If Music Be the Food of Life...

I was at the Taj Mahal Tea House for breakfast this time two years ago in Bombay. As a trained Hindustani classical musician, the faint snatches of Aarti Ankalikar's aalap reached my ears soon as I entered the eatery. I was floored already. From my vantage, I also spotted what was neatly labelled as Ustad Zakir Hussain's tabla.

Now anyone who knows Ustad saab's playing would know a pair would not even cut it. In a faintly populated 25-table restaurant with patrons ranging ages 25 to 50 years of age, I wondered how many people spotted this inadequacy, impeccably designed as the interiors are of the Bandra reclamation tea lounge.

One person on my table thought the restaurant wasn't even playing any music until well towards the end of his Spanish omelette. This sparked a series of questions in my head:

Does Indian classical music still wield a magical effect on the listener?
Is it still considered therapeutic?
Does it still inspire the individual to aspire for a higher plane of existence?
Or has it turned into something of an unwelcoming war-waging mechanism against masses, in that, assuming a rather in elitist reputation, almost bordering divisive?

Why does the millennial perceive classical music with either indifference or misplaced reverence rooted in the utter lack of evolution as in the case of my last Shanmukhananda Hall experience?



Is it so dryly cerebral that it lacks any visceral or emotional appeal?
Is it too lengthy for a 140-character Tweet or 25-second Vine generation?
Do the ancient lyrics rooted in historical regions hold little to no meaning for our Hinglish mores?
Is it so contrived that the mediocre struggle to copy the bourgeoisie in an attempt to conform?

What constitutes the modern experience of such a constantly evolving art form?
What would bring it back to the recreational space?
Is collaboration the answer?
Are educated listicles and infographics the solutions?

It is time for those who appreciate classical music (not just Hindustani or Carnatic, even Western) to humanise this otherwise unnatural entity called Hindustani classical music. To what end, you ask? To begin with, for anyone who would like a less uptight approach to raga, listener etiquette, appreciation and avenues, perhaps. In a time when we live by stories and content, classical music suddenly seems so prosaic in its approach.

Why isn't a bunch of 20-somethings sitting around a campfire exchanging notes on what their teacher taught them without any sense of superiority or inferiority? Music academicians would serve a greater purpose if they helped listeners appreciate Ananda Shankar, and then drew parallels and pointed out differences between the Sitar Rockstar hippie and his Rock & Roll brother. Hell, it could just be a podcast in which a popular but trained (whose ear is tuned) musician would play snatches of the age old signatures (s)he learned and then just rant about why something perceived to be so disciplined and cut and dried is really so fluid.

Many years ago, when I first began training in Hindustani Classical vocals with Sheela ma'am, to teach me sur and taal, she would often ask us to listen several times first and then try to reproduce.  I remember singing several raaga bandish repeatedly to not only remember the song, but also graduate to the nuances while listening to the self.

As Sheela ma'am would say, "Taansen बनने से पहले कानसेन बनिये!"

Origami Meditation

Among the many things you resign to your utopian bucket list, to pick up a hobby and to meditate often feature in our I-don't-have-time-to-smell-the-flowers-or-my-sucky-cappuccino life. Images of either clichéd dance & music classes or dorky philately are conjured in both, the writer as well as the reader's mind. Sorry to break it to you, love, hobbies don't work that way, meditation doesn't come that easy.

I've lately discovered that people in pain, or suffering some kind of catharsis often turn to work, or some kind of physical activity outside of work to keep them distracted. I was in doldrums too, about three years ago, when socialising or any kind of recreation seemed like too much work. So I signed up for a play-reading group that met once in three weeks to a month on a Sunday afternoon. Not enough to keep me from plunging deeper into the murky abyss of negativity and pessimism and a general lack of productivity.

I took to watching tv series on my laptop for a while, but that would only lead to more late nights, a wandering mind, and restlessness. On one such evening when my binge watching session was preceded by Facebook prowling, I stumbled upon Aziz's profile picture on Facebook back then (below).

Posted by Aziz Mansur on Friday, 23 November 2012

Of course, what you see in the picture is a highly complex and skilled piece of tessellation that I might hope to achieve in perhaps the next decade. However, it inspired me to pick up a square piece of paper and start folding. In less than a week, I had a whole shelf dedicated folded paper animals, since those most fascinated me - a yellow elephant shared the corner with a centaur and a pegasus and a cat and a bird and even a turtle...

I later discovered a hole in the wall stationery shop on one of my jaunts out from Bandra station. This was the big break, for now I found paper specifically made for the purpose with vivid prints and textures so the folds would hold and not disintegrate.

The peacock that Mr Gandhi taught me

Soon I felt the need to inject some method into the madness that origami had become for me. since I was already on Meetup, I looked up the forum for contact groups that met regularly nearby, to learn certain folds better and explore the possibility of getting better paper, but alas, in vain. Then I remembered Aziz mentioning Origami Mitra, the group that met in Dadar.

At the end of that wonderful afternoon learning what paper to fold, and being presented with a peacock that Kamlesh Gandhi folded for me, he asked - "how did you know about us?"

A year before that afternoon, I had organized my first storytelling session for Pratham Books in September 2012. To make things more interesting for the kids, I asked Aziz if he'd be willing to conduct a basic origami session. Unfortunately, he was on the road, but recommended Himanshu Agarwal from Origami Mitra, and that really is where my tryst with the craft began. The wonders of turning any monochromatic piece of square (sometimes not even!) paper into (almost) any shape you desire!

The classic swan by Mr Kamlesh Gandhi

In my conversation with Mr. Gandhi, he told me about the origins of Origami Mitra. The entity was founded by the grand daughter of Lokmanya Tilak and a few friends in the late 1980s. Members range retirees, homemakers, and young students alike. A math teacher, regular at the fortnightly OM meetings, gives tangible form to math through origami. A couple of kids and young mothers and craft teachers were part of the motley that day too. Gandhi himself also deals in paper for origami folding among other things.

Apart from these meetings, Origami Mitra conducts marathon day-long sessions and annual exhibitions as well.

Most dismiss the art as a kids thing, but if the scale of international championships and convention events are anything to go by, both, the process as well as resultant models are nothing short of serious business!

My first real attempt was the Yoshizawa Butterfly and then a Fumiaki Kawahata Elephant and a frog. Easy it isn't, but if you're up for a challenge - John Montroll's giraffe that Himanshu and his 12 IIT-B student mates accomplished in 103 moves and 70 creases would be the standard to surpass. There are as many layers of study to the paper-sculpting hobby as to any other that one might take up. The world, largely divided into designers and folders.

My first folds

But how do I classify it as meditation?

Having trained in Hindustani Classical music, the level of precision involved in achieving the perfect final product is high. Not only does it require one to concentrate, but also be nimble handed and patient. I remember a dry throat and aching thumb when I attempted my first bat. Obviously I was jumping the guns, and eventually gave up in absolute frustration. But the multiple fold-imprinted paper occupies centrespace in my closet as a constant reminder that I must keep trying, and strive to get there someday, soon. The list of personality traits necessary to dive deep into the mesmerising realm of origami don't end there. You need at least a basic aptitude for symmetry, if not geometry, and the ability to judge the right kinds of paper - much like an editor's obsession with grammar - the instructor at my Origami Mitra session, Geeta ben threw a fit when she saw my marble paper!

 Origami frog tutorial

Kirigami cards at Temple Street, Hong Kong

The gathering at the Origami Mitra meet up felt more like a disorganised tuition class, chaotic and distracted. And that first visit was already the death knell to any subsequent visits. YouTube has proved a useful platform for learning, exploring the same methods in better detail, and of course discovering new designs and tutors in the comfort and confines of one's own room or office or even a commute. Finding funky craft paper was not a challenge, but I grew ambitious. Now I wanted various kinds of paper that would lend itself to more fluid designs.

Bestie, Twara's demand, a little sunny snail

So I asked a friend in Kuala Lumpur if he was to return any time soon. Not only was he confused trying to look for the right paper, he was also boggled by the sheer variety. He simply gave up. On my recent visit to Hong Kong however, it didn't occur to me to look for some myself, though I did stumble upon a roadside Kirigami card seller at Temple Street.

A photo posted by pu (@bombaychuddies) on Nov 21, 2015 at 4:12am PST

I have since experimented with with quite a few designs and even been to a few exhibitions. But as old Prof. Salat at MSU as well as Prof. Ashok at EFL said, you have to internalise to remember for posterity, to pass on these precious pieces. And so I decided to parse the folds. I practised and practised till I could remember the butterfly, the classic crane and some varieties of boats. however, I leave you here with my little zoo!

So this weekend #diy project finally saw the light of tonight! #birdcage #newspaper #origami #canary

A photo posted by pu (@bombaychuddies) on Jul 20, 2015 at 12:31pm PDT

Inspired by @chinmayajailwala and have been practicing for a few days now #origami #crane #hobby #handmade #paper #craft

A photo posted by pu (@bombaychuddies) on Sep 3, 2015 at 9:50am PDT

The beginning of a laborious #longweekend #origami #boat #joyofgiving #daanutsav2015

A photo posted by pu (@bombaychuddies) on Oct 3, 2015 at 1:11am PDT

Navsari

​Navsari, a nondescript little town en route the Western Railways main line, a station between Valsad and Surat, native to many a Parsis and as many Gujarati Jains, the closest rail to Dandi - where India's first realisation of freedom was spelt. The place where I discovered Gujarati gastronomical wonders such as લસણીયા બટાકા, cheese butter masala, Budhiબેન ની ચા and the array of delicacies waiting to put you in a culinary tizzy at Lunsi Kui.

Since that first time in March 2012, it's also been a town, which I've met more people who call home in some form or another. A past that is more resistant to change for fear of losing its heritage than for fear of change itself. An ethos so full of purpose for the causes it had supported so far, and promises to carry forth through generations to come, quietly, but resiliently.

Unlike bigger cities of Gujarat, Navsari has steadfastly spat in the face of bulldozing development, even when its excavators and concrete slabs prevailed, almost as if echoing the sentiment of the man who broke the salt law not farther than 14 km away. It has not cowered in the wake of modern political oscillation. It has shown the middle finger to Bombay.

Then again, it has opened its arms to embrace Bombay's injured and inebriated.

Navsari opens its arms to embrace Bombay's injured and inebriated

And then Navsari comes to Bombay. And it says, you folks don't know how to live; I don't blame you for not singing here in your open voices, and not throwing back your heads uncontrollably when you laugh helplessly; આવ, હૂં તને પમ્પોળું; આવ તને વ્હાલ કરું અને પ્રેમ આપું; તારી ચિંતા અને કદર માં તને વઢુ અને સમજાવુ (come let me caress you, let me give you my affection and love, in caring for you and appreciation, let me scold you and teach you).

I've written about it before on this blog as a place of music, a short drive to the beach, and as the childhood nurturer of my friend, Veeram. Navsari belongs to anyone who wants to be Navsari, really.  In that, Navsari is a sanctuary that is independent of its geography, its people, its old architecture and meandering lanes. Hell, it might be a town with few or no opportunities, but where loans and debts are not equated to sustenance or sustainability. Patience and perseverance get you there.

You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave

If you want to be (in) Navsari, you needn't even take that four-hour train ride, for it is not some memory stamped on your heart or nostalgia.

Navsari is a state of mind. To achieve it, you must be honest to yourself constantly.

And then you enter the realm of the real and the realistic. Then even your tiny hole-in-the-wall-like room in the queen of Bombay's suburbs would feel like Navsari.

Navsari is like that. You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.

Art

Halfway through his month-long stay in Bombay, Anubhav Rao, a fresh tweenager intern and I were in the auto late one weeknight heading to Bandra's cheap watering hole, Janta. Among the few things we spoke of on the quick drive, work - his & mine - came up. Anu completes his internship at Crude Area next week. At the time of our conversation, he had been asked to write short descriptions for a few art pieces, since Crude Area sources, curates and sells affordable digital prints by artists from around the world.

Anubhav was confronted with a dead end on the assignment. As articulate and competent he is with words, arty jargon was a first. I began rattling off some areas of focus – colour, treatment, elements, mood – and then a mildly amusing 'texture' he chorused with me.

We meandered to other related and tangential topics through the course of the evening. He is observant, even if not a talker. But the comical one-word chorus set me thinking.

I've known about, and the people behind, CA for barely a few months now. Their hard-to-miss ethos, however, even in a front page ET story from last weekend, is to make art 'accessible'. As author of the Prix Moliere winning play Art suggests, "There's no point… if it isn't accessible, because no one will see it. The greatest… were also accessible."

Art is a limited space & time play about three friends and their perceptions of a really expensive 5' X 4' white painting with some barely perceivable white diagonal lines on it. In the course of the play, their discussion heats to a violent brawl and the three end up questioning the very fabric of their friendship.

Art. A space that is hazy as hell and crazy as can be; chaotic as peak-hour traffic in this city and peaceful as the desert landscapes of the Iceland Pico Iyer describes in his travelogue, Falling Off The Earth. And amid all of those anomalies and harmonies lie the sometimes elitist, sometimes nonsensical, sometimes baroque and sometimes relatable pieces of art. As an increasingly unsurpassable factor in cultures across the globe – especially with pop versions and styles gaining strength of numbers and prominence – art of any kind has become impossible to ignore. But how do you enjoy it? Surely a 14" laptop screen isn't the best way to take it in – however convenient. Most of us can't spare the hours to gape at an original at an art gallery or museum either. In the constant vying for mental space that music, fiction and visuals squabble with on TV, on the internet and of course in our world around, isolation of any one form of aesthetic rendition is not only a ludicrous thought but also a rather narrow approach.

Like meditation, any, however menial, study of aesthetics requires at least one catalyst. It could be a drone or a refrain, a painting to complement what you might be reading.

A few days back, someone shared a recent piece by Stephen Fry on Facebook. The immediate impulse was to click on the link and quickly skim through its contents. Fry quotes one of literature's most famous speeches from Shakespeare's Hamlet:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

But it wasn't half as much fun as I thought it would be. The mind demanded a far heightened experience of the passage from Hamlet's Act 3 Scene 1 that Fry quotes in his piece. There was also an immediate urge to open YouTube and play the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby, because he finishes with a line from the song.

So I went back to the soliloquy from one of Shakespeare's most renowned and depressing tragedies of blind distrust in love. But half way through this altered reading, I caught myself, this is no good. The vocals in the song hampered the absorption of the monologue. How about an instrumental orchestra version then? The last one is not hard to find since several 50-piecers of repute have attempted it to great degrees of success.
Since I tend to read with pauses of moments to look up, a new craving launched. My eyes wanted a view of this painting from my living room (thank you CA!).

Killer Tune by Enkel Dika

I finally played it all out in my head, like the final take of a film reel. So perfect, so harmonious, so ironically peaceful, for Fry's piece was about loneliness.

Now I had an element each to enamour my senses – my vision, hearing, speech, intellect, touch (for it sure gave me goosebumps). If only I had my sister's often-opened copy of the volume to read it from, as the aroma of yellowing paper would make my olfactory go into a tizzy.

Then again, if wishes had wings, I would have few new experiences in art to look forward to. For now, I revel in the sheer possibility of recreating this delight.

Tyger, Jeeves, Hobbes, Junglee Maharaj... Duffer!

Thaaaaaaaaat's Duffer!

I am surprised that little Duffer doesn't have a whole post dedicated to him yet. Not because he's just so significant an entrant into my life, but for the simple reason that he occupies more head space for at least a dozen people I know already! And he's been in town only a month!

Like every new kid in the family, he's had some specials for him. He has not only been adopted by mommy - PU (me that is), but also has a creche and weekend getaway, a godmother, a granny and a couple of aunts. He must also aspire for the grumpy expression that Sajani's gift to me carries - a ceramic cat face mounted on a copper ring, not to mention toil hard to escape the shadows of a name so cruel.

So it turns out what Hitanshu said about the feelings of mothers feeding their children is in fact, a fact We are indeed orgasmic about it. As I watch Duffer, aka Junglee Maharaj finish his rice-and-fish breakfast, a comforting calm sets in inside of me. I know little about motherhood. Even less about childbirth. But when this closet butler hops about at play, eats to what we may think – his heart’s content, shits the right colour and texture, and sleeps like he were living Lennon’s Imagine, a mother couldn't ask for more.

Adopting a cat away from home had always been on my mind. City hopping more than twice seemed to be a self-disqualifying criterion. And my record was superlatively appalling.

And just then, opportunity knocked. Aditya’s mail brought to life an almost dormant ability. Of course, Sajani made the journey literally, a breeze. Perhaps it had been the wish to take care of another being and give one’s all. Some of us enjoy being depended upon. Even if at times the pressure may get to us, we continue doggedly towards being carers: carers of the sick, carers to the old, carers to our spouses and children. I chose Duffer – my tom cat of about 6 weeks now. Yet, using words like chose and adopt fall flat. It is always the other way around with them felines. They just deign upon us the privilege, really.

In the past month, many lessons have been wielded my way. From the everyday phenomena of worms and gas, to more startling realizations about forced stability, independence and channelling energies and one’s attention.

My hot hangouts and places to meet new and interesting people are vet clinics and pet stores or pet sections in malls now. I bond over felines and canines and read up about food grade diatomaceous earth online.

Feminism, existentialism, communism, cataclysm have all been tossed out of the window. People are judged on the basis of their ability to get along with quadrupeds, not bipeds anymore. Compassion and not sympathy are prized. Education or the lack thereof is completely ignored. All that rules… is instinct.

Season of song or song of the season?

My jazz teacher wrote the most wonderful words for me in a mail two days ago. Not like ‘you move like a gazelle, my love’, more the sort that could only come from him. For my poems, for my words, for me.

Allan is on the mailing list of my poetry blog along with only 9 other people since quite a while. From time to time, when my verse strikes a chord with him particularly, he responds on email. I don’t know if the personal note is a conscious effort to not make too much of a footprint on the public web, or just his way of showing he’s not flippant.

Either way, his mails have always been thoughtful. Barely a few lines. Usually one or two, Allan would never end at just one empty word though. 'Nice's and 'good read's are not his thing.

But this time, his mail was not only different from usual, it became something of a short conversation. He asked if I wrote what I felt or just random thoughts. In my response, I told him that usually it's just collated thoughts - ideas of which one may think, thoughts others voice or just words I may have read somewhere.

He replied with appreciation for my 'capture of emotions'. He said they are 'the kind of thought that one thinks, staring at the ceiling or when silent tears soak the pillow' and signed off with this line "Lie, that you want to lay beside me".

When someone writes to you and chooses also to add just one more simple thought, can you help but sit back and recall your favourite memory of such a being?

Allan had taught me my first jazz number. When I was barely quitting teens and in the middle of my first college play (managing music, and still in school myself), Allan and I met a second time and spent much time bonding over my lack of any awareness of Western Classical music and his expertise in it. Not only did he teach me the basics, but also tested my voice right then.

There are few people in the midst of whom I feel rather small. My music teacher is one. Singing to Allan Rodrigues was only the second. And then it happened. He taught me Summertime. I’ve probably heard more versions of the song since than I can remember – Sarah Brightman, Louis Armstrong, a Latino version, and more.

In my following mail, I told him of how this thought keeps visiting me from time to time – I don't see him for such long interims, it's not funny. But I feel honoured that despite his utterly reclusive disposition, he chooses to stay connected – and I don’t mind the seeking of an appointment the previous night on text or early morning on mail. His presence at my sister's wedding, all the music sessions with him at King's Circle...

I also told him how much glee I still experience when I sing my version of Summertime with a Malkauns bandish to those who will care to listen. How much surprised they look, and how thankful I am to him.

Somehow, the line he had signed off with  fit into my poem harmoniously. I felt compelled to weave it in and asked if I could flick it. The beautiful soul that he is to me, here's what he said...

"Your writing moves me and makes me want to respond. Strangely, whenever I am at my busiest, your writing appears in my inbox. Am at a day long workshop and here's the lovely poem...

Sing away. Summertime was my gift to you. Your rendition of it is your gift to me and others who hear it.

And to think that you want to use my line... feels nice inside. Didn't think I had an atom of writing in me.

Remember the time I used your line that said 'And some midnights,/ Many miles away,/ A text stirs you mid-slumber.'

I often hear your voice in my mind and think of songs you'd sing. I'd love to hear you again..."

Here's Lie on Mush Room, my poetry blog, with Allan's line incorporated.

Highway to high way

3 days. A long weekend. Many cat lovers. And a chocolate cake. As soon as I had moved to Pune three months ago, I knew this place had energy in store for me. I began to unlearn all my previous paces: of home, of Nizami thaat, of hapless filth. Even before I had arrived, I had been sold its lures. And the lure didn't lie so much in the monuments, in the food, in the city's chaos, oh no. Just people.
Plain vanilla people. 

Women with pishvis, men in collared tee shirts or bush shirts, young techies with id cards dangling around their necks like nooses, kids in uniform with oil drenched hair, the big cars and their humble drivers, the autowalas and their माझ. Indeed, the rosy winters and the perennial bougainvillas did their bit in making me fall in love with Pune, but it has, honestly, been the people who have visited me or the friends who I've met whilst they were here on business, that have strengthened the heartstrings even more. I am yet to strike out any of the items I had jotted down on my to-do list while I'm here. But no matter. There's a vintage Beetle, ragged and rusty, cobwebbed, with its paint chipped, waiting each day for me to turn right from - a landmark not preempted. A charm that has the power to surprise everyday.

And yet that is also not it. What about Veeram's house? What about my own? What about my favourite restaurant? And its काली दाल and बैंगन bharta that I've yet to savour again?

So Sajani was here over the weekend. Here only to see me and, on short notice, also to rescue Duffer, my newly adopted tom. Having known Saj for almost seven years now is a tad hard to believe, because really, it was only that first week of spending concentrated hours with each other several times that account for our experience of each other. For our knowing of each other. For our comfort of each other. We have never lived in the same city, leave alone studied or worked together. We come from culturally diametrically variant backgrounds. Our achievements differ from one another's, and so do our losses, but expression has been so liberating with her! And perhaps our judgement and opinion of each other came about painstakingly slowly, but it is only a thing of wonder how often through both our car rides to and from bombay this time, we seemed to have been having two parallel conversations with each other: a verbal one, that goes yaketty yakk, and then there's our eyes that meet almost as often as there is stupidity prevailing. And Saj's talent allows her to speak even with a poker face, where I may be tempted to break into a giggle, roll my eyes or simply hit my palm to my face.

I reckon that our judgement of people comes partly if not entirely, not only from our experience of the world, but also from our mothers. We often don't get their kinks, and yet. For hours, we would lie in our PJs analysing the people we love and hate, and when a third person would enter, suddenly shut our eyes - Eyes, gobs, tolerance too actually.

Bus ride with Sajani, Bombay, 2010

And that familiarity manifests itself in myriad ways. Whether it is her calming me in my own house after an especially tiring trip by articulating my thoughts exactly, whether it is to get chatty with my roommate, whether it is taking a bus ride across town right after a long flight or train journey, whether it is to wait in the lounge area of my office as I get my stuff and swipe out after bunking half the day in my boss's absence, whether it is to tolerate an especially irritating boyfriend for his inane and dated arguments and fielding each one with a hard verbal slap back in the days, whether it is cycling in the hot sun across her university campus. And yet none of these episodes quite define the scope of our friendship. If she were a guy, I'd have probably professed my undying devotion to him. Not only for what he'd've been, but for what he was doing to me.

Her pune trip, like all her visits to all the cities I've stationed myself for a while in, was short, but not meaningless. It was rich in conversation, in experience, in details and in thought. She fished out a teracotta ring for me with a grumpy cat on it from Milan. She took care of Duffer in his most critical first journey across towns. She ate whatever I gave her. And she drank simply. She walked, because she enjoys roads and trees just as much as I do. She warmed up to Veeram simply for the warmth I had for him. She fussed not. She complained not. She remarked. She judged. She dismissed.

She got me a box of strawberries so I could sing for her and we could smoke outside a shut shop sitting on the ledge in Aundh.

To be friends with Sajani is not an ordinary honour. She takes forever to warm up. Her mocking smile is hard to fathom - am I her subject of scorn, and therefore ridiculed, or does she truly respect me? Three years it took me to know what she thought of me, and she chose to bare all one evening in 2009 when all was beginning to look bleak, loss seemed inevitable, and abandonment seemed to look like the only way out for us cats.

There are people we feel the need to understand in order to love. Then there are people we must accept and love.

Accident ho gaya rabba rabba

So almost a year after my last right leg injury, a new one decides to make its presence felt. I've always seen accidents as signs. I've now had three fairly major ones with men whilst riding pillion on their bikes. Same leg. Different spots (god's been kind?). Heck I love them. And accidents with a man for company are even better. Not the injury, of course, just the whole follow-up frenzy ensuing the mishap.

The rush to the closest clinic to get the injury checked, being lifted by three men because I’d have fallen otherwise, to be bought and brought a way-too-big bar of chocolate and glucose to prevent me from fainting, the cleaning of the wound, the stitches, the dressing, the affectionate care, buying medicines, getting me to eat (evidently I’m pretty difficult to bring to that at such times), the making me comfortable… The process is much like taking a trip with someone. Suddenly you know so much about him or her. Kind'a in isolation, because he or she takes on the carer's role. And when you're away from home, you can't really take them for granted unlike the mother at home.

I reckon, like anyone else, I too prefer physical injuries to hurt of the heart.

But I think what I’m already beginning to enjoy even more than I did last night, as I told Veeram, is his house. Our Saturday night haunt, Veeram’s house aka The Weekend Getaway (TWG :P) is truly just the therapy one wants at the end of an especially unfavourable week. Of course, when you arrive at the humble 2 BHK abode, the clutter of mattresses, antique furniture, clothes, curios, books, condom and cigarette boxes, rum bottles, sheaves of papers, musical instrument first hits you and you want to flee as soon as. Then a veteran privileged holds your hand and leads you to the sanctum – the shrine of Veeram – and then it dawns upon you  as you take in these extremities, that this house is really beautiful!

To be absorbed into V’s space is a lot about one’s personal fortune. By nature, the man (and one of the most cultured hosts) is a recluse. His space is so his and shut away from all things commercial and dispassionate, that you’d have to be a musician to gain license to enter. And once you have won his approval, you could be a third grade architecture student or even just an ordinary copywriter, and yet be personally invited for successive weekends to spend hours elaborating and exploring the intricacies of Raag Desh punctuated with some Puriya or the dreaded Todi, and gracefully end with Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here.

And yet V’s place is not even about the things in it, or its people. It’s really about him. How warm he makes one feel on the coldest winter nights, how free he can set you from the clutches of where you come from and where you must head afterwards. You might get to listen to staples and a few new numbers. Some classical, some jazz, some baroque melodies.

There is of course, the conversation that meanders with sharp turns and steep falls and sudden heights of passionate discourse about music, love, freedom, values, religion, food (of course!). To most, V would seem something of an idealist oddity amidst compromising commercialization of our time and place. And even that is not what defines his home. One time he might tell you how he egg-napped a pigeon’s egg to teach it a lesson to not hover around his balcony again, and then he would also keep it safe. One of those puppy kidnappers, this.

I have still not managed to articulate what it is about V’s place that elates me each time I’m here. Veeram says, (about the walls in his house) “they have absorbed everything in the past two years.” And why not? The evidence is all over the place. Dates, arbitrary mind-thoughts, caricatures have been graffitied on all the walls of the house – in paint, felt pens, pencils even (like a 4-year-old that’s just learnt to write and draw)!

I have now flown kites here, spent nights, taken in the night’s horizon and the day’s view of the hills, swum, cooked, lay injured, sang and confessed in this house.

Comfort is an understatement for what one experiences here. Let it suffice to say then, that it’s the only place in years where I sleep like a child. For someone who is a light sleeper, it’s like letting a mask slip. Deliberately. In blind trust.

 

Song for all seasons

Concert going audiences across this country, it can be safely concluded now, are alike. They can be identified explicitly by their body language. Something in their eyes, their gait, their stance speaks of their discernment. They may not walk straight, or walk at all, they may speak their strange dialects, they may squint despite bottle thick spectacles or stoop from being a genetically mad race, but they all know their ‘shit’.

If they have come especially for the concert, they’ll most definitely be at the very least jacketed or cocktail dressed, flannel trousered or silk stoled. If they have reading glasses, they will be tipped low on the bridges of their noses to read the evening’s programme. They will look for seats farthest from the exits and respect each movement with appropriate applause.

Even pre-performance drone will be in hushed whispers, not cacophonic banter, they will discuss common acquaintances too, but it all stems from a musical reference on the menu. Their next choice, if they’re young, will be jazz or opera. Somehow, Rahul Khanna’s Kabir in Wake Up Sid was highly reminiscent of this profile (of which I stole some snatches last evening with Anjie).

I was at a soprano performance on Saturday when these thoughts intermingled with my sense of gratitude to Aditya for probing me into making it even on my own (much like my good old MA-in-Hyderabad days) came visiting with soul-stirring music for background. Of course, Aditya as well as Veeram were of the opinion that I should have stuck to just enjoying my privilege. But perhaps it was a bigger kick for me to know that I could write with such superior music in the background. Sometimes the focal point of an event makes for stimulating background for another concurrent activity.

Patricia Rozario, Joanne D’Mello and Susanna Hurrel were accompanied by Mark Troop on the piano, bringing songs composed by Handel, Mozart, Bizet, Dvorak, Puccini, Johann Strauss II and more to my ears. More than the music, though, it was a bringing to fore of emotions from history like I may never know. These sopranos sing as if they express in song. The way you and I may animatedly describe our favourite books or films, or weep in excruciating melancholy or even scream in menacing rage.

And in the classical tradition of students carrying their teachers’ legacy a notch higher in quality, Joanne and Susanna carried forward what teacher Patricia probably taught them to toil after. The matronly Rosario on the other hand is no dull wad. Here’s a weathered voice rippling with experience not only of men, and the world, but also of being drenched in her own emotions, prodding all those who will listen or care, or both, to take that risk around the blind bend.

And Mark Troop’s piano work on the Bluthner brought back an old fantasy. Sometimes I imagined being in company of a pianist. One who knew what to do with his lambs and not stand around like a dandy. Nimble fingers, quick on feet. Always a tune on his notes stand, forever ready to break into a number. I recently realized pianists can be of the soul as well. Slender hands and lithe palms trace their way even in the most velvet darkness, a song that is meant only for me. Just like Saturday night.

What shall I say about the songs themselves? From the show, I mean. Mentioning each one would mean nothing. I’m an illiterate. But let it suffice to say that each one was sung with a certain abandonment of inhibition of the beholder: a flamboyance that was meant to be felt, rather than witnessed. The experience of so many travails, practicing in so many halls, trials in so many green rooms and post-performance cuisines from a hundred backstage dinners came through in the level of confidence each performance exuded.

After what also seems like an eternity of the commencement of my quest for the perfect live performance. Mazda Hall in the Dastur School compound seems to have presented itself as the prize for all the years of waiting, struggling through commutes, risking late nights, suffering some atrocious fusions and even more irksome pure forms, and worst of all, tolerating the most ill mannered and uninformed audiences in Hyderabad and Mumbai.

As I stood on the lawns outside the hall under an ominously beaming moon, I awaited the opening of the second part before leaving the delightful show. Yes, show. The women didn’t just sing, they enacted each song to the hilt. They became the song. They became Cleopatra, Juliet, queen and pauper…

Dancing Queen

I was recently at MICA and of the many things that became memorable of that evening, one was the dance party. Now I’m not commenting on the quality of music or crowd present there – simply because, perhaps either it was one of those bad days when the DJ sucked, the crowd was in an especially academics-discussing mood, my friend (also the chap who invited me to visit) was especially busy organising (read binging on) booze, and I had been delegated to people who were not really in the mood to entertain, or I have just been to too many grown up  parties to enjoy the college campus imperfections anymore.

But you know how dance parties go… and unless it’s especially un-relatable music, it’s all familiar noise to which you can move and goof about. Kush ended up being my partner for the evening (very graciously and without qualms) and even accompanied me on my breaks. Of course the friend who had invited me found me every now and then on the dance floor to shake a leg and make his general lack of presence even more prominent.

It has often struck me as odd in recent times when I’ve been told I dance decently. Not because I don’t think I dance well or whatever, but my general awareness of my own body is pretty low. Grace and the completeness of a move... The technicalities, in short. I mean, I know I would fade into the background in presence of elegant Twara who has over a decade’s training in Bharatnatyam and some more in Kathak on, say, a Garba ground; or even Apeksha with her sleek salsa and jazz twirls during the most insignificant jam sessions at MA. The latter had rhythm ingrained in her DNA! Whether it was the corridors of the ladies’ hostel or the streets of the university campus, Apeksha could do her little jig just about anywhere with her iPod plugged in.

I wouldn’t dare. It is not my place. It is not my comfort.

What’s different, you ask. It’s all public. In fact, it’s a lot of crowd in some milieus. It is India. And it’s us women.

I first danced on a floor at the little concluding put-together at LACs when I was in the Third Year of my BA. Most people were strangers and Haem was the first to teach me a couple of the basics. But it was not to be the start of a new interest or way of recreation for me just then.

The first week into MA and the seniors announced a jam session for us newbies. Yes it was fun, the music ranged everything from the latest in hip-hop and house to Bolly and even Tollywood. But I guess I was still rather in my own shell.

So what has changed and what remains as was?

I have got to give it to Arunav for taking away the inhibitions that every non-dancer would first experience on the dance floor. The not-knowing what to do or where to go when being jostled in a constricted space at the safe-bet retro-and-bhangra-playing Hawaiian Shack can be a unnerving when you’ve never done it before. Everyone around seems so with it and adept – lip syncing whatever songs around (and believe me I’m pretty much a gowti dehaat when it comes to club music). But one realises very soon, that it’s not about making appearances. Those who sweat the most, move closest to the rhythms, smile the most and have a wild glint in their eyes are the ones who are said to be having the best time! You don’t have to be Shakira (cuz believe me, no one except your partner is really watching), and so long as you’re not injuring people with your hands or heels, nobody cares.

And so I still thought that was the first and last time. It made me no authority to judge what a good party was or wasn’t. But when you go to another venue with the same company, and you begin to yawn mid song 3 (and by then you’ve figured pretty much the whole playlist – Backstreet Boys, Michael Jackson and Elton John for example), you know for a fact that just strolling down Colaba Causeway would be more fun.

My most memorable dance do by far though, is still the Times party in Hyderabad. Not for the music or ‘crowd’ per se, but definitely the company and again, a great dance partner. Needless to add, the time of year made it even more fun. I had read somewhere a couple of years ago in a celeb interview that this chap wouldn't sleep the 24 hours of his birthday. And I thought, what could be more precious than just doing nothing on your birthday. But my 26th was to be a novel experience. 300 people at a 5 star hotel banquet, free booze and food and the girl’s birthday was announced by none other than her mad cracker friend-chauffer-neighbour-colleague-and what not. I also discovered that one can have the most unlikely colleagues around. So Santosh, who happened to be one of the few people who joined the same or next day that I joined, and the only chap from sales who I was friends with back then, turned out to be a great dancer. Again, someone who had trained.

When I left Hyderabad for Bombay, I thought this is it: the end of all the frolic and fun of dancing. But Harshil and gang positively kidnapped me to Sutra for a night out. Not only did I discover potential for fun, but also met a girl I now call friend. That night wasn’t just about dancing because I needed music, but also about unwinding. I realised yet again, that dancing isn’t about tiring oneself out, but regaining some of that lost life. What still remains a cherished dance is the one with Abhishek at Salt n Pepper (I think) afterhours. The resto owner was nice enough to put a great song and allow us our little quirk. Despite the limited space and for them to almost shut for the night, we were given the time and leisure of moving to a tune, smiling, forgetting, remembering.

So you see, it is just too predictable that Navratri comes each year at this pre-designated time and lasts a certain set of days and dictates that you wear only a certain kind’a clothes and make up and jewellery. There is none of that last minute dilly-dallying of red dress or black, or gold danglers or matching stones, or stilettoes or wedges. Because really, the joy of dancing came from looking forward to an opportunity that presented itself at the most unlikely times!

Ooh! -pasana

A few weeks ago Neel stumped me with “Where do you get your Bong music from now?” after I shared a sassier jazz version of a number to which he had first introduced me.

It did not seem normal for me to say, “But of course, Upasana, who else?” because there is nothing ‘but-of-course’ about it. But Neel’s question got me pondering and only two startling similarities came out: Both Bongs who have lived in Bombay for a considerable time and in Kolkata long enough to worship it.

While Neel is, what my music teacher calls a kaan-sen, Upasana also sings. And that is where the two seem to walk their different directions. Oops or Upas (the latter is what I often refer to her for convenience) has become so many things for me in a matter of weeks. While she jests with her husband about it, it is a fact that she and I spend more awake time with each other than she does with her husband!

I’ve now seen Upas around Ron, her mom-in-law, the bosses, her friends, et el and the one thing that hits you, even before the big brown lemur eyes do, is her very active nod, as if to say, “Yes! Yes! I’ll help you with WHATEVER you need!” – From coffee coupons to helping you get to speed with work to finding you the broker’s number for acco in her township to car pooling to letting you use her microwave to cook pasta for a week. There is nothing this angel will say no to if it is in her power. Actually, I could’ve stopped at “There is nothing this angel will say no to,” even if it means bending few rules or just getting by them *wink wink*.

And yet, even this attitude of helping-them-all won’t be what stays with you spot in the middle of a serious meeting as you suddenly start grinning at the memory of a pathetic joke she cracked last afternoon. Her repertoire spans such abysmal excuses for humour that you’d have to be insane to laugh (as we are and so we do). She can beat Sriram Ayyar, Priyanca Vaishnav AND Akhil Chakravarty hands down. The incidental one-off-ers don’t even stand a chance!

A chance is what Upasana will also not give you when it comes to desserts and food. Think butter chicken and the first image that pops in my mind, is of a salivating Upasana Sanyal. When cake is ordered for a birthday celebration at office, not the budday-boy/ girl nor the cake shop is consulted on what would be the best flavour. Madame Sanyal fields “आज कौनसा order करें?” with panache: “Belgian chocolate? Strawberry and Black Forest?” And when her majesty, the queen of desserts and the best judge of ANY cuisine is to pass her final verdict, everyone awaits it with bated breath.

Upasana has cheered up many a heart-broken evenings and the ends of several straight-from-hell days at work with her upbeat chatter and mad acts like waving crazily at the boss from the driver’s seat like we haven’t seen her in ages (while actually saying bye to her only less than half an hour back). Upasana is also capable of leaving you alone when you need to shed the silent tears or extract them from you when you’re suppressing them to evade attention with a simple five-worder.

It is not hard to comprehend Upasana. It is, though, to fathom her energy.

Not a soul around and a House Party

Nights can get rather dull or depressing when you're alone at home and there's no real adventure nor expected guest list each night of the week. The quiet, the lack of company, oh merely the absence of noise can get to you. But yesterday was different.
Abhi n coKo picked me up from work for the 7:30 show. Like forever, the movie was uneventful and the intermission seemed like the best part of the film. लेकिन यह movie review तोह है नहीं! So coming back to the point. Promptly dropped at my doorstep at 10:00, this दुखियारी was left to fend for herself :(

Jesus knew what a task cooking and before that having to clean utensils and afterwards cleaning more utensils seemed. As if that was not bad enough the utility water का time was up, so there was no other choice but to wash them out in the balcony. And to top it all it was COLD!!!!!! After the first round, I gave up.

Having changed into my comfy ol' pyjamas, I finally decided to embark upon the daunting task of cooking. There were no groceries to really write home about. Then I opened my fridge (read: Pandora's डब्बा). EUREKA!!!!!! Boiled-to-el-dente pasta made an appearance. Butter, maida and milk danced in front of my eyes. The morning's leftover mushroom masala jumped out next. And then... and then... muhuhahahahahahahahahaha!!!! The wine bottle apparated into my memory. And with it, the brilliant inspiration to make pasta Indian Style.

अरे no no! The wine didn't go into the pasta. As the white sauce thickened through its ten minutes of flame, I sipped a large goblet of wine with loud, very loud dance music on my iPod. And of course I danced to it all as the several elements of the pasta slowly made their way into the big bad steel bowl.

By the time I was ready to eat, I was adequately drunk. After somehow managing to spoon some morsels of the treat into the right place and not my nose or gouging out my eyes and doing an adequately clean job of dunking the sauce pan and my plate into the kitchen sink, there went tipsy me back into bed. Lights off, music tuned to soft ghazals by Mehdi Hassan, Hariharan and Bhupinder; my madness wasn't over yet. I texted out crazy messages to (so far as I remember) three - no - five friends. Two were girls also. One was at Little Italy. [ok PU you're not drunk anymore so stop ranting]

It's amazing how naked you can be around yourself. The lingerie doesn't have to be sexy or new, the night clothes are warm, the wine glass can lie on the balcony parapet, the tree sways silently, and the music - always your favourite - always end up in a Gita Dutt tadbeer se bigdi hui takdeer bana le. And the songs are suddenly in your own voice. You always have an audience. You become your own entertainer.

And the only message I still have from last night is Kshitij's - "wow and wow. both for the solitude. I envy you"

Old City New Charm

A week into my stay in Hyderabad and the culture vulture within can't sit in one place only. Waat to do saar??? So last weeked was yet another exciting trip across the city - and my सारथी, none other than Mr. Kotha. Of course, he was also playing porter on Saturday. To make amends, we decided to make a quick trip to Geetha's. Ha ha. What a jox. Quick trip and Geetha's. What was tentatively planned to be merely a social visit to the jungle resident, turned into a feast. Gee reminds me of my mom's aunt in Baroda. The food keeps coming out of the fridge like an unending flow! Seamless conversation that began with concerts, what one MUST wear, meandered to Karthik's super brat brother and finally to women and marriage. [Looks like this is more or less the range we're always going to follow.] Of course, there's so much talk about teaching and kids happening, it's not funny.

I'm most amazed at how the lines between Kart and Gee blurred almost instantly the first time I got them to meet. Their Chennai connection was so much stronger than having me as a link, which is seldom the case when I get any of my friends to meet for the first time. It is an overwhelming experience when two people from seemingly different spheres socialise and how! I thought Chennai could probably be a starting point, but they had so much more to exchange, I felt rather inadequate (:P).

But neither Kart nor I knew what the concert on Sunday had in store for us. The Chowmahalla Palace played host to one of the greatest concerts I've ever attended in my omnivoric hunger for great music. Hyderabad seems to always attract the best talent there is. I've often heard of its audience being intelligent and well read and widely travelled. The audience at Chowmahalla proved the point. even when it came to requesting, nothing short of an Amir Khusro popular would do!

That it was begum Abida Parveen on stage brought the kind'a audience that had to be either niche - pretty much mostly the old affluent - or outsiders (that's me!) who had a sense of the scale and concept that is Parveen's voice and area of expertise. I was simply taken by the simple fact that she sounds on stage exactly like she does on recording. I mean... the sound editor hasn't to work at all on getting the सुर right at all! Of course, what hits you as the listener is the instant and constant connect that she established with and when she began every composition with "मौला...".

They taught us, when I was training in classical music, that संगीत is the combination of getting the notes right and getting the thought spot on. Begum sahiba personified the definition flawlessly. Of course, my saying it adds no value and perhaps if I didn't, it would take away nothing, but the experience was made surreal: every time she began a new song, the cold drizzle, that threatened to bring the show to an abrupt end, ceased. That is the power of music, I guess.

Overall, a fantastic first weekend in the city that raised my bar always always.