Learning Sama hymns the virtual way!

These are clearly different times. Children have spent over a year in virtual classes. Working from home is the new normal. But the pandemic has also thrown up some unique possibilities. During these quarantined days, I signed up to learn the ancient “sama hymns” in a class taught virtually. What started as a casual pastime, soon became a compulsive obsession; the classes were so riveting.

The sama-hymns are among the world’s most ancient chants. Unlike other chants that are recited, these are set to music and sung. The music in these hymns defies geography- it is as if Indian, Middle-Eastern, Mediterranean, all sounds mingle into one harmonic whole. The gurgle of laughter has the same sound and meaning across the globe. So too, these chants have a universal feel, as if the yearning of a human heart and its appeal to a higher power has to be in this tune and no other. 

The chants are austere, but learning them virtually is complicated and provides its share of unintentional humour. Technology comes with its inevitable glitches. On certain days, the audio is fine, but the video is patchy. On other days, the video is fine, but the audio stutters. If both are fine, there is a sudden power-cut, the wifi goes phut and with that, the class blanks out! At times, the student attends these classes on a hand-held cell-phone, so shaky, that he appears in perpetual movement. Or his camera is off-center and all it can catch is the top of his scalp and the ceiling-fan! It is like tight-rope walking, but you learn to manage. 

A virtual class has several technology imposed rules- only one person can chant at a time, while the rest have to keep their microphones muted. When your turn comes, you unmute and chant. All this is easier said than done. The mind is so focused on the chant that impulse takes over. You can see the person chanting away, all animated, completely unaware that he cannot be heard. Others pounce on him with repeated cries of “unmute!”, “unmute!” till he finally realizes his mistake and grins sheepishly. At times, it is the other extreme- you forget to mute the microphone and blabber away unmindfully, till you are caught napping and curtly asked to mute. 

It has been several decades since you went to primary school. The virtual class transports you back in time. You giggle with impish delight when the teacher picks on a fellow-student and chides him for making repeated mistakes. Or questions the student why he missed the last class and hears novel excuses like “I did not get permission at home!” Or the teacher holds the entire class hostage, refusing to go any further, till a particular student gets it right! 

The virtual classes are as much about bonding in these trying times. With social interaction down to the bare-bones, this is your extended family. It is also about rediscovering the joy of learning, where the fun is in the very process, and not pinned to a future outcome. 

Above all, we admire the majesty of these mystic hymns. They have come down to us, in an unbroken tradition, from the dim and distant past. We also acknowledge the glory of modern technology that makes it so easy, that it is all accessible, from the cozy confines of our home. There is no doubt, we are doubly blessed!

American Indian teenager eats a South Indian meal!

The American-Indian teenager, born to NRI parents looks like any of us. It is only when he starts talking that his accent and body-language betray his nativity. It is not easy for him on this trip to India to attend a cousin’s wedding. Though he finds everything “awesome”, the culture-shock numbs him. His challenges are many; none greater than this one- navigating through a South Indian wedding lunch served on a banana leaf.

The food is now arrayed all over the banana leaf. It is a typical South Indian special- vegetables, colored-rice, vadai, pickle, avial, poli, jaangri and endless items that keep coming. Without his spoon, fork and cereal bowl, our teenager is all at sea! His neighbor eggs him- “See! It is easy, my boy! You pick up rice with your fingers and eat like this!” Words of encouragement all right, but not for the teenager. It is as if, he has been suddenly thrust into the cockpit of an airplane and told to fly it on his own! His NRI mother sits at the next leaf. She has coached him to a point, but not for this eventuality.

Gingerly, he uses his fingers to pick up one grain of rice at a time. At this rate, the next Ice Age will set in, his mother tells him! He reaches out for simpler items like “pappadam”. He grips the entire disk with both hands and takes one big bite. The crackling bits fly all over and some take a parabolic path right into the neighbor’s leaf three rows away! Couple of children, sparkling in their silk “pavadais” watch this spectacle from the opposite row and giggle!

He consults his mother and the best option appears to ask for a spoon. Word goes around quickly, and multiple people scramble to check for a spoon, but there is none. The closest to a spoon is the ladle used to serve sambar! The mother is quick to shoot down the idea. She feels it will look too silly, as if he was Ghatotkacha eating with a ladle! For the moment, he has to manage with his fingers.

Servers are in a tearing hurry. They have a job on their hands with hundreds of people at the lunch table. If there is no alert reaction from the person, they will pour a liter of hot sambar on the banana leaf before they move to the next one. It is here that the teenager’s skills are found wanting. The sambar swirls like the raging sea in a Tsunami; it engulfs the rice mounds and overflows right out of the banana-leaf, straight into the teenager’s lap! It all happens in a split second and there is no time to react. “Mom! What am I supposed to do? It is flowing all over!” Mom is now angry. “You cannot just sit doing nothing!” she screams.

Relatives are quick to comment, “This is exactly why you should come to India more often! How will he otherwise learn our customs?” If only Mom had brought his favorite peanut-butter sandwich, she could have saved herself from all this embarrassment. She mutters under her breath, “I am never coming to India again. Even if I come, I will come on my own. The kids can bond with their father back in the US and watch their Super-Bowl matches on TV!”

Where is the NRI father? The father was last spotted in the same wedding hall, in a totally different corner, unmindful of all this commotion. He was busy in a conversation on driverless cars in the US and how they would navigate through obstacles like cows on Indian roads! He is ignorant that the clouds in his horizon are darkening by the minute and knows not what awaits him once he reaches home! Till then, he can continue talking!

When the music maestro came home!

When Semmangudi had music concerts in Mumbai, he stayed in a flat in our building. He would make it a point to meet my father whom he knew from earlier years. I was too young to comprehend music, leave alone Carnatic music. Needless to say, Semmangudi’s standing in the musical firmament was completely lost on me.

He was just another “mama” who came home from time to time; someone who alerted my father from the ground floor and then, huffed and puffed his way up the flight of stairs. I recall running around the house like a howling cyclone, once coming dangerously close to knocking off the coffee tumbler in Semmangudi’s hand! He was forced to take evasive action and blurt out “Careful! Careful!” as he managed to keep out of harm’s way! With a name like “Semmangudi”, a pancha-kachcha dress, a tuft on the head and a walking stick, he had to be placed in a different category altogether! If I liked him, it was for a different reason- he called my sister by an archaic name. The rest of the day, I teased her repeatedly, while she seethed in anger! If he asked us questions, we found him funny and giggled. During this time, I recall attending a concert by Semmangudi. On coming home, I promptly mimicked his over-the-top mannerisms while singing. The music made no perceptible impact.

Classical Music’s calling came late in life. But when it came, it was irresistible and swept me off my feet. Suddenly, it opened the door to a new dimension in life, one of indescribable beauty. Ragas, whose existence was previously unknown, gatecrashed into my being and became companions for life. I listened to the recordings of all the masters, including Semmangudi. Now, I saw him in a totally different light and admired his expert treatment of ragas, his crisp presentation style, his alignment to musical tradition and above all, a lifetime’s commitment to music. The recollection of his animated mannerisms gave a different insight- he had effaced self-identification to the extent it did not matter to him how he presented himself. Once on stage, it was just him and his music, so total was the involvement. Ironically, other priorities led me away from Mumbai and with it, the opportunity to meet the maestro was lost.

Around this time, I met Hari, a classical music enthusiast to the core. To call him Semmangudi’s fan would be an understatement, he worshipped him. His shelf was stacked with the master’s recordings on gramophone records and cassettes. “Listen to his swara-jati in Bhairavi raga. Can anyone hold a candle to him? And to hear his elaboration of Kharaharapriya raga, in all its grandeur, in the pin-drop silence of the night, is such an experience! Semmangudi was the last of the Cadillacs. They do not make cars like this anymore!” announced Hari.

One day, I interrupted Hari with a childhood confession related to Semmangudi. “What do you mean Semmangudi came to your home?” Hari asked, totally aghast. After hearing my tale, there was a protracted period of silence. I was worried if Hari would punch my nose for treating his hero so callously! When he spoke, Hari’s face was creased with a gentle smile. “Life is all about timing, just like “taala”. When we are faced with the situation, the script is not ready. And by the time we get the script ready, the situation has slipped away! But you are lucky! Semmangudi gave us a lifetime of happiness through his music. We have seen him only from the distance of the concert hall. But you saw that master in your own home!”

When Big B came to school!

When we were in primary school, one day, there was a sudden commotion. The air was abuzz that a film shooting troupe had come to school! News traveled like wild fire - Amitabh Bachchan, Big B himself, was in the campus. The students were excited, and so were the teachers. Classes were suspended for the day. The school church was the location of the shooting. Students milled around the church, trying to get a glimpse of the star, only to be sent back. We could watch, but from a distance.

It was tough to catch the details through that enormous crowd. All sorts of equipment was lugged around- cameras, photo-reflectors and umbrellas. Faintly, we caught the outline of a man in a light blue safari suit who soon melted into the crowd. Someone said that was Amitabh Bachchan. From that distance, it could have been anyone. But everyone was sure- it was Big B and we had seen him! Later in the day, students made tall, unverifiable claims. Some insisted they shook hands with Big B himself. It was difficult to sift fact from fiction!

In a year’s time, the movie “Amar Akbar Anthony” was released. It was a blockbuster and one of Amitabh’s biggest hits. And sure enough, in a song sequence, our school church formed the backdrop. There was now no doubt. Big B had indeed come to school. Each time the song featured on TV, the joy could not be contained; it was where we hung around each day- the same steps, the same pulpit, the same stained-glass windows! “Yes, we all know it is your school!” my sister snapped, with palpable irritation.

Years later, I went to Roorkee to study. In those pre-internet days, Roorkee was as though in a cocoon- an educational town, far away from the big, bad world. To those simple folks who manned the college mess and the canteen, it was a novelty that someone should come from distant Bombay. “Have you seen film stars in Bombay?” Guptaji, the canteen owner asked one day. A negative reply would have quashed the hopeful look in his eyes. “Yes, we keep seeing them! You may recall the movie Amar Akbar Anthony.” Guptaji’s eyes lit up. “Of course! Who does not know that film?” Nonchalantly, I continued, “To shoot that film, Amitabh had come to my school!” By then, Guptaji had alerted his attendants. “Did you hear that? Amitji had come to his school!” One thing led to another and soon, it was as if, I was close enough to play a game of marbles with Amitji!

From then on, the four years in Roorkee were easy for me. Guptaji hung on my lips. I was the conduit between him and Amitji. And for retelling the same tale about my school and Amar Akbar Anthony, there was ample compensation- multiple servings of gulab-jamun and plates of hot samosas! Who can complain now?

Someday, if I meet Big B, I owe him a big thanks. His larger than life image has such an arresting appeal on the masses that some of that star dust rubs off on the likes of us too! Such is tinsel-town’s fascination! And as far as primary school is concerned, who can forget those days? Even now, when someone asks, “What is your name?” the second-grader in me surfaces! There is an irresistible urge to rise to my full height, change my voice to a gruff baritone, and reply in song, like Big B in that iconic film- “My name is Anthony Gonsalves!”

The master in the making!

Mumbai’s School Cricket tournaments date back to the days of the Raj. We do not know who Messrs. Giles and Harris were, but the tournaments instituted in their name continue to this day. For every Cricket player in High School, the Giles Shield for Under-15 and the Harris Shield for Under-17 are coveted tournaments. Despite our urge to weed out pre-Independence names, Giles and Harris have surprisingly survived.

The competition was fierce and the top schools vied for the title. These tournaments served Mumbai’s cause well. From the days of Gavaskar to today’s Prithvi Shaw, Mumbai has produced run-making machines in every generation. Their skills were honed in these school matches, where kids as young as 10 years lugged heavy kits and played hard, competitive Cricket. Mumbai’s Azad Maidan and Cross Maidan- these sprawling grounds have nurtured many a school Cricketer, who went on to play for Mumbai and India. The erstwhile Bombay brand of batting was plain and simple. Play like a disgruntled miser, “khadoos khelneka”, never give your wicket away and bat till you wear the opposition down. It was in school cricket that these basics were instilled.

School Cricket was a bubble in itself. Information traveled quickly by word of mouth. Everyone kept a keen eye for the next big star to dazzle the Cricket horizon. Umpires officiated in these matches for a pittance, with even one elderly English umpire. His passion for the school games was so intense, that he had missed the vital point that it was now Independent India and continued to stay on! Journalists covered these matches prominently. If you scored 30 runs, you saw your name in the next day’s newspaper. If you scored a 50 or a 100, you earned the headlines- so and so “shines”. If you took 5 wickets, the headlines screamed so and so “deadly!” Needless to say, this was a school kid’s instant claim to fame. You felt on top of the world!

I was fortunate to be part of this Cricket circuit through the years in school. Regardless of my performance in Cricket or the lack of it, it has surely supplied ample text for conversation! And there is no Cricket narrative that is a bigger hit with young fans than this one. “You mean, you played Cricket with the Master himself?” It is a question bordering on disbelief that I am often faced after each narration. “Not with, against!” I would gently correct them. This is how the tale goes.

It was a Giles Shield match at Shivaji Park where our school faced Shardashram Vidyamandir. We were quite well placed in the match. After the fall of a wicket, a sixth grader with curly hair came in to bat. He played strokes that belied his age, especially the way he pulled the short ball to the boundary. There was something special about that boy- he was a pocket-sized dynamite. His innings made the difference and we lost the match.

A few years later, a certain curly haired boy made his debut for India. The similarity was too close to be casually brushed aside. I could not contain my curiosity any more. One evening, I went to school and requested the old scorebooks to be pulled out. I flipped through the pages and finally rested on the page I had in mind. My finger hurriedly scanned the list of batsmen from Shardashram’s scorecard and sure enough, he was there. You guessed it right. It was Sachin Tendulkar, the Master Blaster!

Many a night, I have suddenly woken up and rewound the mind's tape to that day. I can feel the sea breeze at Shivaji Park, the sun-swept ground and the Cricket pitch closest to the statue of Maharaj. I chuckle at the thought- who knows, maybe, it was our bowling that gave that sixth-grader the self-belief that he belonged to Cricket. And go on to be the phenomenon he was, for a quarter of a century! Back then, he was not a finished product yet. I was lucky. I could watch glimpses of greatness at such close quarters. “Yes, I saw the master...while he was still in the making!”

Nadaswaram and weddings!

Nadaswaram is a “mangala vaadya”, an instrument that ushers an auspicious atmosphere. South Indian weddings and nadaswaram go hand in hand. To think of a South Indian wedding without the nadaswaram is like celebrating Deepavali without lights or Holi without colors! So intimately, the sounds of the instrument are woven into the occasion.

Even before the wedding gets underway, the nadaswaram troupe is at the hall, in the wee hours of the morning. The troupe consists of the main musician, his deputy, a drummer (thavil vidvan) and occasionally, a cymbals player. The main nadaswaram artiste has a regal appearance- draped in a spotless silk “jibba” and “veshti”. His torso is decked with multiple gold-chains and medals. He displays them with pride- like an army officer wears the badge of honour. The deputy artiste literally plays the second fiddle. His task is important- he has to maintain the pitch unswervingly, while the main artiste improvises the music over this drone. The drummer’s fingers are taped in white-bandage, or so it looks to the onlooker. It is as if, he needs that protection as he pounds his drum!

Having settled down in a corner of the wedding hall, it takes just the clatter of the drum and the first few notes of the nadaswaram to transform the place. The hall and the entire neighborhood is charged with festivity. Such is the nadaswaram’s magical effect.

The nadaswaram’s role in a wedding is like the background score in a film. The background score fills every frame of the film, but strangely, its presence goes unnoticed. So too, all the wedding’s proceedings are conducted against the backdrop of the nadaswaram. The groom and the bride occupy center-stage, the priests maintain a rhythmic chant and family members welcome the guests. Ladies sashay in colorful silk saris, children run around, there is laughter and conversation, everything plays out over the hubhub of the music. The nadaswaram artiste is like a zen-monk- unmindful of the overwhelming commotion. He maintains a line-of-sight communication with the main priest. At opportune moments in the wedding, the priest waves his hand like a music-conductor. The cue is for the musician to change the tempo and raise the pitch to a crescendo. That is only attention that comes the nadaswaram’s way through the function.

In the same hall, sits an elderly gentleman in the far corner. Family members are unsure which side of the family he comes from. They leave him alone. For him, the wedding has receded in the background. His attention is entirely on the music. His head sways, he blurts out “shabhash” and he keeps track of the beat when the drummer gets into action. The only time this gentleman gets up from his seat is to bless the couple with a shower of rice-grains, that too because someone thrust the grains into his palm!

By midday, the wedding comes to a close. Everyone makes a beeline to congratulate the couple and head for the sumptuous lunch. Our gentleman walks in a different direction, to the corner where the artiste has just packed away his instrument. “Your Todi raga was grand! And the percussion round was A-class!” The nadaswaram artiste’s eyes light up. He touches his heart with a gentle bow as he gracefully accepts the words of appreciation. “It is all my guru’s blessings!” he trails away.

A tailor-made relationship!

These days, you hear a lot about the “growth-chart”. The doctor measures the height and weight and tracks the Body Mass Index through the growing years. Going back in time, by about four decades, growth charts were non-existent. However, someone did track your growth spurts. It was your tailor!

Each family had its extended circle- a family doctor, a family priest and even a family tailor. You built the relationship with these caregivers over a period of time. It made the service personal.

The tailor greeted you with a big smile the moment you entered the shop. The shop was compact- shelves stacked with clothing material and filled with the aroma of fresh cloth. He had an amiable disposition with a pencil perched on his ear and a measuring tape hanging around the shoulder. The drill was familiar. Asking you to stand straight and tall, he measured you from top to toe. He made you extend your arms and part your feet. It tickled you to get so much attention and made you feel special. At the end of it, he peered into the notebook and gave a frank assessment- “You have become taller by 3 cm. You have also become a little fatter- by 2 cm!” He promised to have the dress ready very soon.

Personalized stitching took its own sweet time- 3 weeks to a month. From the sheepish grin with which the tailor greeted you, you knew the dress was not ready. Disappointment was inbuilt in the journey and made the final outcome fonder. He managed to wriggle away with a convoluted excuse each time, with the assurance that the next time, it would be ready! The excitement was in the wait, in the anticipation of the eventual fruition.

In the absence of social media, your window to the world and its sartorial tastes was limited. The tailor was the fashion-guru. Sometimes, he insisted on a “Bush shirt” and bell-bottom trousers. The following visit, the style had changed. “It is all pleated pants nowadays!” he announced with certainty. By Diwali, he had a different suggestion. “You go for a safari suit!” You blindly followed his instructions and seldom regretted.

Contrast this with today’s popular culture. You have lost track of the number of malls in the neighbourhood. Every mall is littered with branded, ready-made clothes of bewildering variety. When you emerge from the mall, you carry multiple bags with new shirts and trousers. Ready-made wear is like saying –“One size fits all”. You can flaunt the brand name on the shirt pocket, but cannot avoid the inevitable fitting problems. You quickly pick the new shirt from the aisle and pay at the counter. It is instant. Sometimes, waiting is worthwhile. It is like getting hundreds of “forwards” on social media today, but not one letter specially written for you. You miss your tailor and the bond that you shared with him.

Back then, there was no need for self-help books and counsellors to boost your self-image. The tailor donned that role effortlessly. As you emerged from the trial room in a brand new safari suit, the tailor’s eyes lit up. He was effusive, “You look like a hero! Amitabh Bachchan will have to find a new job!” and put his hand affectionately around the shoulder. You felt on top of the world!