"Murli Manohar Ganesha!"

Chk out this year's Ganesha, handcrafted from the "self hardening clay" from Michaels Artstore. Found a picture over the net and used the idea to try out a different pose. This year, there are pictures in the newspaper about "Spiderman Ganpati", "6-pack Ganpati" etc. This is not as dramatic as some of those all right.
Did toy with the idea of "Dhoni Ganpati"....executing a "helicopter shot"! May be, a different time!

Krishna (murli manohar) and Ganesh Chaturthi are of course connected. In many parts of the country, the story of Krishna and the episode of Syamantaka Mani is retold on this day. Krishna saw the moon on the day of Ganesh Chaturthi and had to pay for it with the allegation of  having stolen the Symantaka gem. Even avataras are not spared of infamy and accusation. Of course, later, Krishna redeemed himself.
We may accidently see the moon on this day and suffer a similar fate. But listening to this story of Krishna is supposed to act as an antidote. The reader may be familiar with all this.
 

Monstrosity of microphones

"Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" Hemant began, straining every nerve and sinew,  packing in as much emotion as he could muster. It was after all, the finals of the High School Elocution Competition. He bristled with enthusiasm. "Lend me your...." and just at that opportune moment, the microphone gave way. The speakers fell silent. Hemant looked confused and glanced hither and thither on stage,  unable to decide whether to continue or stop his spiel. The audience broke into chatter.
The organisers got their act together, quickly adjusted the microphone and Hemant was given the go-ahead.
"Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" Hemant's voice boomed once more, "lend me your ears, I come to bury...." and the microphone stopped. The speakers were not silent this time- that was the only improvement. They let out a continuous, dull, monotonous drone. This time, Hemant was clearly unnerved. He twitched and fidgeted on stage.
The microphone was given a tug, the wires were pulled and the speakers moved till the acoustics sprang to life. "Friends, Romans, Countrymen!" Hemant began tentatively. Gone was the earlier ring in his voice- he fumbled over the words as a convict would at the gallows! It was as if he expected trouble at the next bend...and sure enough he invited it. Before someone could lend him a ear, the acoustics fell apart. The boys simply loved it- they broke into laughter and jeered at the speaker with their palms around their mouths..each one doing imitation cat-calls of "Friends, Romans, Countrymen" in uniquely original ways!!
Sure enough, Hemant's future was sealed. He would do other things, but would never be a speaker  again.
The only incident which would upstage the above episode was the Dance Competition at Roorkee. The bharatanaatyam dancer gracefully pirouetted on stage to the tunes of the pushpaanjali- "thath-tho-dakataam"...and just when she stuck the most statuesque pose, the microphone fell silent. The dancer froze, maintaining the posture.. for 5 seconds..for 10, for 30 seconds...for a painful minute...waiting..waiting for the music to resume. It just wouldn't! The audience sprang to life and was in splits! Eventually, the dancer gave up, resigned herself to her fate and slunk away from the stage... only for the music to suddenly resume and throw her off completely!! Microphones can make or mar your life!

"Microphone" is too scientific a word. We know it simply as "mike". Mikes are like your four-year old. Normally, they behave in predictable ways, but off and on, just when the guests are at home, they lie down on the floor, kick their hands and legs and throw a sudden tantrum. You have no choice. You have to humour them.

As we wait with bated breath for the start of a program, there is always that officious gentleman who has the onerous task of testing all the mikes. He walks over to the dais, looking all important- "hello! check"... "check"..."mike check", "mike check 1-2-3"..."check"..."check" his voice echoes across the auditorium, mixed with the sound of heavy breathing that the audio system also picks up. He signals to someone on the other side to raise the treble or lower the bass... and continues... "check"..."check".."check".
Sometimes, it looks as if the job of a mike tester is given to someone who is incapable of speaking any other word. His vocabulary is limited to "check" and "1-2-3". The repetition mildly irritates the elderly person sitting behind me, "Instead of saying 'check', 'check' all the time and boring us... can't he at least chant the Lord's name...'Krishna-Rama-Govinda'!? He will earn some punya that way. He would have got moksha by now.. I say!!"

To contest this accusation of a limited vocabulary, the mike tester sometimes picks someone on the last row and questions, "Sir...do you hear me over there? Do you hear me?" Invariably, the gentleman on the last row responds with a "yes" in a voice loud enough for the person next to him to question... "what did you say?". It confuses the mike tester and he wants the volume cranked up some more. "Sir, do you hear him now...?"  he questions..with the entire hall reverberating. This exercise has always been a futile one- each one depending on the other to be heard. It is a problem of mutual dependence... anyonya aashraya....which can never be solved, unless they distribute mikes to everyone on the last row in advance!
Sir Patel, our drill teacher at Bosco had an effective technique. "Sridhar, you monkey! Sit down! David... donkey! Neeche baith!" he shouted from the dais as he tested the mikes out. If Sridhar sat down, Sir Patel knew that the mikes worked. As simple as that.

Musicians and mikes share a love-hate relationship. The vocalist is forever dissatisfied with the acoustics- either there is a feedback from the audio system and he doesn't like to hear his own voice, or there is no feedback and hence he does not know what he is singing!!
Violinists nurse a secret grudge that the vocalist keeps his own audio levels high and thereby drowns the sounds of the violin. They hate to be short-changed this way and are animated through out the concert- with hand signals that they want the audio level of the violin raised. No amount of volume pleases the violinist. The acoustics operator is clearly irked. The audience doesn't like it either. We wish we could educate the violinist- "Dude, if you increase the volume anymore, you will need to distribute ear-plugs and headache tablets at the start of the concert!!"
To prove his point,  the operator suddenly raises the volume to the maximum... so that the audio system groans and shrieks and squeals... and brings the recital to an abrupt halt. Sanity returns.. and audio levels are restored to the original levels. The audio operator has the last laugh!

Mikes have to be adjusted to the correct height. Stage fright often strangles the upstart so that he begins his speech or song immediately without checking this vital point. It is only after the first line that he suddenly realises that the mike is too low. Evidently, the participant before him was a kid and he is a six-footer. He is distracted now and looks silly- having to bend at his knees and stick his neck out just to align his face to the mouth piece!
Or the mike is too high... and he spends the entire duration on stage on tip toes! The most complicated situation is the one where the mike has not been clamped tightly...and even as the participant is singing.. it slides down slowly... making the participant also do a similar jig.

These days, there are some select auditoriums which pride themselves as "no acoustic equipment zones". We are made to believe that music or theatre is best enjoyed this way. We are not entirely sure how effective these experiments are. The sounds are too mild for our liking. Someone in the audience always wants to cough or sneeze or clear his throat and those sounds compete with the artiste's. Also, we come out of these performances with an added complex- that perhaps, with increasing years, we are not hearing as well... or may be, we need to visit the ENT specialist to drain some ear-wax out!! We prefer our concerts with mikes.

"In those days, there were no mikes. We didn't need them", my father began his favourite topic. I knew the next few sentences which would follow verbatim. "You look at the naadaswaram. Does it need a mike? You can hear it 10 furlongs away! You should have heard SG Kittappa. What a stentorian full-throated voice he had! He could span 4 octaves and beyond- the keertana "evarani" was his favourite. Look at the singers these days...they look so puny and have no voice-power. No wonder, they need a mike... and so close to their mouths. One of these days, somebody is going to accidentally swallow it.. I say!!!" he trails away.


 

Study of elephants in water colour

Passport photographs

During one of my trips to Chennai, my father showed me a brochure. The "class of 61" at the Engineering College of Guindy, Madras (then) had had a reunion and in commemoration of that event, they had brought out this brochure. As I leafed through the book, one section caught my eye. It had the passport photographs of all the students in their final year at Guindy and right beside each photograph was another passport photograph which showed how the same student looked now... after 50 years!!
The next hour was simply unadulterated entertainment!! We scrutinised each photograph and saw how time had morphed each candidate beyond recognition! On one side was the chiseled face of a handsome young man with bright eyes, a hint of baby stubble, a healthy hairline and luscious hair- falling in waves over his forehead. Next to it was a creature which stared back at you...with a shining, bald pate, a furrowed brow, a double chin and a perpetual scowl! The two images couldn't have been farther apart... and we joked that even if they had made an error and interchanged a candidate's recent photograph with someone else's, we just wouldn't have known!!

You need 3 passport photographs for anything and everything- right from renewing your driver's license to applying for a new SIM card. That's when you rummage through all the shelves at home. Invariably, you will find exactly 2 recent passport photographs. The 3rd photograph is always a "stamp sized photograph" if at all you find one. We have no idea why we even buy these stamp sized photographs. No one ever wants them and seeing a dozen of them strewn all over... and completely useless, only increases your frustration. Sometimes, you do find a 3rd passport photograph....only it is from a different set. You cannot submit this photograph with the other two. Moreover, this photograph is from a previous avatar- when you sported frills in your hair, a ghastly moustache and long side burns.. all of which makes you look positively silly! You wonder how the world even tolerated this appearance.

"I am going to get a 100 passport photographs so that we never run out of them!" you slam the door and storm out of home. However, getting a passport photograph leaves you with a dented ego... as the years go by. You are unsure whether to smile at the camera or wear a solemn expression. Either way, you are condemned. If you smile, someone looks at the photographs and breaks into convulsive laughter. He somehow seems to confirm your own assessment that the photograph borders on the ridiculous.
If you pose with a poker face, you hear a comment a home, "You look like a robber! Couldn't you have smiled a bit at least?" One look at the photograph... and you see how accurate the analysis is! You wonder why the hairline has suddenly receded... much like sea tide.. and exposed so much of real estate! You blame it on a bad haircut, but that's seldom true. The eyes are either staring at the camera in a ghoulish fashion, or half closed... as if you are addicted to charas (dope)!
In a way, you are thankful that you got only 16 of these passport photographs (plus two dozen stamp sized of course) and not 100 as originally planned. That would have been a total disaster.. and seeing these frightful photographs at home, would have been one more reason for perpetual insomnia!!
There is one interesting point to note though- these very photographs will look "young" and "dapper", when you pose for the next set of passport photographs the following year!! You can well imagine how those turn out!

Many years ago, Don Bosco High School brought out its own annual brochure with the passport photographs of all the prize winners. An impeccable magazine normally... but that year, two egregious errors were committed. They missed PV Biju's photograph and left that spot vacant in the magazine with only his name typed at the bottom.
The second mistake was worse- instead of having Suresh's photograph, they published the brochure with Suresh's name, but with Rajeev's photograph. Rajeev donated a "full page advertisement" from his father's company all right... but he was definitely not a prize winner and should have never been on that page.

The school decided to make amends to fix this error. One fine afternoon, the class monitor went around the class  distributing two black-and-white photographs- one was PV Biju's and the other was Suresh's. The order from the Vice Principal over the public address system was simple- we had to take these photographs home... take out the brochure... and stick them to the correct spots with Fevicol!! Noble intent all right, but the execution was bound to fail.
Students used their imagination to the fullest. Even before Biju's photograph had been distributed, the students had populated the vacant spot in the brochure with their own creation- some with a caricature of a donkey (and had even labelled it as "gadha kahin ka") and still others with pictures of monkeys and human heads with all kinds of oddities!
Suresh was never a popular student. He was perceived as a nasty book worm, a teacher's pet and a general nuisance to the student society at large. It gave the students a forum to express their choice feelings for Suresh... they tore the passport photograph.. into as tiny bits as possible... and either consigned him to the waste paper basket... or flung these bits to the fan whirring at full blast in the classroom!
Boys.. will after all.. be boys!!








 

On nails!

Traditional Indian homes have a problem with nails... cutting nails. There is never a right place or time or location for this job. There are elders specially designated, whose sole vocation in life, is to police nail-cutting at home.
"Why are you cutting your nail.. of all days... on a Tuesday? Couldn't you find a better day?"
If you postponed the activity to a different day, you still invited obtuse comments. "Cutting nails.... on a Friday!? Do I need to tell you every time that it is simply not done !? It is ashaucham (unclean) I say!!"
If you got the day right, you ran out of luck with the time of the day. "Why would you cut your nails now? You had the whole day in front of you! After sunset, it is forbidden to cut nails! Don't you know that? Couldn't you find at least some time... during the day!?"
As for the location, no place was good enough. The drawing room (living room) entertained guests who could pop in at any time. Hence, that room was out of bounds for this activity. The kitchen was out.. for obvious reasons. The balcony had other issues.. you don't want to spread your arms and legs to clip your nails and invite attention from the neighbouring flats. The little foyer leading to the balcony seemed an appropriate place... but you were castigated for that too... "Never sit between two rooms to do anything! You know what happened to Hiranyakashipu.. the rakshasa don't you? He had his entrails torn out by Lord Vishnu.... by placing him in the foyer...!!"

If you got everything right and did manage to clip nails, then an errant nail strayed away from the cutting scene and got you into trouble! "Learn to keep a well spread newspaper below...so that nails don't fly away in all directions! You do know.. that Goddess Lakshmi.. never stays in the house where nails are carelessly strewn around.... don't you!!? There is even a shloka which says that if Lord Vishnu had such unclean habits... Goddess Lakshmi will divorce him too!!. Let me recall that shloka... It says......" It is prudent to slink away from the scene at these times.

We often wonder how Lord Vishnu clipped his nails... or perhaps, considering the hazards, he actually didn't! Possibly, that was the reason.. he could emerge from the pillar with... nails like a lion... to finish off Hiranyakashipu. The only other occasion where nails played a prominent role.. was the Afzal Khan-Shivaji duel... where Shivaji with his bare hands.. and tiger nails... clawed his way into Afzal Khan's stomach.

Nail cutters are docile instruments. Some of them resemble a butter knife at best... and just don't have the necessary teeth to clip nails... especially if it is a recalcitrant toe-nail. If you applied more pressure than necessary, the whole apparatus dismantled to pieces.. and the entire activity had to be abandoned! Of course, you had to wait for the all the planets to align again in terms of day, time and location... to start nail cutting all over again.. this time.. with a fresh instrument!

Sometimes, it seemed easy to pare nails of one hand with the other. The hands are after all far more dexterous than any nail cutter. The only downside to this technique was that.. after getting a few fingers right, you invariably ran into trouble with the last finger. In your impatience to peal the nail off... you often pealed it so deep that... along with the nail... it tore off a bit of skin! Ouch! For the rest of the day, you howled in pain....with the finger now wrapped with a kerchief...blotted with a dash of blood. For sure, you invited incisive comments from nail-cutting policemen at home.. which didn't exactly lift your already pained spirits!

Nail biting needs to be encouraged. It is simplest and most effective way of clipping nails. Of course, clipping toe nails wouldn't be easy... but you can always try... with the foot in your mouth!
India-Pakistan Cricket matches in the 80s created a whole generation of  nail biters! Many a Cricket fan lost his nails and sometimes even the fingers.. as he sat at the edge of his seat the entire day to watch some nail biting finishes....... only for Javed Miandad to spoil the party with a last-ball six! It was terribly agonising!
But you can always spot a nail-biter.... his nail stands out like a sore thumb! For one, the nail would be stubby and short..... the tip of the finger swollen..and completely encircling the nail..giving it the appearance of a shapeless, sunken crater. The finger exuded an odour of its own.. which made shaking hands with this species not the pleasantest of activities!
The nail biter has his own problems... having bitten the nail off... he often looks around for the most expedient method to dispose off  the sliver. He would either have to gulp it.. or spit it off surreptitiously, both equally complicated.

If nail biters are an eyesore, women with long nails pose a different problem. Regardless of how well manicured and long and shapely their nails are, a peculiar thought pattern holds us hostage. We imagine how this lady would write on the black board...and in the process, inadvertently scratch the board with her long nails....right from one end of the black board to the other.. and again from top to bottom. That singular thought is enough. It sends shivers down our spine and we are seized with a feeling of extreme disgust and revulsion.

That surely is the final nail on the coffin.... as far as this article on nails and nail biters...goes!















 

Welcome to the Shree---Renga--Natha--Swamy--Temple!

11:00 am.... the sun was beating down mercilessly as we stepped out of the car- the gopuram of the Ranganathaswamy Temple in the distance. It was a little walk to the temple and a motley mix of sights greeted us- a Cricket match was underway on one side, complete with Kannada audio commentary and a makeshift pavilion, a couple of horses lazed around waiting for the next customer to take a joyride... and a row of shanty shops lined the road on both sides, selling trinkets of every kind.
I was brusquely interrupted by someone who held out...what looked like a business card. Our first response to any intrusion is one of resistance- "No! no! I don't need anything!" I shouted and walked away to join my family a little distance away.
"I am a tourist guide, recognised by the Govt!" he announced. His card had a list of places with an amount penned against each item. "These are for the foreign tourist. I can do it cheaper for you!" I brushed him aside.....but after a little discussion, we somehow decided to engage his services, just to make the temple visit a little more interesting. Interesting.. it was!

As we walked with our guide and headed towards the gopuram, he began.... articulating each word with inordinate care. "This is...." and paused a bit and continued.... "the shree".. and waited. As we met his face with bated breath....he slowly pronounced.. "renga" another delicate pause.... followed by the word "natha". Uncomfortable silence reined once more...while he slowly intoned "swamy"... and finally trailed off with the word "temple"! It took us a while to string all these words together to form the full sentence.... "This is the shree Ranganatha swamy Temple".  Speaking with the same clarity, he began his second sentence. "The name of town is" and paused. "Shree..." long pause.. "renga".. pause.. and mercifully ended with "patna".
By the time he had completed these two sentences, we had deposited all our footwear, scolded the children for touching the underside of the chappal, collected the token, gone past the gopuram and now stood inside the premises. "Please come to this side... madam, come this way...Saar, you also!" he gestured, while a whole lot of devotees gaped at us with curiosity.

Standing beside an ancient well in the temple compound, he seemed visibly pleased with all the attention that we gave him. He delicately touched his thumb with his forefinger in a "chin mudra", as if explaining an intricate point and continued his discourse.... "This is"...and even as we glanced at each other in horror, continued in the same leisurely pace.. "the shree" and once more "renga"... "natha"... "swamy"... "temple"! "The name of town ij"... and this time, we could fill in the words for him.. "shree".. "renga"... "patna".. which pleased him to no end!

You've just driven for over 3 hours....the glare of the dazzling midday sun compels you to squint your eyes, knit your brow and gives you a throbbing headache, you shuffle your feet so that the granite floor virtually on fire, doesn't drill holes into your sole... disgruntled children hang around you with vengeance in their eyes.... for having spoilt their holiday with a trip to a temple.... the last thing you want is a sermon...pronounced at a pace.. which would have made Geoff  Boycott look like a T-20 specialist!! To top it, the repetition was killing! We silently wondered if there was any exit strategy at all... or would we all simply age...beaten down by time and boredom...by the time our guide finished his spiel!!?

We decided to be pro-active and thought an "interactive session" may just save our day. "When was this temple built? Is it very old? Who built this temple?" we asked randomly. It helped! "Tirumala Raya of the Ganga dynasty built this temple 1200 years ago," he said in one flow. While we frantically searched for the next set of questions, the guide fell back to his didactic ways.. "You see there"....and  pointed to the sculptures ahead... "Those are the 10 incarnations"... "of Lord".... "Vishnu". "Matsya".... "Kurma".... "Varaha".... he enunciated... while our minds had switched off. I had half a mind to cut him short, "Dude! Do we look like Martians to you? We are not even NRIs. We've read our Amar Chitra Kathas since we were this small..from cover to cover.. and even backwards! How dare you insult our basic intelligence by starting from the alphabet!?"

But ours is not to question why... ours is but to do and die!
His speech soon gathered speed and content. It was difficult to make much headway through his thick accent. We picked up bits and pieces. He threw in "Krishna Deva Raya" and "Duke of Wellington" in the same sentence... and brought in "Tipu Sultan" and "Hyder Ali" too. Evidently, they all had some role to play with the town and the temple. From History, he drifted off to Religion and explained... "GOD is Generator-Operator-Destroyer.. G-O-D".. pleased as punch with his explanation of the acronymn... and how Vishnu, the "Operator" resided in this temple. Stopping by the sannidhi of Garuda, he proclaimed dramatically..."This is Eagle, Lord Vishnu's car!" It felt awkward to be in file with other devotees who received the traditional "teertham" from the priest and have us singled out for this special explanation!

Soon, we joined the queue to the sanctum. People waited patiently. The guide prodded us to break the single file, create a parallel path and surge ahead in the line. We felt delicate to try such antics. "Saar, don't worry! This is India... Indian style..! No US style here!" Before we could protest that we were Indian.. but could still afford to follow basic rules, he had uprooted an entire side of the railing... and asked us to step aside. Clueless, we followed him. We went through a maze of corridors... at the end of which...he wanted us to jump fence once more and join the crowd just before the sanctum entrance. It was terribly embarrassing to avoid eyes which looked at us with obvious contempt. "It's ok! It's ok saar!" the guide egged us sheepishly.
We were caught on the horns of a dilemma. There was no way to backtrack. Had someone in the crowd picked up a quarrel for breaking the line, we would have had no argument in our favour. It didn't also look as if the guide would come to our defence either.. as he receded to the background. We took a spot decision...threw caution and self-respect to the winds.. and muscled our way through... and joined the frenetic chorus of "Govinda.. Go.....vinda!!"

Lord Vishnu..as Ranganatha... in all his glory... rested on Adi Sesha. The place, the precincts of the temple, the irritation, the queue offenders that we were.. and even the guide...everything was forgotten.. though.. for a split second.
"Come this way and look at His feet. There you see Goddess Cauvery....!" the guide's  words jolted us...out of our reverie.

It was fine, the purpose of the visit had been served.

Soon, we stood once more in the temple compound on our way out. "I hope you liked it" the guide enquired politely. "If you plan to go to the Nimishamba Temple and club it with Tipu's Palace and Gol-Gumbaz, let me know. I will come with you... and give you a good price for the entire package! For foreign tourists.. I normally charge...." We politely declined the offer.

"Please don't tell people to cut the line from the next time. It is not right. We would have earned more punya had we stood in the queue!" I tried to clear my conscience.
"Saar! Saar! What saar!? This is India saar! Indian style only here! No US....."
It was simply impossible.

Our spot decision, despite the reluctance, made us party to the crime. It looked as if "Indian style" meant following rules...... essentially rules of convenience! It would provide a fitting explanation for the ugly "spot fixing and betting" saga which unfolded later that week. We are like that only!

You must visit the Ranganathaswamy Temple. You must engage the services of our guide. You must repeat as we do-  everyday.... with our fingers joined in a "chin-mudra":

"Welcome to the shree-----renga-----natha-----swamy-----temple!"
"The name of town ij-----shree----renga-----patna!!"










 

Elephants at the water-hole: Painting in watercolour

Another experiment in watercolours done over the weekend. The theme is adapted from a photograph on the net.