. I sourced a tambura from a musician who lived nearby who took a fancy for my music. He hadn't even heard of me. A quaint man who had learnt music from all sorts of sources - from books people bought him in Madras, from musicians who were visiting his part of the world, from people he called 'wanderers' who knew lots of songs. He knew so many compositions that the Madras scene had no idea of - in Kannada, Tamil, Telugu, even Malayalam!

"And what an Abheri he would sing! One evening, he sat in my room in the ashram and sang an Abheri alapana for eight hours. And it was that beautiful original Abheri with the shuddha-daivatam... A tinge of sadness amidst the celebration. It changed my life. Until then, I sang in such a tearing hurry. Exploration was not a part of what I did with my music until then. I was only interested in exciting an audience. I think that is one of the reasons why I left Madras. I needed time to explore. Be on my own. Understand my own music before the world imposed its music on me."

Ajith was speechless.

Mani, however, looked at the cameramen who had settled themselves on chairs around Mani, and said, "You people want photographs of me? This is who I am. Shoot away!" He turned to Ajith, who was now done with his coffee, and said, "I don't know how much longer I'll be around. So, I told some publications and organisations that if they want photos, they better come this week and take them. You continue asking questions."

"On understanding one's own music, don't you think musicians of today..."
The setting was strange. An immobile old man was talking, in a dingy room, and three photographers walked around shooting him with bright flashes every now and then. Each time a flash came, Mani's eyes closed, but he didn't stop talking. "They don't do it. They're too busy performing or being musicians. Flitting from one kacheri to another... But one can't blame them. They're constantly being judged. If they're out of the scene for one year, they've fallen two rungs in that ladder. And people ask my students all the time, 'How many concerts have you given this month?' Is that relevant? How well did he sing? That is the crucial question..."
***

Nethra said, "It was fascinating until he began to rant." Ajith nodded in agreement.
"He rants for a while longer before talking about some really interesting stuff."
"What stuff?"
"Some woman he met in Madurai. A young woman... Hardly eighteen, apparently."
"Around when was this?"
"1956, maybe 57..."
"Barely eighteen? When was your Taapi..."

Just then, Ajith's phone rang, and his grandmother was on the other end, "Ajith!"
"Paati!"
"When are you coming home? Are you coming for dinner?"
His grandmother was only concerned with one aspect of his life - where, when and what Ajith would eat. For a very long time, the only Tamil word Ajith knew was 'saapaad.'
"I'm leaving now. Will be home in like fifteen minutes..."
"Okay. Tell me, what did they make you do at the newspaper today?"
"What?" Ajith was surprised by a non-gastronomic question.
"What did you do today at work?" she said, slightly louder this time.
"The usual, Paati. Some editing and this and that."
"I'm asking, because someone called me on my phone. Some student of N. V. Mani to tell me that you've left your notebook in his house." Her tone changed when she asked, "You've been visiting N. V. Mani?"
Ajith became a little nervous, "Not at all, Paati! That must've been some wrong number..."
"But he asked for Ajith Ramachandran."
Now Ajith was trapped. He said, "No, no. There's some confusion. I'll explain when I get home."
"I hope you aren't going looking for dead stories."
"Paati, no."
***

Mani's eyes grew larger as he spoke about her, "She was wonderful. Almost as tall as me, slightly dark, with black eyes lined with kohl, long hair, her body fuller than her age... I saw her on the Madurai railway station platform. She was sitting on a bag and eating something from a tiffin box." He chuckled at the thought of that image. "I got off at the station as soon as I saw her. I usually avoided towns, preferred getting off when the train stopped for a signal between stations, but I made an exception for her..."
"She was that beautiful?" Shankar asked.
"She was quite beautiful. But her feet were tapping a beat on the platform - in perfect Khandachapu taalam!"
"Did you speak to her?" Shankar asked.
Mani didn't reply.
Shankar asked him the same question again. This time, Mani said, with a twinkle, "I did a lot more!"
***

Nethra seemed concerned. "Who was this woman he spoke of? Was it..."
"I'm not sure."
***

(To Continue)

Two Ways of Staying in Power

1. Gandhigiri

2. Azhagiri

Two Disappearances - Part I

Plough through this part. It will get more exciting...
***

Front Page, The Hindu, 26 December, 2009
NV Mani passes away
CHENNAI: Noted Carnatic vocalist, N. V. Sivasubramanian, ailing for more than three months, passed away yesterday. He was 79. He is survived by two daughters and a son. Hundreds of his admirers and musicians thronged his Mylapore residence to mourn his death. (See Page 16)
***

Page 16, The Hindu, 26 December 2009
Genius breathes his last
CHENNAI: Carnatic vocalist, N. V. Mani passed away last night of an acute heart attack. He was bedridden with multiple ailments for more than a month, and had resisted being shifted to a hospital. His children, all living abroad, will arrive in Chennai shortly for the last rites.

Born in Tiruvarur in 1930 to Vaidyanatha Iyer and Komalatammal, N. V. Mani grew up in Madras where his father worked as an accountant. The identity of the teachers who taught him music in his childhood have all vanished into obscurity, although it is rumoured that he learnt most of his manodharma music from T. N. Rajarathinam Pillai, the nagaswaram maestro, whom he used to accompany to numerous concerts. GNB's music, it is said, had a great impact on him. It would not, however, be inappropriate to state that he was largely self-taught.

Around 1943, much to his father's resentment, Mani quit his schooling to join a drama company for whom he acted and sang. Acting as Abhimanyu in a drama, the thirteen-year-old Mani achieved instant fame for his music. Singing at a striking 5-kattai, Mani unleashed an exhilarating Thodi, Kedaragowla and Ahiri amongst others on the audience. So popular was his singing, that for more than ten years, even after he was too old to be Abhimanyu, he acted in this role!

Simultaneously, Mani's popularity as a Carnatic vocalist was rising. His youthful, playful voice, his searing tarasthayi brigas, his supersonic swaraprastarams created resulted in a burgeoning fan base even before his voice had settled into adulthood. It was around this time, that he began to assimilate kritis just by listening to maestros sing them. An unhappy stint at the Music College ensued. He was admitted without basic schooling on Musiri Subramania Iyer's insistence. However, he felt the rigorous, academic atmosphere dampened his manodharmam. He felt his music was losing its spontaneity and quit within a year. After disappearing from the Madras music scene briefly, he resurfaced as the boy who sat behind Rajarathinam Pillai at all his concerts. Around 1958, N.V. Mani's name was heard in the music circles again. His music was still thrilling, it was still fast-paced, but it seemed to have lost the manic energy of his early years. It began acquiring the depth and stretches of contemplativeness that he came to be known for.

In this interim, Mani married Srividya, his neighbour in Triplicane. It was an alliance forced on him by his brothers who were worried he would lose his way as a musician. Surprisingly, it was a happy marriage and they had two sons and a daughter.

In 1963, after making peace with the Carnatic establishment, he first performed at the Music Academy during the December season to a sellout audience. Since that year, until 1986, he was a permanent fixture at the Academy - on the 25th of December. In that period, he rose from a young cavalier to a senior statesman in the most dignified manner, being accompanied by stalwarts of three generations on the mridangam and the violin. His playback singing for the popular movie Mohanagaanam starring Gemini Ganesan as an alcoholic musician made him a household name and face.

However, a vague illness in 1986 waylaid him for two years. Again, nobody knew where he was. When he came back, he looked ten years older, and his music acquired sobriety to the extent of being almost melancholic. In the next ten years, his music remained highly inward looking and probing. The frenzy of the first phase of his career had disappeared completely. It was like a different musician had emerged. He lost his popularity to a cult status.

In 1997, he suffered a major double-blow. He lost his ancestral Triplicane house in a litigation to his cousin, and Srividya passed away. Unable to deal with the latter, and forced out of his home, Mani moved to the US where he lived with his son for three years. Harsh weather and a dislike for the States' lonely environs brought Mani back to his beloved Chennai. His brother, who passed away two months before Mani moved back, left Mani with his house in Mylapore where Mani lived with various students till his death.

With his passing, Carnatic Music has lost one of its most original and unique voices. It has lost a man who is responsible for ideas that musicians will play with for generations. It has lost its mad scientist.
***


Page 9, The Indian Express, Chennai Edition, 26 December, 2009
Reclusive, obscure, magical
Forty years ago, I was at a wedding of a distant relative when I heard the most magnificent Thodi raga alapana of my life. My uncle was marrying a movie actress. The superstar singer explored the contours of this most mysterious raga for more than an hour, probing each note, each level, each turn. Every now and then, he'd go quiet, focus on the drone of the tambura, and unleash ecstatic phrases of incomparable genius. The Thodi had everything - those traditional stamp-like gamakas, weird combinations of swaras and uncharacteristic plain notes. The crowd at the wedding milled around, as ever, listening to snatches of the concert when they got too tired of talking to one another or gawking at the stars that came to the wedding. I don't know what about that setting inspired him to sing that Thodi. It was noisy, the sound system was highly primitive. It was a Madras summer, and fans were turned off around the stage so as to not disturb the tambura. He was drenched in sweat even before he began. But he sang like he was in a universe of his own, and that unearthly Thodi, like it is said about the music of the Gandharvas, did not stand on the strength of the swaras, but on the microtones in between those swaras. It was music for the Gods.

His last concert was at the Vinayakar temple in Besant Nagar on a Thursday November evening. A small crowd, undaunted by the rain, was treated to a lovely ragam-taanam-pallavi in Kedaragowla. The concert also consisted of Gowla, Mayamalavagowla, Ritigowla and Kannadagowla! He finished the concert in a hurry and announced, "My wife is ailing. In the hospital... I shall sing more for you another day..." She passed away that night, and he never sang publicly again. When my uncle, a very close friend of his, asked him about it, he said, "I performed, all these years, knowing she was listening. She would tell me exactly how good or bad the concert was. I sang for her. I can't anymore..."

Many fans, since, have gone to his house to listen to private concerts. He obliged most people who came to hear him. Sometimes, he called his friends for private concerts. He would sing with two students, accompanied by two tamburas, for hours together. The biggest musicians of our times found themselves at these concerts. The concerts had no structure, no limits, no plan. Often, he would launch into a raga alapana after the kriti, neraval would happen on three or four lines, and pallavis composed on the spot! And at the centre of it all was the man himself - lost in his music, striving to understand his art better.

N. V. Mani, NVM to his fans, Mani to his friends, Mama to his students, passed away last evening, almost twelve years after he last performed on stage. Yet, there was a huge gathering at his house - fans, many of whom looked too young to have actually heard him live; students, some of whom barely learnt a song from him; musicians, many of whom he'd fought with; and relatives, who hadn't cared for him for years. Such was the power of his music. He might have left us, but his music, like that Thodi, will linger for years.

(The Sunday Express tomorrow will carry the last interview of N. V. Mani - a conversation over four days in November 2009 with Ajith Ramachandran.)
***

Ajith stood nervously at the door, waiting for it to open. He had rung the bell four times now. The doors, the windows on the ground floor, were all shut. The house looked like it was under litigation, and no one had lived in it for years. There was a cycle in the verandah, but even that looked unusable. He decided that the man had forgotten the appointment, or that he'd given Ajith the wrong address, and started to leave. He barely reached the gate when a voice called him, "Hello! Sir!" Ajith turned around to find a young man, around his age, with a moustache and thick glasses standing at the balcony on the first floor.

"Indian Express?" the man asked.
"Yeah..."
"Wait!" he called out, and disappeared from the balcony, only to appear at the door open it. He was wearing only a towel, and his hair was still wet. "I'm so sorry. I was in the bathroom, and Mama can't walk to the door."
"Oh, no issue..."
"Come in. Mama's been waiting."
They walked into a sparse house. There was a wooden bench in the front room, three plastic chairs in the drawing room, and two more in the dining room. "I'm Shankar, Mama's student..."
"Ajith Ramachandran."
"Hello," he paused, and took off again, "This house is unused. Mama and I live upstairs. He's not well at all... Doesn't even have the energy to make trips to the toilet. But he's very enthusiastic. When T.V. Sankaranarayanan came last evening, they both sang Bhairavi!"
They smiled politely. Shankar led Ajith into a bedroom, where, on a creaking bed, Mani lay, wrapped in a blanket, a smile pasted on his face. Shankar left, presumably to wear some clothes.

"So. You are the kid they've sent?"
"Sir, I'm Ajith..."
"They must've sent you so that they can get one last interview before I pop it?" he said, still smiling. Ajith turned more nervous than he already was. He managed to mumble, "Sir... No... I was genuinely interested..."
He laughed. Then he said, "Pull up that chair, sit down... I'm being such a bad host. Shankar!"
"I think he is changing," Ajith said, placing an old wooden chair by the bed.
"I'm so sorry for doing this - could you just open the curtains a bit? So dingy in here..." Ajith got up to open the curtains. Mani spoke again, "What does the Indian Express want to know about me now? Everything is known..."
"Actually, the Express was not too keen on this story. I wanted to interview you," Ajith replied, the open curtains letting mid-morning sunlight into the room.
"Let me guess. You've heard some old recordings from some website, and you're a fan or something."
"No. I read a couple of articles in Ananda Vikatan on your two disappearances. That interested me."
Mani laughed. "You're frank. I like you."
Ajith seated himself on the chair, and said, "The interview might take a few days..."
Mani was still giggling, "I'll call you whenever I'm feeling up to it. You'll get everything you want before I die. Don't worry."
***
(To continue)

Season Snippets - Mood Mridangam

A series of short posts on little things in and around kacheris this December Season.
***

A joke from the last season. My uncle walked out of the toilet in the Music Academy and said, "I just witnessed a great cosmic phenomenon - a long line of Brahmins, all piddling!"
***

"Hey. The counter for season tickets for Music Academy open tomorrow. Nine-thirty. I'm told there will be a big crowd. Be there by eight-thirty."

I was there. At eight-thirty-one and a few seconds. The first sight I see is of this elderly mami and mama opening their tiffin boxes and eating idlis coated with molaga podi. Chomp, chomp. In the lobby outside the mini-hall, there are these people drinking coffee from plastic cups and discussing some ticket issues loudly. Slurp, slurp. They've clearly been there for a while.

I enter the mini-hall, my initial self-righteousness about having turned up very early substantially eroded, and find a much larger crowd that I had imagined. All in hushed conversation with their neighbours on various issues. Chatter, chatter. A man, who realises I'm a newbie when it comes to season tickets directs me to a seat. He tells me, "Only 750 ticket available." I ask, "2000?". Not there. I try, "8000? 6000?" All over. Only 750. People sitting around me, all clearly newbies to this ticketing ritual, complain about the Academy's opaque ticketing system and favouritism. Grumble, grumble. After nearly an hour, a man announces, "Even the seven-fifty-rupee tickets are over. Those who do not have slips may kindly leave."

Peeved and hungry, I walk down to Woodlands and let my frustrations out on a blameless plate of upma-vada with hot filter coffee, while whining to my uncle on the phone about the tickets. Chomp, chomp, slurp, slurp, chatter, chatter, grumble, grumble.
***

Arun Prakash's greatest skill is in setting the mood for any piece with his mridangam - he seems to read what the main artiste is trying and recreates that effect perfectly. I can still remember a chilling Hiranmayeem that TM Krishna sang at Odakathoor Mutt in Bangalore accompanied by him. The mridangam and the voice attained unity that day - you would think they came from the same source.

Yesterday, when Ravikiran announced, "I shall now play a Thyagaraja kriti in Raga Neelambari, 'Nike Dayaraka' in Mishrachapu taalam," I could almost see Arun Prakash licking his lips. After a most soothing alapana from Ravikiran and Lalgudi Vijayalakshmi on the violin, they started the kriti. The percussion side remained silent for about three lines. Then, they began punctuating the kriti with single beats. Slowly, they built up to just three touches at three-two-two. This was interspersed with very interesting, but very minimal, very delicate rhythms. Neelambari's lilt was given just the right pedestal to thrive on.

After the Neelambari, when the audience was suitably blissful, a Garudadhwani came. Tatvamerugatarama. And the mridangam was right on the button, exuberant and joyous!
***

Randomness and the Death Penalty

Some serious stuff now (the result of a major argument in real life). Jokes will come later.
***

I read the 187th Law Commission Report years ago in Law School for a project. I revisited it last week and found this passage about this case of Harbans Singh. There were three accused - Harbans, Jeeta and Kashmira Singh - all sentenced to death by the Allahabad High Court for equal participation in a murder of a family of four persons.

Each accused filed a separate special leave petition (an appeal of sorts) to the Supreme Court. Jeeta Singh's appeal came before a bench consisting of Justices Chandrachud, Krishna Iyer and NL Untwalia. It was dismissed - in other words, his death sentence was upheld and he was executed in 1981.

Kashmira Singh's petition came before Justices Fazal Ali and Justice Bhagwati. After considering his case, the judges, who allowed the appeal to be heard only on the question of sentencing, reduced his sentence to life imprisonment. Justice Bhagwati was well known for his stand against the death penalty. As a result, one accused was executed and the other was given life imprisonment for the same offence.

Things get more unpredictable - the third accused, Harbans Singh's petition came up before two judges who dismissed his petition. He applied for a review, which was also dismissed. Apparently, the decision in Kashmira Singh's case was a part of an office report that came along with the petition, but this office report was not brought to the court's notice when the review was actually heard in court. Kashmira Singh, presumably out of desperation, filed another writ petition that came, fortunately for him, before a Bench that had Justice Bhagwati on it. After noting these bizarre facts, the Court sent the petition to the President for clemency.

Justice Bhagwati writes:

"The question may well be asked by the accused: Am I to live or die depending upon the way in which the Benches are constituted from time to time?"

There remains, today, no justification for the death penalty. We're talking of a state taking someone's life - something it theoretically, politically, morally has no right to do. As pure retribution, the death penalty is uncivilised and retrograde; studies have shown that its claims as a deterrent are dubious - try telling the next Kasab he'll be hung for his actions; and it rules out even the smallest chance of reform. Above all this, its irreversibility makes it so darned risky. The New Yorker has this frightening piece on an innocent man being killed by the state of Texas. Given India's chaotic police and investigation mechanism, the dangers are even more stark. Leaving people's lives at the hands of judges' political leanings is nothing short of idiocy.

Revenge cannot justify our criminal punishments anymore, surely.

Silver Jubilee

This post was supposed to be up this morning. But things haven't really turned out the way I've planned them today :) (and that is, probably, the first smiley on this blog)
***

Conversation with a good-friend-at-the-bar (both bars):

"Dude, a review of my concert came in the Hindu Friday Review!"
"Kick ass, macha. What did it say?"
"He bambooed me here and there. But there was some encouraging references to 'interesting' and 'promise'..."
"How many years will you be promising, da?"
And we laughed.

It's a big number - twenty-five - a quarter of a century, one-fortieth a millennium (think about it - lay forty of my lives end-to-end, and you've covered everything from Allauddin Khilji to Facebook), silver jubilee and all that. It is also a small number - Sachin (and Javed Miandad before him) has played international cricket for nearly as long, wars have taken longer, and really, in the context of the cosmos and other large items, twenty-five years is nothing.

Let us get back to the main issue - my promise. [I have a vague philosophical doubt here - when someone shows promise, who is this promise made to? To the world at large? To specific people? To themselves? Anyway, irrelevant.]

Apparently, when I was a year-and-a-half old, I could identify fifty flowers in a book and tell their names. When I was four, I could recite some two hundred shlokas from memory. I'm sure my Amma saw a lot of promise at this stage. Lots of people who heard me sing as a kid said I had a great voice and all that - when I first started singing swarams and stuff, there was even talk of 'natural' and 'genius' and the dreaded 'promise'. When I was a kid, I was really good at mental arithmetic - I could multiply, add, subtract, divide large numbers without pen and paper. My teachers always thought I was smart because I'd come up with geometry proofs that weren't in the textbooks. Today, I'm introduced to people variously as a promising flautist, promising lawyer and a promising writer (the last one is a bit random, really - I've been a musician of some sort all my life, and associated with the law for seven years, but writing, apart from this blog, there isn't much at all).

Today, my memory only serves me in one useful way - I remember phone numbers (lots of numbers I know are not saved in any medium - only recollected when needed) and people (this is an embarrassing skill sometimes, because I know exactly who people are and they have no idea I know them). Otherwise, my memory is as normal as anyone else's. I can barely listen to myself sing anymore. True, I'm doing a lot with my music - but nothing to match that early 'promise', no signs of all that 'genius' people spoke about. I'm not confident of solving a quadratic equation today, although I'm sure minus-b-plus-or-minus-root-b-squared-minus-four-a-c-by-two-a will come in handy. I haven't written much at all - there are stray articles here and there, those short stories that appeared in vague magazines and newspapers, there's that aborted novel - nothing of note, really.

Which is why, on my twenty-fifth, today, I wonder if I will spend my entire life as a promising fellow and nothing more. Like Amol Muzumdar. Like Dinesh Ka(a)rth(h)i(c)k threatens to be. Hirwani. Kambli. People who were expected to become the next big things, but never did. Perhaps the pressure got to them, maybe their promise was miscalculated, they might not have worked hard enough, or they just weren't lucky.

I'm guilty of the first three, and I cannot comment on the fourth. Which is why I think it is time to spend my next quarter-century fulfilling this promise; not wholly, or in full measure, but very substantially; not to the world, or to my Amma, or anyone else, but to myself.

Happy birthday to me.
***

(Apologies to people for slightly personal nature of post. Apologies to Jawaharlal Nehru for the plagiarism.

I share my birthday with Indira Gandhi, Sushmita Sen, Sonali Bendre, Jodie Foster, Zeenat Aman, Calvin Klein, Larry King, Arun Karthik Mohan. Today is also International Men's Day and World Toilet Day. I think we can safely assume that the latter was not invented by greeting card companies.)