The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

A translated work invariably teases the reader into measuring the distance between the minds behind the endeavor - to descry the giant shoulders that prop up a mediocre translation. And the dazzling flashes of imagination that blind the reader to the ordinariness of the original. In all but the most closely related pairs of languages, the exercise of translation confronts the translator with two irreconcilable choices – fidelity to the original as against sensitivity to the aesthetics of the language in which the work is reproduced.

If Omar Khayyam is a household name today, his legacy is much indebted to the brilliance of his best known translator – Edward Fitzgerald. The following variants of the opening stanzas of the Rubaiyat amply demonstrate that Fitzgerald’s effort was more an adaptation than a translation:

From the First Edition
"Awake, for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

From the Fifth Edition
WAKE! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.

Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?

Echoes of History
Any commonality of historical circumstances suggested by Fizgerald’s remarkably sensitive interpretation of Khayyam, seems belied by the remoteness of the British Empire, at the peak of its ever-shining glory, from the dismal rubble of post-Sassanid Persia. But the apparent differences overlook the suffocating similarity of their social environments – Shiraz’s vineyards were wrung dry by Islamic fanatics in much the same manner as Puritans and Calvinists throttled Victorian England.

It was perhaps a desire to break free from the corsets of 19th Century England that drew Fitzgerald to a work as heretical as Khayyam’s - one, that would surely have aroused as much indignation in the medieval Islamic world as Darwin’s postulations did in turn-of-the-century Europe, had it only been more widely known.

Philosophical Debt
It is difficult to ascertain how much of the metaphorical brilliance of the Rubaiyat would survive, stripped of Fitzgerald's translation although the exotic oriental flavor of his lyricism suggests that a good part of it might. But as regards the power of Khayyam’s ideas and the keenness of his philosophical inquiry, there is no room for any such doubt. Khayyam joins a gaggle of renegade philosophers from both the Eastern and the Western traditions, in particular the Epicureans and the Samkhyas, in divining the underpinnings of modern western society - materialism and rational secularism. He makes no bones of his contempt for the comforting teleological platitudes of the Semitic religions:

Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so learnedly, are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.

Khayyam’s erudition in scientific disciplines, astronomy in particular, leads to a more reverential tone when he contemplates the value of knowledge but, in the end, it does not offer him any more solace than religion:

Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great Argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same Door as in I went.

With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with my own hand labour'd it to grow:
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd-
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."

Degrees of Disbelief
Questioning existence and mortality can hardly be described as a novel poetic theme, even in the 11th Century. But what does stand out in the Rubaiyat is the stridence of its tirade against God and spirituality coming as it did, at a time of unyielding religious orthodoxy. It is worth comparing Khayyam with two prominent examples of skepticism from classical English poetry, both from around the Elizabethan era.

Shakespeare’s views on God have been subjected to many literary debates but the matter would appear to be settled by one of his most famous speeches:

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause...

And continuing further along Hamlet’s soliloquy:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
…When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?

If Shakespeare’s agnosticism comes across as terrified and ingenuous, Milton’s cynicism is subdued, going no further than a jibe at the received wisdom of his religion, with his thinly-veiled deification of Satan in Paradise Lost:

Let us not then pursue
By force impossible, by leave obtain'd
Unacceptable, though in Heav'n, our state
Of splendid vassalage, but rather seek
Our own good from our selves, and from our own
Live to our selves, though in this vast recess,
Free, and to none accountable, preferring
Hard liberty before the easie yoke
Of servile Pomp.

Words, not entirely incompatible with present-day ideas of liberty and democracy! Satan’s only vice, until Milton’s survival instincts cause him to blacken his protagonist’s character, is that his aspirations lie outside the domain of his powers. But even though his insubordination invites Heaven's deadly retribution, the Devil is poignant in remorse:

O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy Spheare;
Till Pride and worse Ambition threw me down
Warring in Heav'n against Heav'ns matchless King:
Ah wherefore! he deservd no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.

Milton’s God, on the other hand is cold, distant and autocratic - cruel to the rebellious Serpent and intolerant of Eve’s fickleness but obliging, so long as His Will is honored.

Caustic Brew
Khayyam is even less charitable. His universe has a mechanistic certainty, a perpetual motion machine flagged off by a God who’s is omniscient:

And He that toss'd Thee down into the Field,
He knows about it all--HE knows---HE knows!

But not omnipotent:

And that inverted Bowl we call The Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop't we live and die,
Lift not thy hands to It for help--for it
Rolls impotently on as Thou or I.

Even more scandalous is his questioning of God’s intent in plotting mankind’s destiny, brought out in a beautiful allegory that is introduced in the following stanza:

For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray !"

Expanding on the idea in a conversation among clay pots subsequently in the poem, Khayyam delivers his damning verdict on God’s malicious errors of commission:

Then said another--"Surely not in vain
"My Substance from the common Earth was ta'en,
"That He who subtly wrought me into Shape
"Should stamp me back to common Earth again."

Another said--"Why, ne'er a peevish Boy,
"Would break the Bowl from which he drank in Joy;
"Shall He that made the Vessel in pure Love
"And Fansy, in an after Rage destroy?

None answer'd this; but after Silence spake
A Vessel of a more ungainly Make:
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry;
"What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake!"

The pent up frustration seeps out slowly at first, in a resigned acceptance of the inevitable:

While the Rose blows along the River Brink,
With old Khayyám the Ruby Vintage drink:
And when the Angel with his darker Draught
Draws up to Thee--take that, and do not shrink.

But eventually explodes in a defiant crescendo of rage:

Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestination round
Enmesh me, and impute my Fall to Sin?

Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And who with Eden didst devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
IS blacken'd, Man's Forgiveness give--and take!

Incidentally, the reference to Satan is not corroborated by the original, leaving the reader to wonder once again, whether the fulmination is attributable to a scientific temper outraged by Islamic dogmatism or to a reluctant Calvinist indulging forbidden passions under the cloak of a translation.

Or, as is likely to be the case, a potent mixture of both.

Elegy on the Men in Blue

On soaring hopes our heroes flew
To the Caribbean shore, of glorious hue.
Anon they landed, with a gleam in their eyes.
Bestrode the earth and reached for the skies
In their cerulean suits – the magnificent Men in Blue!

Our stars were men of many talents -
Crooned and pranced in countless advertisements.
But what about the hook, and the chinaman?
Oh yes, that too! Once the shot is in the can,
And their mugs festooned, on flosses red and shampoos blue.

“We’ll knock the wind off the Windies’ sails,
And slice the Kangaroos’ swaggering tails.
The Springboks are hobbling, their stride flounders,
The Kiwis? They’re just here to make up the numbers”,
Drawled Dravid and his merry retinue – “we’ll beat ‘em black and blue”!

The Bengal tiger in the campaign opener,
Struggled to a fifty with sweat and labor.
But his neighbors, across in the east
Lampooned his effort with nonchalant ease.
And through the depressed dressing room, a dolorous breeze blew.

A chafed Chapell summoned a conference
In a belated effort to bolster confidence.
“Not to worry”! said he, “it was but a hiccup.
Just a little stumble on our march to the Cup.”
From his sermon with zeal renewed, emerged the Boys in Blue.

But their restored vigour notwithstanding
Their batting and bowling were both found wanting
When the Lankan lions roared to present,
To a billion bleary eyes, their darkest moment,
And to the humbled babes, birthday suits, to replace the tarnished blue.

Beyond Belief

The 20th century witnessed the emergence of tourism as an industry. It also effectively killed the traveler. The Marco Polos, Ibn Batutas and Hieun Tsangs whose serpentine caravans slithered through the darkest corners of the soul – the brigands around the corner, the snows plotting an avalanche, the wild stripes of the tiger, the last drop of water - have sired a legacy of winding queues at check-in counters where the only niggling uncertainties concern delayed flights and the availability of aisle seats. A million vacations roll by every year, on the red carpets of air-conditioned transfers and luxury suites, unsullied by the touch of the earth; too stoned from adrenalin trips - bungee-jumps and para-glides - to be able to smell the heady fragrance of the wet soil - drenched by tears of joy and sorrow pouring forth from the clouded layers of history…

Sir Vidia, with his acid tongue and boundless cynicism, doesn’t exactly answer to the description of a seeker. But notwithstanding his conservative tweed jacket and the rakish pipe sticking out of his mouth, he comes close to discovering what has eluded generations of loin-clothed Hare Krishnas and hippies, hoping for a hashish-enabled enlightenment on the banks of the Ganges – the spirit of a land.

Beyond Belief is a continuation of Naipaul’s travels in Islamic countries, a journey that began in 1981 with “Among the Believers”. The focus of the sequel, published in 1999, is on “excursions among the converted people” – or civilizations that have found themselves eroded, and partially erased, by the Arabism that, in the opinion of the author, comes ineluctably bundled with Islam. The cultures that come under the scanner as a result of this purported assault include Persia, Pakistan and the East Indies.

Naipaul’s investigation principally relies on an oft-mentioned diary that weaves together countless strands of random thought, patiently drawn out by the author from minds that do not always share his enthusiasm for clarity, detail and honesty. His language is decidedly more sophisticated than his deductive technique but the frequency of phrases like “The moment had passed” betrays the author’s preference for concentrating his attentions on the complexity of his subject rather than on demonstrations of literary prowess. The grounded-ness is also reflected in the nature of his inquiries – the hard evidence of history, politics and economics is brought to bear upon any inclination towards mystical flights of fancy. Conclusions are gleaned from the grime on the worker’s face, the furrows on the farmer’s brow and the blood in the soldier’s eyes. These islanded tales of humdrum contentment, frustrated indifference and cataclysmic devastation are fused, brilliantly, to shape magnificent continents – alive with rivers of blood streaming down the ages, forbidding forests of fear and horror, deserts of unrealized aspirations and towering mountains of hope.

One is unable to agree with Naipaul’s central thesis. It is difficult to argue, for instance, that Islam transformed Malaysia or Indonesia any more than the waves of Hinduism and Buddhism had done previously. Indeed, while traces of pre-Islamic culture are more than evident in these countries, none whatsoever remains of anything that might have preceded the Indic religions. The conflicts and contradictions that the author rants about are at best an illustration of a general principle that the psyche of a subjected culture inevitably suffers from a schizophrenic fracture, often resulting in a dichotomous ambivalence towards the past. This is no less true of Aryan India or Western Christendom than of Islamic Persia or Pakistan.

However, while Naipaul’s conclusions appear colored by his well-documented prejudices, they leave untouched, his extraordinarily perspicacious insights into the tormented, confounded civilizations he examines. No painstakingly filmed documentary, no detailed travelogue, no exhibition of photographs, not even an actual visit can match the unforgiving clarity of the mirror he holds up to his subjects’ souls.

The traveler has been rescued from extinction.

Sonnet

Dedicated to the master of the form, Sir W. And to a recent memory.

Thinking about Love

It strikes deep but with muted pain
Until, evulsed, it leaves the savaged heart,
Disemboweled of wisdom and possessed again,
By a reckless lust for its lethal shaft.

Secured, it invites the attentions of reason -
Burrowing in vain, through its endless tunnel.
But when it rumbles, weary of the investigation,
Muddy and muddled emerges, reason’s shovel.

Memories strung across its tortuous train,
Sparkle with pearls of laughter and ecstasy.
And others of lustre ordinary, fester in pain.
Bitter, but milder by far, than derailed love’s agony.

Foolish is prudence for damming its torrents, unaware
Of the flood waiting, for the levee to burst in despair.

Version 1.1

New. Hopefully, improved...

Thinking about Love

It strikes deep, but stifles its sting
Until expelled by the apostate heart
And conceited wisdom, in concert inviting,
The bloody vengeance of the uprooted shaft.

Secured, it attracts, the attentions of reason -
Burrowing in vain, through its endless tunnel.
But when it rumbles, weary of the investigation,
Muddy and muddled emerges, reason’s shovel.

Memories strung across its tortuous train,
Sparkle with pearls of laughter and ecstasy.
And others of lustre ordinary, fester in pain.
Bitter, but gentler by far, than derailed love’s agony.

Foolish is prudence for damming its torrents, unaware
Of the flood waiting, for the levee to burst in despair.

Plunging In

Testing the Waters
Che went in first, slicing through the aquamarine waters with a taut, streamlined elegance. A stark contrast with the knots in my stomach - and in my brow, weighed down by 15 kilos of diving equipment…and the dark dread of unfathomable depths…
BCD? Check
Weights? Check.
Releases? Check.
Air? Check.
Final OK?….uhhhh… Lubricated by the terror oozing out of my pores, I sidled down the side of my boat with all the grace of a collapsing iceberg. The sea lapped me up hungrily and flipped me over a few times, forcing me into an abject, umbilical posture of submission.
I suppose my unconditional capitulation was accepted – sanity eventually surfaced and I found myself floating, none the worse for wear, in the middle of the Sulu Sea. A silent prayer of gratitude was sent up to the genius behind such brilliant mnemonics as “British Women Really Are Fun” and “Bruce Willis Ruins All Films”, standing for Buoyancy Control Device (BCD), Weights, Releases, Air and Final OK – PADI’s 5 point pre-dive checklist.

Surfing to Sipadan
The Professional Association of Diving Instructors or PADI is the biggest name in recreational diving, and runs a huge network dive shops around the world. PADI’s Open Water Dive program, lasting between 3 and 5 days, is the most popular launching pad for adventures in diving and seemed to be just the thing for my upcoming vacation. After days of surfing through the infinite list of options on PADI’s website, I found myself heading for Sipadan, a tiny island off the coast of Sabah in Malaysian Borneo that claimed to offer among the finest diving in Asia.

Divers are not allowed to stay overnight in Sipadan and must base themselves either at one of the surrounding islands or at Semporna on mainland Sabah. Semporna, presumably a corruption of the Sanskrit word “Sampurna”, is a bustling fishing town that moonlights as a somewhat reluctant host to the flock of dive-pilgrims and sun-worshippers that homes in every tourist season. A sultry air hangs hot and heavy over its eternal summer, prodded unhurriedly along by the muezzin’s lackadaisical calls and the daily hullabaloo at the fish-market. The Semporna Mosque, an unremarkable structure shouldering a gaudy gold dome, is the town’s sole tourist attraction and the focal point of rows of stilted hamlets that reach out, in search of a livelihood, towards the bountiful sea.

Padding Up
Semporna’s paucity of talking points was probably just as well given the sweat and toil that PADI had in store for me. My welcome drink was inconsiderately substituted by the fat, intimidating tome that was PADI’s course material. I labored through its dreary pages with a long face, eliciting a welcome suggestion that I try the video instead. A troupe of bulging biceps and surfboard stomachs bounded onto the screen, proceeding to tackle a series of potential catastrophes with unflappable smugness…But one of the divers falls apart from his group, his oxygen running out quickly. The currents are getting insistent now, tugging hard at his tired limbs…and the blue deep eventually drags its hapless prey into an infinite, timeless void….

Che broke into my unsanctioned siesta with a sheet full of bathymetric brainteasers…I wasn’t quite prepared for a MENSA test on a diving vacation but did my best to navigate the maze of tables and charts he’d spread around me…It was to take him many exasperating hours before my torpid intellect could meaningfully respond to PADI’s daunting challenge.
Che is a cheerful South African backpacker who’s drifted in from the cold currents around Cape Town to join the many footloose souls engaged in an extended diving orgy at Scuba Junkie, one of Semporna’s leading dive operators. The atmosphere at the dive shop is a very social one, with a Babel of tongues and accents, cut loose by a sparkling array of spirits, transporting the little shack into a dreamy, techno trance, many worlds away from sleepy Semporna…

I went into my underwater training session the next day, tormented by a ringing headache. The key to effortless scuba diving is “neutral buoyancy”, jargon for being able to pivot up and down on one’s fins using only the breath to control movement. It looked straightforward enough when Che demonstrated his see-saw act, hands clasped across the chest, pulling back into a clock-wise direction inches before hitting the sea-bed…but my performance turned out to be rather more spectacular – a deep breath would send me shooting towards the surface and if I exhaled in an attempt to tame my flailing flight, I’d be dispatched in the opposite direction, like a punctured balloon, to a thorny reception of sea urchins. Che drank deep from his bottomless well of patience to impose some restraint on my ungainly underwater acrobatics although I never quite managed to replicate his perfect pendulum-like swing. In the end, however, my little routine was deemed worthy of PADI’s approval and I wasn’t going to fret about the elegance with which the result was achieved.

Atlantis
My newly procured certificate was duly invoked to book myself on the next available voyage to Sipadan. I headed out to the island with the languid sun, ushered in by a balmy breeze, settling heavily on my eyelids. The serene, turquoise waters seemed to rise oddly, in thin reedy stands fanning out into a darker green…Just as I began assessing the state of my consciousness, Che bombed into the sea, working up a wall of water that crashed down on me in a wet and salty assurance of reality - Sipadan’s shaggy mop of coconut trees peeped out of the horizon - it was time to gear up. British Women/Bruce Willis – take your pick…I’d never been very fond of Bruce Willis.
We went down on our amphibious quest, holding our BCD hoses above our heads in a reverential salute to our irascible host, earning ourselves a soft landing on its alien soil. My anxieties dissolved rapidly, in an ocean of stupefied wonder…in the celestial shoals of color that flitted past, darted across, hovered above, lurked beneath…in that hallucinatory expanse of refracted light and refractory senses...
The dive-masters would diligently rattle their oxygen tanks upon every manifestation of the Lord’s liquid imagination - the Lion Fish and his iridescent mane, smoldering inside a marine cave; Eagle Rays striking out of their sandy bed; Reef Sharks dozing on the sea bed, utterly unmindful of the damage to their reputation; Green Turtles ambling up with an outstretched paw…All too soon, however, the pressure gauge signaled the need to ascend. We went up to a depth of 5 metres for the mandatory “safety stop”, recommended for a number of good reasons, one of which is to prevent the lungs from bursting into smithereens as they expand during the ascent!
We hovered there, in suspended animation, beneath a gently shimmering veil that enmeshed the twisted angles of the sun when a rude fish tore into the tranquil fabric with a quick exploratory circle. Satisfied with his reconnaissance, he waved in his waiting comrades, thousands and thousands of them, to form a frenzied, black whorl around us, spinning my benumbed, disbelieving senses into a dizzy climax.

Unremarkable
Barracudas, Che tells me when are back on the boat – the explanation doing nothing to alleviate my delirious ecstasy. We chatter on, towards the Semporna shore. Its unremarkable mosque and unremarkable stilt villages gradually emerge from the setting sun. As does the unremarkable fish market, housing the stinking, bloody piles of the day’s catch…from that, oh-so-remarkable world, a few feet below…

FACTFILE
PADI Dive Certification can be obtained from hundreds of Dive Centres across the world including several sites in India and South East Asia. Check out http://www.padi.com/. Expect to pay about USD3-400 for the course including equipment. Shorter introductory diving courses are also available.

You should be able to swim continuously for 200 metres and float for 10 minutes in order to get a PADI Open Water License – no other prior experience or knowledge is necessary.
Scuba Junkie (www.scuba-junkie.com) and North Borneo Dive and Sea Sports (www.northborneo.net) are the two main dive operators in Semporna. Dives to Sipadan can also be booked through several dive operators in Kota Kinabalu. Visit www.sabahtourism.com

Semporna can be reached via Tawau which has connections to Kuala Lumpur and Kota Kinabalu. Tickets can be booked online through an international credit card at http://www.airasia.com/ or www.malaysiaairlines.com.

Staying on the islands around Sipadan (such as Mabul - http://www.sipadan-mabul.com.my/ ) offers a luxurious but expensive alternative to staying at Semporna. Accommodation options in Semporna include the Dragon Inn, built on stilts (50 – 100 USD per night) or in the dorms at Scuba Junkie.

Vegetarians will not go hungry but do not expect anything other than very basic rice and noodles. Make sure your dive operator knows about your dietary restrictions, if any.

Permits for Sipadan need to be booked at least a month in advance. Any licensed PADI dive operator in Semporna or Kota Kinabalu should be able to get it for you.

Ideally at least 24 hours should be allowed before flying out after a PADI course. Talk to your dive operator before planning your trip.

The operators mentioned above are reliable but Malaysia is gaining a reputation for credit card frauds. Talk to your bank for advice on suitable precautions.

Visa on arrival is now available to Indians – check with your travel agent for details.

Arar Asaippadar

After weeks of rushing from one Sabha to the next last December, the opportunity to watch a film on Sanjay Subrahmanyan, Carnatic Music's reigning prince, offered a diversion that was not altogether dissonant with the melodious gales of Margazhi sweeping across Chennai. There’s some reason to question the choice of the subject, given the number of masters, past and present, whose legacies languish undocumented...But the persona of Sanjay Subrahmanyam turns out to be a remarkably effective portraiture of the intensity of Carnatic music.

The documentary commences, very appropriately, with the Kalyani Ata Tala varnam and winds its way through a number of musical journeys before concluding with the song that gives the film its title. Prasanna Ramaswamy’s gift for visual metaphor is breathtaking, - a Begada alaapana tumbles down a frenzied maze of streetlights whereas Husseini floats gently along the backwaters of Kerala. In one of the film’s most striking moments, the clamorous crescendo of Kapaleeshwarar’s nightly “Urgolam” is abruptly muted to allow the gentle strains of Papanasam Sivan’s “Kapali” in Mohanam to waft in – the chaos of darkness yielding to the tranquility of dawn….

With due respect to the director’s talents, however, it is the fiery passion of its protagonist that is the film’s sheet anchor …from the doting father reading out excerpts from “Inspector Gopalan” on the bedside to the wild-eyed, hysterical gayaka, possessed by the raga rasa of Shanmukhapriya, Sanjay is a showman to the core - programmed to perform, designed for the stage. I suspect there’s a good career awaiting him somewhere in the vicinity of Kodambakkam if he chooses to prematurely terminate his association with music!

There are some gripes, of course – the director has a tendency to arbitrarily expand the canvas, probably with an eye on her primarily western audience who will no doubt lap up the dizzying exotica peppered generously over her oeuvre. For instance, one can understand the connection with Nagaswaram, given Sanjay’s (very successful) attempts to experiment with that bani, but the extended dance sequences seem somewhat contrived. Indeed, the film’s sub-consciousness veers more towards Tamil culture rather than Carnatic Music - not a single composition of the trinity that I noticed, in close to 90 minutes overflowing with music! If that was an accident, it was an unhappy one.

Some of the set-pieces also seem highly affected – the first is a conversation between the former editors of sangeetham.com, Sanjay and Sriram, about their soon-to-be-doomed website! In another shot, Nagai Muralitharan and Guruvayoor Dorai ham on endlessly about Sanjay’s vidwat…neither of these need have been spared the editor’s scissor…

Despite the complaints, this is the most evocative cinematic coverage of the performing arts I’ve seen since “Farewell My Concubine” Kaige Chen’s lyrical ode to Chinese opera. Even if you’re not into movies, the awesome alaapana of Shanmukhapriya alone, would be well worth your money.

A DVD will hopefully be out shortly and should set off Sanjay's many fans on a mad scramble for a copy.

A Capital Idea

The Indian Prime Minister, Mr. Manmohan Singh, recently revived one of the early casualties of India’s bumpy road towards a more efficient economy – full convertibility of the Rupee on the capital account. India’s original roadmap for convertibility, drawn up by Mr. S. S Tarapore, then the Deputy Governor of the Reserve Bank of India (RBI), is believed to be one of the most comprehensive, and most ill-timed, reports on the subject - Mr. Tarapore’s ambitious plans for India’s currency laws were prematurely swept away by the currency typhoon that hit Asian Markets in July 1997, less than a month after his recommendations were made public.
Mr. Singh, himself a former Governor of the RBI, hinted at the possibility of capital account convertibility while releasing a voluminous historical account of his ex-employer. The occasion could not have been more appropriate given that the Prime Minister’s musings could well mark a new chapter in the bank’s history.

Capitalizing on convertibility
The posited arguments for capital account liberalization, primarily greater efficiency of capital allocation and the imposition of macroeconomic discipline, are well documented although the lack of supporting empirical evidence provides ample grist for the skeptic’s mill. However, the validity of theoretical arguments would not concern the RBI as much the very real, and rapidly increasing, stock of foreign exchange it is confronted with. The mounting pile of currency, largely attributable to the RBI-managed “dirty float” of the Rupee, is now beginning to raise a stink among policy mavens who feel that the central bank’s continual interventions to suppress the currency’s upward mobility severely limits the bank’s monetary policy options. The renewed enthusiasm for convertibility is also partly the result of the growing global ambitions of corporate India, which is no longer satisfied with the meager, and often discretionary, concessions offered by what is seen as a restrictive currency regime. Things seem to have come a full circle from the early days of liberalization when the Bombay Club, an informal interest group of leading Indian business houses, lobbied hard, but without success, to stall the fledgling reforms process.
While the Asian Currency Crisis put paid to hopes of an early transition to a liberalized capital account, the government has been slowly steering the economy towards greater openness ever since. Current account restrictions were among the first to go - most transactions on the trade account no longer require government approval. Foreign Direct Investments (FDI) have been liberalized in all but a few “sensitive” sectors, as have the more volatile portfolio investments, now a force to reckon with on Indian bourses. However, while the capital account transactions of external entities are largely free from control, the RBI has been somewhat reluctant to accommodate the desire of Indian residents and corporates to access global markets. The government’s cautious dismantling of investment and borrowing restrictions on corporates has prodded the External Commercial Borrowings (ECB) limit upwards to 500 Million USD and that of foreign investments to 100% of net worth. Individuals must, however, remain content with a rather modest allowance of 25000 US Dollars per annum. Although exemptions from these norms are possible on a “case to case basis”, the numbers would seem to be out-of-sync with the rising wealth, and ambition, of Indians and their business interests.
The key outstanding items of the currency liberalization agenda include enabling a free float of the Rupee, addressing the short term overseas borrowing and investment requirements of Indian corporates and substantially increasing, if not completely eliminating, the overall limits governing access to foreign capital. Mutual Funds, meanwhile, expect that reforms will allow them to look beyond the country’s shores in their search for better investor returns.

Beyond dilemmas
Economic reforms in India, even eminently sensible ones, have struggled to cope with the country’s chaotic, agenda-ridden, and often ill-informed, political process. Seeing through a proposal with as contentious a claim to promoting economic welfare as capital account convertibility would require a satisfactory explanation of concerns on several fronts. The standard argument against currency liberalization is, of course, the experience of South East Asian countries in 1997. Empirical evidence against permitting free capital flows is further bolstered by a World Bank survey of 27 instances of capital inflow surges between 1976 and 1996 in 21 emerging markets – the study found that, in close to two-thirds of the cases, the inflows were followed by a banking crisis, a currency crisis or both. This apparent lack of compatibility between economic stability and freedom of capital movement is believed to result as much from the intrinsic inadequacies of emerging economies (in particular, shallow and non-transparent capital markets, unhealthy banking systems and fiscal laxity) as from sequencing issues such as, for example, the order in which the capital and current accounts are liberalized.
Of more relevance to India, which is largely free of the sort of crony capitalism that plagues South East Asian economies, is the impact of the proposed measures on monetary policy, the exchange rate and exports. A theoretical framework for analyzing the issue is provided by the so-called “Macroeconomic Trilemma” which contends that, of the three objectives of capital account convertibility, a fixed exchange rate and an effective monetary policy, no more than two can be achieved simultaneously. With controls on foreign investment already dismantled, the RBI’s attempt to pin down the Rupee, therefore, comes at the expense of a huge, unproductive reserve of foreign currency which, in turn, is believed to constrain monetary policy. On the other hand, letting go of the Rupee could result in impairing the competitiveness of exports including, in particular, the critical IT Services industry. This cautionary implication for liberalization is compounded by other limiting factors such as the questionable ability of India’s NPL-afflicted banks to cope with the rigors of the international financial system, the potentially inflationary effects of development spending under a free float scenario and finally, the widely feared, yet rather distant, prospect of a South East Asia style currency shock.
With many risks and few obvious benefits, argue some observers, capital account convertibility is neither essential nor desirable. The Indian Left parties, on whose support, the survival of the present government depends, lost no time in expressing their disagreement with the Prime Minister’s opinion which, they felt, was “dictated by (the) World Bank and corporates” and therefore “disastrous”.

Better luck next time
Doomsday prophecies notwithstanding, the ever-increasing stock of foreign currency is a real problem as is the need of Indian corporates for greater access to capital. With investor confidence continuing to soar on the back of rapid economic growth and improving government finances, chances of a large-scale capital flight in the foreseeable future appear remote. In any event, it is hard to see how convertibility would significantly add to the possibility of an investment exodus given that the usual suspect for such events – portfolio investment – is already a well-entrenched feature of the economy.
Free float of the Rupee would, however, pose a more immediate problem. An appreciation of the Rupee, as is widely expected to result from such an action, has the potential to pull the plug on India’s booming exports. The impact would be particularly severe on sectors such as IT services which, thanks to their negligible import requirements, have little use for a cheaper Rupee. Further, with inflation well under control, the need for an interventionist monetary policy in the short to medium term is not very evident. In short, while full convertibility is clearly in the interest of the economy, free float of the Rupee is a bit of a mixed bag. To complicate matters further, although free convertibility in the absence of a market determined exchange rate is theoretically possible, such a move has historically proven to be the perfect recipe for economic disaster.
As with most reforms initiatives in India, it is unlikely that anything will happen in a hurry. The RBI, for its part, was quick to set up a committee to revisit the issue under the stewardship of the same gentleman responsible for the production of the original report. Mr. Tarapore plans to come out with his findings by the end of July and would no doubt be hoping for a better hand from fate this time.

The Temptress

It is not the highest India’s Indian peak – not unless one imposes the rather stringent condition of requiring the recipient of that honor to be “located entirely within the country’s borders”…but Nanda Devi is arguably the most beautiful, and almost certainly the most enigmatic, of India’s many mighty mountains. The Devi’s shadow, cast from an imperious height of 7815 metres, spares few villages in the surrounding districts of Kumaon and Garhwal from its infamous caprices.
As with almost every Indian geographical feature of significance, the Devi has been assimilated into the endless pantheon of Hindu Gods and Goddesses – the locals revere the mountain as a manifestation of Shiva’s Consort, Parvati whose return to her native Garhwal, once every twelve years, sets the stage for the Nanda Raj Jat, an event that rivals the Mahakumbh in its significance for the region. The Jat begins from the village of Nauti and tests the faith of the Jatris with a treacherous 22-day march until the heart-rending formalities of parting are completed in the splendid isolation of the 22,000 feet high mountain pond of Homkund. The extreme emotions and physical rigors associated with the Jat is just one of the examples of the curious mixture of love and reverence with which the locals regard the shapely cone of ice that lords over their destiny.

Lacking the hardiness and resolve of the Garhwalis but as ardently desirous of the Devi’s blessings, I opt for the easier week-long hike from Ghat near Nandprayag to the emerging ski resort of Auli via the Kuari Pass. The route is known as the “Curzon Trail” following a glorious tradition of Himalayan misnomers that goes back all the way to Sir George Everest - Lord Curzon and his serpentine retinue were forced to jettison their hopes of crossing the Pass thanks to an unfriendly reception from a swarm of bees! His Lordship was, however, quite successful in breaking enough Garhwali backs to pave a surprisingly well-preserved trail all the way to the pass.

The trek begins with some hard hiking through rugged forested slopes but the Devi is not remiss in doing her bit to alleviate her devotees’ physical travails - lusty mountain streams, diaphanous waterfalls, lissome peaks, virgin woods, and bounteous maize-fields pass by in a pageant of visual delights that charm the senses into transcending pain…But these titillations are no more than feeble distractions dogging the pursuit of the more pristine beauty that lies beyond the Pass – the Devi’s Grace, shielded by the outstretched flanks of her gargantuan sentinels…

….The handsome triple-mount of Trishul (7120 metres) keeps a watchful vigil for most of the 4 days that it takes to clamber up to the Pass. At its foot lies the lake of Roopkund, the hideous contents of which have made significant contributions to the fascinating repertoire of Himayalan folklore - scattered around the lake and bizarrely complementing its snowy-white fringes, are a few hundred human skeletons! This icy morgue was until recently attributed to the Devi’s fury descending on the Dogri General, Zorawar Singh’s rapacious army. However, the remains have since been proven to have resulted from a Raj Jat Party losing its way while traversing the treacherous route to Homkund. Curiously, an anthropological analysis of the skulls revealed that the party was most probably a group of Konkanashta Brahmins from Maharashtra!

Another recent example of the mountain’s bloody appetite is the poignant tale of Nanda Devi Unsoeld. Willi Unsoeld, her mountaineer-father had named her for a peak he had fallen in love with as a young man. Nurtured on a daily diet of the mountain’s glory, it is not hard to understand Nanda Devi’s desire to meet her namesake. But her wish was granted rather too literally – she died from cold and exhaustion in her father’s arms, at the foot of the mountain. It is hard to resist the sentimentality of concluding, as the locals did, that Goddess was, after all, only reclaiming her own….

Mercifully, I had no such claims on the Devi’s affections…The trek from the camp at the foot of the Kuari Pass turns out to be a straightforward one - an hour’s hike with no more than a hint of oxygen-deprivation leads to a saddle-top which, in terms of effort-to-reward, must rank as one of the best bargains in the Himalayas! Although the Devi herself has yet to make her entry, a phalanx of white knights, led by the imperious façade of Dunagiri (7066 metres), stands guard over the northern and western horizons. My impatience for the Devi’s darshan urges me on to the 5000 metre high spur of Pangerchuli but she is in no mood to grant me an audience just yet – the veil drops, followed by a tempestuous fit …The mountain’s sanguine history weighs too heavily on my mind for me to even think of testing her will any further – the rendezvous will have to be on her terms.

She relents eventually at Chitrakanta, the last camp before Auli, just minutes after the Sun releases her from his passionate embrace…but her next suitor is already around the corner and as the sky slips into an inky drape, the Devi succumbs to the silvery luster of her night-watchman. The ethereal sight of this celestial union sends the mind on a strange journey to the other end of the sub-continent – to the green rice-fields and majestic gopurams of Tanjore, where one of the Goddess’ staunchest devotees lavished his unbounded love on what must be the most cherished of her followers’ countless tributes. It is unlikely that Syama Sastri ever visited Uttaranchal but his faith must have opened up splendorous vistas, of which my unseeing eyes absorb but a fraction. How else does one explain the uncanny appropriateness of his musical masterpiece in describing the glory of this vision whereas my own labored words flounder hopelessly, utterly unequal to the task?

“Saroja Dala Netri Himagiriputri Ni Padambujamule”
(Fold me into your Lotus Feet, O Lotus-eyes One, Daughter of the Snows)

My benediction is complete and gives my watery knees, the strength to take on the grueling descent to the grassy alpine meadows surrounding Auli. Whenever they do groan a little, all I need to do is turn around and bask in the Devi’s mischievous, yet indulgent smile…and I know I would gladly suffer another million painful steps for that beautiful sight…

The Wailing Woods

The intrepid explorer is something of an endangered species – there’s been enough digging and poking, seafaring and mountaineering, over the last few centuries to render wannabe Columbuses and Cooks about as relevant as their astrolabes. But even to the jaded traveler, sick to his stomach from feasting on wildebeest lunches at the Serengeti, the mention of Borneo, and the attendant vividness of Conradian imagery, is enough reason to pull out some of those old Bartholomews and Langenscheits from the clutches of dust and disuse….

Hemmed in by a cirque of islands - Sumatra and Java to the west and south, and the chaotic mess of the Celebes and the Filipino archipelagoes to the east – this cloistered Eden was used to a certain indulgence from Father Time…but even that Gentleman’s considerable influence could do little to shield the island’s chastity from the ravenous tides of commerce that swept across 17th century Asia. As the colonial powers lavished the Orient with all the craft they could muster, the fate of the East Indies hung on the outcome of an unholy barter between the two dominant powers in the region – the English and the Dutch. The exchange proved somewhat ambiguous in its implications for Borneo’s pedigree - with neither side willing to forswear the island’s charms, it was carved to pleasure the appetites of both masters. The Dutch part of this mixed legacy emerged as the Indonesian province of Kalimantan, while the English share made way for the Malaysian states of Sabah and Sarawak.

Hazy Outlook

The traveler’s dreamy vision of a pristine tropical paradise descends to a sobering touch-down at Kota Kinabalu’s bustling airport, which turns out to be substantially better endowed than the desolate landing strips of jungle lore. Sabah’s capital, with its pulsating malls and flashing neon lights, is emblematic of Borneo’s throbbing quest for a communion with the global marketplace, as it yanks itself out of its primeval womb, sawing feverishly on the cords that oppress its flight into the first world….

The impact on Borneo’s precious burden is alarmingly predictable - its handsome stands, relieved of their impregnability by the machinations of technology, struggle in vain against the suffocating grip of concrete creepers and the marauding armies of Caterpillars they support, blighting nature’s viral profusion with the regimented ugliness of palm oil plantations…The statistics are, for once, damningly truthful – the island’s forest cover has been plundered at a rate of 2 Million Hectares per year (half the size of the Netherlands); the proud denizens of this once-pristine domain, including the Orang-utan, the Sumatran Rhino and the Javan Tiger, have been reduced to the abjectness of squealing for mercy from the cardboard cut-outs of conservation campaigners. The oblivion of many lesser life-forms is exceeded only by our own awareness of their existence….

Smoke signals, warning against this scandalous exploitation, emerged, quite literally, from a devastating forest fire in 1997, one of the worst in recent times. As Borneo reeled under the resultant haze - a persistent feature of the island’s meteorology ever since – the authorities finally found the vision to rescue the few remaining feral oases from their impending despoliation. It is in one such measly strip of relatively unmolested forest that I decide to seek solace…

Monkey Business

The Sungai Kinabatangan, drains into the Sulu sea, following a leisurely meander from its origins in the mountains of Western Sabah. About 270 acres of secondary forest along the lower reaches of the river have been set apart by the Malaysian Government in a belated effort to avoid the ignominy of having to write off the country’s most prominent wildlife mascot – the Orang-utan. The ride up the river – in an antediluvian watercraft, salvaged from condemnation by the addition of a strident outboard motor – is not quite the journey into the Heart of Darkness I had come looking for. But while romance is in short supply, the promised wildlife sightings are not – I get my first glimpse of our tree-dwelling host well before I crawl into my hut at Uncle Tan’s marshy campsite. Alas, the preponderance of the giant ape in the area merits only half a cheer, for it is attributable as much to the effectiveness of conservation efforts inside the sanctuary as to habitat-loss elsewhere in the island.

The routine at Uncle Tan’s follows a well-trodden path, paved to perfection by 50 years of ecotourism in “Jungle Camps” around the world – a boat ride at the crack of dawn, a scramble across the jungle to work up the appetite for lunch, a second nautical drill in the evening to see off the sun, a nocturnal stroll to soak in the moonshine and so on...My multi-modal wanderings are frequently punctuated by visitations of the many brutes that pop out of the park’s colorful brochure - the Orang-utan, literally the “Man of the Forest”; the Proboscis Monkey of the pendulous nose and ponderous belly; the more conservatively designed Long-tailed Macaque; Kingfishers, Darters, Herons and a bevy of other feathered friends whose Latin names, chirped in a lilting Malay accent, dredge up dark memories of high school biology! I am unlucky with the rare Sumatran Rhino but considering that mammal’s density in Bornean forests, finding a needle in the proverbial haystack would probably fetch better odds.

Lesser Evil

For the time being, Borneo’s rainforests remain a well-kept secret that offers a great wildlife experience without straining the wallet or the nerves. Rampaging Land Cruisers haven’t checked in yet and 5-star tents are unlikely to be rolled out in a hurry…but the excesses of mass tourism are not of immediate concern to Borneo’s wildlife, given the far stiffer challenges posed by the palm oil and logging industries. Indeed, it is worth considering whether greater tourist interest, despite the unwholesomeness of its collateral baggage, might not command a better valuation for Borneo’s priceless ecological assets than competing claims have so far come up with. The abasement of Borneo’s magnificent forests with the tinsel garb of safari circuses is hardly a heartening prospect…but preferable, nevertheless, to the shame of complete denudation.

Tiger Woods!

In the forests of the night
The ochre glow of a late winter evening fades into a misty twilight as my overcrowded “safari van” clatters its way towards the forest gate of Ranthambore National Park. It is the end of another dusty ride around the expansive sanctuary but although I’ve spent two wonderful days roaming around the beautiful forest, its most famous resident has so far proved elusive. To try and liven up the downcast mood, some of my fellow-tourists start reminiscing about more productive quests for an appointment with our eremitic host. Our voluble guide eagerly chips in with his wide repertoire of hair-raising anecdotes, perhaps in an attempt to transmute our disappointment to gratitude! The bantering continues, gathering enthusiasm and imaginativeness with every new narrative until one of the raconteurs starts gesticulating frantically towards the road ahead. Unable to see anything through the hazy veil that has descended all around us, I put down my companion’s frenzy to the tall tales he has been subjected to. However, my judgment turns out to be a little premature – my torpid eyes eventually wake up to the majestic gait emerging from the mist…We gape spellbound as it ambles its way down the trail, its every regal tread an embodiment of power and grace. It is just a few feet away now, turning some of us more than a little jittery but the beast itself appears least interested in the commotion it has generated – a patronizing sidelong glance is the only recognition our presence merits, as the lord of the jungle continues his royal march past our humble van, into the darkness of the night.

What is it about the tiger that leaves such a powerful imprint on the human imagination? Is it the fear that this supreme predator evokes or the courage that it inspires? The outrageous beauty of its colors and stripes? The sheer perfection of its design? The elegance of that stride? The searing intensity of those eyes?

Whatever the cause, the effect itself is beyond dispute – and the droves of tourists who descend on Ranthambore every year provide as cogent a testimony to it as the words of William Blake.

A Blend of History and Nature
But Ranthambore is more than just about tigers, although the striped beast is undoubtedly its star attraction. Spread across about 1300 square KMs in Eastern Rajasthan, the Park is among India’s largest tracts of bush forest and for that reason, a unique habitat for the Bengal tiger, which is more typically found in the denser dry deciduous forests of Central and Southern India. Another novelty is the thousand-year old fort, which winds around central parts of the reserve, seasoning the tourist’s already overflowing plate with some history and culture – this is, after all, Rajasthan!

The sandstone fort boasts of a hoary lineage that dates back to Prithviraj Chauhan, whose grandson, Govind, is said to have been its first occupant. The fort’s strategic location and soaring walls helped it repulse an impressive list of invaders including Alauddin Khalji, Qutb-ud-Din Aibak and Feroze Tughlaq before it succumbed to the Mughals in the 1500s who, in turn passed it on to the Maharaja of Jaipur in the 17th Century.

Ranthambore was declared a wildlife sanctuary in 1955 and was also one of the 12 original Project Tiger reserves. The mammalian diversity of the Park mirrors its significance as a premier conservation site - apart from its flagship attraction, the forest is home to leopards, sloth bears, jackals and hyenas among the carnivores, besides a wide variety of ungulates, the most prominent of which are the Nilgai (Blue Bull) and the majestic Sambhar. Ornithologists have no cause for complaint either - the sanctuary’s woods and lakes shelter over 250 species of birds, making it an important bird sanctuary in its own right. Easily the most visible of these, is the plucky Rufous Treepie, which is famous for its catwalks on the top of safari vans, strutting its brilliant plumage of black, saffron and white to cheer up tourists who’ve had no luck with the sanctuary’s more famous attractions! Other fascinating water-birds such the Painted Stork and the Purple Heron can be seen in large numbers along Ranthambore’s many lakes and water-bodies. The Crested Serpent Eagle and the Fishing Eagle are among the raptors that crown the avian hierarchy.

The resplendent diversity of the Park’s flora and fauna is reason enough for its popularity but what really makes Ranthambore stand out from comparable wildlife destinations is the convenience of its location (6 hours by road from Delhi and about 15 hours from Mumbai) and the “friendly” reputation of its typically reclusive inhabitants. In fact, tigers in Ranthambore are so used to human presence that safari parties are often treated to hunting demonstrations in broad daylight - among the eye-witness accounts that have been immortalized in the local folklore is that of a tiger and a crocodile playing tug of war with a hapless Sambhar! The gruesome spectacle was even captured on video, copies of which are now aggressively peddled in Ranthambore’s souvenir shops with imaginative titles such as “Tiger versus Crocodile” “Clash of the Titans” etc. Who needs National Geographic?!

In the Wilderness
However, for all its attractions, Ranthambore could do with better management. Getting a seat on a safari involves figuring out a labyrinthine racket that leaves many an “un-enterprising” tourist stranded at the forest gate. The ride is far from a lesson in sensitive tourism. Tourists are ferried across the jungle in a raucous “Canter”, which is a minivan relieved of its top and hollowed out to fit in about 25 passengers. This is usually the perfect recipe for acrimonious debates among its inhabitants, leaving the hassled guide to mediate heated, but poorly informed, exchanges of opinion on the best strategy to spot a tiger. The guides, for their part, display neither enthusiasm nor knowledge – on many trips, it is, in fact, hard to figure out whom the guide might be! The Park authorities could draw many useful lessons here from organizations such as Jungle Lodges of Karnataka, which has emerged as a pioneer of responsible ecotourism in the country.

Apart from tourist conveniences which, perhaps, ought not to be allowed to hijack the management agenda in a National Park, the sanctuary also appears to be facing some grave threats to conservation. Several poaching incidents are believed to have occurred over the years although the Park authorities do not appear very comfortable discussing them. The locals are more forthcoming with the details, claiming that the official census of 1999, which put the tiger population at about 45, is a significant overestimate. A particularly distressing signal of the Park’s state of affairs is the alleged disappearance of Bambooram, the tiger which made headlines after having been spotted by President Clinton…Alarming portents for what was once considered to be a role model of conservation.

Looking Ahead
Nevertheless, while concerns remain, Ranthambore continues to be a compelling destination. Tourists to Rajasthan find Ranthambore a good break from the monotony of the state’s never-ending forts and the Park’s convenient location near Sawai Madhopur on the Mumbai-Delhi railway line, appeals to weekend visitors as well. The relentless construction of hotels all along the Ranthambore road is just one indication of the steady northward movement of tourist arrivals.

Although Ranthambore would no longer qualify as a benchmark for eco-friendly tourism, the ever-increasing visitors do check the local population from falling prey to the easy temptations of the animal parts trade. Most of them now agree that tourism offers a steadier income over the long run than the short-term gains of conniving with the poaching racket. Besides, the messages of conservation and protection seem to have hit home, generating an awareness, and even some pride, about just how crucial a role they play in the preservation of their endangered mascot.
More than anything else, it is this popular local sentiment that breeds the hope Ranthambore’s beleaguered beasts will survive the hunter’s rapacious gun as well as the tourist’s indiscreet lens.

Seasonal Melodies – Chennai’s Margazhi Mahotsavam

A Winter of Content
There could be worse places to spend your winter than Chennai. The city’s notoriously unforgiving weather, assumes a distinctly agreeable character for a brief period between November and February, which is also marked by a number of colorful festivals such as Navaratri, Diwali, Christmas and Pongal. Unsurprising then, that this is also the time when Chennai’s entertainment almanac is at its cluttered best…Diwali and Pongal are occasions to pamper its celluloid-addicted denizens with the year’s biggest block-busters. The city’s many colleges add to the colours of the season with the buzz of their festivals and savvy marketers flood the newspapers with advertisements of shrewdly timed fairs and exhibitions. Sports fans, too, get as slice of the action given the a number of high profile sporting events that are attracted to Chennai thanks to its benign winter and its infectious enthusiasm for sports. The most prestigious of these is the recently re-christened Chennai Open, a part of the ATP tennis tour with an odd cricket test or one-dayer being thrown in for added measure. However, amidst all this festive bustle, it is the city’s annual tribute to a hoary and very traditional art form that gets pride of place as the brightest star of the city’s cultural firmament – the December Music Season, a show-case of Carnatic Music and other South Indian classical arts on a scale that has few parallels anywhere in the world.



Soul Searching
A lazy afternoon at a dingy Mylapore auditorium replays the familiar scene of an aspiring Carnatic musician displaying his wares to a frosty audience of elderly curmudgeons, many of whom are peeved at having their afternoon siesta ruined by the raucous youngster. The tenacious musician, however, continues undaunted, inspired by the thought of these very philistines elbowing each other out of the ticket counter to hear him sing, once his assiduity is rewarded with the elusive grace of Godess Saraswathi. Raga Begada is taken up for elaboration and the boisterous artiste breezes his way through its tortuous notes, smugly dodging the raga’s many pitfalls with a knowing smile on his face. The tedious vocal acrobatics last for a while until the singer accidentally glides through a phrase reminiscent of the opening stanza of “Nadopasana”, an evocative krithi (composition) of Saint Thyagaraja, Carnatic Music’s most revered figure. The krithi’s lofty message, extolling the worship (upasana) of music (nada), serves to remind the vocalist of the waywardness of his own musical approach. Chastened, he quickly abandons his exuberant exhibitionism and begins a soulful search for melodic subtlety marked by a complete surrender to his music. In the process, the audience is turned around from its indifference to a state of enraptured bliss – hairs stand on end, goose-pimples ripple across the auditorium, coffee cups at the nearby canteen pause near mesmerized lips…after years of perseverance and toil spent grappling with the intricacies of sruti (tone) and laya (rhythm), the artiste has finally succeeded in tapping the essence of his art…

For all its sophistication and the technical demands it makes on its practitioners, Carnatic Music (or Karnataka Sangeetham as the traditionalists like to refer to it) is finally judged on the basis of the performer’s ability to capture bhavam (emotion) and bhakti (devotion). The unsurpassed popularity of M S Subbulakshmi, for example, is more attributable to the weighty emotional import of her music than its technical complexity.

Flavours of the Season
Given such an amorphous touchstone, it is perhaps only in the fitness of things that Carnatic Music’s most prestigious event is marked by a degree of disorder that would put Babel and Pandemonium to shame. Performances being cancelled at the last minute, artistes finding themselves booked at more than one venue at the same time, accompanists deciding to play truant, amplifications systems going berserk, chairs giving way under the weight of unsuspecting backsides, snakes cozily winding themselves around rasikas’ (music fans) legs, traffic jams outside various auditoria clogging the city’s arterial roads…. to list just some of the innumerable manifestations of Chaos, which grace the “Margazhi Mahotsavam”, to give the December Music Season its proper Tamizh name.

Margazhi is one of the 12 months of the Tamizh calendar and roughly stretches between mid-December and mid-January. The month is considered an extremely auspicious one, appropriate for undertaking activities directed towards the achievement of freedom from worldly bondage. In other words, an ideal time for the practice of art forms with a high spiritual content such as Carnatic Music and Bharathanatyam. Given these diktats of tradition and the temperateness of the climate, Margazhi had no trouble emerging as an ideal time to conduct the Music Season.
“The Season” came into being in 1927 with the inauguration of a Music Conference organized as part of the Congress Party’s annual session in Chennai. This was followed up with the establishment of the Music Academy the subsequent year, which has continued the tradition since. Building on the Music Academy’s lead, a number of “Sabhas”, or institutions engaged in the organization of fine arts performances, sprung up, primarily around the George Town area. However, the epicenter of the Season gradually shifted to Mylapore, largely on account of the area’s high concentration of legal luminaries, who were also great patrons of music. Carnatic Music is naturally the focal point of the Season although it also includes a number of other performing arts such as Bharathanatyam and Tamizh theatre besides providing a sampler of classical arts from all over the country.

From the 3-4 sabhas that used to conduct fortnight long programs in December during the formative years of the event, the Season has expanded to a mind-boggling number of over 75 at last count, cramming in close to 2500 performance in the 4-5 weeks between late November and early January. However, many of these grandiloquently titled Sabhas are nothing but fronts for pushy parents to promote their children, leaving the worthier objective of promoting genuine talent to a couple of dozen more reputable institutions. The season really revolves around the “Annual Festivals” of these established sabhas, some of which are of relatively recent vintage while many others, such as the Parthasarathy Swami Sabha, go back more than a hundred years. Irrespective of its history, each sabha brings its own unique flavour to the Season….thus, the Krishna Gana Sabha leans towards dance programs while Bharat Kalachar, lays an emphasis on promoting youthful talent. Some recent entrants into the fray have sought to create niches for themselves by broadcasting performances on television and in keeping with Chennai’s stature as an IT stronghold, there is a also a bunch of Sabhas which have started web-casting concerts for the benefit of tech-savvy music lovers who are unable to make it to Chennai for the Season!

If music be the love of food
The daily program typically commences with a lecture-demonstration, which is an opportunity for bookish musicologists to engage in esoteric discussions that can rapidly descend from the musical to the unprintable! Morning concerts following the lec-dem are reserved for ageing senior artistes or critically acclaimed musicians whose caliber is beyond the comprehension of all but the most discerning listeners. Emerging talents with good PR skills and an access to the Sabha Secretary’s ear sometimes manage to corner this slot. Else their lot is consigned to the ignominy of the “afternoon concert” which is Carnatic Music’s equivalent of the Purgatory...the inconvenience of the timing and the artistes’ own lack of marquee-value mean that the masses, alongwith their generous purse strings and easily won applause, are nowhere to be seen. That leaves the poor youngsters at the mercy of irascible geriatrics whose continual gripes swing back and forth between the abjectness of the performance and the meanness of the sabha secretary’s decision to switch off the air-conditioning! Matters are not much improved by the heady aromas of sambaar and coffee wafting into the hall – the artiste’s lengthy afternoon ordeal is often compounded by the sight of his few supportive friends and family members jettisoning a wearisome alaapana in Shankarabharanam for a delicious plate of Masala Dosai at the adjoining Sabha Canteen!

The Sabha Canteen! The butt of many a joke but perhaps more integral to the Music Season than the music itself, for many Sabha secretaries sheepishly admit that the gate receipts are unable to offer any meaningful competition to the cash registers at the canteen! Artistes emerging from empty auditoriums are often taken aback by the sight of huge crowds voraciously wolfing down the delicacies thrown their way by the caterers and debates about the best-run canteen are usually much more passionate, not to mention better-informed, than any discussions on X’s Thodi or Y’s Kalyani. Big names from the catering business such as “Arusuvai” Natarajan, Gnanambika and “Mountbatten” Mani set up their gastronomic extravaganzas at various Sabhas with huge banners and billboards that tower over the inconspicuous black board on which the day’s concert schedule is listed. It would seem that the soul has a considerably smaller appetite than the stomach!

Rough Weather
For the performers, the Season is a bit of a necessary evil. The hectic concert schedules, the pressure to perform, the capriciousness of the audiences and the notorious “December Throat” take their toll on the hardiest of souls. Yet, for Carnatic Musicians, there is no bigger stage – it is the “Season concerts” that are most talked about and it is Margazhi, which makes or mars musical careers. However, while all artistes seek to bring out their best during the event, strategies to get the most out of it can vary considerably. Some fit in as many concerts as possible with an eye on probabilities whereas others, more circumspect about the capacity of their vocal chords, decide that quality is better than quantity. While one school of thought advocates that the best accompanists be enlisted to liven up concerts, others point out the dangers of allowing star accompanists to hog the limelight!

The artistes’ anxieties are not without foundation. Chennai, probably one of India’s most musically enlightened cities, is known for its hard-to-please audiences. Seasoned vidwans are often shaken up by frail looking “mamis” blessed with tongues as keen, although decidedly not as musical, as their ears! The large number of concerts also means that the rasikas are distributed among the various sabhas, putting the onus on musicians to make their performance stand out from the crowd. This inevitably leads to accusations of spurning traditionalism and playing to the gallery. In an art form that depends as much on the opinion of masses as that of the cognoscenti, performers have a hard time balancing their acts. Yet, some of them manage to get across simultaneously to the layman as well the connoisseur – Madurai T N Seshagopalan, one of the living legends of Carnatic Music, for instance, can keeps the crowds happy with his moving renditions while at the same time tripping up the experts with complex “kanakkus” (mathematical calculations based on rhythm) and expositions of arcane ragas. This ability to relate with the audience on different musical wavelengths is often what separates the great from the good in Carnatic Music.

While the Season is always a challenging time for musicians, a series of unfortunate incidents resulted in its becoming a particularly trying one this year. The first among these was the passing away of Carnatic Music’s biggest superstar, Bharat Ratna M S Subbulakshmi, fondly known as MS. Although the end was pretty much expected given her failing memory and deteriorating health over the years, the demise nevertheless cast a pall of gloom over the proceedings with some sabhas canceling their programs for a day or two. As if the loss of one institution were not enough, the city gloomily braced for the end of another – The venerable Music Academy, which is said to offer the most prestigious platform a musician can aspire for, came close to canceling its Annual Music Conference this Season. The Academy, also a Chennai landmark, has been the victim of contentious legal battles between rival factions for sometime now and while the Courts had been granting temporary reprieves to the management to conduct the Conference for the last couple of years, it was feared that such an exemption would not materialize this time. In fact Season 2004 was well underway without the familiar buzz around the Academy, when a last-minute order from the Courts rescued this once-glorious institution from the ignominy of being a mute witness to an event that it was instrumental in creating. Finally, just when it appeared that things were back on track, came the killer Tsunami that wreaked havoc on the Tamil Nadu coastline, extinguishing more than 5000 lives. The season continued despite curtain calls from certain ill-advised quarters, which failed to realize that Carnatic Music, with Bhakti as its core element, was not quite comparable to discos or music videos, all of which continued without protest! In fact, the tragedy, combined with the passing away of MS, moved many artistes to come up with their soulful best during the latter part of the Season. Sabhas and musicians also chipped in by contributing generously to the meet relief efforts in the state.

To some, the ills plaguing the Season are symptomatic of the end of the road for Carnatic Music itself. The older ones among these doomsday prophets are quick to hark back to memories from the early to mid twentieth century, which witnessed a particularly impressive effusion of genius in the field. G N Balasubramaniam, Ariyakkudi Ramanuja Iyengar, Madurai Mani Iyer, Maharajapuram Vishwanatha Iyer, M L Vasanthakumari and DK Pattammal besides, of course, MS were just some of the many giants who strode the stage during this “Golden Age” which also saw the blossoming of such legendary instrumentalists and accompanists as T N Rajarathnam Pillai (Nagaswaram), “Flute” Mahalingam and the Mrudangam vidwan Palghat Mani Iyer whose playing has been compared to Nandi, the divine Mrudangist!

The Crystal Ball
While it has to be conceded that Carnatic Music can no longer boast of so many luminaries performing contemporaneously and that it is having a hard time competing with the easy entertainment provided by endless TV soaps and mega-budget movies, an unbiased assessment of the state of the art would have to be one of guarded optimism: Star performers still command full-houses, even when their performances coincide with one other. The infusion of fresh blood into the music scene is another trend that inspires confidence - since the late eighties, fresh faces have been steadily breaking into the “senior ranks”, accompanied by the rise of a number of gifted instrumentalists and percussionists. Many of these youthful artistes are also professionally qualified leaving them to deal with difficult career choices at a very young age. Some, like Sanjay Subrahmanyan, a qualified Chartered Accountant, manage to walk a tightrope between a career as a front ranking-musician and a partnership in one of Chennai’s leading accounting firms, besides promoting and co-editing an online music forum called www.sangeetham.com, which is gaining popularity as much for its musical content as the gossipy nature of its delightful bulletin board!

Given the plethora of gifted performers and the increasing support of ardent rasikas across the world, Carnatic Music seems to be doing reasonably well for itself and is one of the few Indian classical arts that still enjoy a mass base. The portents for the Music Season, in turn, would appear favorable despite the knocks it received this year. Yet, one is sometimes left wondering whether things ought to be a little better…

Unpleasant Notes
As yet another satisfying concert draws to a close, the percussion artistes perform the “tani avartanam”, a part of the performance reserved exclusively for the rhythmic accompanists. The Ghatam (Clay Pot) vidwan seems to have been gifted with an “Akshayapattiram” (Vessel of Plenty) as one magical pattern after another emerges from the mysterious recesses of his humble instrument, eventually culminating in a thunderous applause from the spellbound audience. Lost in the sublime nadais (tempos) of the Ghatam as I drive back home, I notice the vidwan, who was the object of a thousand cheers just a few minutes back, patiently waiting at the bus-stand, pot in tow, for his transportation home. Although my vehicle is a modest one, I suddenly find myself utterly inadequate at its wheel, groping in vain to rationalize the bizarre choices of society that lead to such a distorted distribution of its fruits. I am unable to do much better than recall Thyagaraja’s rhetorical question, underlining the transience of material well-being, which forms the opening line of his immortal krithi in Kalyani, “Nidhi Chala Sukhama?”

Vijay

The Wasteland

The wind crosses the brown land, unheard…
Wedged between the Great Himalayas on the West and the Karakoram and Ladakh ranges on the North-east lies an amorphous mass of reddish-brown mountains, that would find a place in any list of the most spectacular wildernesses on earth. The Zanskars are believed to have resulted from the collision of the super-continental tectonic plates of Gondwanaland and Laurasia, the massive impact of which, it is said, yanked up the ocean floor on either side to form the range. The landscape, no less dramatic than the region’s geological history, mocks the picture-postcard perfection of Himalayan stereotypes. There are no pine forests to be found here, no grassy grazing pastures, no perfectly shaped snow cones reflected in tranquil mountain-lakes. Instead, visitors are greeted by a vast wasteland of rock, scree and ice, almost completely shorn of vegetation except for narrow strips along the river valleys.

Zanskar’s remoteness is impressive, even by exacting Ladakhi standards. While the Indus valley, including Leh, was a major trading post on the famed Silk Route, the few remote passes providing access to Zanskar remain snow bound for all but 3-4 months a year, keeping the area almost untouched by external influence. Unfazed by their inhospitable environment, however, the ever-smiling Zanskaris make the best of the recalcitrant soil to insure themselves against the demands of an unforgiving winter. The pretty fields of wheat, barley and potatoes surrounding the villages along the rivers are temples to their tenacity and perseverance.
Soon the winter snows will lock up the region leaving its inhabitants with only one exit route – the parlous traverse over the frozen Zanskar river, also called the Chadur, every step of which is fraught with the danger of deadly dunks in water so cold that it runs with the viscosity of oil…

The road winding above among the mountains
My journey begins from the picturesque village of Darcha on the Manali-Leh Highway which, until recently, used to be the trailhead for the southern access to the region through the 5000 metre high Shingo La. A dirt track now leads upto the village of Plano, about 10 KMs further and work continues beyond as the Indian administrative machinery slowly worms its way into the heart of this pristine land, carrying seeds of change to lifestyles unaltered for centuries.

A few days later, in a cozy meeting room of an NGO in Leh, I sit through a film on Helena Norberg-Hodges, an active campaigner against the direction of development in Ladakh and the authoress of the acclaimed book, “Ancient Futures”. The film berates the disruption of traditional Ladakhi culture, which is upheld as a model of harmonious co-existence with nature. While the film chooses not to point fingers, the Indian Government, as the architect of change in the region, is implicitly posited as the villain of the piece. The predominantly Western viewers gasp and sigh as the film seeks to unveil the ugly depredations of modernity on a hoary but defenseless culture. It seems unlikely that any of them have been in a situation where a road can make the difference between life and death…It is hard to argue with Norberg-Hodges’ assessment of the Ladakhi way of life or that it will be considerably altered as a result of external influences. What is debatable, however, is the wisdom of artificially insulating a culture from inevitable winds of change so that a few iconoclastic anthropologists can preserve their Shangri-Las...
Gordian sociological knots apart, it is not a very pleasant experience to hike in the company of noisy, smoke-belching bulldozers. On the other hand, there is a good reason to look forward to the completion of the road – I might well need the services of a Qualis to haul myself across the Zanskar in a few years’ time!

The rugged trail follows the Darcha River for about 3 days until it culminates in a back-breaking 40 degree ascent leading upto the Pass, beyond which lies unraveled, the majestic moonscape of the Lingti Valley – I am finally in Zanskar! The last vestiges of the monsoonal shroud, which so completely dominated the horizon at the trailhead, are arrested by the obdurate pass, leaving a clear deep-blue backdrop for jagged ochre-brown cliffs, which point arrogantly heavenwards, as if to indicate the divinity of their origin. The might of the mountains is, however, humbled by the gushing waters of the Lingti river, as it carves out a few life-sustaining oases from this forbidding desert – charming, whitewashed houses surrounded by greenish-yellow fields and rows of chortens provide a stark contrast with the uncompromising severity of the mountains and sky above.

Continuing alongside the Lingti, a side trip from the prosperous Zanskari settlement of Purney, takes me to Phugtal Gompa – an awe-inspiring monastery literally chiseled out of a sheer red cliff. I make my way through its labyrinthine alleyways, into a grotto in the cliff that serves as the main prayer hall. Phugtal, like many other Gompas in the region was set up by Padmasambhava, the itinerant Indian Buddhist sage who is credited with bringing Tantric Buddhism to Tibet. In the early 18th century, Phugtal played host to Alexander Csoma de Koros, a Hungarian scholar whose contributions towards bridging the intellectual distance between the East and the West, which include the first English-Tibetan dictionary, deservedly earn him a place among the great pioneers of Orientalism.

It is not much more than a week since I commenced my journey and a part of me is already beginning to miss the familiar comforts of home. I can’t help marveling at the scholarly fervor of Koros, Padmasambhava, and other Himlayan Masters such as Adi Shankaracharya whose quest for truth and knowledge forges routes through physical and mental barriers that would have intimidated less resolute feet. There is surely no worthier testimony to the greatness of their lives than these venerable mountains.

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
The first stage of my journey ends at Padum, where my attempt to hitch a ride onwards to Kargil and Leh results in my being unceremoniously consigned to the hold of a rickety truck alongwith a few tons of freshly sheared wool, a couple of unfriendly looking dogs and a few sheep, whose continual bonding exercises are liberally sprinkled with rituals of mutual anointment!

It is a dismal, bumpy and bitterly cold ride. The few thin shafts of light streaming in through the truck’s armor, only serve to spotlight suffocating clouds of dust and wool. I am eventually let out at Rangdum Gompa, 10 hours away. Located on a saucer shaped grassland, Rangdum is surrounded by soaring peaks, the highest and most majestic of which is the magnificent glacier-clad fork of the Nun-Kun massif, shooting up 4 KMs from the northern head of the cirque. Rangdum is geographically the first village of the Muslim-majority Suru Valley but culturally, a part of Buddhist Zanskar. The precarious cultural fault lines inherent in such a situation gave way a few years back when suspected Muslim extremists shot dead three monks at the Gompa, sparking off vociferous demands by the predominantly Buddhist areas of Ladakh and Zanskar, for greater autonomy, including Union Territory status, for the region. Their demands were partially granted a couple of years back with the setting up of the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council. Union Territory status, however, still appears to be a distant dream, hinging as it does, on larger political questions hanging over the future of Kashmir.

I head up to nearby Panikhar to explore the verdant Suru valley which offers even closer glimpses of the magnetic twin peaks of Nun and Kun before leaving for Leh en route to my final tryst with the Zanskar – the Stok Kangri, one of the highest points of the range and the predominant feature of Leh’s western horizon.

Fear in a handful of dust
A disturbed sleep at Stok Kangri’s base camp is finally terminated by my guide as he peeps into my tent with a brusque “Shaab Chai”! . It is summit day and I face the intimidating prospect of an 8-hour slog up and down 1300 metres. Stepping out, I am greeted by an icy, howling wind that threatens to fly away with my flimsy shelter at any moment. Mercifully, the promised cup of tea soon arrives, getting enough circulation going in my benumbed system to prepare for the climb ahead.

We walk under the inky blanket of a beautiful night sky smeared over with a generous helping of stars. The brilliant moon highlights the forbidding profile of the lofty summit that I am hoping to conquer. After an hour spent traversing a high ridge overlooking the base camp, we cross a glacier to arrive at the foot of the mountain. An accidental glance upwards reveals the disturbing sight of the serpentine trail, zigzagging its way through some 1000 metres to the top of the peak. I reach for my bottle to digest my disbelief only to find the water frozen solid!

Half-way up the slope, I notice the first friendly rays of the sun peeping up from the eastern horizon. Reinvigorated by the arrival of our heavenly escort, we rapidly gain the top of the mountain’s south-eastern flank to watch the divine charioteer wipe out the sulky remnants of darkness with the gentle reddish glow of his early morning cloak, gradually uncovering the surreal landscape of crumpled earth that lies all around us.

We forge ahead along the ridgeline. The narrow flank with exposed sections of loose scree and slippery ice call for caution at every step – the lightest tread on the wrong patch of earth could mean plummeting hundreds of metres down the vertiginous slopes on either side. My lungs are stretched to their very limits by the ever-decreasing concentration of oxygen as the ridge punishingly noses its way upwards towards the summit. Eventually, after yet another lung-bursting scramble, I gratefully soak in the vibrant colours of prayer flags, beckoning me across the gentle snow slope that separates us! Vici!

Once my respiration returns to a semblance of normalcy, I get back on my feet to inspect the land I’ve trodden on for close to 2 weeks. The 6100 meter high vantage point of Stok Kangri’s summit offers an astounding 360-degree panorama of Himalayan majesty. The inchoate Zanskars dominate the Western horizon, crowned by the now-familiar Nun and Kun, beyond which lie the Great Himalayas. To the north stretches the other great mountain system of the sub-continent – the mighty Karakorams. The gleaming profile of its supreme lord, K2, is unmistakable even though the peak is half-hidden and well over a 100 KMs away.

Cutting across the eastern section of this soaring range flows in the old silk route from Central Asia. As I descry the tortuous road making its way through the seemingly impregnable mountains, I can almost feel the relief of goods-trains at finally stepping into the welcoming arms of the Indus valley after having spent months battling the whims of the elements. These feisty tradesmen have now been replaced by merchants of death, trading their deadly wares across one of the most absurd theatres of war in the world. “Siachen” screams my guide, gesticulating wildly towards the deceptive serenity of the white blanket spread in front of us…

The sun is getting stronger now - its fierce shafts strike deep into my head, hinting perhaps, that I have overstayed my welcome at these exalted heights. We make our way back to the company of mortals after offering prayers of gratitude to our accommodating host…

Vijay