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.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
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.
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