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.

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.

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.

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.