In an instant, everything changes. The air reverberates with
a deafeningly deep BOOM ! BOOM! BOOM! The little poodle whimpers in terror and
shoots back into the bar, his tail tucked tightly between his legs. Gunshots?
Bombs?
Before we can wonder further, there is an earsplitting yell, and then,
the most amazing man I have ever seen. Dressed in a wild medley of colors that
somehow look just right on him, with jet-black hair woven through with even more
wildly colored ribbons, he comes dancing up the road, grinning from ear to ear,
singing lustily, beating a snappy rhythm on a large drum slung over his
shoulder, talking all the while in a strange tongue uttered with such
expressiveness and passion that it all seems to make sense. Electric energy
crackles in the air. The day snaps awake. Gone is the lazy languidness, the
sleepy sluggishness. In his wake, two men, whom we instantly dub his Slaves, come
panting up the streets dragging his bags and a ragtag assortment of things – more
drums, masks, glittering wigs, costumes, sticks, miscellany.
He has warm, black eyes, thickly lashed, and a deeply
dimpled smile. And enough charm and brio to set the world afire.
This, we soon learn, is Olinda Brasil. A free spirit, who
gives new and richer meanings to the words free and spirit, a peg who fits
into no hole designed thus far by society, a member of the faculty who in many
ways needs to grow up far more than any of his students, a mystery wind who
sweeps through people and places, leaving behind a happier, livelier world in his
wake.
As the days go by, I realize and appreciate what a unique,
special human being he is, what a delightfully balanced blend of contradictions
and paradoxes. He calls himself Olinda,
but that is not his real name. He is not highly educated, but he is
intelligent, and grasps situations, and their nuances, with ease and perceptiveness. He can be loud and raucous, a non-stop energy machine, and then
he slips seamlessly into a lower gear, and his smile turns gentle, and his eyes
become thoughtful as they take in the scene before him. He can come across as
vainglorious, a strutting peacock, but he is generous and kind, shown in
gestures big and small, hidden and revealed. He is alone, far away from his
family and country, but he has made the whole world his family, and everywhere
he goes, he is greeted warmly. The art gallery owners shower him with little
gifts: a pendant, a bracelet, a little clay goat. He opens his heart out to the
world and welcomes it in, and in Groznjan there is nobody who does not know
him, but he is mysterious, too, so much about him an enigma, a conundrum, and
not just because of a language barrier. His is a hard life, with no stability, no
safety net, no cushion of money to protect him should he run into trouble, but
none of this has made him bitter or distrustful. I believe that should he ever
fall on hard times, there will be people around the world who will throw their
doors open to him, to repay him for the time he brought warmth, joy and
laughter into their lives. This is Olinda Brasil. It is my privilege that our
paths crossed. I hope he feels similarly.
The day is all Olinda.
We need a couple of days to get used to him, and when we do, what seemed
outrageous and loud is now just part of normal fun and games. I wonder how much
of how he acts is merely that, an act, a caricature of the real man that lies
behind Olinda Brasil, the man whose real name we will never learn.
One of the Slaves turns out to be Olinda’s cousin, Manuel. He is Olinda’s quiet shadow, and
is happiest when he is playing his drums, which he does well. At first, he does
not eat with our group, and Olinda always eats with
us for the first five or ten minutes, and then disappears with most of his food
uneaten, to be shared with Manuel. As the days go by, Manuel is incorporated into
the group at mealtimes as well. At times, Bruno, the head waiter at Bastia, slips Olinda an
extra yogurt, or an apple, and Olinda (I notice) always shares these, quietly, without fuss, with Manuel. It is said
that how you behave when you think nobody is looking is what reveals your true
character. I am touched by what he does not know I see.
In the evening, we have our first Carnatic music lesson. We
are full after a delicious dinner at Bastia,
where every meal is better than the last one. I think Bruno and the others
there like our group a lot, and are always warmly appreciative of our singing
(right at the dinner table) and high spirits. A bottle of the local olive oil
is produced, and it is a rich, grassy green, incredibly fresh tasting with a
peppery bite that nips at our throats. The entire bottle is drained, to the
last drop, by our group. We need to digest our dinner first, so we set out for
a short walk, through what Jane calls the “Lost Forest ”.
All sorts of magical, enchanted images come to mind, but one of the girls, who
has been here before, dismisses it as “some guy’s backyard”. Two very different ways of looking at the
same thing!
The Lost Forest is “some
guy’s backyard”. But oh, what a backyard! Down below us stretches the most
beautiful valley I have seen, and beyond, the hills rolling on as far as the
eye can see. Brooding bluely in the distant horizon, the Adriatic
Sea, barely visible today. Little cottages dot the hillsides, and
birdsong fills the air. On another hilltop towards the north, is a little town,
much like Groznjan, called Motovun.
The Mirna River valley below Groznjan
In the warm evening, the air filled with the glow of the setting
sun, we go exploring down the hillside. I see my first artichoke plants! In a
garden on the side, there are masses of lavender, waving in the wind, scenting
the air with their sweet smell. There is basil, thyme, rosemary, and hiding
shyly below, a small patch of strawberries (which we shamelessly steal).
Artichoke
We walk down the hill, stepping cautiously on the uneven
ground. There are cherry trees laden
with ripe fruit (from which we steal (?) too), fig trees (alas, the figs are
too unripe to eat), tall trees with green almonds and walnuts, rows of apple
and pear trees. Growing untamed all over is wild garlic, with a lovely purple
head of flowers. We pick a few, to cook with, later. I go quite mad with my
camera, clicking everything in sight.
Wild Garlic Flower
The air is fresh, clean and warm. We walk past a grove of
olive trees, and then join the main road that leads back to Groznjan. We take a
peek at the Mushroom Cave , which was actually
an old, disused railway tunnel, where someone is now cultivating mushrooms. The
damp, dark tunnel must be the perfect environment for them.
We hike back up the road into Groznjan, and are ready for
our lesson!
The Carnatic music lesson is held in the Dance Studio, a
spacious room on the top floor of the music and dance studio building, its
windows thrown open to the piazza outside Bastia.
We sit on a circle on the floor. Everyone is all eager anticipation; for many,
this will be their first exposure to this music, and I am inspired by their ardent
enthusiasm. I start by explaining a little bit about the music, its history and
antiquity, tell them about the Trinity of Thyagaraja, Dikshithar and Syama
Sastri. I sketch out for them the system of raga classification, the melakarta system, and it is gratifying
to see them lap it up, to see their eyes widen as they realize just how immensely
complex this music is, the thousands of permutations and combinations that make
it so staggeringly intricate and sophisticated. They are dazzled by the
mathematical combinations that go into the talam
cycles, by the prodigious possibilities for innovation, the rock-solid
framework upon which musical castles and palaces can be built, intricately
ornamented, soaring sky high.
I turn on the electronic tamboora
box, and instinctively, we all close our eyes and relax to the soothing
drone, two simple notes in perfect harmony that work such magic in the air. On
the tree outside the window, the birds are settling in noisily for the night.
Their raucous cacophony, and the mellow resonance of the tamboora, are the only sounds of the evening, and curiously, they
blend together, a heavenly twilight symphony.
We start with a few
simple Sarali Varisaigals, beginner
exercises, and it is a delight to see how much they enjoy it and how “cool”
they think it is! They are thrilled when they see how these lessons, so easy in
the beginning, methodically and swiftly gain in complexity, with the more
advanced ones positively byzantine in their structures.
The lesson goes on late into the night. Nobody wants to stop. This is a challenge for them, this new system
of notes, new syllables, new sounds, new rhythmic patterns, and they beg for
one more exercise, and then just another one more.
The birds have fallen silent when we finally wind down, and
the moon and the stars are out. The
warm, gentle breeze carries the sounds of our voices, and the sleepy night
streets of Groznjan ring with the sounds of Sarali
Varisaigals.
To be continued.
