I remember my first tanjore quartette experience. It was in 91 or 92 - I was going to all the kutcheris everywhere. I would attend every single BN performance. And after a while, instead of being always dazzled and blinded, things slowly started to fall into place for me.
By then I was quite familiar with the performances of all the big stars. Then one day I was sitting in the mini-hall and I watched a student dance a piece. She was not a big star. But in spite of that, there was this feeling. It was jatiswaram and after watching it, it stayed in my mind for days and days and days.
That was my first clue that a piece and how it is performed are two different things. I mean, you can have a brilliant dancer perform a mediocre piece. And you can have a fairly good dancer perform a piece that is a great composition.
After going to a few more months of performances, I discovered for myself what so many other people had already known - the Tanjore Quartet pieces are the crown jewels. And from then, it was a constant obsession always present in the back of my mind. After I saw those pieces, nothing else would do.
These seven glittering kohinoor diamonds - master gave them to me: sakiye, yemaguva, mogamana, adimogam, yemanthayanara, danike, sami ninne.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Memories
One time, in 2002 spring, Master was rehearsing a padam with sangeetha - whose bavam I really like - so strong and dignified - and he sang the line "yenakaana peraiyum kaane" and he was demonstrating that line and he turned and said: "ithu jayalakshmi evallo nala pidipa theriyuma" and he showed how she would do it and then went on teaching the padam.
I loved moments like this. I would just shore them up like a treasure.
This is the kind of history I like.
Initially, when I became interested in dance I would read everything that was written in the papers and in the books. I was stupid enough to believe what they were saying because all those writers write with so much authority.
Now of course dance-scholarship has its uses.
One time I saw a spider running round and round and it I was afraid it was going to climb up so I took this nice hardbound book and I just dropped it - wham! - and the spider was promptly dispatched to Valhalla.
Another time I had dropped off to sleep in my chair in the classroom and suddenly I felt something run over my foot and run away. I looked around and saw these enormous rats: perichali! - sleek and glossy and built solid, they looked around with their bright glinting eyes at each other (there were two of them) and they ran around two or three times making big figure eights and ran off again so fast before I could do anything. There was a sort of little canal going round the edge of the dance room and a small hole for it to go outside to the terrace and through this those bandicoots would come at night.
Some of the boys said "oh don't worry they won't do anything" but I was too scared to sleep at night. What if they bit me and I got rabies. So they said: "here, take these tiles and put it against that hole, they won't get in" so I did. But those were persistent and strong perichalis! At night I heard a little scratching noise, they were trying to tip those tiles over! Since I had stacked a few, they couldn't: then they charged! Like a battering ram breaking down the gates! I could hear them running around and then a "bang!" as they hurled their weight against the tiles. So I took two nice big thick dance books and put them right next to the tiles. They banged and they banged but those books would not budge. After this experience I went to sleep that night thanking all dance-scholars who write and publish their books, because you never know when they will come in very useful.
The next morning I got up really early and went to examine the outside of the terrace. Then I looked over the edge and there they were down on the street right in front of the house and Mrs. M_ was just then going down to do her morning kolam. The children ran to the edge of the balcony and looked down and said "Perichali!" and the bandicoots looked up at everybody without the least bit of fear. But Mrs. M__ wasn't in the least disturbed. "Kaathala varunga naan kolam podaracha - paathingana" she said and went on doing her morning kolam.
But at a certain point I became more interested in Master's anecdotes than in reading books or articles about dance. Simply because he was there, he had lived it, he knew what he was talking about it. I myself would never interrupt class but if he started to tell a story I would show a lot of interest and ask him a bit more: what was teaching class like when he was 20, what were arangetrams like then? did they do the same margam as we do now? What varnam did his father always start off his students with? And his grandfather? And how did they manage without lights and mikes? Wasn't that hard? How far would it be from his home to the nearest place where kutcheris were held? What about compensation? What was the norm in those days, when he was in his 20s, 30s, etc.
I loved hearing these stories. But some parts were disturbing: like hearing of farmhands who would sometimes be desperate to get out of the pouring rain and would get on a bus or a train and would get beaten black and blue. Feudalism has its ugly side. There was this gesture or "kai" I learnt for the Danike varnam in todi: where hands crossed across chest one walks forward as a way of showing devotion or submission. But then it seems people had to approach a big man, a feudal lord, in that way. Otherwise it was considered impertinent and you could be punished. Suddenly, at moments like these, I would feel that these things were ugly. But then, what could I do, that was how the kai for Danike was, and I couldn't change it. Then it wouldn't be danike anymore.
I loved moments like this. I would just shore them up like a treasure.
This is the kind of history I like.
Initially, when I became interested in dance I would read everything that was written in the papers and in the books. I was stupid enough to believe what they were saying because all those writers write with so much authority.
Now of course dance-scholarship has its uses.
One time I saw a spider running round and round and it I was afraid it was going to climb up so I took this nice hardbound book and I just dropped it - wham! - and the spider was promptly dispatched to Valhalla.
Another time I had dropped off to sleep in my chair in the classroom and suddenly I felt something run over my foot and run away. I looked around and saw these enormous rats: perichali! - sleek and glossy and built solid, they looked around with their bright glinting eyes at each other (there were two of them) and they ran around two or three times making big figure eights and ran off again so fast before I could do anything. There was a sort of little canal going round the edge of the dance room and a small hole for it to go outside to the terrace and through this those bandicoots would come at night.
Some of the boys said "oh don't worry they won't do anything" but I was too scared to sleep at night. What if they bit me and I got rabies. So they said: "here, take these tiles and put it against that hole, they won't get in" so I did. But those were persistent and strong perichalis! At night I heard a little scratching noise, they were trying to tip those tiles over! Since I had stacked a few, they couldn't: then they charged! Like a battering ram breaking down the gates! I could hear them running around and then a "bang!" as they hurled their weight against the tiles. So I took two nice big thick dance books and put them right next to the tiles. They banged and they banged but those books would not budge. After this experience I went to sleep that night thanking all dance-scholars who write and publish their books, because you never know when they will come in very useful.
The next morning I got up really early and went to examine the outside of the terrace. Then I looked over the edge and there they were down on the street right in front of the house and Mrs. M_ was just then going down to do her morning kolam. The children ran to the edge of the balcony and looked down and said "Perichali!" and the bandicoots looked up at everybody without the least bit of fear. But Mrs. M__ wasn't in the least disturbed. "Kaathala varunga naan kolam podaracha - paathingana" she said and went on doing her morning kolam.
But at a certain point I became more interested in Master's anecdotes than in reading books or articles about dance. Simply because he was there, he had lived it, he knew what he was talking about it. I myself would never interrupt class but if he started to tell a story I would show a lot of interest and ask him a bit more: what was teaching class like when he was 20, what were arangetrams like then? did they do the same margam as we do now? What varnam did his father always start off his students with? And his grandfather? And how did they manage without lights and mikes? Wasn't that hard? How far would it be from his home to the nearest place where kutcheris were held? What about compensation? What was the norm in those days, when he was in his 20s, 30s, etc.
I loved hearing these stories. But some parts were disturbing: like hearing of farmhands who would sometimes be desperate to get out of the pouring rain and would get on a bus or a train and would get beaten black and blue. Feudalism has its ugly side. There was this gesture or "kai" I learnt for the Danike varnam in todi: where hands crossed across chest one walks forward as a way of showing devotion or submission. But then it seems people had to approach a big man, a feudal lord, in that way. Otherwise it was considered impertinent and you could be punished. Suddenly, at moments like these, I would feel that these things were ugly. But then, what could I do, that was how the kai for Danike was, and I couldn't change it. Then it wouldn't be danike anymore.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Close
One of his students said to me one time, "oh you can get away with anything, he really likes you, he has not let anyone into his family the way he has with you"
But that is actually not the way I saw it at all. I don't think I was his favourite nor could I have gotten away with anything. Earlier, he had cut off students who broke his basic rules, and I am sure that if I had gone to another teacher, or if I had started throwing my weight around in class, or misbehaving in any other way, he would have cut me off just as swiftly as well. He was a very impartial and a very strict teacher. There was this dichotomy: as soon as he came out of class, he was a very gentle person, very human and approachable and open to everyone. But once he entered the classroom or started any task concerning dance - it was like he was a different person: there was a very systematic and correct way to do things, and that's how he would do it and nothing or no one could sway him from that.
I don't know if you can call that closeness. As I said, in the classroom, I always kept a distance, I never stepped out of my role. He was the guru and I was the student and I never tried to second-guess him or poke or pry. The one difference between my behaviour in class and that of other students who had had a falling out after advancing a lot was that I never told or asked him what to teach me. Some students would get tired of rehearsing one varnam for many years and they would ask things like "can you teach me this" or that piece as if they were ordering off a restaurant menu. And he would never like that. It would annoy him. The other difference was that I always took corrections without getting upset. If any student got annoyed or upset at his corrections, then he would lose interest and back off.
To me it was so simple: it was not a question of my being patient at all. I could see that he had a system and that he was following it. I also saw from the way he other taught other students that only students who could absorb all his corrections for piece number one, and demonstrate that, show that - only then would he go onto piece #2. He was not going to simply gloss over lots of pieces just for the sake of quantity.
The other reason I never got upset and always wanted more corrections was that obviously the more you were corrected the better you performed: whatever it was, whether adavus, or bavam, or reciting tirmanams, singing - it was only through this cycle of practice and corrections that you were going to get better. And what was the point of coming all the way here and setting aside the time to learn if not to improve. So, if he made me sing "Ye ... ma gu .. va" and was not satisfied with the "gu" part, and he made me listen and repeat after him 50 times, 100 times, 200 times, I was not at all bothered, I was quite happy that he was making that effort for me.
The more you were willing to work for him, the more he would work for you. This is what I saw with dancers also. The best dancers, the ones who had the nicest adavus and the best bavam, were the ones who had that endurance.
Sometimes after I would toil like this for weeks and finally if he was satisfied he would say "aa, athaan, ippo sariya iruku" (there, that's it, now it's correct).
Yes, it was mentally exhausting but for me this kind of work was so satisfying. After a full morning class like this, he would stop at noon to go take his bath, and I would just feel a high, an endorphin high, like you feel after swimming or running, and for the whole afternoon, I would feel this way.
Now for me, usually those 3 or 4 hours in the morning was enough. I needed that afternoon break. After lunch I would quickly lie down on the floor in the living room, Mrs. M._ would bring me a mat and pillow, and everyone would watch one of those old black-and-white tamil films they would show on TV and gradually drift off into sleep.
Master would be sitting in his corner chair mumbling something, looking at the paper and reading slowly, occasionally reading a sentence out loud, and still singing bits of the song from the morning.
Those blissful afternoon naps.
But to go back to the opening comment: no, I was not close in the conventional sense of the word. I did not speak to him or to his family the way I would speak to someone my own age.
Even though he had let me stay with his family and I knew all about their lives, I would never interfere or give my opinion on anything related to family matters. If any discussion would occur among family members, I would just go upstairs to the classroom and sleep there on the folding bed. Or I would stay upstairs till whatever family-matter discussion was over. Some students who spent a lot of time in the house would address people as brother - sister, etc., but I never crossed that line. I was an outsider and I always addressed people in a formal way. In any large joint family, there is bound to be rivalries, and although I was aware of it, I was very careful never to voice any opinion that was inappropriate or to take any sides. I just stayed out of it.
In spite of all these formalities that I was so careful to observe, there were times, here and there, when someone was giving me food, when I would lie down to watch the afternoon movies, when I would sing or do nattuvangam - I would feel so peaceful and so content in a way I had never felt before. I would feel such a deep connection.
Some people look at these formalities and rules and restrictions as being very stifling - but in fact I did not feel it that way at all.
During all those years I visited Master and sat in his classroom or terrace or living-room being taught by him, there were many times when I felt that behind the teaching there was a lot of generosity and affection freely given to me. And of course that elicits a response in me. I t is a very powerful interaction, but it is it's own separate and special thing. It does not mean that we are friends or equals: there is a vast distance or gulf that separates us, he is such a senior and from a different time, and I am learning from him, and from a totally different background. So it cannot be called closeness. And of course it does not exist in all teacher-student interactions.
I think also that the fact that Master comes from an ancestral family of teachers has a lot to do with it. They are the ones who know the art of teaching as it existed historically. They know how to give of themselves and when and to whom and under what circumstances.
But that is actually not the way I saw it at all. I don't think I was his favourite nor could I have gotten away with anything. Earlier, he had cut off students who broke his basic rules, and I am sure that if I had gone to another teacher, or if I had started throwing my weight around in class, or misbehaving in any other way, he would have cut me off just as swiftly as well. He was a very impartial and a very strict teacher. There was this dichotomy: as soon as he came out of class, he was a very gentle person, very human and approachable and open to everyone. But once he entered the classroom or started any task concerning dance - it was like he was a different person: there was a very systematic and correct way to do things, and that's how he would do it and nothing or no one could sway him from that.
I don't know if you can call that closeness. As I said, in the classroom, I always kept a distance, I never stepped out of my role. He was the guru and I was the student and I never tried to second-guess him or poke or pry. The one difference between my behaviour in class and that of other students who had had a falling out after advancing a lot was that I never told or asked him what to teach me. Some students would get tired of rehearsing one varnam for many years and they would ask things like "can you teach me this" or that piece as if they were ordering off a restaurant menu. And he would never like that. It would annoy him. The other difference was that I always took corrections without getting upset. If any student got annoyed or upset at his corrections, then he would lose interest and back off.
To me it was so simple: it was not a question of my being patient at all. I could see that he had a system and that he was following it. I also saw from the way he other taught other students that only students who could absorb all his corrections for piece number one, and demonstrate that, show that - only then would he go onto piece #2. He was not going to simply gloss over lots of pieces just for the sake of quantity.
The other reason I never got upset and always wanted more corrections was that obviously the more you were corrected the better you performed: whatever it was, whether adavus, or bavam, or reciting tirmanams, singing - it was only through this cycle of practice and corrections that you were going to get better. And what was the point of coming all the way here and setting aside the time to learn if not to improve. So, if he made me sing "Ye ... ma gu .. va" and was not satisfied with the "gu" part, and he made me listen and repeat after him 50 times, 100 times, 200 times, I was not at all bothered, I was quite happy that he was making that effort for me.
The more you were willing to work for him, the more he would work for you. This is what I saw with dancers also. The best dancers, the ones who had the nicest adavus and the best bavam, were the ones who had that endurance.
Sometimes after I would toil like this for weeks and finally if he was satisfied he would say "aa, athaan, ippo sariya iruku" (there, that's it, now it's correct).
Yes, it was mentally exhausting but for me this kind of work was so satisfying. After a full morning class like this, he would stop at noon to go take his bath, and I would just feel a high, an endorphin high, like you feel after swimming or running, and for the whole afternoon, I would feel this way.
Now for me, usually those 3 or 4 hours in the morning was enough. I needed that afternoon break. After lunch I would quickly lie down on the floor in the living room, Mrs. M._ would bring me a mat and pillow, and everyone would watch one of those old black-and-white tamil films they would show on TV and gradually drift off into sleep.
Master would be sitting in his corner chair mumbling something, looking at the paper and reading slowly, occasionally reading a sentence out loud, and still singing bits of the song from the morning.
Those blissful afternoon naps.
But to go back to the opening comment: no, I was not close in the conventional sense of the word. I did not speak to him or to his family the way I would speak to someone my own age.
Even though he had let me stay with his family and I knew all about their lives, I would never interfere or give my opinion on anything related to family matters. If any discussion would occur among family members, I would just go upstairs to the classroom and sleep there on the folding bed. Or I would stay upstairs till whatever family-matter discussion was over. Some students who spent a lot of time in the house would address people as brother - sister, etc., but I never crossed that line. I was an outsider and I always addressed people in a formal way. In any large joint family, there is bound to be rivalries, and although I was aware of it, I was very careful never to voice any opinion that was inappropriate or to take any sides. I just stayed out of it.
In spite of all these formalities that I was so careful to observe, there were times, here and there, when someone was giving me food, when I would lie down to watch the afternoon movies, when I would sing or do nattuvangam - I would feel so peaceful and so content in a way I had never felt before. I would feel such a deep connection.
Some people look at these formalities and rules and restrictions as being very stifling - but in fact I did not feel it that way at all.
During all those years I visited Master and sat in his classroom or terrace or living-room being taught by him, there were many times when I felt that behind the teaching there was a lot of generosity and affection freely given to me. And of course that elicits a response in me. I t is a very powerful interaction, but it is it's own separate and special thing. It does not mean that we are friends or equals: there is a vast distance or gulf that separates us, he is such a senior and from a different time, and I am learning from him, and from a totally different background. So it cannot be called closeness. And of course it does not exist in all teacher-student interactions.
I think also that the fact that Master comes from an ancestral family of teachers has a lot to do with it. They are the ones who know the art of teaching as it existed historically. They know how to give of themselves and when and to whom and under what circumstances.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Honors Awards and Vips
One time a dance-critic wrote mockingly about the awards given out during the December season: "what a clatter of siromanis and ... " and I was laughing along because I agreed with what she was saying. Every time you turn around someone is handing someone else an award, a title, or an honour. It is just ridiculous. All those shawls and shields and plaques. What a waste.
I think the funniest part of a dance performance is when the stage is cleared of the performers and big chairs are placed on the stage and the VIPs solemnly clamber on. Some poor emcee or speaker comes on and lavishly praises the first, the second, the third and so on. One time I was at such a "function" at the mini-hall and as soon as the speeches began, I ran out to escape and see if there were any snacks being sold outside. At the end of this function I was helping Master into his car and one of the VIPs accosted me and said: "what did you think of my speech?" and I was caught off-guard. I couldn't very well answer: "I was outside eating samosas". So I said: "everyone thought it was a very fitting tribute". And they continued: "what did you think of my quotes from Shakespeare". And I didn't know what to say so I said: "well, you can't go wrong with Shakespeare".
Someone came up and whispered something into this VIP's ear and they turned upon me indignantly and said: "Arul, it seems you weren't even inside? What's this? It seems you went outside during the speeches?" and I was caught red-handed!
Another time I went to an arangetram for Master's student in 2000, it was at the Russian Cultural Centre. There were two VIPs who were invited. It seems one of the VIPs was circling the area in his car without actually arriving. He was calling on his mobile to find out if the program had started because he didn't want to be seen arriving early.
One time Master and I went to a function called "Muthamizh Peravai" where Meenakshi was getting some title or award. It was in Mylapore and the Rasika Ranjani Sabha: Sivaji Ganesan was there, Karunanidhi was there. It was long and went on forever but the speakers were very good. Sivaji is so charismatic I was just fascinated and entranced by his speech. The last speaker was Karunanidhi - it seems he had released some book or novel - he was a very good speaker. We sat in the back even though Meenakshi's mother came and pulled Master's hand and said: "Sir, you must sit in the front row" but Master would not. He sat in the back.
Apparently, when the real VIPs arrived everyone who was occupying the front row would be unceremoniously kicked back and that could be embarrassing. It was the only function I truly enjoyed and the best speaker of that evening was an unknown lady: not at all charismatic, but her speech was so good. By the end of the evening I had a terrible hunger headache - from missing my supper - and when came back home to Purusawalkam it was almost 10 and I couldn't eat because it was so bad. SP thought I was putting on a drama because whenever he was really annoyed he would just refuse to eat - it was his way of throwing a fit. But I wasn't throwing a fit, sometimes if I am hungry and miss my meal and am late by more than 2 hours the hunger just goes away and instead I just have a huge headache. He kept scolding me and saying: "stop making a fuss and just eat your dosai" but I could not.
I think the funniest part of a dance performance is when the stage is cleared of the performers and big chairs are placed on the stage and the VIPs solemnly clamber on. Some poor emcee or speaker comes on and lavishly praises the first, the second, the third and so on. One time I was at such a "function" at the mini-hall and as soon as the speeches began, I ran out to escape and see if there were any snacks being sold outside. At the end of this function I was helping Master into his car and one of the VIPs accosted me and said: "what did you think of my speech?" and I was caught off-guard. I couldn't very well answer: "I was outside eating samosas". So I said: "everyone thought it was a very fitting tribute". And they continued: "what did you think of my quotes from Shakespeare". And I didn't know what to say so I said: "well, you can't go wrong with Shakespeare".
Someone came up and whispered something into this VIP's ear and they turned upon me indignantly and said: "Arul, it seems you weren't even inside? What's this? It seems you went outside during the speeches?" and I was caught red-handed!
Another time I went to an arangetram for Master's student in 2000, it was at the Russian Cultural Centre. There were two VIPs who were invited. It seems one of the VIPs was circling the area in his car without actually arriving. He was calling on his mobile to find out if the program had started because he didn't want to be seen arriving early.
One time Master and I went to a function called "Muthamizh Peravai" where Meenakshi was getting some title or award. It was in Mylapore and the Rasika Ranjani Sabha: Sivaji Ganesan was there, Karunanidhi was there. It was long and went on forever but the speakers were very good. Sivaji is so charismatic I was just fascinated and entranced by his speech. The last speaker was Karunanidhi - it seems he had released some book or novel - he was a very good speaker. We sat in the back even though Meenakshi's mother came and pulled Master's hand and said: "Sir, you must sit in the front row" but Master would not. He sat in the back.
Apparently, when the real VIPs arrived everyone who was occupying the front row would be unceremoniously kicked back and that could be embarrassing. It was the only function I truly enjoyed and the best speaker of that evening was an unknown lady: not at all charismatic, but her speech was so good. By the end of the evening I had a terrible hunger headache - from missing my supper - and when came back home to Purusawalkam it was almost 10 and I couldn't eat because it was so bad. SP thought I was putting on a drama because whenever he was really annoyed he would just refuse to eat - it was his way of throwing a fit. But I wasn't throwing a fit, sometimes if I am hungry and miss my meal and am late by more than 2 hours the hunger just goes away and instead I just have a huge headache. He kept scolding me and saying: "stop making a fuss and just eat your dosai" but I could not.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Kamas
Master always started off a major piece just by having me sing it "plain". Or the "base of the song" as he called it. He would sing the first two lines over and over again without any ornamentation whatsoever, and I would just repeat.
Then I would go away and practice that a thousand times - and on the following trip I would sing those lines back to him, he would then teach me up to the end of the first half. With the second half, which are mostly swara melodies, he would finish that off at the end rather quickly.
Usually on trip three, he would sit with me singing those same two first lines, for 2 hours each day in the morning, and have me sing and correct, sing and correct, over and over again. Trip three (counting from the first time he introduced the "base of the song") was always the most exciting because that's when he'd teach me all the possibilities. They're usually called "neraval" but he didn't like that term either. He would use some word that sounded like "jaarvai", I suppose it means something like stretching or pulling. He'd say "brigas and neravals are not really important in our style of singing" - this is how you should "pull" that song. It would just be a vowel and to me it sounded like sliding. One long slide.
I loved singing like this for him. He was of course a very critical listener and would go on correcting. Just imagine spending 10 to noon singing the word "saami" over and over again six days a week and having someone correct it. Once he got into teaching a particular line of a varnam, he wouldn't let go. I liked variety. So in the morning, for those 2 or 3 hours, I would be enthusiastic. But in the evening lesson, from 4-6, or from 5-8, I would just be in shreds. My mind and voice just exhausted. We would sing on the terrace in the evening. In the morning, it was in the class room. After 2001, there were no more students coming to dance, he had either retired or they had stopped. He had stopped all his beginner classes even during the previous year. So it was mostly just him and I.
Once in a bluemoon someone would come and dance, but mostly it was just empty. How sad I felt sometimes looking at the box full of thatu kazhis in the corner. This room where so many people had danced for so long. Of course, he had it built only in the early 90s. One of his students' father offered to build it for him on the terrace of his house when he stopped teaching at the school in Kilpauk. The very next year - 94- was when I visited with my sister (who had been his student for a few years in the Kilpauk school). That's how I got in. Using her as my connection. I believe he taught in the Kilpauk school for a long time: from 68 till either 91 or 92. I can't even imagine what that must have been like. So many years and years of teaching.
Anyway, the first time I heard Kamas I thought it was too sweet, too sugary. But after hearing it a few days I began to appreciate it. It was a very sentimental and sweet varnam. It is like seeing families at railway stations saying goodbye's and hello's to their loved ones. All that affection.
Master had a pile of papers with notes scrawled all over them. Some were in his father's handwriting. There were a few notebooks falling apart which had all sorts of "tirmanam" and the correct "edupu" written down. There were a couple of notebooks filled with descriptions of "kais" for a varnam. It would say things like "yemaguva" and then there would be a list of 5 or 7 "kais" each with a 2 sentence description. Things like "what did she say to you? Did she cover her face with a veil? Did she walk in the moonlight? Did she do blackmagic and bewitch you?" - etc. etc.
So, Master was looking for the one little bit of paper that had the "kai"-s for the kamas varnam. Alas, he couldn't find it. So he said to me, "I don't want to mix it up with anything else. I have to keep looking for the right sequence of 'kai' so I have to keep searching". Oh no! I thought. He pulled two boxes out of some old suitcases and spread a pile of tattered folded-over papers and we opened them all up and looked. But no ... no kamas. Then two years later, I came back and his son found it. It was in a bag with a bunch of other things and it was just this little sheet that said "kamas" on it. It wasn't Master's handwriting. I wonder whose it was? His father's?
But now, it's 2007, and as Master and I rehearse the hands, he says to me regretfully, "These 3 hands I just don't remember". After all these years of rehearsing the song, finding this paper, learning all the choreography for the second half. For these crucial hands in the first half, he's just forgotten. I was so upset. There is no one he's taught this to - not in a very long time - and back then they weren't even recording anything. so it's just gone, gone, gone with the wind.
One of his students said to me: "but you have the meaning, you know the gestures for all the other varnams, why can't you just choreograph it?". But I know that it just wouldn't be the same. I've seen others do that and I know the difference immediately. It would just be a parody of the real thing. No, that is just not the way to go. It would be an insult to this piece and to what it once was. This will just be one of those unfinished varnams. It will just be there in my mind.
Then I would go away and practice that a thousand times - and on the following trip I would sing those lines back to him, he would then teach me up to the end of the first half. With the second half, which are mostly swara melodies, he would finish that off at the end rather quickly.
Usually on trip three, he would sit with me singing those same two first lines, for 2 hours each day in the morning, and have me sing and correct, sing and correct, over and over again. Trip three (counting from the first time he introduced the "base of the song") was always the most exciting because that's when he'd teach me all the possibilities. They're usually called "neraval" but he didn't like that term either. He would use some word that sounded like "jaarvai", I suppose it means something like stretching or pulling. He'd say "brigas and neravals are not really important in our style of singing" - this is how you should "pull" that song. It would just be a vowel and to me it sounded like sliding. One long slide.
I loved singing like this for him. He was of course a very critical listener and would go on correcting. Just imagine spending 10 to noon singing the word "saami" over and over again six days a week and having someone correct it. Once he got into teaching a particular line of a varnam, he wouldn't let go. I liked variety. So in the morning, for those 2 or 3 hours, I would be enthusiastic. But in the evening lesson, from 4-6, or from 5-8, I would just be in shreds. My mind and voice just exhausted. We would sing on the terrace in the evening. In the morning, it was in the class room. After 2001, there were no more students coming to dance, he had either retired or they had stopped. He had stopped all his beginner classes even during the previous year. So it was mostly just him and I.
Once in a bluemoon someone would come and dance, but mostly it was just empty. How sad I felt sometimes looking at the box full of thatu kazhis in the corner. This room where so many people had danced for so long. Of course, he had it built only in the early 90s. One of his students' father offered to build it for him on the terrace of his house when he stopped teaching at the school in Kilpauk. The very next year - 94- was when I visited with my sister (who had been his student for a few years in the Kilpauk school). That's how I got in. Using her as my connection. I believe he taught in the Kilpauk school for a long time: from 68 till either 91 or 92. I can't even imagine what that must have been like. So many years and years of teaching.
Anyway, the first time I heard Kamas I thought it was too sweet, too sugary. But after hearing it a few days I began to appreciate it. It was a very sentimental and sweet varnam. It is like seeing families at railway stations saying goodbye's and hello's to their loved ones. All that affection.
Master had a pile of papers with notes scrawled all over them. Some were in his father's handwriting. There were a few notebooks falling apart which had all sorts of "tirmanam" and the correct "edupu" written down. There were a couple of notebooks filled with descriptions of "kais" for a varnam. It would say things like "yemaguva" and then there would be a list of 5 or 7 "kais" each with a 2 sentence description. Things like "what did she say to you? Did she cover her face with a veil? Did she walk in the moonlight? Did she do blackmagic and bewitch you?" - etc. etc.
So, Master was looking for the one little bit of paper that had the "kai"-s for the kamas varnam. Alas, he couldn't find it. So he said to me, "I don't want to mix it up with anything else. I have to keep looking for the right sequence of 'kai' so I have to keep searching". Oh no! I thought. He pulled two boxes out of some old suitcases and spread a pile of tattered folded-over papers and we opened them all up and looked. But no ... no kamas. Then two years later, I came back and his son found it. It was in a bag with a bunch of other things and it was just this little sheet that said "kamas" on it. It wasn't Master's handwriting. I wonder whose it was? His father's?
But now, it's 2007, and as Master and I rehearse the hands, he says to me regretfully, "These 3 hands I just don't remember". After all these years of rehearsing the song, finding this paper, learning all the choreography for the second half. For these crucial hands in the first half, he's just forgotten. I was so upset. There is no one he's taught this to - not in a very long time - and back then they weren't even recording anything. so it's just gone, gone, gone with the wind.
One of his students said to me: "but you have the meaning, you know the gestures for all the other varnams, why can't you just choreograph it?". But I know that it just wouldn't be the same. I've seen others do that and I know the difference immediately. It would just be a parody of the real thing. No, that is just not the way to go. It would be an insult to this piece and to what it once was. This will just be one of those unfinished varnams. It will just be there in my mind.
Friday, July 6, 2007
orthodox and broad-minded
I had always thought of orthodox people as being stuck in the past and narrow minded and full of all sorts of prejudices. But once again, I discovered over time, that Master was very broad-minded on some things while being absolutely orthodox on others.
When I began to live with him, I noticed that relatives who came for a visit and went away would always fall at his feet and get his blessing when they were going away. One time, I went to his student's arangetram where one of his former disciples came to the function, and she fell at his feet. On Vijaya dasami, all his disicples would do the same and they would put their hands over the fire from the lit piece of camphor.
Master was a very modern person in some ways. I didn't realize how broad-minded he was until someone explained it to me.
I just took it for granted that it was a merit-based system. I worked hard, I practiced, I learnt the basic pieces, I followed his rules, so naturally he taught me very well. But ... there is no "naturally" about that. He need not have taught me so well, even though I followed all his rules. Other gurus reserve the best for family.
At that time I didn't see how extraordinary and how modern it was but later I realized it: this strict impartiality that he followed in the classroom, teaching according to certain principles, and stubbornly refusing any other consideration to enter into the picture: how many people can be that impartial? I believe it is a rare quality. It brought a certain detachment and also a level of dignity to the whole pursuit. We did not have to worry about his mood or his personality or about trying to please him: it was so clear and so simple.
Other disciples have remarked this about Master: it's all or nothing. Either he doesn't teach you at all, or quickly stops after a beginner stage, or else, if he decides to go for it, he goes all the way, and doesn't hold anything back. And he slogs at it, he won't leave it at half-finished or in a shoddy state. He'll work you over until you have it down to his satisfaction.
During my time, in Master's classroom, I saw students from a wide variety of socio-economic backgrounds. There was a dancer who lived down the street of very modest circumstances and she would pay something like a hundred and fifty rupees a month. He didnt' care. There was no set fee. Everyone paid what they could, it was voluntary and he would never ask. Over eight years she became a good student and he would spent 3 or 4 hours each day, six days a week, teaching her the danyasi varnam. It was such a paltry sum! For all those hours and hours of teaching.
On the other hand, there was a person from the cinema world who approached him and offered him a fabulous sum if he would come and teach her just one margam at her place. He refused point blank. He wouldn't go teach at any one's house, they had to come to him. Also, anyone from the world of "cinema" he automatically refused, as did his father, he used to say. Basically, if you approached him with the attitude of "I will give you so much if ..." he would just refuse. It wasn't the way to approach, you couldn't talk "business" or "negotiate". He would generally only take beginners, and would usually refuse people who were advanced students who wanted to add items to their repertoire.
One of his cardinal rules with existing students was not dancing to someone else's nattuvangam. If a student went to another teacher's class room or if they hired someone else to do nattuvangam and danced to that - then it was over. The class room was permanently closed. Famous students learnt the hard way that when it came to this rule nothing could bend him. Not all the glittering fame nor success, not pleading. He could throw it all away and start over.
And yet, to me, there is something grand and very modern in a man who can refuse to bend his principles - who will say "no" to patronage and fame, and who will instead pour himself out on a talented dancer from a poor family who will probably never make a big name.
As I said, there were students in his classroom from all religions (jains, hindus, muslims, christians), and many different castes and many different economic circumstances. Once class started, everyone was corrected in the same way. No special treatment, no coddling.
Even after I got to know him well as a person and could speak to him as a friend, I always kept conversation outside of class. Once we entered the classroom, once he picked up that thatu kazhi, everything else stopped, I was the student, he was the teacher, and I did not joke or chat or make conversation. Some people think that nattuvanars from this community are very touchy. I remember a critic writing once that the smallest thing could make them pack up and leave. Not true. From my perspective, it was eminently rational. I behaved with him as I behaved in any of my classes.
When I began to live with him, I noticed that relatives who came for a visit and went away would always fall at his feet and get his blessing when they were going away. One time, I went to his student's arangetram where one of his former disciples came to the function, and she fell at his feet. On Vijaya dasami, all his disicples would do the same and they would put their hands over the fire from the lit piece of camphor.
Master was a very modern person in some ways. I didn't realize how broad-minded he was until someone explained it to me.
I just took it for granted that it was a merit-based system. I worked hard, I practiced, I learnt the basic pieces, I followed his rules, so naturally he taught me very well. But ... there is no "naturally" about that. He need not have taught me so well, even though I followed all his rules. Other gurus reserve the best for family.
At that time I didn't see how extraordinary and how modern it was but later I realized it: this strict impartiality that he followed in the classroom, teaching according to certain principles, and stubbornly refusing any other consideration to enter into the picture: how many people can be that impartial? I believe it is a rare quality. It brought a certain detachment and also a level of dignity to the whole pursuit. We did not have to worry about his mood or his personality or about trying to please him: it was so clear and so simple.
Other disciples have remarked this about Master: it's all or nothing. Either he doesn't teach you at all, or quickly stops after a beginner stage, or else, if he decides to go for it, he goes all the way, and doesn't hold anything back. And he slogs at it, he won't leave it at half-finished or in a shoddy state. He'll work you over until you have it down to his satisfaction.
During my time, in Master's classroom, I saw students from a wide variety of socio-economic backgrounds. There was a dancer who lived down the street of very modest circumstances and she would pay something like a hundred and fifty rupees a month. He didnt' care. There was no set fee. Everyone paid what they could, it was voluntary and he would never ask. Over eight years she became a good student and he would spent 3 or 4 hours each day, six days a week, teaching her the danyasi varnam. It was such a paltry sum! For all those hours and hours of teaching.
On the other hand, there was a person from the cinema world who approached him and offered him a fabulous sum if he would come and teach her just one margam at her place. He refused point blank. He wouldn't go teach at any one's house, they had to come to him. Also, anyone from the world of "cinema" he automatically refused, as did his father, he used to say. Basically, if you approached him with the attitude of "I will give you so much if ..." he would just refuse. It wasn't the way to approach, you couldn't talk "business" or "negotiate". He would generally only take beginners, and would usually refuse people who were advanced students who wanted to add items to their repertoire.
One of his cardinal rules with existing students was not dancing to someone else's nattuvangam. If a student went to another teacher's class room or if they hired someone else to do nattuvangam and danced to that - then it was over. The class room was permanently closed. Famous students learnt the hard way that when it came to this rule nothing could bend him. Not all the glittering fame nor success, not pleading. He could throw it all away and start over.
And yet, to me, there is something grand and very modern in a man who can refuse to bend his principles - who will say "no" to patronage and fame, and who will instead pour himself out on a talented dancer from a poor family who will probably never make a big name.
As I said, there were students in his classroom from all religions (jains, hindus, muslims, christians), and many different castes and many different economic circumstances. Once class started, everyone was corrected in the same way. No special treatment, no coddling.
Even after I got to know him well as a person and could speak to him as a friend, I always kept conversation outside of class. Once we entered the classroom, once he picked up that thatu kazhi, everything else stopped, I was the student, he was the teacher, and I did not joke or chat or make conversation. Some people think that nattuvanars from this community are very touchy. I remember a critic writing once that the smallest thing could make them pack up and leave. Not true. From my perspective, it was eminently rational. I behaved with him as I behaved in any of my classes.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Sakiye
Sakiye ... Intha ve e e e e lai ... yi il ...
That was my first varnam. At first I thought it was boring, neither this nor that, I took me a while to "get" the melody. I thought other varnams were more "fancy" and this was just a 'beginner' varnam because that's what everyone started with in his classroom. Oh how wrong I was! It is every bit a "big" varnam. It can stand right next to "Sami Ninne" and "Adimogam" and "Danike" and the Huseini. Later, like 5 years later, when I could talk and chat freely and discuss things with Master, I broached this topic: what did he think of this versus that, was one varnam bigger or more important than the others. No, they're all "periya varnam", in all of them there is "azhagu".
By the way, it took years before I would discuss things freely with Master. I mean, initially, from 94-97, I would just say nothing at all. It was like I'd taken a vow of silence. That was because I knew I was still "on probation". He didn't really know me. I was just a visitor like so many others. I knew that he would quickly throw out people who were impertinent or crossed the line. I just didn't know where that line was and didn't want to take any risks. So to show him that I was serious and willing to play by the rules, I just kept quiet in class and didn't say anything.
And of course Master was not a "theory" person. He didn't talk about it. He just did it. And I suppose I imbibed that from him unconsciously. I remember in 2000 or 2001, this man from would come, he always had some book or another and was always keen to describe but it was like he was talking round and round in circles. It just seemed kind of meaningless. He had this idea that was so crazy and he wanted to discuss it with Master and see what Master thought: he was "making up" the kai (hands) for "Mogamana" and for the line "Nagariga" he wanted to know if he could put a water tank in that town just to show how beautiful that town was. I bit my lip when he told me this. I didn't say anything. After lunch this man hung around and broached the topic to Master.
"To show that it is a beautiful town" .... "can we have a tank or a water tank".
Master just asked him to repeat it ... either he didn't hear or couldn't believe what this man was saying.
"A water tank" he repeated "since it is a big town".
- "A water tank?"
- "Yes, you know, a nice developed town has to have a water tank" and he made a square pattern with his hands to show a water tank.
- "A developed town will have a water tank, yes, also a bus stand, a railway station, an airport" said Master and just left that hanging.
I was just dying. I couldn't laugh with this man sitting right there. But he looked serious, maybe he didn't get it that Master was joking because he said it with an absolutely straight face. I was thinking to myself: "what if this man had a kutcheri and his disciple learnt Mogamana and suddenly there were planes taking off and water tanks and buses and railway stations. It would be hilarious!
No, no. SP is very orthodox. Or just basically honest. There were no "new items". He taught what he had learnt and just stopped with that. At that time I didn't realize how ethical and honest and rare that was. Only when I saw other performances where people would just pack in whatever they liked and sometimes even let you think that it was "authentic" or old - that's when I realized how much integrity SP had as an artist and Guru. No water tanks, nothing fake, no "making up" stuff. The real thing ... nothing but the real thing.
But getting back to "Sakiye", that was my first varnam. I learnt it in 94 and would always the tape playing it softly, in the car, on my walkman, at home. So that during my return trips when he asked me to sing it along with him, it would just get closer and closer to what he was singing. I knew that's what he was looking for. If I could learn this properly, others would follow, if not, well, that would be that. So it took me 4 years. 94, 95, 97, - I didn't come in 96, and to this day I regret missing a year. I went off to Paris for a holiday and come December I had run out of money and couldn't go. Not to mention all those monthly payments - believe me, as long as you have those high monthly payments (whatever it maybe, loans, credit cards) and you are locked in - it's like a ball and a chain, a jail sentence. You can't leave your job and go away. Anyway, by 98 everything was paid off and I cut up all my plastic cards into little pieces and threw them away. No more plastic! So by my 97 trip I knew from his reaction and also from the way he was teaching other parts of the varnam ( he wouldn't get into the neraval until you had the "basic" or the "plain" - as he called it - down correctly). So by 97 since he was getting into the neraval and ornaments and style, I knew he was satisfied with the foundation.
During my trips in 97, 98 and 99, his relative who played the violin visited. Master had many relatives. They would all visit from time to time. They knew about me and would come up to listen. Naturally, every one is different. Some people have more natural aptitude or talent than others. Some are more discerning than others. So this elderly gentleman Mr. S. S. - who played the violin - I really respected him. He was so sweet, so unassuming, he had absolutely no airs about him. And as a musician he was just really wonderful. I had been to his house along with Master when he visited for family functions like valayakapu and all that. I would speak only when spoken to, and even then, very minimally, just to let him know that I respected his seniority and his quality as an artist. This gentleman had been a professional violinist and had lived in very modest circumstances during his youth but then his children got into a lucrative career and so they became very well off. But still, this man was still very sweet and had no airs about him. One time he came in 99 when I was on my 3 month trip and class was going on and I was singing along with master and it was "sakiye" (magithalam) - it was just great to be sitting next to both of them, as he was humming along as well.
It's funny how each of those varnams have their own "mood". Anyway, that's the first time I had this experience of how a varnam has its own personality. I felt like I was getting to know a person. A very old and complex person who had many many fascinating layers or aspects. It just happens on its own, you can't force it, and I needed SP singing it to me, or with me, for "n" number of times over "n" number of years - without that, it would just not have happened. But when it did, it was just magic. I was singing, he was singing, we just hit that state of feeling. It was just so good.
That was my first varnam. At first I thought it was boring, neither this nor that, I took me a while to "get" the melody. I thought other varnams were more "fancy" and this was just a 'beginner' varnam because that's what everyone started with in his classroom. Oh how wrong I was! It is every bit a "big" varnam. It can stand right next to "Sami Ninne" and "Adimogam" and "Danike" and the Huseini. Later, like 5 years later, when I could talk and chat freely and discuss things with Master, I broached this topic: what did he think of this versus that, was one varnam bigger or more important than the others. No, they're all "periya varnam", in all of them there is "azhagu".
By the way, it took years before I would discuss things freely with Master. I mean, initially, from 94-97, I would just say nothing at all. It was like I'd taken a vow of silence. That was because I knew I was still "on probation". He didn't really know me. I was just a visitor like so many others. I knew that he would quickly throw out people who were impertinent or crossed the line. I just didn't know where that line was and didn't want to take any risks. So to show him that I was serious and willing to play by the rules, I just kept quiet in class and didn't say anything.
And of course Master was not a "theory" person. He didn't talk about it. He just did it. And I suppose I imbibed that from him unconsciously. I remember in 2000 or 2001, this man from would come, he always had some book or another and was always keen to describe but it was like he was talking round and round in circles. It just seemed kind of meaningless. He had this idea that was so crazy and he wanted to discuss it with Master and see what Master thought: he was "making up" the kai (hands) for "Mogamana" and for the line "Nagariga" he wanted to know if he could put a water tank in that town just to show how beautiful that town was. I bit my lip when he told me this. I didn't say anything. After lunch this man hung around and broached the topic to Master.
"To show that it is a beautiful town" .... "can we have a tank or a water tank".
Master just asked him to repeat it ... either he didn't hear or couldn't believe what this man was saying.
"A water tank" he repeated "since it is a big town".
- "A water tank?"
- "Yes, you know, a nice developed town has to have a water tank" and he made a square pattern with his hands to show a water tank.
- "A developed town will have a water tank, yes, also a bus stand, a railway station, an airport" said Master and just left that hanging.
I was just dying. I couldn't laugh with this man sitting right there. But he looked serious, maybe he didn't get it that Master was joking because he said it with an absolutely straight face. I was thinking to myself: "what if this man had a kutcheri and his disciple learnt Mogamana and suddenly there were planes taking off and water tanks and buses and railway stations. It would be hilarious!
No, no. SP is very orthodox. Or just basically honest. There were no "new items". He taught what he had learnt and just stopped with that. At that time I didn't realize how ethical and honest and rare that was. Only when I saw other performances where people would just pack in whatever they liked and sometimes even let you think that it was "authentic" or old - that's when I realized how much integrity SP had as an artist and Guru. No water tanks, nothing fake, no "making up" stuff. The real thing ... nothing but the real thing.
But getting back to "Sakiye", that was my first varnam. I learnt it in 94 and would always the tape playing it softly, in the car, on my walkman, at home. So that during my return trips when he asked me to sing it along with him, it would just get closer and closer to what he was singing. I knew that's what he was looking for. If I could learn this properly, others would follow, if not, well, that would be that. So it took me 4 years. 94, 95, 97, - I didn't come in 96, and to this day I regret missing a year. I went off to Paris for a holiday and come December I had run out of money and couldn't go. Not to mention all those monthly payments - believe me, as long as you have those high monthly payments (whatever it maybe, loans, credit cards) and you are locked in - it's like a ball and a chain, a jail sentence. You can't leave your job and go away. Anyway, by 98 everything was paid off and I cut up all my plastic cards into little pieces and threw them away. No more plastic! So by my 97 trip I knew from his reaction and also from the way he was teaching other parts of the varnam ( he wouldn't get into the neraval until you had the "basic" or the "plain" - as he called it - down correctly). So by 97 since he was getting into the neraval and ornaments and style, I knew he was satisfied with the foundation.
During my trips in 97, 98 and 99, his relative who played the violin visited. Master had many relatives. They would all visit from time to time. They knew about me and would come up to listen. Naturally, every one is different. Some people have more natural aptitude or talent than others. Some are more discerning than others. So this elderly gentleman Mr. S. S. - who played the violin - I really respected him. He was so sweet, so unassuming, he had absolutely no airs about him. And as a musician he was just really wonderful. I had been to his house along with Master when he visited for family functions like valayakapu and all that. I would speak only when spoken to, and even then, very minimally, just to let him know that I respected his seniority and his quality as an artist. This gentleman had been a professional violinist and had lived in very modest circumstances during his youth but then his children got into a lucrative career and so they became very well off. But still, this man was still very sweet and had no airs about him. One time he came in 99 when I was on my 3 month trip and class was going on and I was singing along with master and it was "sakiye" (magithalam) - it was just great to be sitting next to both of them, as he was humming along as well.
It's funny how each of those varnams have their own "mood". Anyway, that's the first time I had this experience of how a varnam has its own personality. I felt like I was getting to know a person. A very old and complex person who had many many fascinating layers or aspects. It just happens on its own, you can't force it, and I needed SP singing it to me, or with me, for "n" number of times over "n" number of years - without that, it would just not have happened. But when it did, it was just magic. I was singing, he was singing, we just hit that state of feeling. It was just so good.
Stately Life
1998.
How harmonious and stately life is when everyone sits down to lunch or dinner at the same time. It can be very simple. At purasawalkam it is not fancy, but plain. There is a table in a corner of the living room. Punctually at 8 in the morning, 1 in the afternoon and either 7:30 or 8 in the evening - everyone sits down to a meal.
The boys sit in a row on the floor. Mr. K. sometimes eats in the kitchen. Hot things come out of the kitchen. I've had food like this before, but meals never had this kind of elegance and stateliness to them. This is new and wonderful.
Mrs. M. makes the best idlis. Breakfast is my favourite meal. But even before breakfast there is coffee. Early in the morning, I get up, at six or six thirty. And I sit on the terrace in my folding canvas chair, listening to my walkman, playing over the discs of the previous day's lesson. That's when it really sinks in. Only when I re-listen to a lesson do I understand all the mistakes. Early in the morning there are birds that go flapping across the sky. Purasawalkam is a busy area but at that hour it feels so serene. I can see trees everywhere. How different from SF. But then I like my SF life very much as well.
Early in the morning when I am sitting the air that has a slight chill to it, Mrs. M. brings me up a tumbler of fresh hot coffee. As always, my conversation with all family members is stiff and formal. I always say the same predictable thing: "how is your health?" and make 1 or 2 sentences of conversation.
These tiny little luxuries. In SF, I live alone, and go down to the cafe at the corner and stand in line for my morning coffee. No one brings me anything and I am fine and wouldn't have it any other way. But this is luxury. All this attention.
At mealtime I feel as thought I am at a court. So many different ages. From 80 to to 40 to 20s to teens to little children aged 2. The entire spectrum. It seems so courtly: these grand retinues, overflowing everywhere. And the children and the young people despite their high spirits and desire to laugh at everything behaving with such propriety. No that's the wrong word, it sounds too prim and narrowminded. I mean natural good-manners. They may not have much money, they may not even have jobs, but when they all sit down to dinner I feel they behave with such class and dignity ... there is just a wonderful sense of correctness and propriety to everything. I like this formality. It is so elegant.
How harmonious and stately life is when everyone sits down to lunch or dinner at the same time. It can be very simple. At purasawalkam it is not fancy, but plain. There is a table in a corner of the living room. Punctually at 8 in the morning, 1 in the afternoon and either 7:30 or 8 in the evening - everyone sits down to a meal.
The boys sit in a row on the floor. Mr. K. sometimes eats in the kitchen. Hot things come out of the kitchen. I've had food like this before, but meals never had this kind of elegance and stateliness to them. This is new and wonderful.
Mrs. M. makes the best idlis. Breakfast is my favourite meal. But even before breakfast there is coffee. Early in the morning, I get up, at six or six thirty. And I sit on the terrace in my folding canvas chair, listening to my walkman, playing over the discs of the previous day's lesson. That's when it really sinks in. Only when I re-listen to a lesson do I understand all the mistakes. Early in the morning there are birds that go flapping across the sky. Purasawalkam is a busy area but at that hour it feels so serene. I can see trees everywhere. How different from SF. But then I like my SF life very much as well.
Early in the morning when I am sitting the air that has a slight chill to it, Mrs. M. brings me up a tumbler of fresh hot coffee. As always, my conversation with all family members is stiff and formal. I always say the same predictable thing: "how is your health?" and make 1 or 2 sentences of conversation.
These tiny little luxuries. In SF, I live alone, and go down to the cafe at the corner and stand in line for my morning coffee. No one brings me anything and I am fine and wouldn't have it any other way. But this is luxury. All this attention.
At mealtime I feel as thought I am at a court. So many different ages. From 80 to to 40 to 20s to teens to little children aged 2. The entire spectrum. It seems so courtly: these grand retinues, overflowing everywhere. And the children and the young people despite their high spirits and desire to laugh at everything behaving with such propriety. No that's the wrong word, it sounds too prim and narrowminded. I mean natural good-manners. They may not have much money, they may not even have jobs, but when they all sit down to dinner I feel they behave with such class and dignity ... there is just a wonderful sense of correctness and propriety to everything. I like this formality. It is so elegant.
Taking the Plunge
1998 was the magic year for me. That's when I decided to try for a 3 month trip instead of the usual 3 or 4 or 5 week trip. So many things happened that year and when I look back I realize how close to the edge I was, how many risks I took, I would just be too scared to do something like that now.
Maybe Master sensed that and maybe that's why he opened up so much that year. I don't know. I'm just guessing.
That one year I was just going by pure instinct, one foot in front of the next, just feeling my way along like someone blindfolded. I didn't know where I was going, didn't have a plan. After flying into Madras, at the hotel, staying up all night from jetlag - I thought to myself: what are you going to say, how to word it, what's your fallback incase he says no.
Oh that jet lag! That first night in Madras tossing and turning unable to sleep and waiting for morning. So I went over, speaking very calmly, I said to him: "I have left my job and come to stay here for 3 months" and then a long pause while it sunk in. "I am looking for a place somewhere near here, if you know of anything. I cannot afford to stay in the hotel for that long".
Then I had lunch at his place, went upstairs to sleep on the mat on the floor and thought: "oh well, I've done it now, que sera sera". That evening or night, SP and Mr. G. both said to me, in that formal and very old-world courteous way they have of speaking, "we would like you to stay with us. You can sleep upstairs in the dance room".
Oh lord! I was just thrilled. I was also broke and if they had not made me that offer I would have had to either cut short my flight and leave within 2 weeks or ... well there was no other option really. So I said: "thank you, I will stay here". The next day I checked out of the hotel and hired a green fiat car and went shopping for little things: buckets and pails and mugs. Bathroom brushes and mops. An electric immersion heater. A folding bed. Gloves (what was I thinking?!). An electric voltage adaptor. When I arrived at Purasawalkam and got out of the car with all my paraphernalia and my blue suitcase - oh what a thrill. That night I put on my stereo and listened to my Billy Holiday CD: "stars fell over alabama". Oh, it was just magical. Wistful. Adventure. A new adventure.
Everyone - the whole family - trooped upstairs just before bedtime to see if I was properly and comfortably installed. Of course I was! I was living in the classroom. The upstairs classroom. There was a terrace and a bathroom on a corner of the terrace.
I didn't realize what a bold step this was for Master. Within a few weeks a relative arrived from the village. An elderly gentleman. It was evening and dinner was served. He kept waiting for me to leave (this visitor) so that he could talk family matters or something. But it was past 8 and I was still there. He kept looking at me and looking at Master. Finally he said to Master "Ithu yaar ithu?" and master just said real casually - "oh that is my disciple, he lives with me, he's come for 3 months and after that he'll go back". "Oh" said the visitor, digesting all this.
I was thrilled! I never knew it could be such a thrill just to live with a family. I've lived with other families before. I've had roommates in college and since. But this was different. "disciple" ... that word just had a ring to it. Suddenly I felt like I was in a different era. Perhaps in olden days this is how it was? You did the sweeping and the dusting and in exchange pearls would drop, pearls of music, pearls of dance? I got carried away by this image and picked up the broom and tried sweeping the floor of that dance room one morning.
Sweeping is such hard work! It looks easy, but it isn't. I huffed and I puffed and swept, swept, and swept but the dust just kept going round and round in circles. Mrs. M. came up to hang up the clothes and was horrified and ran, literally ran in, and snatched that broom out of my hand and said "what are you doing?" as thought I had gone stark raving mad. "I live here, this is where I sleep, so I am sweeping my room clean" I said. "No, you will do nothing of the sort" she said in a very firm voice, for such a gentle lady. "Not while I am here to do the housework. I am the lady of this house and if there is anything to be done in housework, I will do it" she said. She obviously took great satisfaction in that role. I hadn't meant to belittle her. But now I realized that something I could do for my own reason could be interpreted as a shortcoming in someone else not doing their duty. Oh goodness! How complicated!
I had underestimated Mrs. M., she was gentle and retiring in her ways, and always soft-spoken, but I could see this lady was made of steel. She was affectionate and kindly, however, so I wasn't scared. Mrs. M was the lady of the house.
Anyway during that first year I was a novelty in the family. Visitors - who were mostly relatives - coming from other cities, came upstairs to look at me.
Maybe Master sensed that and maybe that's why he opened up so much that year. I don't know. I'm just guessing.
That one year I was just going by pure instinct, one foot in front of the next, just feeling my way along like someone blindfolded. I didn't know where I was going, didn't have a plan. After flying into Madras, at the hotel, staying up all night from jetlag - I thought to myself: what are you going to say, how to word it, what's your fallback incase he says no.
Oh that jet lag! That first night in Madras tossing and turning unable to sleep and waiting for morning. So I went over, speaking very calmly, I said to him: "I have left my job and come to stay here for 3 months" and then a long pause while it sunk in. "I am looking for a place somewhere near here, if you know of anything. I cannot afford to stay in the hotel for that long".
Then I had lunch at his place, went upstairs to sleep on the mat on the floor and thought: "oh well, I've done it now, que sera sera". That evening or night, SP and Mr. G. both said to me, in that formal and very old-world courteous way they have of speaking, "we would like you to stay with us. You can sleep upstairs in the dance room".
Oh lord! I was just thrilled. I was also broke and if they had not made me that offer I would have had to either cut short my flight and leave within 2 weeks or ... well there was no other option really. So I said: "thank you, I will stay here". The next day I checked out of the hotel and hired a green fiat car and went shopping for little things: buckets and pails and mugs. Bathroom brushes and mops. An electric immersion heater. A folding bed. Gloves (what was I thinking?!). An electric voltage adaptor. When I arrived at Purasawalkam and got out of the car with all my paraphernalia and my blue suitcase - oh what a thrill. That night I put on my stereo and listened to my Billy Holiday CD: "stars fell over alabama". Oh, it was just magical. Wistful. Adventure. A new adventure.
Everyone - the whole family - trooped upstairs just before bedtime to see if I was properly and comfortably installed. Of course I was! I was living in the classroom. The upstairs classroom. There was a terrace and a bathroom on a corner of the terrace.
I didn't realize what a bold step this was for Master. Within a few weeks a relative arrived from the village. An elderly gentleman. It was evening and dinner was served. He kept waiting for me to leave (this visitor) so that he could talk family matters or something. But it was past 8 and I was still there. He kept looking at me and looking at Master. Finally he said to Master "Ithu yaar ithu?" and master just said real casually - "oh that is my disciple, he lives with me, he's come for 3 months and after that he'll go back". "Oh" said the visitor, digesting all this.
I was thrilled! I never knew it could be such a thrill just to live with a family. I've lived with other families before. I've had roommates in college and since. But this was different. "disciple" ... that word just had a ring to it. Suddenly I felt like I was in a different era. Perhaps in olden days this is how it was? You did the sweeping and the dusting and in exchange pearls would drop, pearls of music, pearls of dance? I got carried away by this image and picked up the broom and tried sweeping the floor of that dance room one morning.
Sweeping is such hard work! It looks easy, but it isn't. I huffed and I puffed and swept, swept, and swept but the dust just kept going round and round in circles. Mrs. M. came up to hang up the clothes and was horrified and ran, literally ran in, and snatched that broom out of my hand and said "what are you doing?" as thought I had gone stark raving mad. "I live here, this is where I sleep, so I am sweeping my room clean" I said. "No, you will do nothing of the sort" she said in a very firm voice, for such a gentle lady. "Not while I am here to do the housework. I am the lady of this house and if there is anything to be done in housework, I will do it" she said. She obviously took great satisfaction in that role. I hadn't meant to belittle her. But now I realized that something I could do for my own reason could be interpreted as a shortcoming in someone else not doing their duty. Oh goodness! How complicated!
I had underestimated Mrs. M., she was gentle and retiring in her ways, and always soft-spoken, but I could see this lady was made of steel. She was affectionate and kindly, however, so I wasn't scared. Mrs. M was the lady of the house.
Anyway during that first year I was a novelty in the family. Visitors - who were mostly relatives - coming from other cities, came upstairs to look at me.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Gossip
This is my first time living full-time in Pandanallur. He usually comes down for a visit every year, and I go with him, but they've been short stays. But this year I'm here day-in, day-out, like that song says ... anyway ... now everyone has opened up to me, after 13 years I'm no longer an outsider. Now they all speak to me freely.
I don't concentrate on the music and the choreography he's teaching me during lessons and instead my mind goes a wandering. We are singing "Sami Nee Ramanave" in kamas.
And he is very keen on this varnam. He really starts getting deep into the correct way to sing the neraval for the first line. Oh, it is so sweet a varnam. Viscous like honey. We are sitting in the front verandah of his house and it's early morning. The mist is lifting, soon it will all be burnt off by the scorching sun. Outside on the street, a row of little goats, all stepping daintily. There is a dog, maybe a big puppy, it keeps trying to play with the two goats that are butting each other but they ignore it. All very idyllic. He snaps at me. "Where is your concentration?"
I don't concentrate on the music and the choreography he's teaching me during lessons and instead my mind goes a wandering. We are singing "Sami Nee Ramanave" in kamas.
And he is very keen on this varnam. He really starts getting deep into the correct way to sing the neraval for the first line. Oh, it is so sweet a varnam. Viscous like honey. We are sitting in the front verandah of his house and it's early morning. The mist is lifting, soon it will all be burnt off by the scorching sun. Outside on the street, a row of little goats, all stepping daintily. There is a dog, maybe a big puppy, it keeps trying to play with the two goats that are butting each other but they ignore it. All very idyllic. He snaps at me. "Where is your concentration?"
Friday, June 22, 2007
Adimogam
What a truly grand and lyrical varnam this is! I first learnt it by watching Master teach it to Prema. Or rather, I should say: watching Master rehearse it with Prema, because she learnt it a long time ago. Way before I started. I remember in 97 or 98, watching it for the first time. Those big slow circles of the arm, just like in Mogamana, except the mood is so different.
I remember she would come, dance early in the morning, and then go away immediately after class to do her errands. We would stay upstairs singing, SP and I, just singing and singing away. Until Mrs. M. would send someone upstairs to say it was time for his bath.
The first line is so glorious and strong - so different from "antha rangamai" which is very meditative. But Master would get very annoyed if he thought I was being flimsy or weak with it. He would have none of it. "Azhuthamai Paadu!" I remember one time I came out on the terrace to take some clothes off the line and this sheet caught the wind and just filled out and billowed. That's how it always felt - like a big ship setting out majestically with broad sails. Ampleur and vastness and the broad back of the blue sea fanning out behind it.
I remember she would come, dance early in the morning, and then go away immediately after class to do her errands. We would stay upstairs singing, SP and I, just singing and singing away. Until Mrs. M. would send someone upstairs to say it was time for his bath.
The first line is so glorious and strong - so different from "antha rangamai" which is very meditative. But Master would get very annoyed if he thought I was being flimsy or weak with it. He would have none of it. "Azhuthamai Paadu!" I remember one time I came out on the terrace to take some clothes off the line and this sheet caught the wind and just filled out and billowed. That's how it always felt - like a big ship setting out majestically with broad sails. Ampleur and vastness and the broad back of the blue sea fanning out behind it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)