Providing Apt Support

I know Subtle Subramanian's waiting to be finished. I finished it a while ago, actually. Anyway, this is something I wrote on the train yesterday.
***

Anna was surprisingly tense. He'd given at least fifty concerts before, including ones that were far more important than this one, but he was edgy all morning. He tuned and re-tuned his mridangam every fifteen minutes until even he couldn't tell the difference between the sound before and after the tuning. He then took to ironing his veshti with a vengeance. The dhobi had done a stellar job, but Anna wasn't satisfied. He chose a kurta on the previous day - something he'd never done before - but that morning, he decided to fish another one out. This one was crumpled. So, it was taken to the dhobi again and ironed under the Anna's personal supervision.

"Is your girlfriend coming to the kacheri?" Appa asked tactlessly. Anna answered with a scowl. Then, he purposefully walked out of the house, returned in two minutes, unearthed his first mridangam book and read some very fundamental rhythms with nervous concentration.

I sat quietly with the newspaper through all the drama - the Sunday Crossword in the Hindu was always hard. Suddenly Anna asked me, "Are you coming to the kacheri?"
"Who're you playing for?"
"Avi."
"Oh. Is he good?"
"Yeah. Why do you ask?"
"No, you seem nervous..."
"I-I-I... I'm not nervous!"
"No, the thing is, you're revising some basics and all. I just thought you were playing for someone big."
"I always revise!"

That was a lie, but there was no use in pointing it out to him in this mood. I turned back to my crossword. I hate it when the Sunday Crossword requires you to know the names of port towns to the east of Essex. Or wait, maybe "east" was "e" and Essex was... Curious and Curiouser. I stared on.

Lunch was served. Anna ate nothing. Appa and I had a cursory discussion on clues in the crossword. Amma, who just returned from her sister's house gave us a detailed report on our cousin's lives. One hadn't done well in his exams, a cause for worry for everyone, and the other had rejected the fourth "boy" who came to see her.

Amma suddenly asked Anna, "This Avi is a nice boy, no?"
Anna distractedly said, "Yeah."
"What gotram?"
"Ma, I'm not his horoscoper!"
"Is that even a word?" I asked.
"Poor Chores are future-tellers!" Appa declared.
I laughed.
Anna muttered something and left the table. Amma was about to get up to console him, when Appa said, "Leave him alone."
Lunch resumed. "Poor chores! Too much, Pa!" Appa's speed with anagrams always amazed me.
"Dai, forty years of solving the crossword makes one very sharp!"

Just then, Anna stormed into the dining room, picked up his bike keys that he'd left on the table, and charged out purposefully. "Where are you going?" Amma asked.
"Need to buy some stuff."
"What?"
"Hair gel."
"What?!" I asked.
He didn't answer.
"There's coconut oil in my cupboard. Use that," Appa said, and added softly,"Gel spoils your hair."
"Leave him alone," said Amma this time.
The sound of the door banging was following by the roar of Anna's bike.

The three of us settled down into a bad afternoon movie on Sun TV. Appa and Amma dozed off as the first dream sequence, consisting of extras in embarrassing costumes and the hero and heroine in equally garish, but contrasting clothes declared love to each other for this life and all their reincarnations. I wondered what would happen if, in the next life, one was born to a descendant of Osama, and the other to a descendant of Obama.

Soon, sleep overtook my senses, and I had a strange dream of a wrestling match between Osama and Obama with Anna in a veshti as the referee. As the wrestling intensified, and Osama stood on the rope to jump on Obama, a loud bell rang around the stadium, and a voice spoke through the microphone, "Uncle! Saar, Harish, Saar!"

I woke up. Appa was already walking towards the door. The urgency in the voice calling him was apparent. I joined him at the door. Senthil, the local barber, spoke very fast, "Arjun was turning into the main road, and he skid and fell. I was going on my moped, and I took him on it to the hospital. His phone wasn't working, so I came here."
"Is he okay?" Appa asked.
"They've asked him to get an x-ray of his arm."

Appa and I rushed to the hospital to find Anna's chosen kurta soaked in blood and wet mud from the recent rains. But his arm was the cause for worry, the doctor told us. It was a fracture.

Anna's first reaction was, "Fracture-aa? Six weeks-aa? Today's kacheri?"
"Kuttan will play," Appa said, pointing to me.
"No."
"Why not?"
"He's... He's not good enough. No offence, Kuttan."
I hadn't taken any offence. I was used to being treated like a back-up option.
"Avi isn't that good. He can make do with Kuttan."
"No. Let me call Sir. He'll suggest someone else."

Sir suggested my name, and the matter was settled.

There was something dubious about Anna's behaviour. I had played in quite a few concerts myself, and although I didn't have Anna's wisdom, inventiveness or promise, I was steady. While reviewers showered praises on Anna and his 'impeccable control and understanding of laya aspects' or his 'spectacular thani', they reduced me to a mere reference, 'S.H. Anil on the mridangam provided apt support'. There was, therefore, no reason for Anna to get all nervous about the concert. I provided apt support.

Anna called me towards him and whispered in my ear, "No naughtiness. Play the way you play usually, and come back home."
"What?"
"No. No mischief."
"Ok da. Whatever."

Amidst all the drama, I reached the concert slightly late. The others were already on stage setting up by then. I settled myself on the right of Avi, in the customary spot for the mridangist. Avi whispered to me, "Dai, I'm nervous."
"Chill, da. You've done this before."
"Big crowd, da. Usually there's only Amma in the front row putting talam, and few relatives here and there."
"Don't worry. You'll do fine. We are here to support you." Just as I said that last line, I glanced at my co-supporter - the violinist. This violinist, a young girl from Bangalore, was a Goddess. She was the sort that every Carnatic musician dreamt of - slim, classical features, bottu, flowers adorning long hair, silk sari and ethereal grace. If she was a decent musician in addition, there was nothing more one wanted from life. I now understood what Anna was going through earlier in the day, and guessed what he might be going through now. Poor Anna, on painkillers, with his hand in a cast. Here, my life was playing out in slow-motion, like in the movies.

Avi started with the majestic varnam in Kambhoji. His rendition, though, was anything but majestic. He was nervous from the first note, and kept looking towards me for support. I kept the steady stream of fours going, not experimenting too much with the rhythm, especially with Avi looking like he'd just eaten his angavastram by mistake. As he doubled the tempo, he completely lost track of the song.

But he was seasoned enough to know what to do in these circumstances. He coughed, and started drinking water. The violinist looked at me and winked. It was our time in the sun, as life went into slow-motion mode again. We launched into the anupallavi, since the pallavi was suitably wrecked. I knew a couple of rhythm tricks to play here, and was about to execute them when I heard Anna's voice in my ear warning me against naughtiness. She didn't hold back though. There were a few touches whose deftness was masterly. They were always followed by a magical smile.

When Avi joined in for the second half of the varnam, he was rendered useless to the proceedings. True, the audience still listened to him. But the two of us were on a trip of our own, exchanging more than the occasional glance and smile as we led Avi though the swarams. The applause at the end was slightly unenthusiastic, but it didn't matter to me. Her eyes flirted in my direction before turning to Avi for the start of the next song.

Avi started an alaapana. Five seconds into it, I concluded he was singing Aarabhi. I set about watching her follow him through the aalapana. Five phrases into the aalapana, her left eyebrow rose in suspicion. Was he singing Devagandhari? Two seconds later, there was a definite touch of Aarabhi again. And back to Devagandhari, and back and forth and back and forth till she decided to stop following him. He turned towards her nervously, as a phrase typical of Shaama escaped his mouth. The audience watched in collective horror. Avi might have cried, but controlled emotions and finished his unsure aalapana.

It was her turn to play now. But she didn't know what raagam to play. Her eyes asked me if I knew the answer. "Aarabhi," I mouthed. Her eyes asked me why I thought so. I just nodded my head, as if I was sure. Truth be told, I wanted to hear Aarabhi. She played an Aarabhi, and I shook my head more vigorously than required, and Avi, hoping he'd win some audience back, nodded his head vigorously too. Her aalapana was followed by an applause that sounded thankful - she had, after all, cleared the audience's doubt.

Suddenly, Avi asked her sheepishly, "Shall I just get up and go? The two of you play. I attempted Devagandhari, actually."
"Dude, chillax. Just sing something in Aarabhi now," she replied.
I wondered if that was the first time that the words 'dude' and 'chillax' were used on the Carnatic concert stage.

Anna walked in with his cast, and settled in the third row, keeping a watchful eye on me.

The dubious Aarabhi was followed by an equally dubious Varaali, a trepidatious Mukhari, and a fast-paced Nalinakanti that defied all definitions of the raagam. Throughout, I kept myself under control, playing steadily as ever. Anna wouldn't like it if I engaged in 'mischief'. Especially with her around. Avi then proceeded to ask in Kamaach, "Brochevaarevarura?" I was sure it couldn't be anyone listening to the question. When I thought of this and grinned, she grinned too, almost as if she had heard the joke. It was time for me to give Anna's warning the royal ditch - I had to show her my prowess, lest she thinks I'm just an apt, unimaginative mridangist.

I unleashed all my mathematics on the crowd in the solo. I even surprised myself with my competence. I had something more than encouraging reviews to play for! Something in me had mellowed down, though. I tended to play big-hitting solos in the past, producing loud volumes to get claps, and hopefully the adjective 'enthusiastic' instead of 'apt' in the reports. On that day, I played with more poise, mirroring her approach to the violin. The audience decided to make up for the lack of thunderous mridangam with their applause.

Backstage, as we were leaving, she said, "Hey. 'Twas great fun! Its funny - people told me you were a really serious person."
"Ha, that's my brother! He fractured his hand this afternoon. I was the last-minute replacement."
"Oh. Nice meeting you," she said, walking away.
I gathered the courage to ask her, "What are you doing tomorrow evening?"
"Nothing," she said.
"Lets go eat some... dosas?"
She laughed and said, "I'd prefer Murugan Idli."

In the background, Anna muttered away, "What mukthaayam did you play, rascal?"