Saga of a concert hopper

Yet another music season is on its way out and the silk saris are going back into wardrobes after washing/dry cleaning/ airing.

Canteen chairs will slowly be stacked one over the other and the Music Dance Drama section of the Hindu will be slowly shedding its extra poundage.

Musicians will be taking stock of their performances and the female members of the audience slowly reconciling themselves to home cooked meals.

And before the second chapter of the music season, albeit a watered down one, i.e, the Thyagaraja Aradhana starts, it would be well to think back over some of the constants that have been part of the season for years down the line.

Screechy mikes and thani exodus apart, one of the features that have become an inseparable part of the festivities is a phenomenon called ‘concert hopping’.

 Wikipedia or the Encyclopedia Brittanica would perhaps define it thus: State of constant movement in concert auditoria caused by migration of audience from one music recital to the other.

Concert hoppers are neither hoppers not concert attendees. They are generally there as part of the surroundings, like the chairs or the banners, mainly because they are never there, and yet always present! Like a vague perfume that permeates the air-conditioned halls at the evening concert at the Music Academy where the cream of society and the best in French perfumes converge, the Sabha hopper may not be an entity himself. It is as though there is one human being constituted by the sum total of walkers in and walkers out that constitutes this ‘superman’.

It goes like this: afternoon concert A begins with a sum total of 6 members, maybe more if the singer comes from a large Chennai based family.

The two ‘unattached’ rasikas (those who are not bound to their seats by ties of blood) will manifest the following predictable behavior  if they are seasoned Chennai Isai Vizha Rasikas.

They will listen to the first song. Politely applaud. The next, if it is a rare ragam will trigger off a flurry of book opening. Then comes the alapana. This is generally a signal for him to settle deep into his seat and catch up on the missed eight hours of last night, thanks to his nagging wife.

If he is considerate, he will not snore too loudly. Otherwise, the remaining audience of 5, is in for an uppapakavadyam as rhythmic gurgles and whistles emanate, in true mikeless spirit.

Generally the siesta concludes with the alapana if the fond parents of the young artiste have the energy to contribute generously to the applause and compensate for quantity by ample quality.

The kriti that follows the violinist’s solo is generally the deciding factor. If it is a ‘Banturithi’, or a ‘Anandamrithakarshini’, the awakened rasika generally sits through, nodding his head appreciatively.  A ‘Thyagaraja Yoga Vaibhavam’ is generally a surefire anti-rasika cream that ensures that the first stage of concert hopping starts.

The rasika slowly makes the motions of departure: stirring in the seat, fumbling for rexine pouch,   testing the knees gingerly, and slowly lifting oneself from the chair, generally maintaining the thala with one hand as if to say: You are singing well, but you know…”

From where he slowly makes his way to the next sabha. For the next two songs. And then to the next, and the next. Until the stock of sabhas in the vicinity gives, or his tired frame decides that enough is enough or he remembers the vegetables he had promised to get for his wife on his way home.

And the cycle goes on. When he returns home, most probably the conversation with his wife will go on thus:

“So how was the concert today?”

Rasika (shaking his head vigourously as if to draw from the recesses of his memory): “Err.. very nice, I mean the one at ABC sabha was good, the one at DEF mediocre and XY vidwan was extremely bad at GHI sabha. I think the Shankarabaranam was ok, but the song that followed… I don’t remember…”

Wife (helpfully) : Manasu Swadhina? Swararaga sudha? Endhuku Peddala? Akshaya Linga?

Sabha Hopping husband: “ Just a minute… oh no, it was … Pakkala Nilabadi.

And before his astonished wife can ask whether the artiste was doing a T.M.Krishna act by prefacing the chaste Karaharapriya masterpiece with a Shankarabharanam, the poor man concludes:

“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t there. I went elsewhere. I was sabha hopping, you know. And here are the beans and tomatoes you asked for.”

  

Caste at what cost?

I am a Brahmin. In fact I’m what is now commonly known as a Tambrahm. This was handed to me at birth, just like my eyes, nose and body. Like my name, or my ‘nakshatra’, it is part of the baggage that constitutes me, something that I carry with me whether I’m aware of it or not.

Actually, anybody will tell that we are hardly aware of our caste creed or community in the humdrum of daily life. My caste comes alive when I see the male members with the sacred thread (some of them sometimes), or at poojas like the Varalakshmi Vratham or Kaaradiya nombu which are primarily brahmin festivals. At other times, it is manifested implicitly in our lifestyles- garlic is looked at with dislike (let the cardiologists say what they want), onions a taboo on religious days, the ‘panchpatram-udrani’ (silver cutlery consisting of tumbler and miniature soupspoon) make their appearance on special days. Of course, the typical Tamil Brahmin accent that is the delight of many a film director is an outright give away.

All this apart, I go about my work completely unconscious of what community I belong to.

But the world does not let me forget my caste. Nor anyone else’s for that matter. Let’s open the paper: any bets that at least 5 caste related clashes or tales of crime going down to caste politics. Even a non caste murder or robbery somehow finds its way to the caste factor.

I work in a college: admissions are on. And how! One of the first documents the student shows is her community certificate, a document scrutinized as much or even more than the mark sheet. Does it have the ‘Gopuram’ seal? (Otherwise it could have just been cooked up). Is the name correct? What is the difference between a Vaniar and a Vaniakula Kshatriya (a name so long and so frequently mentioned that it has had to be abbreviated to VKS) Is there a difference between a Vaniar and Vanniar? A Christian Nadar and a Hindu Nadar? In other words, for a country that is permanently striving to restore equality amongst its citizens, the final output  seems to be a reawakening of what castes and creeds exist in our land.

Nobody questions the lofty motives of the father of our constitution. But after so many decades, if we are still striving to remove caste by referring to castes, there doesn’t seem to be much headway. On the contrary, I can think of innumerable peope of my own caste who struggle as cooks and priests for the simple reason that their 90 % was not enough to get them a merit seat and  their income could not purchase them one under the management quota.

So while I think Brahminism as some theory of a club to which I happen to belong by birth, in the larger picture, it seems to be a subset of a major movement where the watchword is Caste.

Is India really shining???

Queues for laughs

Well, the whole world is still talking of the Move that Shook the Country last week.And as we queue in to exchange our erstwhile precious 500's and 1000's, I realise that it all depends on a person's point of view. At one of the banks where I went, there was a gentlemen (was he one?) who thundered before stomping out of the premises   room that he was a former Secretary to the Government and that noone had the right to tell him what to do.
All I can say is that after he left, the normal humming and murmuring sound of 200 humans together sounded like an Ode to Silence.
A slightly different scenario at the Standard Chartered Bank, Mylapore. The scene was the same: Account holders in a queue, Exchange seekers in another. At 2 pm the effect of growling stomachs must surely have made itself felt. Yet, the pleasant faced gentleman, evidently appointed as trouble shooter politely guided the populace with its myriad questions, some of which, (like mine) were thoroughly asinine. A small shuffle of consternation when the hero attending at Counter 2 suddenly vanished. Out popped our friendly  trouble-shooter. "Kindly bear with us sir, they have not moved since 7 in the morning. Give them 5 minutes of your precious time for their lunch."
I defy the most surly and irate customer to counter that with any form of rudeness.
In fact, I heard a couple of jokes being cracked between fellow customers on the state of their own growling interiors, not to complain, but to while away time.
On the whole, unbelievable, but true, it was a pleasant experience to stand in the long queue giving up my hard earned 4000 to get it back.
All goes to show that whatever be the situation, we can decide how to take it.
Wasn't it Milton that spoke about the mind's capacity to make heavens out of hell and vice-versa?

Recently I sang at a venue that does not normally attract huge crowds even for the top concerts. Being anything but a 'top' musician, I entered the hall, ready for the single row of listeners that I fervently hoped would be there. (It's not very heartening to count more people on stage than off. More so when the only accompaniments are the mridangam, violin and the tambura player!)
Imagine my surprise when I found people entering in decent numbers. Before long, the hall actually had filled out rather well.
I also noticed all the 'rasikas' walking in with a piece of paper resembling the token at the slipper queue in the temples.
Before I could chew on this phenomenon the concert had to start. And then, the happiness of an actually audible applause was so heady that I went on to sing with gusto, even more surprised that nobody was even walking out .
Luckily, I 'm not susceptible to flattery. Nor do I have a very inflated image of myself. Or else, the rapt attention of the sizable crowd not to mention the 'listener's choice chits' would have had me feeling like a celebrity.
Just after the thaniavarthanam though, the bubble burst. The organiser borrowed the mridangam artiste's  microphone to 'say a few words about the performers'. The job done, he came to what I think was the most interesting part of the concert.  All this while, during his speech,  a little boy had been busy arraying bright stainless steel  utensils just in front of the audience. Now, a juvenile member among the listeners was called upon to pick a number from a box of chits. This number was called out and the  next thing I knew, was the slow advent of a senior citizen who, after a lot of deliberation went on to choose a bright stainless steel pail and make his way back... home!

This sabha had done what many big banners have not been able to. A small 'lucky dip' announced at the beginning of the concert, to be given at the end of the concert keeps  the audience in a state of delicious suspense. And if the music is not too bad, they surely get to have a pleasant wait for the ultimate verdict.  Everybody is happy in the process. There is nothing cheap about it, nor desperate. It is just a gentle tactic that keeps people coming to the music halls.And when we hear of so much publicity seeking taking place in a field where the supply far exceeds the demand, it keeps me thinking: Why not?
 

What’s Up?- It’s Whatsap

All through my life, I have been used to starting my day, palms open and saying the age old Mantra:

Karaagre Vasate Lakshmi

Karamoole Saraswati

 Karamadhyetu Govinda

Prabhate Kara Darshanam.

 Not always so now. With sheepish frankness I have to admit that very often nowadays, my morning does indeed begin with a look at my palms, but focused on the object nestled safely within them: that little oblong bedfellow that follows me like a shadow, and christened ‘Samsung’. Or rather, focused on what lies within the small confines of its glassy countenance as I try to open the video whose arrival has just been announced by a dignified tinkle of a  ‘Temple bell’- my ring tone. I wish I could say that it was only the younger generation that had been attacked. But that would not be true.  Whatsap fever has taken us by storm, young and not so young alike. Whatsap groups have united humankind as never before and I just love being a QMC Chatterbox, Illuminati, an Ignited Mind or an Esprit Indomptable!

On that historical day, earth shaking events were to take place: a volcano had erupted somewhere in the world,  a violent storm had caused havoc somewhere else.  But nothing could equal the magnitude of the personal crisis I was to go through. It was 5.30 am. I gently pulled towards me the Old Faithful that was called a mobile phone, but in effect, was my alter ego,’ to check the time’ I assured myself. I tried to de-blur my eyes to fix them on that magical screen. And there it was, catastrophe staring me in the face: an intimation- my Whatsap chat history had been deleted. Would I like to restore it? If so, could I kindly press ‘Yes’?

Chat history deleted? Did I really want it restored? Could I kindly press ‘Yes’?    Only a state of extreme hysteria could have prompted me to commit the ultimate blasphemy by crying out : Karagre Vasathe Display Profile, Karamuley Status, Karamadhye tu Group Chats…As I feverishly tried to operate the miniscule key pad, every microsecond was an agonizing wait for the ultimate verdict. I just had to restore Whatsap to health and, in consequence, my own.

After what seemed like a journey through a catacomb, I was done with the instructions. Now came the … momentous moment. Would I recover my lost treasures? Would I get back my peace of mind? I held my breath, said a small prayer (plain bribery).  I clicked on my friend Poorna’s contact icon.  Her profile photo was very much there, and so was her ‘last seen’ details. Just when I was about to celebrate, I scrolled down, to be greeted by a silent stretch of empty green. Mission Failed. Oh Cruelty, thy name is Lost Chats!

So that was that…. Good bye text messages, good bye contact details of people who weren’t in my contact lists given to me by people who were in my contact list. Good bye D.K.Pattamal’s mind blowing rendition of Mamava Pattabhirama. Good bye sound words of inspiration and advice, mini moral science classes which, very often, used to escape my eyes in favour of the funnier snippets. Now that I didn’t have them anymore, these took on the status of Teachings from Heaven itself.

My state of mind could best be portrayed by a colon- closed bracket emoticon. I forgot the well chosen words about time wasting on Whatsap that I had exchanged with Poorna only the previous night- in a Whatsap chat of course.  It seemed to me that my very being had come to a grinding halt.  Not wasting time was going to hurt badly.

I may be in deep waters, but still, life had to go on and there was a family to cook for. Three blows of the cooker whistle stretched out into 6 distracted ones when   suddenly, the Thought occurred. Let me seek help. Help from ‘Help’ I mean. Re-enter Hope as I picked up my well used Android, dull and scratched by dropping and trying to remove stains of idli batter (I can perform the supreme multitasking act of stirring, using the mixie and transferring ground flour into a container all the while talking on my phone) from my window sill  (could I call this sill a throne?). 

Whatsapping and Facebooking are pieces of cake to handle provided things are smooth. But when there is a problem, Troubleshooting itself requires troubleshooting, at least for me. Still, the stakes were high.  I had to retrieve my Whatsap to its normal dignity. With fumbling fingers, I tried to follow the instructions in the FAQ section.The answers appeared before me in a barrage of information. Much head hitting and perspiring later, I understood slowly that I was asked to de-install and then re-install Whatsap. The frenzied session that followed resembled what must have been the scene minutes before a rocket launch at Sriharikota. Click on this, then on that… Much of it was re -clicking and reviewing though, mainly because my Old faithful was really old, and obese too: only a major dietary schedule could lighten the burden of the laden storage space in her long suffering silicon chip. Deleting old files was something my busy schedule (yet never too busy to go into Whatsap) had not permitted me to do. Somewhere in the course of these frenetic steps, a sharp smell vaguely registered   and I was  aware that the lady’s fingers were getting overdone, soon they would resemble half burnt beedies. But then, a meal was only a meal but Whatsap was a window to the whole, wide world. Perhaps I could take a picture of the charred remains and forward it to my contacts as the remnants of a recently erupted volcano. But then, I remembered: I was deinstalling whatsap! I felt a poignant lump in my throat, like the man who thinks of his hometown 5000 miles away. Oh my God, not to be on whatsap? Was it retribution for some past sin?

Yet every river reaches the sea. A few clicks and OK’s later, oh joy!Whatsap reinstalled! I was back!   Congratulations to myself! My celebration consisted of adding two cups of water to reinstall sambar status to the semi solid mixture in front of me that had been silently and sullenly brewing the past half hour, unheeded and untended.

It remained to open my account and admire the restored chats that the troubleshooting menu had reassured me would be retrieved. As a first, I chose the contact of a certain Ganesh (may the Lord with whom he shares his name remove all obstacles in the course of my noble attempts), I opened it… The same green stretch of gloriously unlettered background welcomed me. I went into a group contact dating back to two years: I was informed that I had just been added.

The situation took some digesting.  I was now in the status of ‘New Whatsapper’ It hurt. Before I could reach for my smelling salts, I suddenly I saw the innumerable pros in the midst of the cons- memories from an old Whatsap inspirational message. At least my contact list was intact. The images were still stored in the gallery. I was back on Whatsap. And what’s more, I had got wiser in the two hours gone by.

Much wiser. Now, when I need to store something important, I do it with a more primitive set of instruments. This set has its disadvantages, it’s slower and more cumbersome. But we can’t deny that it is the most reliable.  And most definitely can’t be deleted by technology. That is what is known as paper and pen.

Moreover, it was raining ‘Temple Bells’. As I got ready to attack all the messages that were assuaging me, my heart felt considerably lighter. So what if the old messages had gone away? Many new ones were waiting to use up my phone’s already depleted storage. Long live Whatsap!

God’s in heaven and all’s right with this world….

By

 Varalakshmi Anandkumar