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Where custom endures despite change
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For the `Reformists' the sabha is a place of civilised recreation but for the `Traditionalists', who arrive with packets of tasty snacks or a book to read, it is almost an extension of home. A peep into some of the city sabhas...
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CHENNAI'S SABHA-GOERS are divided into two groups — the DRs (Determined Reformers) and the DTs (Dedicated Traditionalists). The former want to revolutionise everything from doormats to drop curtains. The latter opt for Doing Things As They Have Always Been Done. Why else would the Music Academy cling to a mothballed British regimen for electing its awardee each year? (I propose so-n-so says Vedavalli, I second it echoes Govinda Rao, in solid Carnatic English). All right, it has the merit of brevity.
The Reformists carry noiseless, environment friendly jute bags, leave kids with baby sitters, tiptoe in on time, urge the shutting of the hall doors once the performance begins. The Traditionalist babysits the neighbourhood brood in the hall (note: only in the free cutcheri slots) all carrying crackling plastic bags of crunchy snacks. The claustrophobic DT can listen only if he can perambulate at will, revive with coffee in the tani ``break", does not object to music as a background for his verbal cutcheri with ragas of wider range and modulation than the musician.
For the Reformist the sabha is a place for civilised recreation, whereas the Traditionalist regards it as the extension of his home. Why else would the man in front read a whole business weekly through the concert? You are tantalised — not by his blocking your view completely — but by not knowing whether his incessant nods of approval are for Saveri or Stockmarket News. Such intrepid readers are found in every sabha, lost in anything from Kumudam to Cutcheri Buzz. One NRI even carried a fat ``Is Paris Burning?'' However, I infinitely prefer the readers to those who believe that the cutcheri is a singalong session.
The Traditionalists must have been happy that the inaugural functions of the major sabhas maintained intact the customary tedium of past years. At the Krishna Gana Sabha, nobody could have missed the biodata of the Nritya Chudamani awardee Urmila Satyanarayanan, as it was repeated twice in succession. But at least they had a veteran in the field (Sarada Hoffman) to preside.``Ayyo paavam! He has come totally unprepared!'' was the kindest comment on Chief Justice Subhashan Reddy's ramblings at the Music Academy. Obviously, he knew nothing about Academy history, as he blithely went on to commend its ``smooth election process minus all adverse currents". Kalanidhi-of-the-year Umayalpuram Sivaraman disappointed the Diehards though, with a focussed speech in ``native lingo". No fumbling either, it was as substantial as his tani avartanam.
The silk-n-gold array of women office bearers lent zest to what had been an all male bastion not so long ago. Yet President T.T.Vasu, almost unrecognisable in natty designer kurta, provided the surprise at the Music Academy. Has he actually abandoned his customary working shift whites?
"The Indian dance scene is stale; no spark left.'' Such grumblers there must have found solace at Navtej Johar's session on his experiments in contemporary dance, Natyakala Conference, Krishna Gana Sabha. No, the speaker did not spout flames. On the contrary, in a video clip from his choreography, the young sardar literally washed his long hair, yes, on the stage, in a Terpsichorean representation of personal memory, he said. The lava came from the dancers and dance gurus who staged a walkout when the man expressed his ``passion for the art'' in these terms, "Whatever I do — even if I lie down and scream — is nothing but Bharatanatyam.'' However, presumably for that very reason, trendy enthusiasts mobbed him after the show.
Talking of passion, I have always wondered at people from different countries and cultures drawn to the Indian art scene, often making them delve deeper than we do. Certainly, all those years ago, looking at Ludwig Pesch sitting under a tree in Kalakshetra, trying to grasp what flautist H.Ramachandra Sastri taught in his old world style, I could have never imagined he would launch an archival institution like Sampradaya in Madras. Or that this German scholar would produce one of the most useful books on Carnatic music ("The Illustrated Companion to South Indian Classical Music", Oxford University Press).
A reprint of a 1946 account of Harikesanallur Muthiah Bhagavatar's life (Narada Gana Sabha Trust, 2001) provokes reflections. Written in the usual eulogistic style of Indian profiles, it does give you a few personal details about the artiste's lavish lifestyle and love of perfumes. The Bhagavatar's chiplas were of sandalwood, his pottu of fragrant aragaja, the whole performance hall reeled under the impact of the heady scents he wore. (We recall then how another writer noted playfully that the Tamraparani reeked of punugu and javvadu when the Bhagavatar bathed in it).
But the biography also shows that, for the musicians of yesteryear, nothing came easy. The boy got to make his public debut in Madras through the recommendation of a music-loving cook he had befriended. Kicked out of the guru's house for this presumption, Muthiah struggled for years to find the guidance he thought he still needed.
Perhaps such painstaking toil was necessary for ripe knowledge, for durable mellowness. ``Harikesanallur belongs to the age of production,'' a present-day vidwan explained in business jargon. "We are the beneficiaries of the marketing generation. Don't you see it in the music season?"
Chennai hosted another inveterate toiler from Nagerkoil last week. He looked ready for a picnic in bright checks and peaked cap, not like one who could satisfy the desperate need in the upper class, anglicised urban citizens for reconnecting to regional roots via the arts. But at a bilingual celebration of Sundara Ramaswamy's work at the British Council, the Tamil writer became their man for all seasons when he read his verses and spoke about overcoming setbacks in creative endeavours. His alapana was short, marked by genuine feeling, a rare wit, and that intolerance which is an essential part of uncompromising standards. It was amusing to note sangatis on old rivalries and polemics, still surviving among Tamil writers, much as they do among the vidwan fraternity. Robert Frost was probably right when he said that poetry is what is lost in translation. But the prose episodes in English from ``Waves''(Manas, Eastwest Books), enacted by the Madras Players, came through with layers more intact. Overheard in the sabha foyer:
Mami: Remember I used to wear a bullakku as sparkling as K.J.Sarasa's when we were just married? Did you see Nithyasree's big kasumalai? I want to make one just like that for my granddaughter. Sudha Ragunathan's jimikki outshines all the eardrops I have seen.
Mama: Do you think Sudha Ragunathan can bring off her blitzkrieg brikas without that jimikki? By the way, do you think you can recognise ragas without your vaira thodu?
GOWRI RAMNARAYAN
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