Yesterday, after nearly three months of getting acquainted with the tip of the iceberg of "Naalaayira Divya Prabandam" set to music, I accompanied my Guru in a stage performance. No matter that I only knew six of the twenty six paasurams she sang...still, a performance is a performance, what?
I started music lessons when I was in kindergarten. The music class was held in a car-shed that was generously donated by a gentleman who had sold his car. The teacher, whose name I didn't know, was a thousand years old. He wore the vibuthi pattai on his forehead and carried with him a silver box of beetel leaves and associated laagiris, that he would periodically stuff into his mouth. I was the youngest of the herd and was never even given a passing glance. Usually, by the time the sarali varisais were done, I would be fast asleep on the torn jamakkaalam, and my grandmother would carry me back home.
Although 5 is too young an age to remember anything, I surprise myself by remembering interesting data from my first paatu class. For example, there were three sisters - Kanaka, Durga and Malathi. Of which, Malathi, who was four years my senior was considered a protoge, since she could already sing gamakams and brihas. I believe the old man had high hopes on this girl, but as of now, I don't know of a Malathi in the Indian Carnatic Music jungle. Perhaps she got married to an NRI and lives in Canada or Australia, with music long forgotten. There was another much older "akka" called Uma, who asked the teacher to teach her something special to be sung to the bridegroom's party as they came to "see" her. And the teacher taught her (and us in the process), "Kaamakshi, kaamakoti peeda vaasini" in Simmendhra madhyamam. I was in UKG then, but I remember that song today. I don't remember where I put the shopping list an hour ago.
I stopped going to this class in a couple of years because much of my formative years were spent shuttling between Triplicane and T.Nagar. During my tween years, we shifted permanently to T.Nagar, and that was when my music lessons took a more serious turn, and consequently became a chore for me. That is probably why I am very wary about getting my kid to join a formal music class yet. Sri Vaidhyanathan, a strict task master, may his soul rest in peace, would teach me one-on-one in my blind grandfather's room - my grandfather loved music and was particularly thrilled to hear his only grand daughter sing.
Sri Vaidyanathan laid a heavy duty foundation and refused to let me proceed to songs until all sarali varisais, jantai varisais and 35 alankarams were hardwired into my system. I must have been one of the rare kids that even knew that there were 35, and not just seven, alankarams, let alone being able to sing all of them. Considering what a dedicated teacher he was, and that I was blessed with a melodious voice, I could have enjoyed the process. However the enormous pressure from home to perform and the odd hours that the Guru would turn up - at 9 PM just when I would be nodding off - made me hate the whole concept of music class. Peer pressure that my friends, who did not sing as well as I did, proceeded in their respective classes to ada-thaala-varnams and keerthanais, while I was still plodding along with jathiswarams and swarajathis demorlaized me.
And then my mother fell seriously ill. I begged my folks to take me off the paatu class and given the stress everyone was under, it wasn't too hard to give in to me. Five years were spent struggling with an ailing mom, mourning her death and facing public exams that music was retreated into the dark recess of somewhere.
Once the dust of public exams settled, my mind slowly moved back to music. More to find solace from the wild, weird world of college I was thrown into. This time, I joined Sri B.V. Raman (may he R.I.P too), of the popular Raman-Lakshmanan duo. I enjoyed three years of music lessons with him immensely. I learned many many varnams and keerthanams, which, sadly, I did not write down because BVR believed that the moment you wrote down the songs, the compulsion to learn them by-heart is lost. He may have been right, but two decades from then, I don't remember these songs, and I don't have them written down as well - double darn !
And then academics took over again. That was pretty much the end of formal structured music lessons. I did visit Sri BVR now and then when I returned home on holidays to brush up on music. I even gave radio performances on the youth section a few times. But my own insincerety and laziness took me away from a natural talent. My aversion to public display of myself was another reason. People who heard me sing pressurized me to perform to a bigger audience, and although I did sing well, I didn't believe I had the skill to take my music to the next level. Although these days I am beginning to doubt that since some so-called "popular" singers seem to have no more skill than I did at that point. But then, no excuses for my own lack of sincerety of purpose.
Now my music is restricted to teaching a bunch of kids and more recently my Prabandam class. Yesterday's performance made me realise something though. I love to sing my daughter to sleep. I love teaching the neighbourhood kids. I don't mind singing at someone's kolu. However, hand me a mike and a group of people watching my face, my voice gives up on me. I am not sure if my Prabandam Guru would like agree to teach me if I say this, because she was banking on my vocal support to her programmes. I find the spirituatlity of the whole thing lost when I "perform".
Such is my sound of music.
Dad (exasperated at the six-year-old being difficult): I am going to write a note to your teacher that you are a troublesome kid at home.
Defiant kid: If you write a note to my teacher, I will write a note to your students that you are a troublesome father at home.
Pretween, tween, preteen, teen....sigh !
(Image from here)
Over vegetable won ton soup at a Chinese restaurant, dad and daughter were discussing the various things that human beings eat.
Daughter: What kind of animals can human beings eat ?
Dad: All kinds of animal meat. People even eat snails.
Daughter: Really? What about maravattai (millepede)
Mom (thinking to herself): I don't really like the turn this conversation is taking.
Dad: Yes. Some people even eat dog meat. And snake meat
Daughter: So, people eat all nouns.
Mom and Dad: ??!!
Dad and mom working on the computer. Kiddo playing pretend game, talking to herself:
"We are all magical angels. When we need energy to fight enemies, we have them. When we don't need to fight our enemies, we can remove the energy and put it in a cup. That is called the hotsugaroil. Because it looks like sugar in hot oil."
Can I have a cup of hotsugaroil please?
Three Questions - by Leo Tolstoy
(From: here)
One day it occurred to a certain emperor that if he only knew the answers to three questions, he would never stray in any matter.
What is the best time to do each thing? Who are the most important people to work with? What is the most important thing to do at all times?
The emperor issued a decree throughout his kingdom announcing that whoever could answer the questions would receive a great reward. Many who read the decree made their way to the palace at once, each person with a different answer.
In reply to the first question, one person advised that the emperor make up a thorough time schedule, consecrating every hour, day, month, and year for certain tasks and then follow the schedule to the letter. Only then could he hope to do every task at the right time.
Another person replied that it was impossible to plan in advance and that the emperor should put all vain amusements aside and remain attentive to everything in order to know what to do at what time.
Someone else insisted that, by himself, the emperor could never hope to have all the foresight and competence necessary to decide when to do each and every task and what he really needed was to set up a Council of the Wise and then to act according to their advice.
Someone else said that certain matters required immediate decision and could not wait for consultation, but if he wanted to know in advance what was going to happen he should consult magicians and soothsayers.
The responses to the second question also lacked accord.
One person said that the emperor needed to place all his trust in administrators, another urged reliance on priests and monks, while others recommended physicians. Still others put their faith in warriors.
The third question drew a similar variety of answers. Some said science was the most important pursuit. Others insisted on religion. Yet others claimed the most important thing was military skill.
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The emperor was not pleased with any of the answers, and no reward was given.
After several nights of reflection, the emperor resolved to visit a hermit who lived up on the mountain and was said to be an enlightened man. The emperor wished to find the hermit to ask him the three questions, though he knew the hermit never left the mountains and was known to receive only the poor, refusing to have anything to do with persons of wealth or power. So the emperor disguised himself as a simple peasant and ordered his attendants to wait for him at the foot of the mountain while he climbed the slope alone to seek the hermit.
Reaching the holy man's dwelling place, the emperor found the hermit digging a garden in front of his hut. When the hermit saw the stranger, he nodded his head in greeting and continued to dig. The labor was obviously hard on him. He was an old man, and each time he thrust his spade into the ground to turn the earth, he heaved heavily.
The emperor approached him and said, "I have come here to ask your help with three questions: When is the best time to do each thing? Who are the most important people to work with? What is the most important thing to do at all times?"
The hermit listened attentively but only patted the emperor on the shoulder and continued digging. The emperor said, "You must be tired. Here, let me give you a hand with that." The hermit thanked him, handed the emperor the spade, and then sat down on the ground to rest.
After he had dug two rows, the emperor stopped and turned to the hermit and repeated his three questions. The hermit still did not answer, but instead stood up and pointed to the spade and said, "Why don't you rest now? I can take over again." But the emperor continued to dig. One hour passed, then two. Finally the sun began to set behind the mountain. The emperor put down the spade and said to the hermit, "I came here to ask if you could answer my three questions. But if you can't give me any answer, please let me know so that I can get on may way home."
The hermit lifted his head and asked the emperor, "Do you hear someone running over there?" The emperor turned his head. They both saw a man with a long white beard emerge from the woods. He ran wildly, pressing his hands against a bloody wound in his stomach. The man ran toward the emperor before falling unconscious to the ground, where he lay groaning. Opening the man's clothing, the emperor and hermit saw that the man had received a deep gash. The emperor cleaned the wound thoroughly and then used his own shirt to bandage it, but the blood completely soaked it within minutes. He rinsed the shirt out and bandaged the wound a second time and continued to do so until the flow of blood had stopped.
At last the wounded man regained consciousness and asked for a drink of water. The emperor ran down to the stream and brought back a jug of fresh water. Meanwhile, the sun had disappeared and the night air had begun to turn cold. The hermit gave the emperor a hand in carrying the man into the hut where they laid him down on the hermit's bed. The man closed his eyes and lay quietly. The emperor was worn out from the long day of climbing the mountain and digging the garden. Leaning against the doorway, he fell asleep. When he rose, the sun had already risen over the mountain. For a moment he forgot where he was and what he had come here for. He looked over to the bed and saw the wounded man also looking around him in confusion. When he saw the emperor, he stared at him intently and then said in a faint whisper, "Please forgive me."
"But what have you done that I should forgive you?" the emperor asked.
"You do not know me, your majesty, but I know you. I was your sworn enemy, and I had vowed to take vengeance on you, for during the last war you killed my brother and seized my property. When I learned that you were coming alone to the mountain to meet the hermit, I resolved to surprise you on your way back to kill you. But after waiting a long time there was still no sign of you, and so I left my ambush in order to seek you out. But instead of finding you, I came across your attendants, who recognized me, giving me this wound. Luckily, I escaped and ran here. If I hadn't met you I would surely be dead by now. I had intended to kill you, but instead you saved my life! I am ashamed and grateful beyond words. If I live, I vow to be your servant for the rest of my life, and I will bid my children and grandchildren to do the same. Please grant me your forgiveness."
The emperor was overjoyed to see that he was so easily reconciled with a former enemy. He not only forgave the man but promised to return all the man's property and to send his own physician and servants to wait on the man until he was completely healed. After ordering his attendants to take the man home, the emperor returned to see the hermit. Before returning to the palace the emperor wanted to repeat his three questions one last time. He found the hermit sowing seeds in the earth they had dug the day before.
The hermit stood up and looked at the emperor. "But your questions have already been answered."
"How's that?" the emperor asked, puzzled.
"Yesterday, if you had not taken pity on my age and given me
a hand with digging these beds, you would have been attacked
by that man on your way home. Then you would have deeply regretted
not staying with me. Therefore the most important time was the
time you were digging in the beds, the most important person
was myself, and the most important pursuit was to help me. Later, when
the wounded man ran up here, the most important time was the
time you spent dressing his wound, for if you had not cared
for him he would have died and you would have lost the chance
to be reconciled with him. Likewise, he was the most important
person, and the most important pursuit was taking care of his
wound. Remember that there is only one important time and is
Now. The present moment is the only time over which we have
dominion. The most important person is always the person with
whom you are, who is right before you, for who knows if you
will have dealings with any other person in the future. The
most important pursuit is making that person, the one standing
at you side, happy, for that alone is the pursuit of life."
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When it takes one hour to defeat your soon-to-be-six year old in chess, it means (a) you suck at chess or (b) the kid is good.
Maternal vanity makes me choose (b).
...is here. And how ! It seems only yesterday I was complaining about the delay.
It is never really monsoon in this part of the world unless there has been a cyclone or two, with wind uprooting trees, schools shutting down, our campus lake breaching ..so on and so forth, but the general feeling is already there, thanks to the periodic whoosh of dense precipitation as the weatherman says, and the damp and smelly clothes that won't dry. Right now I don't have a sizable problem, as sitting in the varandah with a book, rosogolla and a comfortable chair, watching the kid dancing in the rain outside (and occasionally joining in) is soulful enough, but once all the clothes in the cupboard turn equally mouldy, and critters and worms start taking shelter in the confines of our nest, the expletives may start pouring with the rain.
That said, I never fail to feel the slight tinge of guilt in looking forward to monsoon from the safe confines of my solid roof when there are thousands on the street, homeless, huddled under jute sacks. As with all righteous guilts, I conveniently push it into the dark recesses of sub-consciousness, and gear up to enjoy the rest of the monsoon.
..until I have dry clothes to wear, that is.
"If you don't finish up your Dosai, no karate class for you".
"If you don't clean up the room, no more books for you".
"If you don't finish up your lunch in school, no more lunch for you"
"If you don't braid your hair, it will fall off".
"If you don't drink up your milk, you are going to end up with osteoporosis like kollu paati".
All of the above within a span of 20 minutes. I am well on my way to becoming a professional blackmailer. Anyone need my services? Charges nominal.
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Soon-to-be-six: "If you tell a lie, God will dance in your brain and you will get irritated"
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Neighbour: What do you want to be when you grow up?
Soon-to-be-six: A big girl.
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Soon-to-be-six: "I don't like boys. They are rash".
Mom ruminating: "I'd like to hear that in ten years. ummm..on second thoughts, I don't think so."
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Soon-to-be-six: They show Tom&Jerry and Mr. Bean on TV during AV period in school. I don't like it. I want to read my book.
Mom ruminating"YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS".
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Been a hectic few days, and unusually, not on the professional front as much as the home front. Been pretty lax with Vox, but I guess the tide comes and goes all the time here. My next work deadline is a fortnight hence and I am anticipating a nightmarish period during then, for all my colleagues are away on personal crisis situations, and the burden of the deadline is pretty much on the onion.
I need a break. And what's more..I am getting it. Taking an impromptu, mid-semester, mid-term, mid-deadline vacation this following weekend, thanks to the spontaniety of a certain dude. To Srirangam. All three of us deserve it, we have been working hard and if we need to continue this pace of industry further, we need a change.
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What's up with the weather, I say. Where is the trusted N.E. Monsoon that lashes our side of the world about now? The sun god has shown no mercy on us this year, and every day is just as infernal as the previous, with no respite in sight. If there are no rains in November as well, we are in for a tough summer next year, with water scarcity that can wreck havoc on our city. It has happened before, and the memory of that period makes me dread what is to come. Oh heaven, open up already.
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Met two of my grand aunts this week. Both in their nineties. Both dynamic women in the past, rag dolls now. One of them, the widow of the erstwhile GM of Southern Railways, who lived in a mansion in an arterial road, now lives in a tiny one bed room apartment with daughter's family, confined to a boxy room with no ventilation. Repeats statements, very confused about people, senile, in short, but manganimous as ever. Gifted me Rs. 100, despite her dependence on her meagre pension. But beyond the gift, what I would treasure is the affection with which she held in her bony, wrinkled ghost of a hand, mine.
The other grand aunt, an enterprising businesswoman in her heyday; in an era where the woman's place in the house was the kitchen, is a broken old woman now, with paid servents to keep her company and home. The tasteful, expensive teak wood furniture she adorned her home with , now gathering dust in every corner. She can't hear too well, but her memory is sharp. Her eyes clouded when I took leave of her, and she beseeched me to visit her more often.
Maybe I won't see them again, maybe I will. They probably won't remember my visit. But I made them happy for the time I was there.
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End of ramble.
