Tales of South India

A Myth-Soaked Mangrove

On a balmy February morning some years ago, a group of us seeking peace, history, context, stories, inspiration, set out to the Pichavaram mangrove forest, a short 15 kilometres coastwards from Chidambaram. This is a magical place. Nestled between the Vellar River to the north and the Coleroon River to the south, separated from the Bay of Bengal by a solid band of sand, this coastal ecosystem is like no other place on earth. There are thousands of islands - it is impossible to keep count as the numbers shift with the tides - that dot the many channels, canals, and creeks that flow around and over them. The only way into the forest is by boat, or, on the shallower waterways, by foot. The place is a veritable maze, and only the local boatmen know their way around some of the parts of the forest and are intimately acquainted with the ebb and flow of the tides. They will take you around and are happy to point out the wealth of bird, marine, and floral life all around.

The Moon Lord's Town

Any dynasty that succeeds in rising to power does so with a combination of luck, timing, having friends in the right places, profiting off the fading fortunes of rivals, and clever maneuvering on the chessboard of politics and warfare. So it was with the Hoysalas who were masters of much of the southern Deccan, ruling over a large swathe of present-day Karnataka from the 11th to the 14th century. Three rivers enriched their lands and blessed them with abundant agricultural fertility: Yagachi, Hemavathi, and Kaveri.

The Yatra Chronicles: The Angry Auto Driver

The plan was to go to a few goddess temples in the morning and attend Herambanathan Sir’s class in the evening. Sinister Dude was our guide for the morning. He tried to push his agenda on us but Saskia was firm and insisted on sticking to her plan. We set out in 3 autos. Our driver had bloodshot eyes that seemed to blaze with anger.  He was clad in a half-unbuttoned, not very clean shirt. Appointing himself gang-leader of the auto drivers, he set off at breakneck speed to an Ugra Kali temple. There were open fields around. The temple was empty, with no devotees, save for us. The Kali was fierce with fangs. An interesting happening: after the priest - who was a non-Brahmin as evidenced by the lack of a sacred thread (Pandaram??) - said his thing, he muttered something to a woman standing near us. She turned on a switch and a nadaswaram - tavil racket broke out. This was modern temple technology, apparently. The switch activated a contraption of a drum with a stick, bells, and other noise-making stuff. A Raja Melam that was an auto melam!

Rajaraja Has Landed!

 

I have some very exciting news - my book, Rajaraja Chola, King of Kings, has been published by Aleph Book Company and is out in the big wide world, in bookstores, libraries and online, for anyone who might be interested. It has been a labour of love for the past several years. The book is no longer "mine", in the safe cocoon of my computer and accessible only to me, but has been released into the vast unknown, where I have no control over how it will be received, what people will make of it. This is nerve-wracking, to say the least, but in an oddly satisfying way. After all, that has been its destiny all along.

A Bright Star of the Deccan

One of the loveliest temples I have ever seen is the Ramappa-Rudeshwara temple in Palampet, 70 kms from Warangal, the capital of the Kakatiya dynasty. This dynasty, formerly vassals of the mighty Chalukyas, ruled over much of central India, right up to the eastern seaboard, during the 12th-14th centuries. Palampet and its environs were the domain of the Recherla Reddys, loyal feudatories of the Kakatiyas.

The Temple of the Fish-Eyed Goddess

It is one of the oldest cities in southern India - probably the oldest. It encapsulates so much - the very essence of Tamilness, home of the Sangams that birthed some of the world’s most extraordinary poetry, the holy site of so many wonderful and crazy tales and myths, the command centre of  fierce and fearless kings, a place whose history stretches back to antiquity when Megasthenes and Kautilya made their impact on this earth and further back still, slipping seamlessly through to a time of kings and heroes who may or may not have actually lived, and then even further back past the invisible barrier between the divine and mortal worlds to a time when god and man rubbed shoulders and sowed the seeds that gave birth to this timeless city.

The Yatra Chronicles: An Unbroken Thread

We had an earlier start than usual today, 9 o’clock instead of 10. Our destination was the Konganeshwarar temple, somewhere near which was the home of a Sri Herambanathan (love the name!) and his Bavu Pillai school of dance. They are very near the Brihadeeshwara temple, and these streets must have housed many of the musicians and dancers who served the court and temple. As usual, nothing happened linearly or as planned. We arrived at the place where we were told someone would be waiting for us and of course he wasn’t. Poor Saskia. Against the din of the traffic and of our 3 auto drivers shouting out helpful suggestions, she tried to conduct a phone call with her contact (who she said sounded like he was in a disco, such was the background noise he was shouting against) to find out what exactly we needed to do. Eventually, some chappie arrived and the priest of the temple showed up as well and there was no getting away without a darshanam. 

Of Gifted Voice

Earlier this year, I had a most delightful afternoon in the company of Keshav Desiraju, along with my brother and sister-in-law. We were distantly connected - a tenuous familial tie across several marital bridges, the kind that makes sense only in India. His book on the life and music of the great Carnatic musician MS Subbulakshmi, Of Gifted Voice, had just been published, and the time flew by as we discussed our favourite musicians and music and a good deal more. And less than two months back, I presented a review of his book to the Sunday book club of the Madras Club, a monthly get-together of a wonderful assortment of booklovers who talk about a book (or several) that they have read (one that is preferably in the Club’s library, an incentive for people to make more use of its fantastic collection). This meeting was to be a special one, as Keshav himself would be in attendance (all virtually, thanks to the pandemic). I was in equal parts excited and nervous, as you can well imagine.

In Which I Turn Art Critic

How simple my school and college years were! A voracious reader, I read a great number of books, many of them by dead white men (and a few women too) and (mostly) enjoyed them for what they were. I never thought - oh, these are not my stories, this is not my reality. I could, and did, relate to the characters and their experiences, and if I didn’t, I revelled in the new worlds they opened up to me, because that is what great literature does.  It never occurred to me to reflect upon the dark forces of colonialism, post-colonialism, imperialism, racism, sexism and all the other multiple isms that no doubt run rampant through those books and weave such a tangled and suffocating web over that most important question of all - who, and what, am I?

The Grand Lady of Music and the Young

On a gray, rainy afternoon in May 2017, I gave a talk in New York about what the legendary musician M.S. Subbulakshmi means to the young musicians of today. Here is the transcript of that talk. 

Good afternoon, and it’s such a pleasure being here today while the rain is pounding away outside. Sharing memories and talking about a legendary human being and musician, who I can safely say has left some sort of an impact on every one of us here : what better way can there be of spending an afternoon!

The Yatra Chronicles: An Almost Utsavam

The Karuna Swamy temple was located at the end of a small street in Karandai, just outside Thanjavur. Mr. Bhonsle had mentioned that it was a Chola era temple and so my interest was piqued. It is one of countless little temples that dot the villages and towns of the Kaveri delta, all of them rich in mythology and history, holding a special place in the lives and songs of the great Saivite saint-poets, the Nayanmars. Appar, one of the most renowned of the Nayanmars, sang of this temple in the 7th century, which meant that it has been around since at least then. Legend claims that one of the ancient Chola emperors from Sangam times, Karikala, was cured of his leprosy when he took a dip in the temple's tank. This gave the temple'a deity, Siva, his name, Karuna Swamy, the Compassionate Lord. Inside, the walls are rich with inscriptions from multiple later Chola kings of the 10th and 11th centuries, including Uttama Chola, the great Rajaraja's predecessor, Rajaraja himself, as well as his son Rajendra. Clearly, it was a temple of some note in those times.

A Millennium in the Life of Uthiramerur

Let me follow in the footsteps of that delightful gentleman the Mad Hatter who asked Alice, “why is a raven like a writing desk?”, and pose a question of my own: “what is the connection between the Cholas and cows?”. Being of a somewhat saner disposition than the Mad Hatter (although there are many who will dispute that), I will provide a perfectly rational answer and spare you the vexation of thinking up a response. It is very simple, actually: of late, both of them  - Cholas and cows - have been jostling about in the upper reaches of my cerebral cortex (if indeed such a region exists). Cholas, because they are my current obsession; and cows, as I have been reading about TM Krishna’s latest book Sebastian and Sons, which is an account of the lives of the people who make the south Indian percussion instrument, the mridangam, portions of which are fashioned out of cow skin. Recently, the two - Cholas and cows - came together in the course of a most delightful day.

The Yatra Chronicles: Marathas in the Thanjavur Court

The same awful nadaswaram cacophony was wailing away in the lobby this morning. And in the dining room, the same lip-smacking breakfast buffet. Today’s morning plan was to go to the Saraswathi Mahal complex and look around there. I had gone there on my last visit a few years back, but it’s always nice to visit again, to compare impressions, to consolidate memories, to see things afresh.

Changes have been made at Saraswathi Mahal. The last time we were there, the museum was in a room to the right as soon as you entered the verandah. There was a beautiful picture - of Saraswathi, if memory serves me right - in the front; that area has now been made into a spanking new, teeth-chatteringly cold air conditioned theatre where we watched a heavily photoshopped (where was the traffic? the crowds? the noisy chaos?) movie on Thanjavur, its history and environs. There was a lot of aerial photography (one way to not show all those pesky people and vehicles) and commentary made in portentous tones. Quite well done.

The Yatra Chronicles: A Treasure Hunt and More

Continued from here: Arrival

My first full day here! And so much to write about!

Woke up at 6.15, got ready and came down to the lobby to write. Sumati was still asleep, so I think this will be a good arrangement. I hope I can keep this up - writing the previous day’s events early in the morning. Gnanam’s morning music seems to be a nadaswaram cacophony that leads to Sabapathikku Veyra Deivam. I have to say though that my appreciation for this instrument has grown as I have grown (in years and size!).

Breakfast is buffet-style: sweet paniyarams (which I resisted successfully), papaya and pineapple, juices, idli, uppuma, pongal, uttappam, toast, cereals, tea and coffee. And a bowl of sprouted peanuts and sprouted moong dal. The sprouted peanuts were yum.

The Yatra Chronicles: Arrival

A couple of years ago I spent a blissful couple of weeks in and around Thanjavur and Chidambaram, in the South Indian state of Tamil Nadu. I was part of a small group organized and led by someone I had long admired from afar, Saskia Kersenboom. I had read her deeply researched, ground-breaking and brilliant book Nityasumangali, about the Devadasis who lived and worked in the Kaveri Delta region. Her Yatra residency brought us, a group of dancers and me, together, as we visited people, towns, villages, temples and so much more, that were in some way or the other part of the Devadasi world and its heritage. I was there to soak up the ambiance and learn everything I could, particularly as it related to the Cholas, a remarkable dynasty that ruled those parts a thousand years ago.

It was a marvelous experience. Best of all, I got to know Saskia and discovered what a delightful person she is with her sparkling laughter and indefatigable zest for life, in addition to witnessing in person her passion and enthusiasm, her unwavering dedication, to her work. And I made a brand new set of friends with my fellow Yatris who embraced me as one of them, even though I was old enough (and more!) to be a parent to them.

Every morning, before breakfast, I spent some time writing about the previous day, just so that I didn't forget. This is what I am sharing with you. As with many chronicles, it started off with full sentences and a lot of detail; as the days went by and the schedule got busier (and I got lazier!) the sentences fractured into bullet-points, the little details which are the first things to be forgotten vanished, but I did manage to put down something for nearly the entire trip.

Here is Day One, my arrival in Thanjavur.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

It is said that around the year 95 of the Common Era, the apostle John beheld a series of terrifying visions. He described them in the Book of Revelations, the last book of the New Testament. In vivid and grim detail, he depicted the nightmarish spectacle of the coming of the end of the world. A world riddled with conflict, struggle and persecution in which the forces of destruction were in pitched struggle against those of creation and renewal. It presented the bleakest vision of our world but one that was ultimately illuminated by hope and rebirth.

A Culinary Musical Feast!

One balmy evening last July a few of us NMCers were driving home after a rigorous rehearsal for our Drive East performance. We were deep in discussion about how we would present our concert. We prided ourselves on not settling for the usual announcements that accompanied Carnatic music items, but rather, on being fun, creative and different. Our audiences ranged from the complete neophyte to the dyed-in-the-wool aficionado and we needed to engage and capture their attention in a meaningful way. The conversation meandered to another favorite topic - food. Rehearsals made us hungry. Glitzy restaurants  glinted by in the night. Somebody described an amazing meal she had eaten - divinely delicious, but also described in such over-the-top terms that she still got the giggles thinking about it. And then something clicked and I thought - why not merge together NMC's top loves, food and music, and weave in, just for fun, the grandiloquent vocabulary that some of New York's restaurants used to describe their wares?

It was the matter of an evening to turn the idea into a script. What fun we had with it, as NMC's latent thespian talents found full expression! And here it is - our concert, presented as a fine-dining experience, with music as the bill of fare. I do hope you enjoy reading it. In order that you don't go hungry, I have included tasting-size portions of some of the items. Just click on the links to watch the videos.

A Royal Musical Feast

Allow me to take you to Trivandrum.  It is the capital of Kerala, the slender state that stands tall along India’s south-west coast. I love it for everything that my home, New York, is not. It is a world away from the grey skies and cold winds, the fast-paced life, the general over-sizedness of New York, where I live. Unlike so many Indian cities that seem to fizz and soar and sprout and sputter like an assortment of mutant firecrackers, Trivandrum has remained itself, largely unruffled by the winds of change gusting through its sister cities.

Songs of Love, Here and There, Then and Now

My mind is in a contemplative and wandering-about mode and today it has been dipping into the nooks and crannies of an assortment of thoughts and memories of love songs. This is not surprising, as I have been listening to and watching a lot of padams lately. Padams are songs of the infinite and universal emotions of love. They were a vital part of the repertoire of the Devadasis, the brilliant and deeply knowledgeable dancers and musicians of the temples and courts of South India. Their beauty is in the mood they create with their haunting melodies and beautiful poetry, rendered at a slow, unhurried pace. They are earthy and real, and sublime and ethereal. They touch a chord deep inside you because the stories they tell are your story too. They are not flashy, there is no exciting footwork, no rhythmic thrills. Only the best musicians and dancers can do them justice and portray their charm, and only a discerning audience can appreciate them. But when it all comes together, the quiet magic that suffuses the air stays with you for a long time. These moments are precious, and rare.

And the Twain Did Meet

Among the many things that make New York one of the world’s greatest cities is the abundance of cultures that it is home to. And often, in this crucible of creativity where diverse ideas, ideals, art forms and people rub shoulders and feed off each other, unexpected elements join forces in a synergetic fusion that results in something that can be beautiful, fresh, dynamic and thought-provoking.  

 

Unravelling Draupadi

Many of us have heard of Draupadi. I suppose you could call her one of the heroines of the great Indian epic, Mahabharatha, although her story hardly fits into the framework of the traditional heroine's narrative. There is no happily ever after. She has an unusual matrimonial situation - she is married to 5 brothers, the Pandavas, the good guys of the story. She is best known for the infamous episode in which Dushasana, the evil cousin of her husbands, attempts to disrobe her, publicly, in a brutal and despicable show of power, authority and victory. Krishna comes to her rescue and Draupadi, a figure of red-hot rage, swears that the next time she washes her hair, it will be with the blood of her enemies. And then? ......most people are uncertain about what becomes of her as the story moves on.

Memory, Hither Come, and Tune Your Merry Notes

In November 2016, the great musician Dr. M. Balamurali Krishna passed away. I have written about my encounters with him in my long-ago youth. There was a gap of many years during which I didn't meet him and listened to his live concerts only occasionally.  And then, in August 2012, a dear friend took me along to meet Balamurali, and we spent several hours with him. I was back in his home, where I had spent so many happy hours all those decades ago. The house looked much as it did when I used to visit in the 1970s and 80s. That encounter thrilled and saddened me in equal measure, drove home to me how much both he and I had changed. One day, maybe, I will write about it. 

A Rhinoceros Abroad

The Torre de Belem rises like a tall, generously ornamented wedding cake for a giant in a fairytale. It sits at the mouth of the Tagus River in Lisbon, Portugal’s capital city, right where it empties itself out into the open sea, the vast Atlantic Ocean.  It is at one of Portugal’s - and Europe’s - westernmost points, looking forward and ahead into the great unknown, the world beyond.

How NMC Got Its Groove

 

The members of the Navatman Music Collective (NMC) are practicing hard and looking forward to performing at NYC's Drive East Festival on August 24th. Read on to learn more about this group, its members and what makes its music so special.

We are New Yorkers. We are busy. We don’t like to waste time on something that doesn’t excite, engage, or enrich us in some significant way. And so, two and a half years ago in early 2014 when a few of us were told that Navatman was starting a “Carnatic Choir”, we weren’t overly excited. We’d heard Carnatic Choirs before and our opinions of them were, well, unflattering. But we showed up anyway, around eight of us, one cold winter’s night, at a studio in midtown Manhattan for our first session. We went for one simple, but powerful reason: we were interested in Carnatic music. No, that doesn’t even come close to expressing it adequately. We were passionately in love with this music, this glorious classical form from southern India that is timeless and touches and captivates anybody who engages with it.

Untimely Melodies

Tradition can be a strict taskmaster. It requires rules, boundaries, conformity. As the elder statesman in the room it demands acquiescence to its strictures and norms. In its home territory, it commands respect and a certain awe, an implicit understanding that it is not to be tampered with, that it has been honed to perfection over the ages.

An Emperor from Long Ago

There is often no rhyme or reason for why the mind wanders down the paths it does. One word, a single phrase of music, a fragrance drifting through the wind, a singular interplay of light and shadow, can trigger a chain of thoughts that often spiral far, far away from where they began. Nobody captured this more notably than Marcel Proust. A taste of his tea-soaked madeleine opened the floodgates to a torrent of memories that ran into thousands of pages and seven volumes in his In Search of Time Lost.

I don't recall what my particular madeleine was, that set off the musing that caused this particular outpouring. It might have been the divine mangoes combined with the hellish heat of Madras, where I was last week, that gently addled my brain; it could have been how my body and mind reacted to large fluctuations in temperature while being dragged across multiple time zones. I do know that I can assure you that it comes nowhere near, not even remotely close to, the length  - or quality - of Proust's magnum opus. 

The Ashtanayika Queen

Like many girls growing up in Madras, I learned Carnatic music and Bharata Natyam (as well as, unlike most, western classical piano). It was my great fortune and blessing that I had exceptional gurus who instinctively understood the fundamentals of pedagogy and brought them to life. Their love and dedication for their art, their passion to share their knowledge, their hard work for very little material reward, all inspired and influenced me and have played a tremendous role in who and what I am today. Alas, none of them are alive any more; just a few days back, the last of my childhood gurus, Kalanidhi Narayanan, referred to by one and all as Kalanidhi Maami, passed away. I have shared some memories, experiences and thoughts that I hope encapsulate the remarkable essence of Maami, and my relationship with her.

 

Just Another New York Sunday

I love New York City with a passion, but as happens in any love affair, there are times when I cannot stand the place and wonder why I continue to live in this maddening city with its myriad aggravations. Just the other day, I had occasion to visit friends in a nice clean suburban place that had nice broad roads on which everybody drove nicely, and nice orderly supermarkets with nice wide aisles and nice ample parking. How nice it would be to live here, I thought, stretching out in a nice big room that looked out over a nice empty street. By the end of the day I had had my fill of niceness and was ready to embrace my beloved, mad, messy, noisy, crazily chaotic New York all over again.

 

Auld Lang Syne

A sure sign of growing old is that you start developing an interest in the past. You wish you had paid better attention to all those stories, those reminiscences, that your parents repeated countless times over; you find yourself turning into your parents, pushing past the rolled eyes and glazed expressions as you tell your own children, yet again and only minimally embellished, about how hard you had it as a child and how your great-aunt’s father-in-law brought glory to the family by securing the 57th rank in the ICS examinations; there is a longing that begins to stir awake, to thaw to life from the cavernous deep freeze of the brain’s memory vault, to visit old childhood haunts. By these standards, I am assuredly on the path to doddering dotage.

 

Cry, The Beloved City

It is chilly here in New York, with bright sunshine, but all I see is rain, warm rain, relentless rain. The rain that has devastated my beloved Madras, taken lives, destroyed homes and livelihoods. I shudder to think of what lies ahead, the long and arduous road to recovery, the outbreak of diseases that will surely follow.

Service Without a Smile

I have just arrived in Madras and already the madness of the world I have left behind - gun violence, racial tension, lunatic Presidential contenders, turbulent stock markets - has faded away like mist dissolving in sunlight. I find myself engulfed in a very different kind of madness, a uniquely Madras brand of craziness and chaos that reminds me with a visceral jolt every time I encounter it, of just how much I love this place and why I miss it so much when I’m away.  And of how it drives me up the wall and forces me to reach deep into my Zen Zone and makes me discover and mine the rich vein of comedy that runs through the aggravating irritants of everyday life.

Kolly Goes Bolly

Some weeks back, thanks to a warm introduction from a friend, I was invited to write an article for Swarajya Magazine. I accepted eagerly; a little over eagerly, perhaps, because, after all, this was the present-day incarnation of the legendary weekly with a storied history. No less a person than the great C. Rajagopalachari (Rajaji), a man of soaring intellect and integrity, was deeply involved with and has written for this publication in India's heady post-Independence years. So it was only natural that I accepted the assignment with keen delight. Just give me the word, and I will write about anything you want me to, I said breezily, and the next day the word arrived.

What's In A Name?

For some years now, Indian cities and towns (and maybe even villages) have been engaged in a frenzy of name-changing - of roads, neighborhoods, and city names themselves. Bombay has become Mumbai, Calcutta is now Kolkata and my beloved Madras has morphed into Chennai. This post can run to several pages just listing the changes, but do not be alarmed, I will spare you that. The reasons are as varied as the politicians who are behind the changes: claiming pride in our heritage, demonstrating excessive enthusiasm to "Indianize" India to the greatest extent possible, erasing all traces of our colonial oppressors, obliterating references to caste, propitiating numerology, reviving the names and memories of Indian heroes of yore, however obscure, synchophantic flattering of those who wield power - my imagination has run dry at this point, but I am sure there are many more, some as unfathomable and mysterious as some of the names themselves.

The Kutcheri or Carnatic Music Concert

In the pantheon of Hindu gods, music and dance are revered and relished. The Goddess Saraswathi, resplendent in white, plays divine music on her veena; the music of Krishna's flute is loved by man and animal alike; the earth-shaking power of Nataraja's cosmic dance, accompanied by the enchanting rhythms of the dhamaru drums, carries within it the forces of creation and destruction.

And Now For Something A Bit Different

I love it when boundaries are blurred, worlds bleed into each other, stereotypes are shattered. This is life, as it should be - vibrant, dynamic, curious, seeking and journeying to new destinations, open, embracing. I suppose it is comforting to erect barriers, to pigeonhole identities, to surround ourselves with people whose ideas, ideals, interests and beliefs align with ours. But that is so boring, so limiting. And even if that is what we want, situations and events have a habit of finding and wandering down unusual pathways. Life likes to toss things around and mix them up and and then sits back and enjoys a quiet chuckle at the resulting spectacle.

A Short Holiday in Lebanon

Lebanon is a small country at the eastern end of the Mediterranean Sea, wedged between Syria to the north and east, and Israel, to the south. It is a land that has witnessed centuries of history, some of which exposes humankind’s darkest side, the cavernous depths of brutality and savagery that we are capable of descending to. It is also a place of stunning beauty with a fascinating mix of cultures, friendly and courteous people and delectable food. The Phoenicians have been here, and the Romans, Umayyads, Ottomans and others too, and some months back, my husband and I were there to celebrate 30 years of being married.

A Seen Sequence

 Our paths had crossed more than 35 years ago, in that “I know who she is but she has no idea who I am” sort of a way. Malavika Sarukkai, a Bharata Natyam dancer of extraordinary grace and intelligence who has walked hand-in-hand for over four decades with this ancient dance on mesmerizing and exhilarating journeys through tradition and innovation.  And I.

 

The Twelve Days of Convalescence

I was in Madras recently, to be with my parents as my father had just come home after a major surgery. It’s never easy to see a beloved parent reduced to a shadow of his former self and in pain; writing, with an eye on the funny side of things and the endearing quirkiness that life in Madras is so full of,  is one way of coping with the situation. So, without further ado, and with a doff of the hat to that old classic, the Twelve Days of Christmas, here is my strongly spiced, tongue in cheek version of some of my experiences during my time there.

 

Shopping for Liquid Gold

No, not that gold. Let me state outright that I loathe gold and jewelry. Apparently that makes me a deviant weirdo, but so be it. I do not wear - and never did - a thaali, the gold chain and special pendant that every self-respecting married Tamil Hindu woman is supposed to proudly adorn herself with. Having anything hanging around my neck makes me ill-tempered, I told my husband in the heady early days of our courtship, the ideal time to sneak in such notions; besides, I saw no reason why I should wear a symbol of being married while my husband was not similarly obliged.

An Efflorescence of Salons

Our first salon had been a dream come true for me. For years, I had imagined hosting an evening of music, dance, poetry, literature and animated discussion, and the salon, when it finally happened, was outstandingly fulfilling beyond my wildest fantasies. I could have happily basked in the success of this salon for an indefinite length of time, but then the requests and questions started trickling in. When are you having the next salon? I missed the first salon, could you please have another one? I heard all about this salon thing from a friend of a friend and would love to be invited to the next one. And then, from my fellow salon hosts, much younger and infinitely more energetic and industrious than I was, am, or ever will be, an email which countenanced no excuses, dithering or procrastination. The email presented Salon 2 as a fait accompli, complete with date, and a theme: conflict.

ABCD: Part 2

Continued from here.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, meet me, your narrator. My name is Nagamani Subramanian. I am 62 years old, a widow, and I live alone in a 3 bedroom flat in Alwarpet, Madras. My husband passed away, completely unexpectedly, two years ago, after a massive heart attack. For the first time in many years, almost my entire family gathered together in my home: my two sons and my daughter, my daughters-in-law, my son-in-law, my two brothers. Only the grandchildren, scattered in countries around the world, busy with college and work, could not make it.

Of Lost Wax and Found Beauty

I was a mere five hour drive away from Madras and yet I felt as if I had time-traveled into another world and era, to a place where South India, as I saw it in my mind’s eye, still survived, gentle, calm, awash in devotion and tradition. I was in and around Thanjavur and the Kaveri River delta, and why was it a surprise that I felt this way, because life here seems to belong to another age, to move to a different rhythm. This land, this river, this city, these environs, had, for several centuries, been the jewel in the crown of the great Chola Empire. The winds of history have tempered its eminence, and this region is now quietly content to lie in fame’s shadow, to surrender its position of celebrity to the younger, brasher, livelier, more prominent and influential seat of authority to the north, Madras.

Strange Bedfellows

I have observed the fusion of Carnatic music with many things: Hindustani music, Jazz, Bollywood, Pop and Rap, but a few days back I witnessed its foray into an unlikely arena: athletics. I listened, by turns enthralled, excited, puzzled, annoyed, distressed and vexed, as the music went through bouts of wrestling, racing, jumping and gymnastic contortions, a veritable Olympic multi-event that shook the very foundations of Carnatic music and propelled it into a brave new world.

Tales From My 'Hood

 

This post is going to seem pointless and meandering. Like a crazy summer bee, it will buzz around, dipping into the graphic arts, whizzing distractedly through what might be called, if one were inclined to be polite about it, a poem, humming alongside a few photographs, and then finally fizzling to a close in a thicket of prose and Shakespearean verse.

However, I assure you, that there is a message in the madness. A purpose to the perambulations. A reason for the rhymes, a goal for the graphics.

I’m sorry. I get absorbed by alliterations at times.

This is an ode to my home, Harlem. I know what you’re thinking. Harlem? She’s going to be shot dead any day! We knew she was crazy, but not so crazy as to live in the Crime Capital of the Universe!  She should just cut her losses and leave! To that I say, to borrow a byline from a bordering borough, Brooklyn (that will be the last of the alliterations, I promise),

 

Fuhgeddaboutit!!

So just relax, and allow me to take you  on a merry romp through psychology, history, literature and more; running through the narrative is a glittering thread that stitches together South India and Harlem.

 

The Adventures, Biography, Chronicles and Diary of an ABCD

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Maggie..errr...Maheshwari. Maggie is spending three months in Madras as part of a self-concocted self-discovery program, an explore-my-roots-and-heritage effort that many of her college friends are currently involved in.

A Salon Blossoms in Harlem

By day - and often also by night - they are mathematicians, doctors, scientists, researchers, engineers, bankers, students of an exhilarating array of disciplines that probe the vast arc of human interests and scholarship, from Sanskrit to creative writing to spinal cord regeneration to economic policy. And in the precious nooks and crannies, the cracks and crevices of their spare time, a whole other side blossoms into being: that of singers, dancers, writers, poets, actors and artists. They yearn for their yin to harmonize with their yang, for their right brain to achieve balance and symmetry with their left. They seek to synchronize their creative impulse with their logical and rational selves and send shoots and leaves and tendrils towards the heavens to capture the ethereal and elusive pleasures of sunshine and light while putting down roots that snuggle securely into the comfortable security of soil and earth.

Roger-Roger Cholan

I cannot say I wasn’t warned.

It wouldn’t be all fun and games, they said, there would be a lot of work involved.  A big load of responsibility.  A cramp on our lifestyle. As parents of grown children, we could finally have the freedom we had sometimes yearned for during those endless years of child-rearing. The flexibility and luxury to do things spontaneously, a dinner out, a quick jaunt to a fun destination. Family members suggested that this was probably some mid-life crisis, that I should calmly breathe my way out of it and then take a quick trip somewhere to show myself what I would be denying myself.

But here’s what they didn’t foresee:

That I would say that the greatest of the Chola kings was Roger-Roger Cholan. Or that I would sing about Sri Roger-Gopala. Or babble something about Roger-Rojeshwari. Or that I would twirl around to a rousing rendition of Roger! Rogerthi Roger! to the appalled horror of my family who thought they had seen the worst of what I could be.

They should have known, teetering as I was on the edges of err…dottiness… that I would not enter into this thing in a calm, level-headed manner as befitted a middle-aged lady of a certain vintage.  That I would lose my heart and what precious little remained of my sanity so completely, so hopelessly.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I know your patience is wearing thin. Enough of this meaningless drivel.

 

Of Red Earth and Pouring Rain

It is after a lengthy break that I am back. I will not bore you with the many reasons for my absence, other than to assure you that many - most - of those reasons are irreproachable and would find a sympathetic ear with even the sternest of school teachers. Since I am far removed from the world of school teachers this fact is of no relevance whatsoever. What is of relevance, perhaps, is the blog post that follows. For those of you, if indeed you even exist, who greeted my return with euphoria, expecting to read one of my mad tales or music reviews or travelogues, I am afraid that I have to warn you to to be prepared to be hit on the head with a sledgehammer. What follows is a densely detailed account of the history and development of Tamil Literature.

No, I am not joking.

If you were wondering what the title of the post has to do with Tamil Literature, it is from a lovely poem from the Sangam-era work of poetry, the Kurontokai.  Here is A.K. Ramanujan's exquisitely evocative transalation:

What could my mother be to yours?

What kin is my father to yours anyway?

And how did you and I meet ever?

But in love our hearts are as red earth and pouring rain:

mingled beyond parting.

 

Meanwhile, in a Small Sliver of South India...

Last evening, my husband and I were at the Asia Society in New York, to attend a reading and performance by William Dalrymple and Vidya Shah and her orchestra. This event was arranged in conjunction with the Society’s current exhibit on Princes and Painters in Mughal Delhi, 1707-1857. The evening was, for the most part, interesting and entertaining. Dalrymple’s narrative, drawn largely from his book, The Last Mughal, was studded with entertaining anecdotes that brought his characters to life. Vidya Shah complemented and supplemented his stories with songs and poetry from the great and little-known poets and songsters of that era.

The Highway Poet

Somewhere down the serpentine labyrinth that is the organization chart of the National Highways Authority of India is a little box that is an offshoot of the Department of Highway Safety. This box is the proud bearer of the title “Couplets and Proverbs Division (L&T K-W)”. It has a single employee, a long-haired, dreamy-eyed, thickly bespectacled youth, the nephew of the Chairman of the Department of Highway Safety (S-India). This young lad, who had been a gentle, sweet-natured child, the kind parents pointed out to their boisterous offspring as a shining example of what they ought to be like, created a major commotion in his family when he declared that he wanted to study Literature in college. He displayed a firmness and refusal to budge from his position that were in complete contrast to the gentle, pliant nature of his early years. His family, peopled thus far exclusively with engineers and doctors, were just recovering from the shock of the renegade’s announcement when he sent them reeling afresh with a further declaration that it was his intention to become a Poet. He would kill himself, he threatened, if anybody tried to prevent him from achieving his goal.