Subramani was eight years old when he attended his first
Bharatanatyam performance. His parents
had to take care of a lengthy property dispute in the neighboring district, and
because they did not want Subramani to miss school, they left him with his
grandparents, who lived in the same town.
Subramani was ambivalent about staying with his grandparents. His grandfather seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in his studies, far more than was necessary, Subramani felt. And his grandmother took an inordinate amount of interest in his eating and religious habits, also far in excess of the norm, as far as Subramani was concerned. So, where he might have been able to take advantage of his father’s busy schedule or obsessive interest in the newspaper, and keep him in the dark about his uncompleted homework and failed tests, this was not possible with his grandfather.
Subramani’s grandfather had an annoying habit of pouncing on Subramani the minute he entered the house after school and insisting upon a subject-by-subject account of his day. Even more annoying, he was not the typical doting grandfather who fondly believed everything that his grandson uttered (Subramani had found this out, to his detriment, very early in his life; adding to this unfairness was the fact the Subramani was an only grandchild - his grandfather cut him no slack on that account). And to top it all, the ultimate indignity was that his grandfather was a close friend of the Hindi Master.
But small boys do not brood or remain bitter for long. For, despite the Hindi Master and the Maths
Master, despite his grandfather’s unwholesome obsession with his marks and
homework and his grandmother’s ceaseless clucking over how little he ate and
prayed, there was a silver lining. That
was Baby Chittappa, his father’s youngest brother, who lived at home with his
parents, Subramani’s grandparents.
Baby Chittappa was twenty-eight years old and unmarried. He was always in a cheerful mood and always
ready for fun and pranks. He was the despair of his parents who were bent upon
getting him married, but that did not bother him in the least. He adored Subramani, and the feeling was
mutual. In a life filled with merciless teachers
and oppressive grandparents, Baby Chittappa was a breath of fresh air for
Subramani. Not so many years ago, he had
himself suffered similar persecution at the hands of the same Hindi Master and
he sympathized wholeheartedly with Subramani on these matters. He took it upon himself to supervise
Subramani’s homework, and these sessions ended up being extended hangman and
tic-tac-toe affairs.
Baby Chittappa had one big weakness, and that was for pretty
girls. In his town, the only accepted
way he could gaze undisturbed at a pretty girl was at a Bharatanatyam
performance. And so, one week after
Subramani came to his grandparents’ house, Baby Chittappa took him along to a
Bharatanatyam performance in the Sri Swaminathan Sabha at the other end of
town.
It was a warm Friday
evening, and the two of them bid farewell to Subramani’s grandparents as they
boarded the rickshaw to the sabha. Subramani’s grandmother beamed with pride as
she waved goodbye to them. How unusual
it was to find a young man like her Baby, who liked to spend his Friday evening
at a Bharatanatyam performance! Her son
was truly cultured and enlightened. She hurried to inform her neighbor Sundari
Mami (whose son spent his evenings at the cinema, and who knew where else) that
her son had such cultivated tastes,
such an appreciation for the ancient and noble arts of India, how rare it was
to find such young men these days, such a pity he hadn’t as yet found a wife
suitable for his high qualifications and abilities, but she was sure Lord
Muruga would take care of everything…… The neighbor countered with an account
of all the job interviews her son was deluged with, and oh, he had so many
marriage offers that she needed to propitiate the Evil Eye because things were looking
too good.
Baby Chittappa and Subramani enjoyed the rickshaw ride to
the Sabha. Along the way they stopped
for some spicy, lemony sundal at the
beach, and reached the Sabha in time to get front-row seats for the
performance. The hall was filling up rapidly. It was a veritable fashion parade, with the latest Kanchivaram silk
saris and diamond jewelry on display. Matronly mothers ushered in their carefully dressed-up daughters of
marriageable age, fiddling about with their hair and flowers, their eyes
sweeping the territory for suitable catches. Mothers of eligible sons (none of whom were aware that any of this was
afoot) sat, proud and haughty, their eyes narrowing if they espied a young
woman they felt might be worthy of their son. This was an age-old drama enacted year after year, with everybody
playing their part they somehow knew instinctively. Subramani gazed around him, excited. The memories of the insults suffered in
school were by now forgotten. Such is
the power of youth. How little it takes to set things straight! Baby Chittappa
was gazing at the programme brochure with hungry eyes. This girl promised to be extra pretty!
And then, the performance started. The curtain rose, and the stage, plain except
for a flower-bedecked statue of Lord Nataraja in one corner, was revealed. On one side, the musicians tuned their
instruments. Subramani watched,
fascinated, as the tambura strummed the base Saa, a note of pure simplicity and
beauty. The violin took up the echo,
soaring high, swooping low, and when the correct pitch was reached, the
violinist swayed, his eyes closed in ecstasy. Next came the staccato thumps of the mridangam, and the mridangist, too,
performed a little rhythmic trill of bliss when his instrument was perfectly
tuned. The singer cleared her throat and
her voice, warm and rich, blended into the harmony of notes. Then there were three sharp taps of the
mridangam, and with a crisp thakajhanuthaam
thakajhanuthaam thakajhanuthaam, the orchestra started the invocatory song,
seeking the blessings of Lord Ganesha, he of the elephant head and pot-belly,
the vanquisher of all evil.
Then the dance started. Baby Chittappa gazed with unconcealed wonderment at the breathtaking
beauty of the dancer. And Subramani, who
had never before seen a Bharatanatyam performance, gazed with unconcealed
wonderment at the breathtaking beauty of the dance. The dancer was telling the
story of faithful Gajendra, the forest-dwelling king-turned-elephant who went
one day to a shimmering blue lake to quench his thirst with its cool waters. It
was a beautiful day and the sun shone, bright and warm, from the vast sky,
birds twittered and swooped among the trees, and flowers and creepers scented
the air with their heavenly fragrance. She described the majestic elephant, its enormous, swaying ears, its
long, muscular trunk, its slow, undulating walk, its skin, the color of
rain-swollen monsoon clouds, its tusks, arching proudly towards the shining
blue sky. The elephant reached the water’s edge and dipped its trunk into the
cool water. The music, the mridangam, the dancer were all in perfect harmony.
Subramani sat back, enchanted.
Then out of nowhere, with a sudden, sharp, urgent
beating of
the mridangam, the peace was shattered. The sun vanished behind thick,
angry clouds. The birds dashed away, screeching in alarm. The waters of
the placid lake pitched and
heaved and there arose, in all its sharp-toothed fearsomeness, an
enormous,
evil-eyed crocodile. Subramani sat bolt
upright and watched the scene that unfolded before him in horror. With
a thunderous snap of its enormous jaws,
the crocodile bit down on Gajendra’s trunk. Howling in pain and anger,
Gajendra
tried to get free of the crocodile’s clutches. But the crocodile held
firm and pulled, harder. Gajendra, feeble with pain, his grip slipping
on the wet mud, using his last reserves of strength, pulled, desperate
to save
his life. The water churned a bloody red
color now. The crocodile pulled. Gajendra pulled. Pull. Pull. PullPull.
Harder, faster, faster, faster, the elephant
slipping inexorably towards the crocodile. Finally, with his last ounce
of strength, Gajendra called out to Lord
Parthasarathy. Parthasarathy, Nannu
Palimpa Raada! Oh Lord
Parthasarathy, come and save me!
The music reached a crescendo. The mridangam beat a frantic
rhythm. The crocodile, sensing that victory was near, thrashed his tail in the
blood-red lake. Gajendra closed his eyes, his life slipping away from
him…..With a crash and a flash, hurling his mighty discus, Lord Parthasarathy dived
down on his mighty eagle Garuda. Blazing with the light of a thousand suns, the
discus neatly cut off the head of the crocodile. The knife-sharp teeth relaxed
their grip on the exhausted Gajendra. Gliding softly down, Lord Parthasarathy gently cradled Gajendra’s
bloodied head in his lap, and blessed his faithful devotee. Evil was destroyed, and goodness, righteousness
and steadfastness were victorious that day. The curtain came down to thunderous applause.
Subramani and Baby Chittappa returned home in silence, each
lost in his own thoughts. Subramani imagined that the Hindi Master was Gajendra
the elephant (but without any of the original Gajendra’s good attributes, a
Gajendra who most emphatically deserved his painful fate), and that he, his
puny body transformed into the most gruesomely formidable crocodile his
imagination could conjure up, played tug-of-war with the hapless elephant,
flinging his body around like a floppy rag. Piteously, the Hindi Master begged for mercy. Pitilessly, mercy was
denied. Conspicuously absent in this
scenario were Lord Parthasarathy and his discus …. And Baby Chittappa? Baby Chittappa was utterly, wholeheartedly,
in love – with the Bharatanatyam dancer. Those eyes! That smile! That lithe figure! He had to
marry her.
Baby Chittappa’s announcement that he wanted to
marry the
dancer was greeted with delight by his mother. For years now she had
been begging him to get married. There were so many excellent girls
from such
eligible families, there was even an IAS Officer who was interested for
his
daughter, she was fair-skinned and an excellent cook, but did Baby
listen? Oh, no, no, he was irresponsible and did not
care that his mother was nearing her death-bed and that his poor
father’s weak
heart could give way any day now. He was only interested in having a
good time,
oh, Lord Muruga, Lord Venkateswara, Aandavane, what have I done to
deserve this, even
next-door Sundari Mami’s son, who is a full three years younger than my
Baby is
seeing girls, such a respectful son he is.... Baby Chittappa had heard
all this
many times before, and stopped his mother with the words she had been
hearing
in her dreams all these years: “Amma, I want to get married. But - only
to that girl. Nobody else.”
Word was sent out through Subramani’s grandmother’s
extensive network of contacts to find out about the dancer. Within a few hours, she had all the
information she wanted. The girl, Mrinaalini, was
twenty years old, in her second year of college. Her parents had just started the process of
finding a groom for her. The family’s
background was impeccable. Krishnamurthy Jolsier, the town’s best astrologer, would,
for a reasonable consideration, ensure that the horoscopes matched. And guaranteeing everything was the Hindi
Master. The girl was his favorite grand-niece.
The next few days went by in a blur. They were happy days for Baby Chittappa and
Subramani. Baby Chittappa, because he
would soon meet (and hopefully marry) the girl of his dreams. And Subramani? Subramani was only dimly aware of the
feverish negotiations that were going on in his grandparents’ home. In school, however,
things could not have been better. Blood (even if it is merely blood diluted
through marriage, and in this case, further diluted through only a possibility of
marriage) is indeed thicker than water! Somehow, miraculously, the Hindi
Master’s unerring aim was no longer unerring. His duster and ruler missed Subramani by a wide margin, and appeared to
have been thrown in a dispirited, half-hearted manner. He didn’t seem to expect
Subramani to grasp the intricacies of male and female verbs. Indeed, he had even sent what appeared to be
a smile (which on the Hindi Master’s face looked like a pained grimace) in
Subramani’s direction.
Finally, the Big Day arrived. Baby Chittappa, accompanied by his
parents,
Subramani, Subramani’s middle uncle and aunt and the neighbor Sundari
Mami (who
successfully masked her curiosity as interested concern) went in three
rickshaws to the dancer’s home. There, the welcoming committee
consisted of Mrinaalini's parents, her grandparents, her oldest uncle
and aunt, her younger sister, the right-side neighbor, the upstairs
neighbor,
the back neighbor, and the Hindi Master. This would be the Official
Presentation of Mrinaalini, the test that
would determine her whole future. Three
different astrologers had agreed that 4 o’clock in the evening was the
most auspicious time, so that was when they arrived.
A small boy had been posted at the corner to alert
Mrinaalini’s family to the arrival of Baby Chittappa and his entourage, and he
did his job admirably. Running as fast as his little legs would allow, risking
a thrashing from his mother for abandoning his chappals along the way since
they cut down his speed, he arrived, breathless and panting to announce his
news. There was a flurry of
sari-and-dhoti adjustment and the wick was lit for the big ceremonial
lamp. Mrinaalini, who was waiting inside
with her aunt (she would reveal herself at 4:14,
as prescribed by Krishnamurthy Jolsier), swallowed hard, and tried to calm the
wild hammering of her heart.
Baby Chittappa and his group arrived. They were treated like visiting royalty.
Subramani, who, in his short life, was resigned to his burden of hard and
unfeeling family members and teachers, was greeted like a VIP. Even when he stuck his tongue out at the
messenger boy to assert the superiority of his position (he was from the
groom’s side, after all), nobody reprimanded him. Mrinaalini’s grandmother crushed him into her
ample bosom, clucking about what a sweet, innocent child he was.
At 4:03, they
crossed the threshold and entered Mrinaalini’s home. Everyone was seated (the messenger boy kept a
safe distance from Subramani; he would have his moment when his own uncle got
married) and formal introductions were made. Family lineages were discussed, and illustrious ancestors were made
known. Baby Chittappa was portrayed as a
brilliant engineer, with a deep and reverential interest in the classical
arts. The Hindi Master chimed in, his
teeth bared in a patently false smile, saying what an honor it was to have a
child like Subramani, from such a distinguished family, in his Hindi
class. Subramani, his mouth full with
the toffees pressed upon him by Mrinaalini’s mother, simpered.
At 4:12, there
was a lull in the conversation. Watches
were consulted, and throats were cleared. Only Subramani and the messenger boy,
who were engaged in a contest of who could pull a more grotesque face, remained
calm and unconcerned. Mrinaalini’s uncle
tried to break the tension by telling a cute story about Mrinaalini, but his
heart was not in it, and neither was his audience.
At 4:14, Mrinaalini
made her entrance. Demure with her head cast down, in a simple off-white sari, she
walked in with her aunt. Gracefully, she
made her way to Subramani’s grandparents, and touched their feet. Baby Chittappa, overcome by a case of the
nerves, clutched at Subramani’s hand. Subramani rewarded him with a pinch, which shook up Baby Chittappa and
restored his spirits. Mrinaalini’s
grandmother then got up, and with her arm around Mrinaalini’s shoulder, led her
to Baby Chittappa. Baby Chittappa got
his first close-up look at her. And got
the shock of his life.
Where was that stunning, doe-eyed, blush-cheeked, bejeweled
creature of his fantasies? Where was that
sensuous, flirty smile he saw when she had depicted Radha, displaying her
charms to Krishna? Barren of the magical layers of Bharatanatyam makeup, she
looked…..merely pretty. No better or no
worse than any of the girls Baby Chittappa had ogled at on the streets. But he wanted his wife to be someone
special. Frantically, he telegraphed his
disappointment to his parents who sat across the room. His father glared at him and his mother
appeared ready to swoon. All this
happened in a matter of seconds. Everyone watched with bated breath.
Then, Mrinaalini smiled at him. And in that smile, Baby
Chittappa glimpsed a twinkle, a hint of the enchanting Radha, a promise of what
lay ahead. Oh, the beauty and charm were there alright, but artfully concealed,
to be revealed only when needed. Baby Chittappa’s head reeled, and he fell in
love all over again. Normally never at a loss for words or a joke, he could
only utter a mumbled hello. Another pinch from Subramani, who was watching the
proceedings with avid fascination, shook up Baby Chittappa again, and he smiled
back at her. It was a smile which hinted
at a roguish appeal and fun times ahead. A collective breath of relief was let out, and matters moved forward.
One month later, Baby Chittappa married Mrinaalini. It was a
beautiful wedding, and even Sundari Mami had very little she could find fault
with (of course, the payasam could
have been watered down a little less, and the bride’s sari was not quite the
shade of red it ought to have been, but these were mere quibbles, and
Subramani’s grandmother, who now had all
her sons married off successfully unlike poor Sundari Mami, merely gave her a
look of pity).
Subramani’s parents were back in town, and with a mixture of relief and regret, he moved out of his grandparents’ home. In school, he was the hero of his class now, as the inventor of the thrilling new game, elephants and crocodiles. Subramani’s own role in the game was that of Lord Parthasarathy. The Hindi textbook made an excellent discus. And in the final Hindi exam, Subramani topped the class. Bharatanatyam was a noble art form, indeed!
(C) Kamini Dandapani