Star-crossed

The scheming sun and his devious light
Have rolled up their blueprint for starless skies.
But now the moon struts across this cloudy night,
Hogging the lustre of a million flashing smiles

One of which, on a clearer, truer eve
Out of the blue, in my garden fell.
And in a wink that took my breath away,
Eloped with a bucket down my well

The fathoms that finite sight forbids,
Blinded night, inflamed, plumbed to light.
And the phantoms that nibble on dawn’s wits,
Entranced by the darkness, slept tight.

Deep inside the tunnel’s tortuous course,
Tired teardrops, poured away their shine,
And rivers of silver, bled on Heaven's shores,
Scattering the smoldering scars of stellar design:

Bedazzled eyes, transfixed in the transposed bowl,
Flickering dreams, dying in the Milky Way,
Defiant embers in the maws of a blackhole -
Together, yet light years away!

Ashwini Bhide Deshpande at St. Xavier's, Mumbai

Malhar was the theme of the evening and while the rain gods seemed to be busy humming some distant vivadi melodies, Ashwini's garland of malhars was a journey through their whimsical moods....


The armada of sound, steered by an array of tilted tanpuras, launched into a plaintive, vilambit chants of the cracked earth hungry for a union with the clouds, gathering pace until the drut brought out the unchecked passion of the Kosi running wild.


She raged on through Megh Malhar, which benefited symbolically, from the claps and flashes provided by the audience. Reconciliation with her devastated subjects was then offered through a string of lighter Ghazals, Kajris and finally, a Jhankaar.


It was clear as day when the concert began - an unambigous blue was still pouring through the Saracenic Arches of the Jesuit auditorium, when it ended. But while I was distracted by the Malhars in the middle, a furious storm must surely have raged...



Gaud malhar - Vilambit, Madhya Laya Drut (cannot remember the bandishes)
Megh Malhar - Chota Khayal - Alaap and Drut ("Shyam Rang")
Lighter pieces including a Ghazal, a Kajri and a Jhankaar.

The Tree

She drops by my window again, this morning,
Her constant bough heavy with my daily fruit
And her viral roots, deep entrenched
In every nook of my blessed bower.

Her giant parasol spares me, the roving
Attentions of rain and shine. My evening’s rest,
Eternally indebted, to the billowing breeze on which
She ushers me, towards night’s dreamy embrace.

“Ah, my dear, did you see where I went tonight?
A little sapling, under your kindly shade,
Curled around my curious finger and Lo!
Burst into bloom, leapt towards the sky!

She swung me high into the heavens and showed me
The brightness that lay beyond your dreary domain.
How your jealous leaves had denied me
The burning wetness of clouds torched by lightning!

And then, in that headlong vault of passion,
In the mad luminance of the midnight sun, I saw:
That the scheming creeper to which I clung,
Was squeezing the life out of your trusting trunk.

That soon, my deranged dance would fell your head -
Your burdened canopy, my tottering stage -
And we’d both head crashing to our deaths -
You and I, my dear, on our beloved bower.”

Snapshots from Bangladesh - 1

The Ubiquitous Rickshaws
A close second to the Bengal Tiger as the National Mascot!











Sadarghat, Dhaka
Where the grey clouds meet the grey waters
And hug each other in a tearful union
But there’s no emotion in their embrace
It’s just a ritual in the business
Of keeping Hope afloat on a thousand boats

Boatman in Sadarghat

What was that, again, about the economy being rudderless?

The Old










The New

The Old and the New!

Bangladesh's 4 Coloured Map

Silver for rivers and clouds

Brown for the earth and her people

Green for endless paddy fields and the visitor’s envy

And black, for the incongruous stripe of progress slicing through the land

The Tea Resort, Srimongol-Sylhet


The frog-filled swimming pool, the metal TT table and tennis courts with speed breakers add to the charms of this gloriously dilapidated retreat nestled among the tea estates in Srimongol-Sylhet






The Tea Resort wakes up…
...and that's saying something!!

Cha Khaben Dada?

With some lemon, if you like...

A Railroad through the Rainforest

Lawachhara National Park, Srimongol

This ain’t no forest flower

Actually a pineapply shot from the top...

Displacement

Napkins or dusters…or some pens perhaps – the sort of ubiquitous thing you can pick up around the corner pretty much anytime you want. And definitely not the sort of thing that is likely to interest a harried pedestrian trying to beat an uncaged traffic signal.

“Please sir…very cheap” he urged, in an apologetic response to my impatient shove. Rush hour was ebbing and the last embers of the evening sky were being quenched to a smoky black behind the giant billboards that loomed over Gemini. I clearly wasn’t the first person to shoo him away that day…but as I thought of that frail old frame, desperately peddling his worthless bundle of knick-knacks, I was hoping I was the last. If he was seeking custom at that hour, it spoke more about despair than salesmanship.

As my embarrassed steps dragged me away, the figure profiled by the glaring headlights started falling into place. Or, should I say, out of place. The frayed white shirt betrayed its middle class origins; the horn rimmed spectacles, comfort with the written word. And his voice was a tremulous singsong that certainly didn’t belong to the street. A voice that should really have been at home, singing a lullaby to a grandchild….

I wondered about returning and thrusting a 500 rupee note in his hands. Or, less crudely, taking him to Marris nearby to decoct over a cup of coffee, the elusive aromas that had kept him from joining the contented hubbub of the Thathas and Pattis around… watch him plunge into life’s heady brew without, for once, worrying about the next meal…

But the signal turned green at the thought. The city was ready to move on. And I had to follow.

Moving On...

To Chennai with love....

A low cloud hung around your brow
When I came knocking at your door
You cried with joy, I thought, self assured,
Immaculate, untouched. In loss, untutored.
But you’ve shed too many tears since
And I, some hair, and some innocence.
Now, as I pack my bags, and fold up my youth
Your eyes cloud again. And I’m still to see the truth.

But my ingrate despair, taints the memory
And befouls the redolence of your jasmine and coffee,
The smiling sliver of silver lining your shore,
The bobbing boats, the breeze bringing them home,
The waves of melody washed in by the tide,
And cascades of silk whispering to anklets, twined
Around your feet, as you danced to an amorous padam -
For me, I presumed, in my fanciful delirium

But when I discovered the smallness of my part,
Among the millions swaying to your art,
How shallow and graceless my patronage proved!
When your frenzied rhythm left you dazed
And you reached out to me, where was I?
Shrinking away, afraid to look you in the eye.
Feeding hungry hope with gratuitous filth,
Heaping on your lungs, a slow, painful death.

You’ll survive my sins, as you must’ve weathered,
Countless follies, felonies, promises murdered.
But my aborted tryst longs for atonement,
And weaves another foolish dream of fulfillment.
So, I leave, with my heart a little empty -
Wretched burden. Hollow yet heavy!
Perhaps, my dear, I'll see you again. Regain,
Some virtuous day, my lost domain.

A Tale of Two Kalyanis

Red Corner
Rashid Khan

Jyoti Goho (Harmonium)
Shubhankar Banerjee (Tabla)

Yaman in Vilambit and Drut Teental
Short Khyal in Kauns derivative of Kokilapriya/Gowrimanohari - Teental
Thumri in Mishra Pahadi
Aaj Radha Brak ko Chali - Bhairavi

Blue Corner
Sanjay Subrahmanyan

Nagai Muralidharan (Violin)
Srimushnam Raja Rao (Mrudangam)
Neyveli Venkatesh (Kanjira)

Bharatiyar Composition in Kedaram (S)
Rama Neeve – Narayani – Rupakam - Thyagaraja (R)
Nijadasavarada – Kalyani – Adi – Patnam Subrahmanya Iyer – RNST
Rara Raghu Veera – Attana – Adi – Thyagaraja
RTP – Vellai Thamarai – Abheri - Misra Chapu

The similarities began with the shock of hennaed hair glistening in the arc lights. Their timbres were chips from the same block, etched by analogous rings of strain and overuse. Oh, and for those who are unfamiliar with the professional fortunes of one or the other, Ustad Rashid Khan and Vidwan Sanjay Subrahmanyan are also Chakravarthies of their respective domains, north and south of the Vindyas. With both raising Yaman/Kalyani as their battle standard, it was hard not be drawn into a comparison. It did not hurt that they were both beset by physical limiting factors, forcing them deeper into the wellsprings of creativity in their search for Nadabrahmam.

The Grand Moghul started with some distinct advantages. For one, his army of chords was a whole octave wider in range. His steed, the Boltaan, was a trailblazing Ferrari whereas the Chola Raja’s Brigha was, at best, a Hyundai Santro (dark grey in color!). In terms of artillery arrangements, the northerner’s phalanx of andolans and meends was far more sophisticated than the overused kampita gamaka of his opponent. nRGM-NDM-GMPDP-GDP growled King Khan, cutting loose with a lightning sargam….Thalaivar could only respond with a meek varja phrase. Rashid Bhai really should have won hands down…

But Sanjay was equipped with a quality that helped Alexander cut through the formidable Persian army and the Russians weather the Blitzkrieg – the Brahmastra of passion edged with steely will. For Rashid Khan, it was new territory and the invigorating smell of exotic blood. The Academy was ready and waiting for reaper’s scythe. Alas, Yaman pottered about awkwardly, on the back of His wayward Buffalo whose bellows had lost the deadly edge of its salad days. After huffing and puffing for an hour and a half, with his noose entangled in all sorts of knots, the God of Death and his errant vahana were chivvied to an inglorious exit while rasikas hoping for a ride to Vaikuntham, hopped aboard 17C instead.

Kalyani too had her share of problems with her carrier but the lion was made of sterner stuff than its ungainly counterpart. While its roar failed to shock the audience into submission, it devised some crafty maneuvers around its prey to get maw on neck. When its teeth were found wanting in strength, it employed its hands, feet, claws…anything to hold on to its quarry - a kanakku here, an extra punch in the sangathi there…The effort was somewhat labored but the objective was reasonably achieved – most rasikas would have missed the last 17C that day.

Sanjay’s defence of his fortress was ably assisted by Air Marshal Nagai Murali’s soaring alaapanas, which ran rings around Jyoti Goho’s unmaneouverable reed-box, while the majestic gait of Srimushnam’s cavalry trampled over the wild horses let loose by Subhankar Bannerjee’s tabla.

The assault from the north was thus repulsed but there is an internal unrest that will demand Sanjay’s attention in the days to come. TM Krishna for one staked his claim to the throne with a very vocal Kambhoji…Ah, but that is a titanic tussle that will take many years to unfold….many interesting years…

Late Season Concerts

Hyderabad Brothers

Narada Gana Sabha, 24 December 2007

Mysore Manjunath (Violin)
Karaikkudi Mani (Mrudangam)
V Suresh (Ghatam)

Navaragamalika Varnam – Adi
Teliyaleru Rama – Dhenuka – Adi – Thyagarajar (S)
Brochevarevare – Sriranjani – Adi – Thyagaraja (RS)
Ranganathude – Saurashtram – Rupakam – Ponniah Pillai (R)
Paramdhamavathi – Dhamravathi – Rupakam – Deekshitar (RNS)
Dandamu Bettanura – Balahamsa – Adi – Thyagaraja
Dasarathe – Thodi – Adi – Thyagaraja – (RNST)

The bhagavathars and scholars in the auditorium wore a dissatisfied look. “Bah! Hindusthani!” carped one. “A mutilated Kalyani”, caviled another. Others with less sensitive ears merely looked lost. Suspended between the purist’s unbending grammar and the layman’s discomfort with unfamiliarity, Seshachary’s pronounced Karvais on the Madhyamam and the Nishadam for his essay in Dharmavathi met with a rather unenthusiastic response. Except for a lone bloke whose vigorous applause seemed as odd as the alaapana that prompted it – yours truly.

As a source code for melodic programming, the Melakartha scheme ought to have been a musician’s dream come true. But that begins to sound a little hopeful when one considers the limitations of the average imagination. It takes a genius like St Thyagaraja, to catalyze a theoretical classification into some of the most original and haunting tunes known to man. Thus, where the greats have shown the path, a Kharahapriya or Keeravani does not unduly tax the musician’s Manodharma…but where he is left to grope with his own lantern, Dharmavathi being a case in point, he either risks venturing into a minefield that could blow up his concerts, or treats the non-standard scales as the proverbial elephant in the room. Most of us have a few births to go through before we can even begin to comprehend the magnitude of the Trinity’s greatness and Seshachary is probably no exception. But the duty of the honest musician is to chip away at the edifice of such ragas with the chisel of his imagination, irrespective of the Sisyphean unlikelihood of a recognizable structure emerging in the foreseeable future. It is to this spirit that the contrarians in the audience paid homage. The rasika emerged from the alaapana, none the wiser about Dharmavathi’s melodic structure but there were enough oblique hints and suggestions to equip inquisitive minds with some handy reference material to work with.

The “extraordinary rendition” of Dharnavati was just one of the examples of a typical Hyderabad Brothers presentation with creative juices at times tending to flood the pipelines to the soul. Thodi was a crooked affair and while Saurashtram was a more orthodox essay, Seshachary’s restless brain could not entirely resist the possibilities opened up by the two Nishadas. Actually it would have been quite interesting if he had tried to force open the devil’s door instead of merely knocking.

It is time for Narada Gana Sabha to emulate the good example of its more northern neighbor further down TTK Road. Karaikkudi Mani’s naadam was ravaged by the audio system and Suresh’ pot was barely audible. They soldiered on, however, to produce an enjoyable tani in which Mishram singled out for exploration and eventual reduction, laying the pitch for a classic KRM Korvai of four Avarthas in Chatushram and Tishram.

Manjunath had a fine day on the violin, hanging on admirably to Seshachary’s disorienting sorties before taking over the cockpit to ensure safe landings on familiar territory.


TM Krishna
Music Academy, 29 December 2007

Mysore Manjunath – Violin
Karaikkudi Mani – Mriangam
V Suresh - Ghatam

Sami Daya Judara - Kedaragowlai – Adi
Sri Nathadhi Guruguho - Mayamalavagowlai – Adi (S)
Ela Nee Daya Radu - Atana – Adi
Thillai Chidambaram - Purvikalyani - Misra Chapu (RNS)
Amba Paradevate - Rudrapriya - Khanda Chapu
Mari Mari Ninne - Kambodhi - Adi (RNST)

The pause on the rishabham during the Kambhoji alaapana was right out of Prof. Sambamurthy’s book. To be precise, Book 3 page 361, where the author holds forth on Kedaragaula. Refrains of PD2SN3, PD2SN3 that would have given Mysore Vasudevachar some nice ideas for the Pallavi of Sree Chamundeshwari in Bilahari. According to a friend who has an ear for these things, Khamas was invoked in the beginning. Krishna’s Khamboji may have been better without such grammatical bloopers. Hmmm…italicize “may”… add an inflection of uncertainty. Actually, abandon the thought altogether…A perfect Kambhoji is not too hard to find and I’ve heard a few this season – perfect, and perfectly boring. I prefer the imperfectly brilliant variety I heard that day…

This rasika has heard TM Krishna at least 50 times over the last few years. The wide eyes of disbelief that first greeted the cover drives and square cuts flashing forth from the stage now allow themselves to roll occasionally. With time, the student evolves along with his teacher which, in a sense, is the term that best describes my relationship with artistes of his stature. Ingenuous applause and unqualified praise give way to a pettifogging undercurrent of skepticism. Vocal slips are pompously pointed out, forgotten sahithya smirked at. But every once in a while the student’s attention is diverted from his trifling repertoire of nitpicks, and goes back to the wide eyes and goose-bumps of his initiation. The would-be critic finds his pen flushed of its acid and dripping, instead, with a fan’s unrestrained words of admiration. Thus transported, the rasika is in a state of indifference bordering on blindness, with respect to such matters as grammatical peccadilloes, sruthi lapses and running kalapramanam…All of which happened. And none of which mattered a whit.

Having already stretched the reader’s credulity, it would be unwise of me to attempt an objective assessment but if I were to triangulate the pinnacle of this Himlayan concert, Everest would lie in the vicinity of Krishna’s Mari Mari Ninne and its cascading avalanche of sangathis. I must mention here, that it must have taken an extraordinarily insensitive person to molest such a divine composition, as I believe was done by one of our “eminent” music directors.

Krishna’s awesome juggernaut owed its majesty, in no small measure, to the thundering rolls of Karaikkudi Mani’s Mrudangam and V Suresh’s Ghatam. The tricky vinyasa had my mind crunching numbers all the time but I could come up with nothing more complicated than Tisram. My overworked brain finally sputtered to a halt in the korvai but the concluding phrases appeared to be in Mishram.

Among the few troughs of the concert was Manjunath’s alaapana in Purvikalyani – hearing his scratchy patterns around the constants, the latecomer would be forgiven for identifying the rendition as a Jod in Sohni. His Kambhoji, although a tad lengthy, was a less tawdry display. The concluding section of the Neraval was also the usual bhel-puri of swara, sahithya and tala – a spicy high-calorie mixture with zero nutritive value for the soul. Substituting this Molotov cocktail with a measured koraippu could be considered to achieve a more aesthetic climax.

There was no time for an RTP. For once, this is meant as a compliment.

Margazhi Bhajans

I was never a morning person. 6 AM is a time that usually finds me starring in the escapist fantasies of a brain that is not quite ready to accept a return to the real world. Five? Except for the rare occasion when I am recruited into an NRI reception party, I’ve never seen the hour. Perhaps I ought to have given that a thought that before agreeing to chauffeur mom to join the Bhajana Goshtis around Mylapore. Oh, I wanted to go too - but the inconvenience of the hour struck me only when…well, only when the hour actually struck!

The duet with Aishwarya Rai was, therefore, truncated just as she was belting out some cracking kannakus at ¼ idam, which I was all set to replicate in tisram…a few sobering minutes of wakefulness later, my calculations were demoted to the rather less romantic application of estimating whether I had enough petrol to get to Mylapore. A comatose drive followed, which terminated at the intended destination only because my fellow-drivers were alert enough to get out of the Brownian trajectory of my car.

I hung around awkwardly after I got out, with my desire for inconspicuousness severely compromised by the tele-zoom sticking out of my chest. Mom, evidently blessed with superior social skills, was already dispensing her latest kitchen secrets to group of madisars, which, as it turned out, was the better half of the goshti we were searching for …she looked up from her lecture and waved me in….I guess it was OK for me to tag along – not the first time that I was benefiting from her culinary expertise!

Our retinue set off from the main Gopuram and snaked along the Mada streets, bobbing in and out of the streetlights’ glare. I’d race in front of the group to snatch a shot every time the luminance climaxed. The organizer, a stocky gentleman with an intimidating moustache, caught up with me on one of these sallies, dropping a heavy arm on my shoulder. I thought I was going to be arrested…he merely wanted some copies of the photos!

The harmonium sent out a plaintive call to the wavering dawn. A street vendor nearby, rolled over on his cart, raising a groggy hand against the din. He wasn’t quite ready yet. A more energetic invitation was essayed at the next crossing where the corner of the tank points towards the Ramakrishna Mutt. The Dholak stirred and the first bus roared past, winking in approval at the catchy beat. The goshti burst into “Paalvadiyuam Mukham” in Nattaikurinji, prompting the waters of the tank to lick its walls in anticipation. The promise of morning’s milk perhaps?

We quickened our pace, setting up a fevered crescendo near the Kovil’s rear entrance. Aroused, Day peeped out to survey the commotion and the temple threw open its arms in a hearty welcome. As we entered the sanctum a few minutes later, night’s reticent curtain was finally swept aside, and a hushed silence greeted the awesome light of Kapalishwarar’s first diurnal gaze.

6 AM is a time that usually finds me starring in the escapist fantasies of a brain that is not quite ready to accept a return to the real world.

So it was that morning.

Season Concerts 1

Roundup of Early Season Concerts

BVB 8/12/2007

K Gayatri
L Ramakrishnan (Violin)
Arjun Ganesh (Mrudangam)

Era Napai – Thodi Varnam – Adi
Sree Mahaganapathi – Attana – Adi (S) - ??
Karunajoodavamma – Varali – Misra Chapu – Syama Sastri (RNS)
Kripajuchutakuvelara – Chayatarangini – Adi – Thyagaraja
Sathatham – Kharaharapriya - Adi (RNST) - Swathi Thirunal

Ranjani & Gayathri
HN Bhaskar (Violin)
Arun Prakash (Mrudangam)
S Karthick (Ghatam)

Brihandambika – Vasantha – Misra Chapu – Deekshitar (S)
Kanugonu – Nayaki – Rupakam – Thyagaraja
Kanthachoojumi – Vachaspathi – Adi – Thyagaraja
Thyagaraja Yoga Vaibhavam – Ananda Bhairavi – Rupakam – Deekshitar
Ninnada – Kannada – Adi – Thyagaraja
Enneramum – Thodi – Adi – Marimutha Pillai

Thanks to the superstar sisters scheduled to grace the stage after her concert, K Gayatri found herself singing to a full house. The crowds may not have come to listen to her but her music deserved all those ears and hands and some more. The opener in Thodi revealed a strong voice that was in solid control even in the second speed. Both the alaapanas were well handled, with her adventurous streak especially evident in the Kharaharapriya essay - this also led to the occasional slip as when a desired landing on the panchamam after some tara sthayi phrases overshot the runway. The rendition of the krithi was also an ordinary patch for the 3 artistes, all of whom had played their exceptionally well until then: Arjun Ganesh seemed somewhat insensitive to the structure of the krithi while Ramakrishnan appeared to be groping in the dark. Both however made up in the swara and tani avarthanam sections respectively. Gayathri is one of the juniors well on her way to prime-time, as I suspect are her accompanists yesterday

Ranjani and Gayatri began brightly with a brisk krithi in Vasantha, sauteed with some quick swaras. The young woman on the tanpura nodded repeatedly, as if to convey the appreciation of her instrument - the sisters' enunciation is almost perfect leaving nary a blotch on the critic's book...The alaapana in Vachaspati continued the good work and while Thyagaraja Yoga Vaibhavam had a little more helium than appropriate, the mellifluous swirl of the resultant balloon was not without its charms. Kannada was yet another example of dazzling speeds handled with impeccable diction and absolute tonal fidelity but was should have been the launching point for the summit assualt turned out to be a gentle slope earthwards - the main piece needed more time and while I have nothing against abhangs one wondered about the advisability of setting apart 45 minutes for tukkadas in a 2 hour concert. The megh/megh malhar(??) was enchanting enough (prompting me to remark that the siblings would do well to make formal forays into HM - this is meant as a genuine compliment and is not to be construed as sarcasm) but the truncated Thodi and tani left one with a saccharine aftertaste where there should have been the full bodied headiness of draksha-rasa...

The violinist's Thodi was brilliant and Arun Prakash bamboozled the hands with his trademark brand of mathematical witchcraft which his partner on the Ghatam, the freshly minted Doctor, resonantly reproduced. Doubly disheartening then, to see such extraordinary skill being wasted on a dhinchak jhaptal that is more the bailiwick of the street drummer...The audience response was expectedly disproportionate with the tail-pieces fetching the maximum applause.

Nungambakkam Cultural Academy 9/12/2007 – 7 PM

Neyveli Santhanagopalan
Sriranjani Santhanagopalan (Support)
Pakkala Ramadas (Violin)
Thiruvarur Bhakthavatsalam (Mrudangam)
BS Purushottaman (Kanjira)

Karunimpa Idi – Sahana Varnam – Adi – Thiruvottiyur Thyagayya
Ra Ra Ma Intidaka – Asaveri – Adi – Thyagaraja (S)
Mamava Sadha – Nattaikurinji – Rupakam – Swathi Thirunal (NS)
Ka Va Va – Varali – Adi – Papanasam Sivan (RS)
Annapoorne – Syama – Adi – Deekshitar (NS)
Intha Sowkhya – Kapi – Adi – Thyagaraja (RNST)

The atmosphere at the Karnataka School’s auditorium wasn’t exactly electric – the lighting was gloomy and attendance stats, gloomier still…a lesser artiste would have sulked, a mere professional would have simply got on with the job…but to discover within oneself, the resonances and pulsations that were glaringly absent in the surroundings, is the trait of a rare musical specimen – the Vidyaarthi.

Sunday’s sumptuous smorgasbord featured Kaapi as the main course but before queasy stomachs start churning, let me defer to an abler pen in describing the loftiness of Vidyaarthiji’s effort – “Swararaga Laya Sudha Rasa”, which was also the neraval line.

The artiste’s was joined in his divine communion by a sensitive bunch of accompanists. The young lad on the violin was highly interpretative in his approach and the steaming cascades of Kaapi he received from the vocalist were duly poured back with an added layer of froth. Bhakthavatsalam and Purushottaman were vigilant bean counters, adding measured doses of mishram to the heady brew.

I’d been eyeing the poori-masala at the canteen before the concert started but by the time I got out, they were all sold out…besides, after such a strong dose of Kaapi, the appetite needed no further indulgence.

Brahma Gana Sabha - 10/12/2007

Vijay Siva
Lalgudi Vijayalakshmi (Violin)
Neyveli Narayanan (Mrudangam)

Nadatanumanisham – Chittaranjani – Adi – Thyagaraja
Vidulakumrokkeda – Mayamalavagowla – Adi – Thyagaraja (S)
Sankari Nee – Begada – Rupakam – Syama Shastri (R)
Amba Vani – Keeravani – Adi – HMB – (N)
Nambi Kettavar – Kalyani – Misra Chapu – Purandaradasar (RNS)
Palayamam Bruhadeeshwara – Nayaki – Rupakam – Deekshitar
Kamakshi – Bilahari – Adi – Deekshitar (RNST)
Tukkadas
Mangalam

My stats prof, (one Mr. Rahul Mukherjee who honoured me with grades that were, ahem…at some distance from the comforting cusp of the normal curve) was a devotee of the law of averages and held a grudge against anyone who threatened to violate its sanctity. It used to be Sachin Tendulkar in those days but it could just as easily be Vijay Siva, as far as Carnatic Music is concerned.

I am happy to note that my professor’s bad dream continues. However, one feels a certain restraint which reduces what ought to be a slam dunk to a subtler, but less climactic, lay-up. Perhaps, this is exactly the artiste’s intention and it is the caviling rasika who needs to refine, or worse redefine, his musical values.

The skewed audio balance took some of the sheen out of Thyagaraja’s musical discourse (Nada Tanumanisham) and placed it instead on the mrudangist head – I am not alluding to Shri Neyveli Narayanan’s receding hairline which, admittedly, can claim to have achieved certain reflective effects of its own!

The soundman soon got his act together and the second Thyagaraja song came leaping out of the mrudangist’s shell. Moving on, Vijay Siva’s Kalyani was pure Gangajal from the mouth of Gomukh and while Vijayalakshmi’s concoction was sweeter, it appeared to be flavored with a few drops from the river’s conjoined twin. The geographical analogy was more firmly established by the pieces that followed – the flow of the concert was subjected to gravitational certainties after that point although, like the Ganges meandering through the cow belt, majesty of expression made up, to some extent, for lost vigor.

A brief countercurrent was engineered by Narayanan, who was a bit of a hero that evening, with some deliciously distracting patterns lacing the vocalist’s ideas. Freed from these, he went on to weave a magnificent tapestry of tisram.

Some ebbs and tides in the flow then, but still strong enough “on an average” to sweep away the foolhardy foot that ventures to measure its depth…and send it tumbling in the direction of the mouth. Mr. Mukherjee, you’ve flunked again!

The Seasoned Tourist

“Enchanting Tamil Nadu”, goes the state government’s tagline for promoting tourism, with accompanying photos of soaring gopurams and nimble dancers leaving no doubt about the nature of enchantment being proffered. Notwithstanding its abundant endowment of beaches, hill stations and wildlife sanctuaries, it is from the lofty pedestal of its cultural edifice that Tamil Nadu reaches out to the tourist’s wallet…And with over 3000 glittering jewels from the state’s bountiful legacy of cultural treasures on display in the month of December, the Margazhi Mahotsavam ought to be a shoo-in as the state’s showcase tourism attraction. Actually, the event scarcely even finds a mention in government’s tourism promotion efforts.

Considering its bewildering magnitude, the December Music Season is a somewhat self-effacing creature, accessible only to the determined seeker. Indeed, but for a few apologetic bill-boards, in their fifteenth year of recycling and arts supplements cocooned inside ever-bulging reams dedicated to page 3 panjandrums, the casual visitor would be hard pressed to infer from the streets of Mylapore and T Nagar, the happening of any more significant an event than a high school fete. Unsurprisingly, a large majority of the state’s 40 million domestic and 1.5 million international visitors, many of whom arrive during the “peak tourist month” of December, pass through Chennai, blissfully unaware of this cultural phenomenon.

After accounting for the odd westerner trying to reconcile the Lonely Planet’s evocative descriptions of the Music Season with the ramshackle auditorium that confronts him, “season tourists” can broadly be divided into two categories: For the non-resident Tamilian back home on vacation, the season is essentially a bunch of conveniently located speak-easies that provide an attractive number of eyeballs for their Calvin Kleins and Kanjeevarams. Add to that, the temptations of the canteen fare, and it is no wonder that the performances themselves are interesting, but not indispensable, side shows.

The serious music tourist, on the other hand, is a rarer, and more diverse, species ranging from reputed musicians with packed performance schedules to keen-eyed culture vultures, thrilled to have picked out a priceless gem from the rubble of cultural kitsch-fests worldwide. For Margazhi’s natural reticence hides a gale force that would sweep away all the mud sloshed, splattered and smeared at Woodstock: Season 2006 featured over 3000 performances and while some of these grandiloquently titled “Sabhas” are nothing but fronts for pushy parents to promote their children, the sheer numbers are reason enough for the curious rasika to pause in the middle of her Thodis and Sankarabharanams, and wonder why such an event does not engage a wider audience.

Her train of thought would eventually lead her through the tunnels of esotericism which eclipse the interest of many a wannabe rasika. This is especially true of Carnatic Music which, unlike Bharathanatyam, does not have the benefit of visual appeal or universally understood emoticons to negotiate cultural barriers. Nor are the majority of musicians equipped to provide convent-accented annotations to their performances, leaving the neophyte at sea in the middle of shaking heads and shaken notes.

Information would, therefore, appear to be the missing ingredient that robs the Season of a stronger extra-regional flavour. But that branch of thought is weighed down by so many low-hanging fruit as to threaten it with an awkward collapse. A kiosk at Chennai airport is one such no-brainer. But an unreasonable expectation, nevertheless, from the TTDC’s sleepy counter. How about brochures, booklets, schedules, profiles leaflets, handouts? Nyet, unless you know exactly what you are looking for and where to look for it.

Save for dilapidated banners and perfunctory arts supplements then, the December Season is an inner circle of the initiates. Rather an unfortunate situation for a festival whose information needs go well beyond dates and venues. Some sabhas do offer lec-dems but dissertations on nadai pallavis and adavus, are unlikely to be of interest to greenhorns, flailing for a grip on the fundamentals. And those that muster the patience to sit through such sessions often find themselves dragged along nostalgia trips that tend to dissolve in a welter of tears for days gone by…

Some would question the very desirability of increased tourist attention, thanks to its well documented potential for cultural pollution. While commercial interests as diverse as housing finance and mobile phones are slowly discovering the depth of rasikas’ pockets, rare is the businessman whose concern for the bottom-line is completely detached from cultural leanings. Likewise, the Sabha Secretary suffers the hassles of the Season as much for the art that graces his gates as the net receipts there-from. Given this tenuous balance between artistic merit and the catcalls of the market, the purists' concerns about an invasion of philistine tourism dollars are not entirely unfounded.

But the reconciliation of cultural and economical interests does have precedents worthy of emulation. The Salzburg festival in Austria, for instance, hosts about 250,000 visitors and over 200 concerts of unimpeachable classicism along the banks of the Salzach every year. Regrettably, Margazhi has to make do with the rather less inspiring backdrop of the Cooum. While this would no doubt cause a good proportion of potential tourists to turn up their noses at the Season, the event’s olfactory handicap is just a minor discord in a complex cacophony whose chief refrains include choked parking lots, inconsiderate amplification and arctic air-conditioning.

However, addressing the rasikas’ long-neglected wish-list would require Margazhi to plunge deeper into its illicit dalliance with commerce. The Salzburg Festival, for example, has a budget of over 10 Million US Dollars. A fraction of that money would transport rasikas into a state of bliss that would otherwise take an MS Subbulakhsmi to achieve but reigning in rampaging economic interests would be a hard challenge. Moreover, a large proportion of Salzburg’s receipts is publicly funded which, in the Indian context, is just more fuel for skepticism.

Inadequate recognition of South India’s classical art forms may be a common gripe among its fans but their demand for a “Chakkani Raja Margamu” for the Season changes to a more cautious “Nidhi Tsala Sukhama?” when the pitfalls along the high road to fame and fortune are considered.

November Rain - Hindu's Music Fest

Time to wake up sleepy-head...with the Season's frenzy coming to an end along with the drowziness of winter mornings, some musical musings should work as well as mom's decoction...Let's start with three snippets from the Novemberfest:

Fateh Ali Khan, 10th November, 2007

I came with sky high expectations (literally - I flew down just to catch the Ustad!) but landed on rubble. It was supposed to be Fateh Ali Khan's concert but was wholly hijacked by his son Rustam, who was introduced as one of the brightest stars in the firmament of Pakistani Classical Music. Sorry if this sounds a tad jingoistic but that unlikely claim does not say much about the health of classical music in MusharaffabadAs Rustam frequently took pains to mention, the Patiala Gharama is known for its assertive style, sargams and layakari...but Bade, or even lesser mortals like Ajoy Chakraborty, never used their vocal power to submerge all traces of subtlety and feeling....or bend the tanpura out of shape as Rustam heartlessly did. For someone used to Bade's brilliance, it was was hard to conceive how the apaswara-riddled yells in the tara sthayi could have stemmed from the same school…

With 2.5 hours at their disposal one would have expected at least 2 bada khyals. Yaman (pronounced Aiman) sounded promising with a 5 minute alaap but the youngster's shaky grip on the raga's fundamentals was already showing, especially in the descent from dhaivat to madhyam. There was an obtuse insinuation about the speaker system after a couple of particularly jarring slips and then an exhortation for the audience to contribute to the "sam" (Samam) - not being familiar with etiquette in an HM environment I was perplexed as to how this was sought to be achieved. I was apparently not alone...

The Vilambit was anything but vilambit in length and soon the sargams and taans were roaring along, bouncing on and off the raag's notes at will...after a breathless and soulless session, Governor Saaheb stepped onto stage and made a request for a "Punjabi Song". I felt like booting the philistine out of the auditorium but the duo on stage were presumably more receptive to the suggestion, promptly launching into a thumri.

With an hour left after Barnala’s retinue had departed, there was still time for a weighty piece but now the artistes decided to indulge the South Indians in the audience with a piece in Kalaavati that was little more than a launching pad for sargams...tolerable enough. but schoolboy-ish stuff for someone used to hearing swara kalpanas day in and day out.

Along came a sufiyaana kalaam and another plea for the audience to clap along...the request being rather more comprehensible this time, the crowd happily obliged. This is the sort of nonsense that one hears every time some 3rd rate crowd puller from the North/West is flown down on a carpet of greenbacks to Chennai. An audience that can't be bothered to put its hands together for the finest alaapanas suddenly feels obliged to give these charlatans a standing ovation. Sanjay Subrahmanyan made a compelling statement against this injustice in an editorial that brought him a prolonged boycott from a well-known sabha in the city.

Having lost my patience and any hope of listening to serious music, I made my way to Marris across the road and rediscovered my soul in a masterfully crafted sambaar- at least somebody's still keeping his gharana intact!

None of my vitriol need be construed as a comment on the greatness of Fateh Ali Khan. As pointed out, this was almost completely his son’s show. Recalling the majesty of his renditions with brother Amaanat Ali Khan, one couldn’t help feeling sorry for this man who was reduced to getting the audience to cheer on his son’s mediocrity with shouts of “very good”, even as his grimaces betrayed his true feelings. Few things could bring greater pain than watching one’s house being brought down – it must take all the force of paternal affection to be a willing participant in such an act.

Colours of Rain, 11th November, 2007

I split Sunday evening between Hariharan’s Ghazal Sandhya and Colours of Rain, conceptualized by Classical Pianist, Anil Srinivasan and Carnatic Vocalist, Sikkil Gurucharan, as a bridge between Western Harmony and Indian Melody. My partial attendance of the latter was further truncated by “paapi pet” which once again sent me rushing towards Marris’ meals well before the curtains fell!

The items that I managed to catch were: Bharathi’s Vellai Thamarai (Abheri/Bhimplas), pieces in Sindhu Bhairavi, a Sadashiva Brahmendra composition in Mishra Khamaj and an excerpt from Shankara’s Madhurashtakam in Madhuvanthi which included a brief alaapana and swaras.

The purist in me was a little skeptical about carnatic music being stripped of its rhythmic tapestry and the need for a keyboard/piano to provide a counterpoint. On the former point, I stand reasonably convinced – there is probably space for a format which allows the subtleties of verse and melody to be freed from their rhythmic leash. The lyric in particular took a bold step into the limelight, emerging from the shadows of its parents, sruthi and laya. The colorlful sets, mood lighting and designer clothes notwithstanding, it was the remarkably modulated voice and the beauty of the verse that grabbed the attention, once Gurucharan got started on a piece.

On the second, my skepticism was only marginally allayed. Anil’s talent on the piano is obvious but it is debatable whether his instrument added any value to the format. He would typically start with some notes from the raga, sound a constant refrain (presumably as a counterpoint which was, admittedly, alien to an ear untutored in western harmonics) and serve up a flourish at the end, almost as a cue for applause. It was, at best, redundant and at worst, intrusive.

Also unclear was the role of BS Purushottaman on the Kanjira. While the Sarangi (Murad Ali Khan) and the Violin (Mysore Srikanth) effectively prefaced and underlined Gurucharan’s vocals, the poor Kanjira vidwan cut a sorry figure on stage, probably aware of the limitations of the concept in allowing for any meaningful percussive contributions. It did not help that, with the exception of Gurucharan/Srikanth, none of the artists on stage were sensitive to the intrinsic rhythm (solkattu) of the pieces, leading the few laya forays he attempted, towards awkward conclusions.

As a bait to draw heads clogged with easy listening towards classical music and perhaps as a vehicle for emphasizing the oft-neglected lyrical aspect of carnatic compositions, the Anil Srinivasan-Gurucharan collaboration serves a useful purpose. But the mind hardened by the assertiveness of mainstream classical music, while engaged by the uniqueness of the concept, felt that the overall effect was…what’s the word…Ah yes! Light…

BTW, what is Dhritiman Chatterjee, Satyajit Ray veteran, doing in the Chennai music scene? I’ve noticed him at least thrice in various concerts over the last few weeks…in one of these, he was presented with a photo-request which went…”you are…15, Park Avenue”?! He gamely obliged…


Rajan and Sajan Mishra, 12th November, 2007

Beneras Gharana maestros Rajan and Sajan Misra performed at the Academy on Monday. An excellent technical review from a highly regarded exponent can be found here:http://www.hindu.com/mp/2007/11/14/stories/2007111450300800.htm
For the view from the layman’s armchair, read on….

Trademark descending brushes against N3 and M2 (how clearly the swaras stand out in a Hindustani rendition!) unambiguously announced Shuddh Kalyan (Mohana Kalyani) although I’d missed the brothers’ introduction. In stark contrast to their cousins from across the border, the Pandits preferred to present the Vilambit as a focal point rather than a sidelight. The official clock was pushing 8 by the time the tara sthayi was unfurled. The younger (Sajan?) sibling struck the more resonant notes with ringing rests distributing the tonal range with equal felicity from the mandra gandhar to taar pancham. The elder seemed slightly flummoxed by the slippery meends around the nishads and madhyams and his halts lacked the assurance of his brother – it must be mentioned, though, that he was suffering from a bad case of cold…in the taan section however, the roles were reversed - The younger had trouble with descents while the elder’s version assumed a Dhrupadiya character in their weight and clarity.

A short composition in Durga (which, I am given to understand, is the equivalent of Shuddha Saveri although the caresses of the Nishadam would probably put it closer to Arabhi) followed before an interval was imposed.

Jhinjhoti was the next major item, presented in Rupak tal with gears shifted to Teental and then Dadra for the Madhya Lay and Drut respectively. The analogy with Kambhoji was immediately apparent with phrases such as PD2S and SR2M1G3 alloyed with the decidedly Hindustani colour of N2D2N2 and occasionally, even N2SD2 (although the latter did not feature in the sargam). Sajan’s dalliance with the notes was just beginning and his grins were getting wider with each perfectly sounded constant.

After a brusque and mesmerizing Megh (Madhyamavati, with a shade of Brindavana Saranga in the Nishadam) the brothers sought the audience’s opinion on a suitable raag for a bhajan. But the crowd, having smelt blood, was in no mood for tukkadas just yet, demanding the heaviness of Darbari even though it was close to 10 PM.

Sajan promised a “glimpse” into the raag. He can count, in addition to his evident musical talents, a gift for understatement – this was no glimpse, it was a manifestation, a torrid affair with the raag devta. With his eyes closed, and lips curled in a curious amalgam of pleasure and pathos, Sajan was the Nayaki on a pleasure-trip with his Nayaka - the Primal Drone - teasing Him with some exquisite glides and holding Him in a comforting clasp at the tonal rests. Alas, the crude audience, whose hands are accustomed to cheering every cheap gimmick thrown their way, desecrated the artist’s union with a patter of scandalously-timed applause and wolf whistles. Sajan opened his eyes in shock, outraged by the full-glare of public attention on a very private moment with his Muse. He put up his hands in helpless frustration and made a request to hold back the applause until the composition was completed. The audience complied but the consummation was already interrupted. What followed was pleasant but no longer divine.

Darbari was concluded at about 11 and a Bhajan in Bhairavi wrapped up the concert. For once I had to skip Marris’ meals but I knew I could count on Burger Man to keep his stall open until mid-night. The roles were reversed this time – the highest adherence to musical tradition but a bit of a compromise on the gastronomic front! “Saaton Sukh to Bhagwaan Raam to bhi nahin mile”….

Screenplays and Mindgames

Notes from the Theatre Festival – 2

There is a low murmur around Chennai’s theatre groups – a grouse that dare note speak its name. Theatre regulars would know that the Hindu Theatre Fest started off as an event primarily supported by local groups. Last year, the event shifted its venue to the Academy, and its focus to national troupes. The stage was still larger this year with some international groups taking part, while local groups were pushed to weekday performances, diplomatically dubbed as “the Chennai Chapter” in the smaller Sivagami Pettachi auditorium. I suppose the cash strapped theatre scene in Chennai had little choice but to accept what was thrown its way.

Not an entirely negative development in the end. The Sivagami Pettachi hall is a cozy little place which is far more comfortable than the Academy besides which, the acoustics are a lot less unpredictable. And despite the inconvenience of the timing, the few shows that I caught were all sold out.

The first of these was directed by Samanth Subramanian, a debutant director and a peddler of several talents which include, besides occasional daubs of greasepaint, writing and quizzing (one of the members of the Landmark quiz winning QED mentioned below).

Scripted by Ariel Dorfman, the play explores the festering wounds of the Pinochet dictatorship through the torment of a woman (Paulina – Sunanda Raghunath) who thinks she has found the man who’d raped and tortured her during the regime. The accused (Dr. Miranda – Samanth Subramanian) intermittently protests his innocence to the extent he can make himself intelligible through his panty-gagged mouth. Paulina’s husband (Gerardo, played very effectively by Freddy Koikkaran), is a lawyer who lurches between shocked disbelief at his wife’s dementia and his concerns about apostatizing his passionate belief in the law.

The material was powerful, shocking and for Chennai’s conservative audience, rather scandalous. Despite being inured to the bohemianism of theatre folk I found myself squirming and fidgeting when Sunandha did a toned down (mercifully!) re-take of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct! However, while her courage in taking up the role deserves appreciation, her tedious monologues, delivered in a drawling Tamil accent, only served to expose the geographical incongruity of the play’s setting.

Nevertheless, the strength of the script, some imaginative lighting and an inspired performance from Koikkaran (ably supported in the final stages by Samanth) prevented the play from descending into the sort of melodrama one normally associates with vernacular theatre in the city. The ending resolved the symbolic undercurrents into some stark and poignant questions about the pains of revolution and the insatiable, yet directionless, nature of vengeance…the gentleman sitting next to me, however, did not share my enthusiasm for it – he insisted on my providing a“JPH notes” style explanation of the conclusion!

A Landmark and a Quiz

“Shashtiabdhapoorthi” is how many a Mylapore mama with a predilection for drawing spiritual parallels chose to put it. Sixty years it’s been, sure, but I find the analogy misplaced. For the typical South Indian, the completion of 60 years signals the commencement of vanaprastha (even if it is in the concrete jungle these days!) – a time for retirement, contemplation and detachment. Hardly describes what’s going on in our country right now. It doesn’t get more materialistic or frenetic than this! "Sixty years young" is then, my clichéd take….

The media enthusiastically joined in the festivities, thankfully leaving Sanjay Dutt to his devices (pardon the unkind pun!) for a day or two. The Hindu, which had managed to keep Mr. Dutt within the confines (apologies repeated!) of the middle pages for the better part of his ordeal, expectedly put out the best tribute, adorned with a bouquet of priceless photographs.

But experiencing the wonder of India does not necessarily entail a collective wallowing in the past. While reminiscing about the lions of the freedom struggle is certainly a good way of working up the goosebumps, an equally effective method is to witness the miracles that our country serves up everyday, none of which is more heartening than the intellectual firepower of our young men and women. Here, more than anywhere else, the optimist likes to believe, resides our country..

My annual participation in the Landmark quiz has, therefore, less to do with hopes of covering myself with glory – the result is usually quite the opposite – than the reaffirmation of my faith in the spectacular repository of grey cells that is India. There was some vicarious pleasure as well – of the winning team’s (QED – which is threatening to become the Roger Federer of Chennai quizzing, having won the quiz last year as well) three members, one was a friend and another, a colleague…

Quizzing does not throw up too many stars but sometimes even the most exquisite leg glance (leave alone, the garish histrionics of Bollywood) pales in comparison to a solution stitched together from the slenderest threads of association between seemingly nonsensical bits of trivia– some of it is positively Freudian. These guys deserve much more than Rs. 40,000 in Landmark gift vouchers....

Happy 60th/6000th birthday India! Here's wishing you many more miracles!

Notes from the Theatre Festival

Cultural Awakening















Chennai’s cultural calendar finally begins to shed the sluggishness of a long and well, not so torrid, summer…The Metro Plus’ theatre fest has just rolled out its third edition, with a very international flavour, while Krishna Gana Sabha’s Gokulashtami concert series, running in parallel, is about as local as it gets…The Landmark Quiz lurks around the corner after which the city’s cultural scene should follow the pleasant example of the weather – Carnatica’s Bharat Utsav and the Hindu’s Classical Music Fest being among the events likely to throw up some dates you might want to block – leading upto the big daddy of Margazhi, the Music and Dance festival. Chennai is not quite Paris yet but it’s getting there….

Alas, the Music Academy IS a far cry from the Odeon. The Manipuri troupe that kicked off proceedings was disappointed with the size of the stage (a complaint that also surfaced during the Bavarian State Orchestra’s performance under Zubin Mehta’s baton a couple of years ago). The audience has its share of cribs as well. The scandalously cramped seats in the balcony haven’t yet seen the light of N Murali’s promises to rectify the ergonomic disaster that is the Academy auditorium.

The crowds seem to have voted with their feet – attendance was between 60-70% in the stalls and about 30% in the balcony. Not too many plays had less than 75% last year. One shudders at the thought of a laudable movement being reversed by audience apathy. C’mon folks – give that remote a break!

Men of Letters

I can’t remember any of the blurbs using “Experimental” as a prefix to the Theatre Festival but that’s pretty much what the plays on offer appear to suggest: A Manipuri dance-ballet in Meithei (Nine Hills One Valley), a play woven around a collection of press clippings (Three Strangely Normal Plays), a recitation of letters exchanged between Nehru and Gandhi (Dear Bapu)…whatever happened to good old screenplay? Is it any wonder that N Ram is willing to cough up a lakh of rupees for one?!

Anyway, the last of the above (Director - Mohan Maharishi) was unexpectedly engaging, giving even a small-time history buff like yours truly, some novel insights into the minds of the 2 chief architects of India’s post-colonial history. The parts were played (or should I say “read”) with flawless, if a little affected, eloquence by Bhaskar Ghose and Sunit Tandon. “Is-yous” for example takes you right back to Doordarshan News of the 80s with which, of course, both these gentlemen were intimately associated! Sabina Mehta was somewhat less inspiring in her role of providing random annotations to the epistolary exchange, slipping up once too often during her obiter dicta.

Magic Realism

It’s odd how closely one is able to relate to the equation between the two congress leaders, one that is defined as much by mutual respect as by a passionate difference of opinion – anyone who’s had a benevolent but overbearing boss, if there’s any such thing, would know what I am talking about.

Notwithstanding his remarkably forward-looking views on women’s empowerment, religion and the caste system, Gandhi’s muddle headed approach to socio-economic issues (in particular, his utopian ideal of a village based economy) is a source of endless frustration for an impatient socialist zealot with a clearly mapped out industrial vision for his country. Nehru’s directness and rationalism also come into conflict with the unfathomable methods of his senior colleague who, for all his principles, possessed a Machiavellian political mind and an extraordinary feel for the pulse of both the masses, and the rulers. Bursts of unreasonable irascibility followed by tactical retreats, a carrot in one hand and a stick in the other – Gandhi was a master manipulator whose ends Nehru could grasp only when he’d pull the occasional rabbit out of his hat – using a complete non-issue like the Salt Tax, for example, to set an entire country on fire (“magician” is a word Nehru uses repeatedly while referring to his mentor).

That a nation could emerge from such a Babel (we haven’t even touched upon Patel, Rajaji, Bose or Ambedkar – all political animals of different hues) was a minor miracle. And the fact that such a bhel-puri of ideologies has survived over 50 tempestuous years must rank as one of the most remarkable developments in modern history. But looking back, a cacophony of voices was probably the only thing that could’ve stitched together 300 million very diverse, and very opinionated, individuals…and oh! Despite all its holes, what a magnificent fabric we have woven, my countrymen!

A though-provoking pile of letters indeed…

Varsha

1.

Here she comes, dancing over the grateful plains,
Urns of nectar, unsteadily balanced on her sprightly shoulders!

Knead this clay, mother!
Caress, comfort, your fallen sons.
Mould, from this lifeless soil, pots of plenty and gods of war.

Ready to strike!
Hail, Howl, Hurl your lances
At these parched veins below, throbbing with desire.

Lap, greedy earth!
Sip, Slurp, Swig your thirst away
Drink till you drown yourself in an explosion of greenish bile

2.

Summer’s lusty breath, the lecherous fingers*
Of the sun upon her outraged breast.
Her glorious white robe, shredded and strewn
In silvery strands around her sullied feet

But now she rises, hot with shame. Puffy
Cheeks, purple with rage. Heart pounding
With the beat of vengeance and eyes blinking wild,
She draws the curtains over her oppressor!

3.

The poor wizened, wrinkled plain

Looks up and thinks aloud. Supine,

On his cracked bed, an impotent witness,

To heavenly caprices and celestial tussles.

“Welcome back, victorious one,

You must be drained from battling the sun.

But whilst you wipe the sweat off your brow

Your humble vassal begs to know:

Is it joy or scorn you pour?

Do you fling those buckets from your door,

To sprinkle hope on my withered hide?

Or to wash this worthless clod away?

You flow unbound, need no one’s leave
To fill my wells or flood my streams
But what if I had the discretion
To choose reason over artless emotion?”

4.

“So what if those tears trickle from a mugger’s maw,
That earthy whiff, the crab’s grasping claw?
I’m old. I’ve borne many a season’s whim.
Even the gentle touch of spring
Was but a flirting cloak for summer’s sting

What if she weeps in grief? Or drips with desire?
Or storms in fury over her violated honor?
Descend, fine incisors, gentle poison
Into my burning throat! I’ll take my chance again!
Fly away parasol, my shelter is the rain!”

* The reference is to the Himalayan River System

Between Heaven and Hell - the Basic Mountaineering Course

Before

The sun is yet to emerge from its dark womb and the rooster’s siren, still submerged in twilight’s heavy breath. But the day is shaken awake by a false dawn of flickering flash-lights. And footsteps pounding on the false ceiling above. Batch 282 of the Basic Mountaineering Course at the Directorate of Mountaineering and Allied Sports (DMAS), Manali, is drawn out of its cozy blankets and quartered into ropes on the campus PT Ground.

Batch 282 was a motley mix of 80 individuals between 15 and 45 with little in common except for an unhealthy obsession with mountains and an inexplicable appetite for physical pain. There was a bunch of local Himachalis for whom the rigor of the course was just an extension of their rugged lifestyles; students from Army and sports schools hoping (somewhat optimistically in hindsight) for an easy way out of their annual examinations; officers from the Police and the Armed Forces looking to broaden their horizons while lengthening their CVs; and finally, urban slouches like myself, lured by the cool sound-bites and fancy equipment of adventure-television gods, oblivious to the sweat and toil behind their glamorous façades. Or what sleeping in those beautiful snow-covered tents really felt like…

Tied Down

The first task at hand was to figure out a way to segment our batch into ropes. The “rope” referred to a 60 meters long coil made of some of the strongest fibers known to man….and to the 8 course-members tethered to it. Your rope is the guys you will sleep with, the guys you will eat with, the guys you will climb with…The rope will pull you up when you are down and drag you to your death. The rope is the fundamental unit of social organization in a mountaineering expedition.

My own rope coiled around me after a random allocation process that included a 200 metre sprint the purpose of which was never entirely clear - 8 guys, 2 countries, 2.5 generations, 6 languages, 3 social strata. Antakshari inside the tent until 1 in the morning. The only ice seemed to be in the mountains up above!

Picnic at Hanging Rock

“Yes Sir” is a phrase of considerable utility in the aspiring mountaineer’s vocabulary. “Faster boys!” “Yessir!”. “Give me ten!” “Yessir!” “Nincompoop!” “Yessir!”…Day 1 of the 26 day program began with a red-eye “fully geared” run (rucksack included) around Manali’s undulating streets. “We’ll take things easy on the first day” chirped our course leader, patting my burdened back, “just a light jog, eh?!”. I was not inclined to let his outrageous suggestion pass without protest but considering my rapidly worsening wheeze and the possibility of my already constrained physical resources being further taxed with a “punishment”, “Yessir” seemed as sensible a response as any…We trundled past Bengali and Gujarati vacationers, our ungainly strides amusing them as much as our trainers’ colorfully-worded reprimands, encouraging the onlookers to throw in some of their own epithets. A child tugged at the ice-axe slipping out of my sack and a pebble bounced off my helmet. Unpleasant, I told myself stoically, but infinitely better than falling into a crevasse or being buried in an avalanche.

The persecution of our muscles and sinews continued through the first week, breaking down the defenses of fats and lipids tucked away in remote recesses of the body that had, until then, stood their ground against the most determined diets and gym sessions. The physical intensity of “morning PT” would typically be followed by activities that demanded more than just strength and stamina. The “Holds” and “grips” that lead a climber to the top of a sheer rock exist not so much on its walls as in the chisel of the mind and the hammer of the spirit. Arms and legs are but supporting actors in the will’s scramble get a handle on success’ craggy, capricious face...now an impossibly smooth boulder to scale, now a vertiginous drop to rappel down; now a freezing, vicious torrent to cross…but we were still in Manali – the glaciers, moraines and ice-walls were yet to come.

Axed

By the tenth day, we were deemed sufficiently cleansed of our sloth and frailty to be tested out in the mountains. My rucksack, already bloated thanks to a daily diet of sundry climbing aids, now had to swallow a pair of clunky mountaineering boots! Struggling to get my freshly reinforced frame on my feet, I betted heavily against my making it even as far as the campus gate but many breathless hours later, DMAS’ ski lodge at Solang, 15 Kms from Manali, turned out to be a stiff but surmountable challenge.

Our first brush with the snow was at the 4400 metre peak of Patalsu. Winter had overstayed its welcome in Himachal, hibernating inside its white sheets even though May was well underway. As a result, our target, normally a “non-technical” peak in summer, was judged unsuitable for a troupe of half-baked Hillaries and we were turned back, some 500 metres short of the summit.

The delayed departure of the snow made for an interesting afternoon when we arrived at our training base camp at Bakkarthatch, a couple of days later. A patchwork of campsites lay scattered around a mound of sodden earth that was presently embalmed in the last vestiges of winter, indistinguishable from the snowfields that stretched for miles around. A return to our previous camp of Dhundhi was briefly considered but with 80 able, if less than willing, young men at hand, the course in-charge clearly had options. Orders were barked, sacks opened, and ice axes, shovels and picks pressed into service, swinging in frenzied arcs between the dazzling sun above and the glistening snow below. The archaeological divertissement was an expectedly onerous one, beset with oxygen malnourishment and exposure to a treacherous spectrum of temperatures - from the coruscating intensity of the heat on our backs to the numbing cold chewing on our fingers. But our homing instinct eventually proved powerful enough to rescue the entombed base camp from over 5 feet of snow. I collapsed on the freshly leveled campsite to claim my reward for an utterly exhausting day – the sight of the vast white trampoline that was Bakkarthatch, hooked on to a cirque of towering poles, all over 5000 metres in height.

The five days of physical labour that it took us to get from Manali to Bakkarthatch had me itching to get my hands on the curious implements that had burdened my journey. The next few days assured me that all of them had their uses for surviving the perilous vicissitudes of life over 4000 metres. But a workman needs more than just tools – standing on the edge of a sheer snow slope, preparing for a backward roll, all the preceding lectures about the commendable properties of the ice-axe in arresting a fall, felt about as reassuring as a politician’s promises. Ropes that would bend and twist at my every command back in Manali, assumed a stiff, icy and altogether uncooperative attitude in the mountains, chafing at my fingers and tying up my emaciated mental resources in knots more complicated than has ever been used in a climbing expedition. Ice proved a still harder nut to crack –tired, flailing ice-axes bounced off its unyielding walls in a pathetic imitation of the furiously energetic ice-climbs we were shown in the training videos!

26 days of training, I discovered, were somewhat inadequate to overcome the inherent ungainliness of a city-dweller but while my evolution into a mountain goat is still a few births away, I suppose I had imbibed enough to clear the battery of tests we were put through on our last few days (although to put things in perspective I am hard pressed to think of anyone who didn’t!).

Over the Edge

Kshitidhar was adorned with strings of black pearls that seemed to slithering, ever so slowly, up its slender neck. The molested mountain shook with fright and anger. Her tresses, white with rage, came undone and cascaded down her tremulous sides….I was at 16500 feet – at that altitude, it is not uncommon for the senses to indulge in a few games with the mind. But if I was unhinged, I was joined in my hallucination by a dozen-odd pairs of eyes, all of which were riveted on the same incredible spectacle. A rasping walkie-talkie shoved what seemed to be a wild illusion, firmly in the direction of reality…“The avalanche has passed and the white-out should clear shortly. Keep on the ridge – you’ll make it!!”

I was about half an hour late for an appointment with the top of Kshithidhar, which presently bore the burden of 20 of my batch-mates. Tired though I was after a 6 hour trek over 1500 metres, it was utterly frustrating to be stuck at the base camp while my colleagues were celebrating on top, just 400 metres above. But the rules were clear and made known to everyone before we left Backaerthatch: “Only three ropes – first come, first served”. That meant 20 members - I had reported into base camp at about 30. The consolation was that I had attained the qualifying height. Besides, our grueling stint in the mountains was now coming to an end.

All that now stood between me and civilization was a night of “jungle survival”. The clump of birches and firs amidst grassy slopes we were led to, 5 Kms from Solang, seemed to be stretching the definition of a jungle. Nor did the bears and leopards that purportedly ran rampage therein seem anything worse than a product of our instructors’ malicious imagination. Nevertheless, a stronger-than-usual evening shower and our arrival after sunset meant that this final hurdle of the Mountaineering Course was not entirely without its challenges. An enterprising rope-mate strung together a temporary shelter using our raincoats and although the wet earth continually pushed us down its slippery slope, my jungle survival experience largely involved snoring through an intense REM sleep.

Passed Out

The “passing-out ceremony” was a tad less glamorous than I might have hoped. No delirious crowds to wave my medals at – instead, a pitter-patter of feeble claps from my rope-mates, half of whom were busy being festooned with sundry trappings of mountaineering accomplishments themselves. The lunch that followed was certainly an improvement on the staple of rice and dal that we endured at Bakkarthatch but with trains and buses to catch, we were unable to fully savor the release of our repressed gastronomic desires.

The final hours at the mountaineering institute were charged with the sort of intense warmth that surrounds people who’ve been through a period of intense bonding but whose lives are unlikely to offer too many points of convergence in future. Not so much like a college farewell which alloys the despair of parting with the promise of continuity …More like a torrid affair that leaves nothing to be salvaged once its embers are extinguished….

Hung

The new joiners are just being bussed in. Batch 283 will be put through the punishing routine shortly. The heat of the training program will weld complete strangers into bosom buddies, ties that will be further reinforced by the ropes they are allocated to – stiff, gnarly little devils that constantly cut into your hands. Crude hill folk, pompous army-men, silly school-children. But up there, the only thing that stands between you and the deep gorges in the folds of the mountains…and the still deeper chasms in the folds of the mind.

The knots are gone now. My hands are free once again and the spirit soars to survey its re-annexed territories – much like the Golden Eagle that was the object of its envy during my confinement at Backerthatch. Yet there remains in these fickle fingers, a curious twitching for those ghastly ropes, irreconcilable with the calluses and cuts they’ve caused all over. The longing isn’t exactly an overpowering one – I’m done with knots and anchors and icy wastelands for the time being…but I know the scattered rope is regrouping even as I rediscover freedom….
The noose will begin tightening soon. It will get me in the end.

After