Not an Interview With The Milkman

I usually don't like allowing guest bloggers on this blog, but Xebo's been asking for a while - he interviewed me sometime ago, and doesn't have any other place to publish the interview, because, frankly, no one wants to read it. For the uninitiated, Xebo has been my closest imaginary friend ever since I can remember myself. He is my staunchest critic, a nasty, unemployed, no-gooder ... Okay, he's not letting me finish that sentence. So, over to him.
***

Xebo: Good day, readers. Today, we have with us a special guest...
Me: Cut to the chase, da.
X: I recently read a report from a psychologist who claims that you are sexually (CENSORED)... and that is why you claim that you do not watch pornography.
M: I'm sorry, I don't want to discuss that report. And I do not watch pornography on moral grounds.
X: Sex is immoral?
M: Sex with milkmen, or on islands definitely is... Especially when you're running a temperature.
X: Are you evading these questions because you agree with the contents of the report, and you do not want them to be disclosed?
M: No comment.
X: Your first interview, and the celebrity lingo is already in place! (Smiles all around) Another report from a close friend reveals that the name...
M: Whoa! NO! NO COMMENT. NO COMMENT.
X: What are your opinions on the question of whether Rama built the bridge?
M: The matter is sub judice, and I wouldn't wish to comment on the same.
X: What can you comment on?
M: Um, the weather?
X: The weather... Yes. Um, I was at your convocation recently, when you were told of the dangers of climate change. You must today be proud that a Nobel Laureate, Dr. Pachauri, was the Chief Guest at your Convocation.
M: That I will never be. I mean, he gave the most depressing speech in history, I didn't see the point of my degree - what use is the degree if we will all die in twenty years?
X: Seriously, you should crack a new joke once in a while - it has been two months, and you crack that one at least once a day!
M: To different people. Nobody's heard that twice.
X: I have.
M: Not my fault that you're always around!
X: Are there any other jokes that you keep repeating?
M: What is the characteristic or attribute of being a lock?
X: That's not even an original joke.
M: Anu Malik said, "Nothing is orginal, everything is inspired."
X: You say that all the time too. In fact, this is a trend. You have some five jokes in your life, and you repeat them at every given opportunity. For instance, let me cite two instances from this blog. In Love Brinjal - Part I, you say "In an interview, Vishwanathan Anand said that no two women can make the same rasam. They might have learnt from the same person and follow the same recipe, but the rasam is never the same." And then, in your Untitled bullshit story, "...on how no two South Indian women can make the same rasam even if they follow the same recipe..."
M: The contexts are very different, lending the jokes their diverse nature.
X: Elaborate.
M: Um...
X: Fucked you.
M: I was just formulating the right response. The thing is, in one case, I am talking of Vishwanathan Anand, and in another case, it is of an old grandfather. It shows how opinions transcend generations. Basically, history is circular. So is morphology. Haven't you read Circularity of History by Bazouki?
X: Apart from the fact that no such book or author exist, I love the way you use names and titles to defend your opinions. You're such a wannabe academic!
M: Academic, I might be. But wannabe?!
X: Then why do you watch movies you don't understand?
M: I understand the movies I watch. Want me to write a review of Persona?
X: Stop getting defensive. I didn't even mention Persona. I've always thought that you overrate many things just because names are attached to them. You're dying to be counted amongst the cool.
M: That's such bullshit. Just because I slept off while watching 2001 for the first time...
X: You're giving all the right examples.
M: Pah!
X: Tell me the name of the last book you read in entirety. In Entirety.
M: Klingsor's Last Summer, ha.
X: Damn. I was hoping you'd mention that other book you gave up midway - I'm sure you'll claim to have read it to everyone.
M: I never do that.
X: Shame?
M: Shame?
X: Rushdie - Shame.
M: I skipped one chapter in the middle. One chapter.
X: And two at the end, and one more somewhere else maybe.
M: It doesn't have that many chapters.
X: Exactly my point - you hardly read any of the book. Getting back to coolness value - I think that is the reason why you're reading that Adam Smith book now.
M: That is so untrue.
X: I mean you dont even follow what you're reading most of the time - you just stare at the page and look intelligent. Just like you do when you download and read articles on the World Bank.
M: Oh, those I read only for effect.
X: You're whole life is only for effect.
M: Maybe...
X: Oh, we're almost running out of time. Thank you for that candid interview. I hope to having you on this show again later.
M: Not on my blog!!
***
And therefore, no guest blogger shall be allowed on this blog!
___

Love Brinjal - Part I

This is one of many parts of a story that will, hopefully, appear on this blog at regular intervals. 'Love Brinjal' is a direct translation of one of my favourite Tamil expressions - 'Kaadal Kathhirikka'. All characters in this story are fictional and creations of my imagination. If they bear any resemblance to any characters real, I tender apologies to such characters!
***

"Chill, da. There are other fish in the ocean. You might never find them, but they are there," she said, smiling.

At once, this became the prophecy and curse of my life. Every now and then, I'd get an inkling that the fish I was looking for existed, but I never found it. On many occasions, I'd believe that I had found this fabled fish, sitting next to me in a bus, or at a concert, or at a friend's birthday party. And then she would open her mouth, and very quickly, become another one of those squids that inhabit the ocean. One of the more infamous cases of this was at a bookstore in Delhi. Now this could have happened only in Delhi.

While I was looking through the Indian authors section in a little bookstore on a wintry January evening in Delhi, this girl walks into the shop. Without doubt, she is the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She could have been Miss Universe! (Now, there's another girl I saw much earlier who could have also been Miss Universe, but I'll get to her later.). Women in Delhi, I believed, were too stupid for my psuedo-intellectual, Herman Hesse-reading, discoursing, anti-globalisation self. It was a sweeping generalisation, (All generalisations are usually sweeping!) but I believed it strongly. Until this girl walked into that bookstore. She was a beautiful woman in a bookstore - like Tendulkar playing a cover drive in the Sydney Test - a sight you never thought you'd see. She walked straight towards the Indian authors shelf - towards me! I looked away. I didn't want her to catch me staring. First impressions last long. She looked through the books, occasionally taking one out of the shelf and reading the back page. She was judging the book by its cover - just like me. I had found the fish. After what seemed like seven years to me, and one minute to the rest of the world, it became clear to everyone that she was looking for something in particular. For some reason, she asked me.

"Hey, have you seen that Abhijit Sawant book around?"

I thought of the day when the prophecy was made - the day I was branded an unlucky fisherman. They say knowledge is power. Balls. Knowledge is pain. Now I knew there were other fish in the ocean. Before the day of enlightenment, I would have presumed that there was no fish left, and stopped fishing. But now I knew.

The scene was as filmy as they came. We were at this quiet corner of Cubbon Park, having this intense conversation on the question that would be answered with the Adamsian "42". But then, it probably was not as filmy. Nobody in the movies ended a relationship thinking of fish and oceans. Nobody in movies ended their relationship with the guy saying, "Don't stop me now," referring to the smoking of a cigarette, and both parties smiling. Nobody ended their relationship at Cubbon Park, they sang songs there! Finally, I did something really filmy. When she held out her hand and said, "Let's go," I said, "You go. I'll leave in a while." And when she left me sitting there alone, smoking my first Milds in two months, looking depressed as hell, I was in a movie, every action rehearsed to coincide with the music that slowly drowned out the sounds of Cubbon Park, the camera zooming out, and a sad song taking over.

In a Hindi movie, this would be followed by this sequence where I gatecrash at her wedding and win her back. A French movie might have ended with a scene where she cheats on her husband and I emerge winner. But this one was Woody Allen style, where linearity of time is never really the concern. This one started there. As she walked away, it started drizzling. The drizzle never really went beyond a bracing moisture in the air, although it got more bracing all the time.

**

When I rushed into her house, she was in the kitchen. Making rasam. In an interview, Vishwanathan Anand said that no two women can make the same rasam. They might have learnt from the same person and follow the same recipe, but the rasam is never the same. I haven't heard a truer statement about South Indian women.

"Quick. Get your sruti box out."

"Why?"

"This is the opportune moment to feel good about our music."

She didn't understand what I meant, but got the sruti box and turned it on. I sat on the dining table, and sang five notes. She looked at the sky and replied, "You bastard!"

I continued singing. She kept looking out of the window, and then looking at me and saying, "Not working."

But it was bound to work. It was overcast, and rain was imminent. She joined in, and almost immediately, it started pouring. I don't know if it was my imagination or the truth, but the rain seemed to follow our singing, as if it were dancing to our music. She ran out to the balcony, and in a very movie-like manner, stood in the rain with her arms wide open. I followed suit, and we stood there, on the sixth floor balcony, in heavy rain, with Amritavarshini still playing in our ears, the sruti box droning on in the background, and we kissed.

"Wait... This can't happen" she said, breaking away
"Why?"
"You're too young."
"Five years isn't all that young!"
"You smoke too much," she said.
"That's hardly a reason."
"Have you ever kissed someone who smokes?"
In fact, I had.

***

This was one of those days, three hours after India had thrashed Bangladesh in another inconsequential, insipid one-day. I realised that I felt more and more like the Bangladesh cricket side. Especially when it came to women. From being a geeky, inexperienced bumpkin, I was suddenly thrown amongst a battery of the fairer amongst the fairer sex who seemed to find my lack of charm cute. On this day, I was bowled over by yet another girl, much like the Bangladesh side by Zaheer Khan. I decided at 8 pm that a Milds would brighten my evening, and took my Scooty to the Little Cigarette Shop. On my way back, I got stuck at The Signal as usual - a place where much of my life's exciting events took place. This incident rates amongst the most exciting.

While I puffed on my Milds at The Signal counting backwards from 180 along with the clock, a Thunderbird pulled up next to me. On the Thunderbird was the other woman who looked like she could have been Miss Universe. She asked, "Do you have a light?"

And then there was light, I thought. I was never very eloquent when it came to describing love, or even conceptualising love, and the sad thought was a manifestation of this limitation. 148 seconds remaining. I rummaged my bag for a matchbox. Where the bloody hell had it disappeared? 112 seconds now. She was asking another guy for it. I saw him shake his head. Relief. 99 seconds. It had to be in my bag. But then it wasn't. 80 seconds. Oh, wait. It was in my pocket. Rummage, rummage. 68 seconds. There. I handed it to her. In one smooth movement, she lit the cigarette, and handed me the matchbox. 44 seconds. I was now totally in love.

For some reason, she liked me too. Things progressed and pretty quickly, we were an item - she on her Thunderbird, and me on my Scooty (or sitting behind her) - setting the town on fire. Bangalore was suddenly on top of my favourite cities list, because I discovered the joys of claustrophobia at Pecos, free beer with each food item at Windsor Pub, the cheapness of getting drunk at Ganesh Bar.

One thing irked me, though - the Metal I was forced to listen to. Innumerable concerts spent standing cluelessly in the front row, headbanging to mindless growling, and even more number of nights spent in her room listening to the latest that the Brotherhood of Growlers had to offer. Countless days spent discussing lyrics of the Grand Panjandrums of the Brotherhood, and copious amounts of illicit substances actively or passively consumed.

One day she said, "These lines are so deep - 'reverberations of drowning death, meticulations of reptilian breath.'"

I had had enough of pontification about death! I felt like Bangladesh team again, analysing the end each evening. I quit, and hoped that Bangladesh would too, before all Test Match records became irrelevant.

**

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.

Twenty-buck Meal

Apparently, there is a regulation in Tamil Nadu, which makes it mandatory for restaurant owners (from what I gather, the regulation applies to the Bhavans - Saravana Bhavan, Vasanta Bhavan, Balaji Bhavan and so on) to supply some "meals" for Rs. 20. (Just as an aside, the word "meals" is always plural. "Oru meals kudunga." "Have you taken your meals?" "Meals saapudlaama?" Even the menus in the restaurant offer only "Chennai Meals", "Banjabi Meals", "Chineese Meals". This is like caste names. "Saar, neenga Brahmins aa?" I'm tempted to say, "Ille saar. Naa oru Brahmin daan.") Today, instead of ordering "Limited Meals" (misleading name, the meals have enough food to cure famine in a small village), I order the twenty-buck meals. It felt a little cheap, initially, but when the food came, I was very satisfied.

The "Limited Meals" features a mound of rice that's as big as (and looks like) one hemisphere of a football on a plate. The plate also has various (replenishable) bowls of poriyal, kootu, karakozhambu, sambar, rasam, two sweets, buttermilk, curd and more-molaga. Oh, I forgot the appalam. When I finish eating this, I usually come back to office and collapse for a while. It is a highly satisfying meal, I agree, but sometimes it feels too satisfying. Priced at Rs. 55, it is an overwhelming avalanche of food. It makes you feel like one of those vaadyars who has to attend, conduct and eat food at weddings everyday.

The twenty-buck meal is perfect. The rice is about half the amount. There's only a sambar, rasam, kootu and buttermilk (and I suspect these bowls aren't bottomless). A mini-coffee at the end of it, and the world seemed like a good place to be. I know I'll feel hungry in some time (the Limited Meals makes me run away from food for the rest of the day), but there are yummy momos close by.

This is what I love the Tamil Nadu Government for. Things like the 10-buck movie tickets - if you didn't know, you can walk into any movie theatre in Tamil Nadu and ask for a 10-buck ticket. Yes, any theatre, even the Sathyams, the Inoxes and the PVRs of the world. Free mixies, grinders, laptops, TVs, 4 gms of gold (for marriageable women - I'm neither a woman, nor marriageable, but still), free cattle (I'm not kidding you)... What a great place to live!

In the end analysis, this twenty-buck meal is good for my waistline. People describe me today as "well-built", and I can sense that they're politely implying that I'm plump. I don't want them to graduate to saying "plump" when they mean "fat", or "fat" when they mean "gargantuan".

I spent the whole night sitting by the door, staring outside at the darkness punctuated by the occasional light from a passing town, or little, insignificant railway stations. I could almost hear thatha's voice saying, "ACku danda selavu..." When the train chugged past one of these stations, I put my head out and waved at the diminutive station master standing with his green light. He waved back. I wished I had a camera.

The experience of having the chill wind of the receding monsoon bite your face while you contemplate the vagaries of life, romantic as it sounds, is painful, and comparable to spending an evening with an insurance salesman. It reminds you of everything that could go wrong with your life. In all seriousness, there was little wrong with my life at that moment. But, I remembered small things that would sting later on - like the fact that I had left my geyser on and come away to Madras for a week. And then, there were the more serious things to worry about - like the fact that thatha might not actually be in a state to make his usual comments on the political economy of Madras, on how the British were benevolent and the best thing that could have ever happened to our nation, on how no two South Indian women can make the same rasam even if they follow the same recipe, on how all politicians are crooks (In Woody Allen's words, "Do you even know the kind of morals those people have? It's a notch above child molesters...") and on how society is today turning amoral.

I couldn't imagine him sick and confined to a bed. He was never the physically fit sort, but was never unfit. Every morning, he walked from his bedroom to his easy chair, the full extent of his movement on an average day, from where he sermonised, theorised, meditated and meted out justice to his subjects – the other inhabitants of his house. When he once refused to move to Bombay to stay with my parents, my father threatened to lift him with the easy chair and take him away. He was the sort who had grown used to retirement. He had his routine - his trips to the bank, his sporadic attending of concerts, his fortnightly visit of his siblings in Nanganallur. I knew that even he would be terribly disheartened if he couldn’t do all of this.

As dawn dawned, I braced myself for the bleak thatha. Not the thatha who told me every morning I spent at his house, with a little twinle in his eye, that Brahmins must get up before sunrise; but the thatha who would lie on his bed and stare blankly around at the scores of people helping him go through his mundane day.

***

A few minutes before sunrise, as usual, Paati woke up, brushed and went to the door to pick up milk and the newspaper. She cursorily glanced at the headline about women becoming the head of state, and started boiling milk for morning coffee. She checked if there was enough decoction (pronounced di.gaa.shun). He woke up, just afterwards, when he smelt the coffee, and saw the first rays of sunlight peeking through his windows.

“Oy, turn on the radio!” he hollered from his room. Sure enough, an unrecognisable voice was heard throughout the house singing Raga Ataana. Hardly anyone sings Ataana these days, he thought to himself. The voice wasn’t doing a bad job at all.

“Oy, I have to brush,” he hollered again. Paati came to the bed with his brush, and a bowl and a glass of water. When he was done, she said, “I’ll get you the coffee.” And the coffee came, along with the newspaper. And he sat up, with coffee in one hand, and the Hindu newspaper in the other, excitedly checking if his letter to the editor had been published. Once when someone told him that it was pointless to send letters to the editor because only retired Tamilians from Mylapore wrote to the editor, and only other retired Tamilians from Mylapore read these comments, he was outraged and never spoke to that person again.

“Oy, my letter about the bad road in front of our house has come in the Hindu!”

“I don’t know why you bother. You haven’t used that road in three months!”

Reading the Hindu every morning, sipping coffee and in an old veshti and torn banian was a way of life in Madras, and thatha was one of it’s firmest endorsers. Apparently, when he was in Canada for a few months on some work, and it was one of Canada’s coldest winters, he insisted on freezing in a veshti when at home. Later, he discovered that wearing tights underneath the veshti made the extreme weather slightly more bearable.

The radio in the background was now executing a complex Pallavi in Ataana. Thatha put the Hindu down, and hollered yet again, “Turn up the volume.” The music now filled the house, and Paati began to hum along. Thatha was keeping talam and nodding in appreciation every now and then.

“A-one,” he declared when it ended, using one of those typically Madras expressions. Paati made some sound signifying her approval.

***

When I haggled down the fare to thirty-five, I paid the auto driver and climbed the flight of stairs to the house. I was ready to face a forlorn thatha. The door was open, as always. When I entered the drawing room, I heard from the bedroom a voice saying, “…the gall to come to Madras and complain that nobody speaks Hindi. You come to a different state, you learn that language. We lived in Delhi for six years. Didn’t we speak Hindi? These North Indians…”

There he was on his bed, with a frown on his face showing his utter contempt for North Indians. It turned into the brightest of smiles when he saw me. Surrounded by the newspaper and a glass of coffee.

“Thatha!” I exclaimed in relief, “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Just immobile, that’s all. Frankly, I’m enjoying it. People do everything for you. You just sit around like a king and enjoy”

He wasn’t forlorn or sick. In his own words, he was just immobile. Who said nothing is constant but change?

Return of the Odds and Ends Post

See previous such posts here, here, here, here. I'm sure there are more, but I can't find them now.
***

Hanuman

I'm a slightly religious guy, although temples don't really interest me. I prefer finding my Gods elsewhere. Like lots of people in my generation, I've gone through an atheist phase, and then I've come around to where I started - although, in the process, my conception of this Being might have become slightly more sophisticated. Coming back to the point, temples don't really interest me. So, I often evade and avoid visits to temples (unless there are concerts happening there). Even so, the Anjaneya temple in Nanganallur has always intrigued me. Every single person who has gone there has told me that it is a must-visit. I haven't heard a single bad report of the temple - even people who tell me it is really crowded always add that it was still worth it.

The other day, I had an opportunity to visit such temple - Guru was getting an award from the Rotary Club of Nanganallur for his services to Carnatic Music, and I was the driver to Nanganallur. Mami (his wife - a most sweet lady) came along. He was least interested in seeing the temple (actually, he was worried there'd be too much crowd - Sunday and all that, given his advancing age etc.), so Mami and I (ooh, that makes it Mami and Mami) went to the temple.


Now, when people hype up something majorly, often it disappoints. The temple didn't. The idol ("32 feet high," Mami whispered in my ear, as I stared at it in awe) was large and beautiful. There was this stateliness about it (not easy to achieve when the statue in question is a plain black, monolithic monkey with folded palms), and there was a dignity to the way the temple was kept. I liked that. Don't get me wrong - I love my chaotic temples, but this had a real dignity to it. Really enjoyed myself there. (Also saw a Hayagreevar Temple where said Mami did an archanai in my name for my early marriage. That was a bit trippy.)

I even liked the awards function that evening. Except for the Rotart District Governor (who spoke too much and knew little), no one else engaged in mindless superlativitis (none of the he-is-an-avatar-of-Lord-Krishna-himself-type stuff - only some very well-written words about ). At the end of it, there was a heavy saapaattu. Felt like a wedding - two payasams, sambar, vetthakozhambu, rasam, chips, chepankazhangu (chamagadda) roast, ghee, fruid salad, curds etc. Yum.

I will soon forget the contents of the meal, I'm sure. I might even forget why I went to Nanganallur. But that Hanuman will stay with me.
***

The Post Office

I went to the T. Nagar Post Office with aforementioned Thatha to collect his pension. Each year, in November, all pensioners must give this thing called an "Existence Certificate". Basically, you must certify that you exist. "Respected Sir, As evident from this letter, I still exist. Regards, TVKRS Subramanian" type thing. I once heard of a case in one of the High Courts where a man hadn't given this certificate for 3 years, but still got his pension. Suddenly, when he gave the certificate in the fourth year, the Government discovered that there was no certificate for the three previous years and demanded that he return his pension. He argued in the High Court, successfully, that if he exists now, he must have existed in those three years also. Unless he was Jesus Christ or Vishnu (who came back ten times).

Anyway, I went to the Post Office with Thatha. The pension section is on the second floor of a building with no lift - some basic planning, perhaps? (Thatha is surprisingly fit for his age, and I can think of people twenty years younger than him who'd find it hard to make the trek up the building.)

Nevertheless, he called the mobile number of a friendly lady who worked in the pension section, and she told him she was in Bombay. They had a conversation for about five minutes where they caught up on each other's lives (her Appa was not well, apparently, and Thatha informed her about his own recent sortie to the hospital), at the end of which she said she'd send someone downstairs to get the form and take his signature. He said he'd ask his grandson to go up and bring the form. Friendly substitute lady came downstairs with me, introduced herself to Thatha, asked about his health, he found out some basic info about her (Husband's job? How many children? Son? 11th Standard? Going to IIT class?) and took his signature.

The institution doesn't work, but the people still seem to make it friendly enough - just like how many nationalised banks and government departments work.
***

Twins

When I was (much) younger, I couldn’t tell the difference between Anandabhairavi and Reethigowla, Darbar and Nayaki, Bhairavi and Mukhari (sometimes Huseni also!), Kedaragowla and Yadukulakambhoji. Today, I find it hard to understand why I couldn’t tell these apart! (I sometimes still don’t understand how people who know no music tell really close ragas apart, rarely, if ever, making a mistake.) I think it is like telling the difference between Sehwag and Tendulkar. When Sehwag burst on to the scene, I’d often look at him bat and presume it was Sachin. And he’d take a single, and the guy at the other end would look the same. Soon, you begin to tell Sehwag from his backlift, his slightly wooden legs, his bat-speed, his savageness on the on-side and his slapping cover-drive. Sachin’s legs are always in position, he doesn’t look brutal even when he lifts it over mid-wicket and his cover-drives are lovely punches. They haven’t changed over the years, you’ve learn to identify them better. When you first see them, you only learn to look at the patterns you already know. You’ve seen a Sachin. So, when your mind is faced with Sehwag, it only sees the similar stance, the build, the irreverent shot-making. Only after some time, do you begin noticing those differences. When I was first faced with Reetigowla (after I had already learned to identify Anandabhairavi), my mind immediately slotted it in the ‘Anandabhairavi’ folder. Only with time, did it see those differences.

Now it knows that for all their likenesses, Anandabhairavi and Reetigowla are very different animals. Anandabhairavi seems to enjoy meandering in the madhya sthayi – that glide from panchamam to nishadam to panchamam that defines the raga, the twisty sgrgm phrases; and has heart-rending tara-sthayi sancharas (recall the anupallavi in Marivere). It has been interpreted, reinterpreted, encroached upon over the years, but it retains its classicist nature – like Sachin. Reetigowla, on the other hand, has trademark mandhra-sthayi sancharas (unlike most Anandabhairavi interpretations), has a lovely plain double nishaadam (oh, I love that sound!), an odd symmetry amidst its jumpiness (the nn-s/ gg-m combination, for instance), and a different kind of joy from what its predecessor offers. I’ve always thought of Reetigowla as slightly moody. When the artist has got it right, he’s on a roll, but on days that he hasn’t, you’re waiting for the next guy to come in – like Sehwag. Reetigowla might have looked to Anandabhairavi for inspiration, like Sehwag did to his guru, but it has carved an identity that gives it its own flavour.
***

('Twins' might appear in the next edition of Sruti - if you like Indian classical music/ dance, I'd strongly suggest subscribing to it. Check out maadi!)

Dummies Guide to Making Rava Upma

Hi there, dummy! How is life? Or, as they ask in North Karnataka, Oota aitha? 

My first tip to you is this -- while starting cooking, always start with the soaking. While whatever needs to be soaked soaks, you can do the cutting. This will save you time. Now, upma requires no soaking. So, you could first go soak those clothes you need to hand-wash because colour will run. Or, take warm water in a tub, add salt and shampoo and soak your feet in it. Feels good, doesn't it?

Upma, though, needs roasted rava. Don't bother with roasting rava. That process does not soothe your soul. In other words, it's deadly painful. Just buy roasted rava. Or, buy Naga Sooji Double-Roasted. That's the granddaddy of all roasted ravas. Because it's the only one that's double roasted. So, if you roast it again, it becomes triple roasted. That's overkill. Don't roast Double-Roasted Rava. Don't. It's the third basic rule of cooking. (The first rule is: Don't be afraid. The second rule is: Say "Sai Ram" before you start.)

Upma optionally requires cutting. Of onions. Or tomatoes. Or carrots. Or beans. On okra. (Ok, I'm kidding about the okra.) Take any of the above vegetables in whatever quantity (see, I'm pro-choice) and cut them into smallish pieces. If the pieces are not of the same size, you will be docked 41 points by the Samayaleshwara, the Lord of Cooking. But don't worry, Uncle Samayal's brain -- like cooking itself -- is a great combination of bad mathematics and a ton of forgiveness. So, he won't really dock you anything.

So, once you're done cutting the onions... wait... you're not one of those types, are you? The sort that doesn't eat onion and garlic because they grow underground, but eats carrots, beetroots, potatoes and chamagadda? There's a word for people like you. It begins with 'h'. No, I don't mean 'hare-brained'.

Sounds like.

Back to our chopped onions now. Just keep them aside. But not too far away from your stove. You'll need them sooner than you think.

Take a pan -- a kadai (in India) or a wok (if you're in the East) -- (ok, I want to say cooking is no "wok in the phak", but I shall refrain) and put some oil in it. Don't put too much, it's not good for your health. But don't put too little; else your tongue will complain. Switch on the gas. Put the kadai on the gas.

Now, dummy, I presume you know how to switch on the gas? You take the starter (it looks like a steel syringe with no needle) in your right hand (if you're a right hander), place it near the mouth of the burner, press and turn the knob ninety degrees (No need to get your protractor out. You can just use an approximation.) counterclockwise with your left hand (if you're a right hander), and then click the starter as if you're injecting life into the burner. Watch the flame crackle brightly, warming the cockles of your heart. (You might have to click more than once.)

Right. Now. Gas burning. Oil heating. Quickly introduce some mustard seeds (kadugu) into the pan, and follow it up with urad dal and channa dal. Hop on one leg twenty-one times in front of the pan, holding your hands on your hips. The time taken for you to hop will be enough for the dals to have browned a little. If you aren't an h-word, add the onions. Now, hop on the other leg twenty-one times. By this time, your onions will be transparent. (Now, you may ask me why you should hop. Why can't you just count in your head? There is a reason, dummy. It's healthier. It builds an appetite. Most importantly, at the end of all that hopping, whatever the upma tastes like, you'll devour it.)

Now, you can add all or any of the following -- green chillies (slit), green chillies (chopped), green chillies (whole), dry red chillies, ginger, ginger paste, garlic, garlic paste, methi seeds or curry leaves. Wow, that's a lot of choice, isn't it? You know the great thing about cooking -- there are no rules. You feel like adding coffee at this point, add coffee. You feel like mixing some wine, mix some wine. You want to add coconut milk, add coconut milk. You want to add ragi malt powder, add ragi malt powder. You want to add whipped cream, add it. You want to add pasta sauce, add pasta sauce. See, if you add tasty things, it will taste good. (No, that's not always true. But there's no better way to find out than to actually get into the kitchen and try.)

Now, add the remaining vegetables and water. Two cups of water, approximately, for one cup of rava. Then, add salt (to taste) (obviously to taste, not to not taste) (ok, bad joke).

[Life tip: Err on the conservative side with the salt, you can always compensate later. If you're too liberal with the salt now, you're stuck with something too salty. Then, your only option is to hop away until you can eat the upma.]

You can also mix all or any of the following (Yes, you're supposed to say, "Whee! Such a libertarian recipe this is!") -- turmeric powder, coriander powder, chilli powder, sambar powder, rasam powder, peppercorns, crushed pepper, heeng, garam masala... Feel free to improvise. Unimaginative cooking is insipid cooking. Insipid cooking is tasteless cooking. (God, I sound like a self-help guru.)

Let the water boil. Let the vegetables cook. Into this colourful, boiling goo, pour the rava. (Hopefully, you have Naga Sooji Double-Roasted rava.) (No, they haven't paid me for this blog.) (Really, they haven't.) (I wish they do, though. Hey, Naga people? Can you hear me? I'm advertising for you guys. Come on. Give me some dough.)(Shouldn't have said dough in a cookery blog. It has different connotations here.)

While pouring the rava, remember this -- POUR IT IN BATCHES. AND KEEP STIRRING. IF YOU DON'T FOLLOW THIS INSTRUCTION, GOD WILL PUNISH YOU. (See, we're not all that libertarian after all. More like Gandhian liberalism. "Hey, I'm liberal. You're liberal. We're all liberal. But we mustn't drink. We must pray to God. We must be clean in thought and deed.")

The thing with upma is that when you add the rava (as I said earlier, preferably Naga Sooji Double-Roasted), it turns into upma faster than you think it will. I'd say, on full flame, you've upma-fied in 45 seconds flat. In other words, in fifteen one-legged hops. Newbies don't expect that. And because they don't, they screw it up. The trick is this: when it is still a little gooey, say two-thirds its final intended consistency, turn the gas off and cover the pan. (This is because it will solidify in its own heat. If you turn the gas off when it is the consistency you want it to be, it'll turn into rock upma. Can you smell what The Rock's cooking? I can't. Thank God. Have you seen the guy? Do you feel like you want to smell his cooking?)

This is the great thing about upma -- you can make it (and make it quite tasty) in less time than it takes for you to read this blog post. (That's partly because I digress a lot, and I like irritating people with my sense of humour. A bit like Govinda or Ravi Teja, you know -- the humour is based on the fact that it is slightly irritating. If it gets too irritating, it's too irritating. If it gets any less irritating, it's not funny anymore.)

So, if you avoid the cutting of too many vegetables, you're done in 5-7 minutes flat. At the end of it, you have yummy, healthy, traditional South Indian breakfast. That hot-Tamizhnaattu-pulchritude/ NRI-Karthik-Iyer-who's-missing-South-Indian-food (delete as per preference) you've been trying to impress  will fall head over heels in love with you.

So, what are you doing here? Get into the kitchen, and cut open that packet of Naga Sooji Double-Roasted, yo!

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?

Auteur, madarchod!

When you are in bed all day, wrapped in a bedsheet in the sultriness of Madras, knocked out by a fever, wavering ever so subtly between sleep and waking until you don't know which is which, your brain starts functioning in a zone of its own. Time becomes fuzzy, even irrelevant. Fungible. Ah, yes. That's the word, fungible! I like that word, it's so cuddly, so flexible.

Your brain thinks thoughts, your brain reaches startling conclusions, and when you try retracing the steps you went through to reach there, you find the breadcrumbs eaten away by the demon-like birds in your head.

The little iPod embedded in my brain, constantly buzzing, always on shuffle, sings now in Anu Malik's voice, "She gives me fever, fever, fever." His distinctive inflection, his fake not-Bombay-not-America accent, his slight tunelessness at the end of each line, all ring clearly in my head. This hasn't happened in a while. I open my eyes, and find my neck drenched in fevered sweat, the fan groaning while it whirs unenthusiastically, and vague sounds of a Tamil serial from the adjacent room. I reach out to the bottle of water on the bedside table and drink a rather large gulp. When that water break morphs back into my febrile sleep, I hear that voice again. Anu Malik. That paragon of frivolousness. That antonym of mellifluousness. "She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh."

My closed palms feel warm, my feet feel cold. I shiver a little.

The song makes it way to the core of my existence, it consumes my soul, it kindles the flame within, and it unearths a curious memory that lies buried deep, deep within.

I am now in the summer of 2000. My friend and I have been packed off to Trichy to spend some time with his aunt. The mornings and evenings, we spend cycling in and around the little town. We unexpectedly run into some girls in a park. We make nervous conversation with them. The voices in this conversation seem to come from a well -- there is a slight reverberation about them. Like dream sequences in the movies. The girls ask us if we want to watch Arnold Schwarzenegger's End of Days in a theatre nearby. I hold one of the girls' hands throughout the movie and kiss it just before the climax. She blushes.

The kiss wakes me up. I am back in the present, and I realise that my brain just added its own cinematic masala to a rather monotonous holiday. I smile. I doze off again.

Now we are in my friend's aunt's house in Trichy. It is a dreary, meandering, dull, drooping, dreadful, afternoon. We are channel-flipping between vague Bollywood music channels. And we discover this song. The anthem of my fever. "She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh." A pre-Big Brother, pre-UP-Bihar-lootne, pre-yoga-in-extreme-tights Shilpa Shetty, looking extremely desirable, canoodling a drugged-out Sanjay Dutt on an uncomfortably shaped sofa in a dingy set. And in the background, off-key women chorus singers going "Whose that girl with the lovely, lovely smile...", soon to be joined by Anu Malik trying to sound lovelorn and horny at once.

The movie, I finally recall, is Jung.

I am not in that drawing room anymore. I am now in Kalpana Theatre, Udupi, and the moth eaten seats bring a flood of memories. Of the the jail-like ticket queue, of Rs. 18 balcony seats, of drinking local cool drink Ba-Jal during the interval, of vague art deco construction, of actually kissing a girl in the the darkened halls while watching Mission Impossible 2 in Hindi.

"She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh," Anu Malik continues singing, now in surround sound. Shilpa curves and cavorts around Sanjay Dutt and the sofa. I am not sure which of the two is luckier. My friend's hands are not where they should be. Our verdict, "Shilpa Shetty has come out good, man!" She scorches our senses and blanks out the rest of the movie.

(I am now reminded of Sanjay Gupta's previous outing, Khauff, which I watch in the same theatre with the same friend. Until the movie starts, I think I have come for an English movie called Cough.)

As Jung hurtles towards its laborious climax, I hear a threatening baritone from my left. I turn around to see a dark, bulky, french-bearded figure bearing down on me, asking, "You must be a fan. You seem to have seen all my movies."
It dawns on me. The new entrant is Sanjay Gupta himself. I reply, in a voice that isn't my own, "Not all. I missed Aatish: Feel the Fire. Although I must admit, of all your movies, that one has the most thrilling title."
He smiles, "You lucky bastard. Imagine how many times I must have seen it during editing."
"That explains the mindnumbing Hameshaa. I knew it couldn't have come from a straight-thinking mind," I console him. "Your expertise always lay in remaking Hollywood movies, featuring silly, overloud comedy, steamy song sequences, desperate posturing, a bored Sanjay Dutt and faux grittiness."
"Thank you for reducing my life's work to a stereotype," he says.
"Oh, come on. I'm telling you that you're an auteur," I offer, "A French word, monsieur. That must make you feel posh."
He collapses into the seat next to me, and says, "You know. It's funny you use that word -- auteur. It's become famous in India these days." There is a gleam in his eyes, as he turns around to the projection room and shouts, "Projectionist! Start from the beginning!"
I look at Sanjay in horror, "Dude, I cannot go through this movie again."
"I merely want to refresh your memory, pal," Sanjay says. The 'pal' proves he watches too much cheap Hollywood for his own good.

The titles are now on the screen. Familiar names whizz past me. Jackie Shroff, Sanjay Dutt, Raveena Tandon, Anu Malik... And at one point, he stands up and screams again, "Projectionist, pause!"

I stare at the screen in shock at the name on it. Anurag Kashyap. Yes, that very same Anurag Kashyap -- the Hindi New Wave hero, the man they call the saviour of Indian cinema, the toast of the Cannes Directors' Fortnight -- is involved in writing an embarrassing rip-off of a middling Hollywood film called Desperate Measures.
Sanjay roars with laughter, "But Anurag is an honourable man!"

I am dismayed. I ask into the void of Kalpana Theatre, "Et tu, Anurag?"

A pair of dark-rimmed spectacles appears on the screen. Soon these are filled by large, keen, black eyes. A round, stocky face forms itself around the spectacles, and an uneven beard grows. In a barely masked North Indian accent, the face speaks, "I can explain myself!"
"Admit it, Anurag!" Sanjay hollers, "You did this once more. This movie called Paisa Vasool."
I ask, utterly disappointed, "Anurag, you wrote that cinematic excreta also?"
"No, no. Wait," Anurag tries.
But Sanjay interjects again, "Anurag is an honourable man! Hahahaha. You see, young fellow, where Gangs of Wasseypur comes from? It's not him going nudge-nudge-wink-wink at masala. He's just making what he knows how to make, and people are attributing nudges and winks. Auteur, saala madarchod!"

"Order, order," I shout, my legal instincts coming to the fore, "We must allow the accused to present his case."
"Milaard," Anurag starts, "Around 1999, there was this series on TV called Darr starring Kay Kay Menon and Irrfan Khan. Neither actor was well known then -- their career defining roles still more than half a decade away."

I remember it being a fairly gripping series about a dope-head serial killer (Irrfan) called, if my memory serves me right, "Desi Jallad" engaged in a battle of wits with a policeman (Kay Kay). I wonder where the accused is going with this.

"It was directed by my brother, Abhinav Kashyap, and the two of us co-wrote it. At some point during the series, my name stopped appearing in the credits, and the series turned a little less edgy and a little more melodramatic." He pauses, catches his breath, and asks, "You want to know the truth?"
"Yes," I say.
"You can't handle the truth," he says, his voice acquiring a stentorian quality.
"Dude, too many movie references. Stick to your story."
"Sorry, milaard," he says. "The truth is, I never wrote Darr. My brother wrote it, he directed it."
Sanjay laughs. I make notes in my notebook, and say, "Yes, Mr. Accused. Go on."
"You see, Satya was out by this time, and he only wanted me to lend my name to it. You know how far a name goes in show business. And I did this only for my brother. My own brother. My own blood. Same mother. Same father also. Mere bhai ke liye main itna bhi nahin kar sakta kya? We both came from Uttar Pradesh searching for jobs. We slept on benches, footpaths, beaches. We often ate Tiger biscuits for breakfast, lunch and dinner because you got nothing more wholesome for Rs. 3. Sometimes, we didn't even have enough money for that... Is what I did wrong? My hunger did this, milaard. My desperation did this."

Sanjay wipes a tear off his cheek.

I think for a while and pronounce judgment, "In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.' "

Anurag says, "Saale, milaard ke bacche, you think only you've read The Great Gatsby? Even Bachchan Amitabh has read it now."

I smile sheepishly. "Wait. You haven't explained Paisa Vasool. Your co-writer (and director) on Paisa Vasool was a man called Srinivas Bhashyam. He can't be your brother. Even if he his, he's definitely not same mother, same father."
"You must understand. Bhashyam's greatest achievements at that point were that he was Assistant Director on the hilarious Tamil classic Magalir Mattum and Second Unit Director of Mani Ratnam's blockbuster Bombay. He was making a Bollywood debut with Paisa Vasool. I was helping him out... After all, even an artist needs to eat some light Indian breads with lentil soup twice a day, no?"
"Srinivas Bhashyam sounds like he would prefer rice and mulligatawny soup."

I hear a distant voice. It is my grandmother's. Anurag, Sanjay, my friend, the theatre, all dissolve into my bedroom, now bathed in a dim yellow light from a distant bulb. My grandmother says, "Wake up, kanna. Eat some rasam saadam. It will do you good."
I say, "One minute, Paati. Coming."

I start my laptop, open Youtube, find the song, and listen to it.

More Reflections on the Season

I'm still in Madras, internet access is still limited. Not being able to access net on my laptop means that I'm not able to upload more of the latest series. In any case, we shall continue with reflections on the Music Season.

Varali suggested a couple of days ago that I put up something on the perils of attending kacheris. Here are some:

1. Irritating Mamis/ Mamas: There are many varieties in this category.

The first are the Singing Mamis/ Mamas. They probably attended paattu class at the age of ten, and believe today, at the age of sixty-five that their voice is in perfect shape. More irritatingly, they believe that they can match the singer's voice. They get emotional and sing along. Cold stares help sometimes. But the really stubborn ones sing until you tell them to stop. Then they act all wronged, and look at you angrily throughout the concert.

The second sort are the Cell Phone Mamis/ Mamas. These people have full-fledged, loud phone conversations in the middle of a Bhairavi Alapana. You will hear Bhairavi from one side and instructions on chaadam and rasam from the other side. It doesn't make for a great mix. There is also the variety that doesn't know the existence of a silent mode on their phone. I've educated two Mamas on this matter.

The third sort are the Chatty Mamas/ Mamis. It starts innocuously with, "Enna Raagam idu?" Soon, they're talking about the kacheri they attended at the other Sabha where the 'young boy' (now, for a seventy year old, most singers are 'young boys') sang really well. And then he shows off his Kutcheri Buzz, and his notebook where he has noted down each song and ragam rendered at each concert.

Next come the Wrong Taalam Mamis. I haven't seen a Mama in this category, strangely. But I've seen all kinds of wrong taalam Mamis. The funniest one was at Mylapore Fine Arts who decided that she must put Khanda Chaapu taalam to every song in the kacheri. It led to some of the most interesting situations. When the singer finally sang in her favourite taalam, she had the tempo all wrong

Then, there are the super-appreciative Mamas/ Mamis. They shake heads vigorously. They mtch-mtch away. They exclaim 'Shabhash!' or 'Bhale!' to the most innocuous singing. They move their hands about too much.

2. The Queue: The most frustrating feature of the Music Season is the queues. They're unavoidable. And I guess it is better than having stampedes. But, why do Tambrams reach venues disgustingly early and form queues? For instance, at Music Academy, the afternoon concert ends at 3.45. The evening concert starts at 4.15. But people for the evening concert start queueing up at 3.15. So, for people like me who listen to the afternoon concerts, it becomes a pain. You're flushed out at 3.45, and you have to join a queue that starts in Pondicherry and leads to the Music Academy gate.

3. Choice of Ragas: During the season, artistes try and show off their vast knowledge and the ragas they've learnt most recently. I've been in the situation where a raga seems exciting one afternoon, and you're dreaming of performing it elaborately in a kacheri. But, over a period of time, you realise that as pleasing to the ear as Karnaranjani might be, you'd much rather explore Dhanyasi or Thodi. Sometimes, artistes don't understand that. Nithyashree chose Karnaranjani. The Hyderabad Brothers chose Hamsavinodini. Some years ago, I went to Yercaud. It was a nice, little holiday with the family and all that. But by the second evening, we realised that Yercaud had just one view from the top of the hill. It was a random one-off hill, with a one-off view. There wasn't much more to it. Same with Karnaranjani - there's one (and a half, maybe) interesting turns to the raga. But one the whole, it is just a lot of the same thing. Hamsavinodini was even more random because the Silent Brother sang the neraval and swaram for it as if he'd heard the raga for the first time in his life. Really, the raga isn't worth all that time.

Bring out the heavy artillery any day - Bharavi, Kalyani, Shankarabharanam, Mohanam, Kambhoji, Thodi. Sometimes, there is nothing wrong in being cliched.

4. Exhaustion: In many singers (more than instrumentalists), by the end of the season, exhaustion shows in their music. I remember listening to Sanjay Subramaniam early in the season last year, and again at Music Academy late in the season. They was two different singers. Saketharaman (who is a must-hear, I think) was much more vibrant and fresh on the 20th as compared to this afternoon. Neyveli (who sang my favourite Kacheri of the season so far - last week at Music Academy) also showed signs of faitgue today.

5. Seating: While seating is by and large comfortable, getting in and out of your seat in a crowded kacheri is a pain. The gap between the rows is are minimal as it can get. My aunt aptly described it as a 'surangam'. So, if you're not going to last the whole concert, or have a weak bladder (which will be fuelled by the air-conditioning), sit at the edges.

6. Air-Conditioning: Most sabhas with air-conditioning want to prove to you beyond doubt that they have air-conditioning. This makes you feel like you're in the Arctic and the singer's oscillations are caused by all the shivering. If you're particularly affected by the cold, carry a shawl. Only, you'll look ridiculous outside the hall in the Madras heat.

In the non-airconditioned halls, carry copious amounts of mosquito repellants. Astute research tells me that the mosquitoes in Mylapore Fine Arts and Parthasarathy Swamy Sabha are immune to Odomos. I think it is a sign of evolution. Himalaya has some mosquito repellant. I've shifted royalties to that.

Oh, another peril at Mylapore Fine Arts. Make sure you sit in the front. The back part of the open air hall is adjacent to the canteen. You will hear wiater chatter, grinder grinding, dosas hissing on the dosa-kallu and various other cooking noises.

There. That's the list. You know any more?

Lastly, I wrote this (with pen and paper) sitting in the fourth row of Music Academy at some kacheri (don't remember which one). It is unedited - reproduced just the way it was written that day. (The photo has nothing to do with the rest of the piece. Its the only photo of a violinist in my collection)

His eyes twinkle with mischief as he sings those cute phrases. They widen when his scale gets larger, and they close when he concentrates. His hands flail about, his head shakes with the music. He smiles, he laughs, he pleads, he cries. And the most beauteous Behag ensues.

On his left, you sit. Your eyes are devoid of all emotion. Cute, grand or meditative, they look on coldly. Your head doesn't sway, it stands stiff on your neck. You don't smile, you don't laugh; your face looks like it is cast in stone. Why, you're long earrings don't even dangle. Yet, your violin emotes for you. It laughs, it pleads. It traverses Behag's passages with rare softness.

I sit in the fourth row wondering how you do it. What do those pretty eyes hide?

Helpful Tips to Kacheri Listening

Also, N.V. Mani requires some serious attention. Lets all hope this weekend will be better than my last few.

This is written for single, twenty-something males with little or no knowledge of Carnatic music. But others can apply these fundae wherever it is applicable.
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There are many reasons why the classical-musically-disinclined amongst you might find yourselves at a Carnatic Music concert. Your friend is an enthusiast, and he (hopefully, she) believes that three hours of T.N. Seshagopalan might change your life. Your good friend plays the violin and you're obliged to listen. You find that the girl you find interesting finds Carnatic Music more interesting. You think, for some strange reason, that T.V.Sankaranarayanan could be the front-man for a heavy metal band playing screeching guitar solos, and end up in a more demure atmosphere instead. You might be under the common misconception that pretty Iyengar girls come to kacheris. You might just wander into Music Academy for the air-conditioning on a hot December afternoon.

In such situations, life can be awkward. You could find yourself out of place, like a fish out of water, like Alastair Cook in a T20 game, like Bobby Deol in a movie, like a Bombay-ite in a Madras auto, like a Delhi-ite trying to eat rasam saadam off a banana leaf... (you get the general idea).

Here is a simple guide to looking the part (even if you don't feel the part).

1. The Dress: If you've lived in South India for long enough, you'll know that if someone notices your clothes, you're overdressed. And really, that's the way the world should be. (Btw, Koramangala is not South India anymore). So, if you think wearing a fabindia kurta is proper attire for a kacheri, then you're wrong. That is the first mistake newbies make. Because when a mama sees you in a fabindia kurta, he knows you're a pretender. He'll scoff at you and tell you an in-those-days-we-all-sang-raagam-taanam-pallavi-sitting-in-our-verandas-while-doing-maths-homework-type story.

Wear a checked shirt. Preferably vague brands such as SVK, VBR, Discent purchased at small shops around Mylapore tank or non-AC shops in Pondy bazaar (And, no. Don't wear the white shirt from Ramraj Cottons. People will presume you're one of the artistes.). Then, we come to the bottom-half of the dress. You can either wear a pair of trousers, again, belonging to one of these vague brands. Or you could wear a veshti. Remember, the veshti cannot have a jari border or be too white and too ironed. Else, again, people will think you're the artiste.

Carry a yellow cloth pye, preferably with the little Ready Raga Reckoner in it. You can fill the pye with random pink and yellow sheets of paper with Tamil writing, a copy of the panchangam, Reynolds pen, Odomos tube, random small notebook with name of respectable south Indian company (Shree Lakshmi Cotton Mills, Sundaram Finance) written on it.
2. What to do during the kacheri:
(a) The first challenge is managing to stay awake. There are things you can try. Like counting the hairs on head of the bald-mama sitting in front of you. Making snide remarks (to yourself) about someone's garish silk podavai with ugly golden border could also be considered. It is really interesting to watch the mridangam and ghatam/kanjira/morsing player make eyes at each other. They do it unnaturally often. If it is an open air place, you could spend time taking an Odomos tube out of your yellow pye (see above), applying it carefully over each part of your body exposed to winged-threats and offering it to your neighbour.

(b) Taalam. Many inexperienced listeners try keeping taalam. That is a common mistake. Let me elaborate.

There are many kinds of taalam keepers. The first kind does not know the taalam, but thinks it essential that he must wave his hands enthusiastically to the beat. The second is the excited new listener, who has just learnt to keep taalam - falls apart when the neraval or swarams set in. The third sort is the more experienced second sort - who can keep taalam correctly for most of the kacheri. The fourth sort knows the taalam quite well, but doesn't feel the need to show off his skills - he's beyond all that. The taalam just runs in his head. Once in a while, he'll slap his thigh in appreciation on the concluding beat of a long calculation. The fifth sort is the official taalam keeper for the kacheri - look out for him/her in the first row or behind the main artiste with a tambura. There is an elusive sixth sort - one who knows the taalam well enough to keep it in his sleep. He is sleepy, but doesn't want people to know that he's sleeping during a kacheri. So, he'll close his eyes, keep taalam and doze off. The taalam continues monotonously without any sign of a mistake. People think he's engrossed in the music. Actually, he's catching up on sleep after last night's party.

Now, if you don't know the taalam too well, you might be tempted to slot yourself in the first category and execute dance moves with your hands. Don't. Exercise restraint. The best tactic is to seem like the fourth category. That takes some acting. Let out a "Sabhaash!" at a random spot in the song, and nod knowingly at the mridangist. (Warning: don't do this too often, or they'll call your bluff. Twice in the concert, maximum.) During raga alapanas, a 'mtch-mtch' is much appreciated by your neighbours.

(c) Other activities. You could have your phone in your shirt pocket, let it ring and spend three excruciating minutes fumbling to turn it off. If you have the Ready Raga Reckoner, you could put it in a plastic cover in your yellow pye, and take it out at the start of each song and put it back into the plastic cover after referring to it. Make noise and attract attention to yourself each time with the plastic cover. Doing things noiselessly is unbecoming of an experienced kacheri listener.

3. Useful lines to say to the mama sitting next to you:

Say this in a lamenting tone: "Nobody sings padams anymore... Brinda-Mukta... They were the last great musicians. And Tiger before them..." (If you're really curious about 'Tiger', check this out.)

"Dikshitar kritis are a true test of one's musical prowess..." This can work in both circumstances - when the singer is actually singing Dikshitar kritis, the mama will assume you're making a comment on the Dikshitar kriti; and if he's not, then the mama will think you're suggesting that the singer must sing Dikshitar kritis instead of whatever he's singing. This will set you amongst the intellectual listeners.

If you're at a young artiste's performance, "Youngsters these days are in a hurry to get on stage and perform. In those days..."

At an old artiste's performance, "Oh. I heard this old recording of when was young, that was something else..."

Dangers of this approach are many.

(a) The mama sitting next to you might seek to clarify raagam doubts from you.

Suggested response: "Mama! Of course you know this raagam!" Or, "Let me give you a hint. There is a tillana by T.K. Rangachari in this raagam. Very famous!" T.K. Rangachari was a great enough musician to have composed a tillana in his time, and he is obscure enough for the mama to think that the tillana might have escaped his attention somehow.

Second suggested response: "Mama, I've actually learnt only Hindustani music." Pronounce Hindustani as in-dus-ta-ni (the 't' and 'd' being pronounced as in 'turgid' and the 'n' as in 'ponnu'). This gives you the opportunity to tell the mama that the corresponding raagam in in-dus-ta-ni is 'Meend' or 'Jeeral' (neither raga exists, to my knowledge, but they're sufficiently North Indian sounding and sufficiently vague).

(b) The mama sitting next to you might ask you for your educational qualification, employment particulars, marital status and horoscope details.

Here, you make an assessment. Do you really want this mama to be your father-in-law? But you have to make another assessment first - is the mama 'looking' for his daughter? Or granddaughter? Or is it his neice/grandneice/similarly situated relative? Friend's daughter? Enemy's daughter? Or is he really liberal and is 'looking' for his son/ grandson/ grandnephew/ nephew? If you think the counter-party that this mama offers could be interesting, you could respond with relevant details. (You can look around him to see if any interesting-looking personalities are sitting around him.)

Otherwise, you can repel the mama with, "Mama, I am a divorcee." (Pronounce it as dye-voar-see)
Also try, "I am working at Satyam."

4. Things to tell the Artistes if you bump into them: Compliment the artistes on their 'laya' (rhythm) or 'shruti shuddham' (pitch perfectness.)(Actually, after a rock concert, go backstage and tell the lead singer, "Sir, you have such srutisuddham!" That might be fun.). Don't tell them they have 'beautiful voices' or that they are 'energetic' - that's just low-level complimentation.

Other cool things to try:
If it is a female singer, "M.S. would have been proud of this concert!"
If it is a male singer, "Oh, it felt like I was listening to Ariyakkudi again!"
If it is an instrumentalist, "You sound just like your guru!"

You can freak them out with this:
"In 1947, I heard GNB at RR Sabha... This concert was just like that!"
The artiste will give you an incredulous look. And then you reply, matter of factly, "In my last life," and walk away into the crowd.