The Unbearable Ecstasy Of Being

I must have been 6. Maybe 7.

Certainly too early to fall in love.

But, as Shah Rukh Khan says, I saw God in that love. Yes. Rab.

I may have been too young to know it was love. Looking back, now I think it mighthave been the real thing. A ‘thing’ so real that it put me in perpetual state of dizziness. So potent that I have since gone through life in a state of an absent minded daze, drifting along all the events that were critical, supposedly, significant and important to any South Indian Tambram middle-class boys life (- you know, Calculus, Cricket, Athimbers, Poonal, Physics, Brilliant Tutorials, IIT,…)

School exams, report cards, ranks, cricket matches, never really mattered, even though I went through it all, even worrying over them from a reluctant periphery of the mind, from a distant, detached, uninvolved observing state of consciousness.

I may have worried. But I don’t think I ever really cared.

An existence that maybe had my body all into it, but not quite my soul.

Nothing else that happened in my life mattered. I think. For I never really felt sad, or ecstatic, never felt disappointment, or exuberance, never felt shattered or broken when things - good or bad –   happened – the things that would normally mean something significant to any average South Indian Tambram middle class boy. I went through none of those ‘teenage’ phases and rebellion and awkwardness. I never ever understood why teenage was supposed to be a challenge for the teenager, parents, school and society. Whats really all the fuss about anyway?

Maybe it helps being an observer and a reluctant participant of your own life.

Yet, I am not claiming it was love. For I knew not what Love was.

And honestly, I didn’t care.

What I know is how I felt. How I’ve been feeling. And how I feel now in moments like now – when I hear Baghishree.

Back off now before I pound your face for thinking Baghishree is a girl.

She maybe. But I am referring to the Raag.

And then another powerful moment came when I was perhaps 12. When I heard a Jugalbandhi between L.Subramanium and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan. In Sindhu Bhairavi. 10 minutes of string sounds that created an emotion so vivid I have relived each second over and over several times.

And over all those years, steady yet passively administered doses of Madurai Mani, Semmangudi, Lalgudi, GNB, TVS, MLV, DKP, DKJ, Ramani, MSG,  etc, and then the predictable phase of Pink Floyd, even The Eagles and The Beatles,  have only etched that state of mind deeper into my mind(or call it consciousness)

This weekend brought some of that rush back. I dusted off my speakers and set up a sort of an acoustically agreeable mini theatre and played a few solo concerts of the one and only Zakhir Hussain and it all came back rushing like one huge out-of-control avalanche.

And the more I write, the more futile it all seems trying to describe, narrate and report what happened. I’ve made a few futile attempts earlier – here , then here and then a few more. But don’t even bother clicking those links until you have read through this whole thing and have visited the links below.

For now, let me just leave you with some Youtube links – something you should simply find time for. If you really want to relate to this whole post, here is what you should do. Get a pair of headphones. Sit alone, close your eyes, and totally submit to these sounds. Embrace them and let them lift you.

Let them take you to the state of an unbearable ecstasy of existence.

Then read this again if you really care to.

Gateway of India Concert (9′55)

Srinivas and Zakhir Hussain (1′46)

Zakhir Hussain TeenTal (4′24)

Ravi Shankar, Alla Rakha – Tabla Solo in Jhaptal (8′24)

Treasure trove of ZH

 

The Zakir Husain Story

Saree GaMa…

For once, I reached the venue early. I was at Chembur at 5.30 pm. And the 2 tickets found themselves in my clenched fist by 5.35 pm.

At 6.00 pm we were allowed inside the auditorium.

If you had read about the 5 Hour Torture prior to the TVS concert; you will know. If you have not, let me emphasize – I was indeed eager and I did expect and looked forward to a great experience at the concert.

But what I had not anticipated even faintly was an intense head-on, frontal, cultural assault.

For, at 6.05pm I had unwittingly entered a stronghold of Tambrams from Chembur, Matunga, Wadala, Thane, Dombivilli, Kalyan and other places . The average age was easily about 55. The average saree was silk. The average flower was jasmine. And the average male footwear was named after an island located on an archipelago in the central Pacific Ocean southwest of the continental United States, southeast of Japan, and northeast of Australia. As mentioned here.

Much as I had come with a single minded pursuit of a great TVSy experience, the ’stronghold’ nevertheless took over my fancy at some level. It simply was too loud, too overpowering, too in-your-face to overlook or even ignore. The hall had a capacity of 1300 and that was the size of the stronghold and that became the base of my armchair-research.

It seemed most of them knew most of the rest of them. Some of them had recently met some of the other at the Tambram wedding last week at Matunga. And everyone had a son in Los Angeles.

“Soukkyama?” Finea?

“Oh! Soukkyam! Paiyan California lendu vanduttana?” Oh fineum! Son came from Californiava?

“Adutha masam varan. Nangadan poittu vandom” Next month coming he is. We only went and came.

Silence.

Concerts outside Chennai are a little different from those in Chennai.  The underlying currents are different. The motives are different and the social compulsions are different. As the concert progressed, three distinct categories emerged from the audience -

I Levvvv Carnaticya (ILC)

These are die-hard connoisseurs of Carnatic music. While they love it from any artiste, they have their own sense of ‘evolved carnatic’ and artists who match their expectations.

Example: I spotted at least one Madurai Mani Iyer fan. You know a MM fan when you see one. When TVS was introduced as disciple of MM, few hands went up overhead in the air to clap! These are the first level fans of MM. The second level was eruption of delight when they hear the abrupt beginning of “ga mama rigapa riga sa…”  What was the really conclusive evidence of the third level fan to me was displaying delirious frenzy at certain parts  of  “Sarasa Sama Dhana…” (eg: at the vaaa of Parama Saambavaaa…) and “Eppo Varuvaro…” (eg: va aa aaa aaaaa roo of varuvaaa aaa ro”).

The Familiar-Face-Searcher(FFS)/SocialNetworker

Retired Maamas and Maamis who take season tickets and go for any concert at Shanmukananda, Fine Arts etc. If that uncle in the third row is leaning back over to the maami two rows behind and exchanging details of the visit of ‘Ramesh’ last week, he is your alpha FFS. At any given point in time, he is aware of the concert only at the outer periphery of his mind, never paying his total attention; keeps darting to the exit/entrance, gets alert when someone enters, or walks out. Typically the Maamis are prone to be more alpha FFS. Suddenly midway during the concert, you might notice a sort of an exodus towards the exit. If you are sure it is not because of the overactive air conditioning, then thats the FFS folk. The FFS just knows when the HOT SAMOSAAs are served in the canteen.

The ‘Feelgood’ Quester (FQ)

A variant of the FFS. These are your friendly, relatively new migrants to the city who aren’t quite networked well into the community here, but feel good just being under the same roof as so many others from the same community. A feeling of belonging and all that. This type is more connected with the actual concert and smiles warmly at anyone that makes eye contact. The FQs graduate into FFS after a few years – the cross-over process starts gathering momentum when their children cross adolescence and reach marriageable age.

The Snob(TS)

This is not a very common variety, but The Snob is a combination of a Reverse FFS and wannabe ILC.  TS throws heavy attitude and is very nose-in-the-air, doesn’t really go out of the way to connect with the rest of ‘them’. He is a sort of a ripened cynical FFS. He never says hello – unless hello’d at. Listens or pretends to pay complete attention to the concert. If the TS is a Maami, then she almost always whispers the raaga to the husband or whoever is sitting in the next chair. It may be totally off mark – the probability of getting the raaga right may be about 1 in 15. But she exudes authority and confidence, so the poor Maami next chair – perhaps an FFS would think ‘oh, is that Hamsanandi? I could have sworn it was Todi!‘ or just let it pass.

As for the concert, some tidbits if you are a fan too  -

T.V.Sankaranarayanan was at his best and his son – Shankara Mahadevan did sing well too. I think he had a nice voice – a little more treble in it that helped make his Alaapanas sound sharper. He sang the raag Hindolam rather well. TVS rendition of Sarasa Sama Dhana - raag Kaapi Narayaniwas excellent and very MMesque. Just that, Eppo Varuvaaro and of course, the Notes more than made my day!

The 5 Hour Torture

Every moment is painful. Every breath is bated. The mind is numb. Eyes darting to the clock repeatedly to check if some sudden unknown phenomenon of nature has pushed the time ahead faster.

Ah. No such luck.

Waiting till 6.30 pm today, I can see, is going to be very tough.

For, starting 6.30 pm is going to be an experience that will last for 2 hours  or so.

An experience that I have waited for more than 7 years. Consciously that is. I might have waited longer.

For at least over 2 years, I have been calling Shanmukananda Hall and Fine Arts on and off and scrutinising Bombay Times everyday with such expectation for this experience.

TVS. Yes, T.V.Sankaranarayanan is going to orchestrate that experience at Fine Arts today in Chembur. And I am going to soak myself in it.

The first concert I went to was when I was 5 years old at Upasi, near Coonoor where we lived then.  My father had organized that concert.

The last concert of his that I attended was at Thane in 2001.

When I went to meet him backstage after the concert I was still recovering from his electrifying “Notes” that he sang minutes before.

We spoke for a few minutes. “Appa kitta edavadu sollanuma?” he had asked.

With the “Notes” still buzzing in my head, I could only disconnectedly say “Bombaykku aduthadu eppo varapporel? Adikkadi Vaango”.

“Vandudaren!” he had said. And over the last few years I’m sure my ill-equipped radar has missed a few concerts.

It is rare you come across an incredible artist who is such an equally incredible person. TVS is such a man. You never know if his art is worthier than the man, or if the man is worthier than his art. They exemplify each other.

Another 4 hours and 40 minutes to go.

Sigh.  

The Incident of A Born Again Tambram

Note: Read Stretched-goat-hide…., before this post

Thursday came and went rather peacefully.

The sky didn’t fall on anybody’s head. The clouds didn’t rumble. The earth didn’t crack open.

At the end of land in NCPA, a concert went on successfully as planned. Ustad Zakir Hussain and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan played with gusto, to an auditorium filled with over 1200 people, each of whom God had touched on the forehead. The the rest of the population  in Mumbai watched Little Champs on Zee and the peasants watched Kabhi Sauce bhi Bahut ti on the Kidiot box.

At about the same time when the two Ustads were enchanting 1200 nodding heads, back in the ‘burbs, a man was tossing and turning in bed, stuffing a pillow forcefully up his face in order to muffle the sound of his frustrated yells.

Jobi didn’t make it to the concert. For, I failed him.

The good part is that I am still alive. When he learned about my impotence when it came to organizing tickets, he made me a promise that he would kill me. Today, I was informed, was my last day on earth and if there was an afterlife, he would meet me after he dies and strangulate me there too. If there was rebirth, he would still chase me!

So when the bad news sunk in, he stood up from his chair in his cubicle, stretched his muscles, cracked his knuckles and left Lower Peril, walked across from Phoenix Mills all the way to Dadar station with both his arms outstretched preparing for a sordid murder by strangulation.

Eye witness and random reports of friends and acquaintances indicate that he was sitting in the cab fuming, with his arms outstretched and practicing the old strangulation. Later that evening, the cabbie had to scrub the upholstery really hard to take away the overpowering smell of uric acid from the driver’s seat, but that’s beside the point.

He reached my office, and shouted from the ground floor to me four floors up.

“Ai…..aamblaya irunda keela vaada!” which translates roughly into “Ai…If you are a being a Man, down comeda”

The glass behind my chair rattled from his booming voice and I ran down the stairs, three-at-a-time, gulping saliva anxiously at each leap.

Jobi was standing like a yoga trainer with his hand outstretched….and came rushing at me when I stepped off the building.

“Jobi! Jobi!!! Relax …don’t do anything stupid now! Machaan, calm downda”

His nostrils were flaring. His BP must have been irresponsibly high.

Before he could go for my neck, I thrust a ticket in his palm.

Now, it is not everyday that you see a miracle. In fact our city lives have become so routine and mundane and plastic that a miracle occurring in our boring lives is a miracle. The last miracle I remember happened in Lallu Bhai Park five years ago when I spotted a yellow butterfly. If you live in Mumbai, pause now and reflect for a brief moment. When was the last time you saw a butterfly?

That’s my point.

And given such acutely reluctant propensity of a city to throw up miracles on your face, watching Jobi I knew I was witness to a rare event. His face transformed from a menacingly aggressive, nostrils flaring, maniacal, testosterone overdosed man to looking like Sachin Tendulkar when he gave his thank-you speech after his first ‘man-of-the-match’ award, when he was what…16?

Meanwhile Jobi was so overcome with excitement, the simple act of pulling the ticket out of the envelop was becoming a big task.

“Zakir Hussain is performing today” I said, punctuating my words for effect.

“Today!?” said he, looking up at me slowly, his hands shaking.

“Yes, today. And Sivamani.”

Fumble fumble “Sivamani?!” he said gasping, his mouth open.

“Yes. And U. Srinivas”

“No. I am Jobi” He said in excitement, then looked up with a jerk, his eyes twinkling, “Oh!! U Srinivas!!!?” He was hyperventilating. His jaw dropped and if I had a torchlight, I could have seen his Gall Bladder.

“Yes. U Srinivas. And Selvaganesh”

His jaw was dropped further. He was about to foam from his mouth.

“Vikku Vinayakram”, I went on.

His hands were trembling now. His jaw dropped further. He looked up at me speechless.

A piece of stone on the ground poked his chin, breaking his revery. He pulled his chin back all the way up. The ticket finally broke free from the envelop.

“…and Shankar Mahadevan” he was barely audible.

And then I felt a botch of wetness on my right cheek. Jobi was overjoyed. He skipped all the way back to his car and sped off.

I pinched myself. I guess I could live my mundane, boring life a little longer.