Andaz-e-bayan aur!

Know what I've been tripping on this past month?

Ghawwalis! (ugh, I know, I know!)

Rahat Fateh Ali Khan and group have sung a whole lot of ghazals by Ghalib as qawwalis and what fun they are!

As it happens with qawwalis, they sing the main ghazal through but now and then pick up key words from the preceding sher and intersperse with couplets from elsewhere, either stressing the sentiment, or taking off from it on another tangent altogether.

These are the efforts, I understand, of Yousuf Salahuddin, culture-lover from Lahore, under a series called Virsa Heritage Revived

I share here two videos:
1) Rahat and co singing Koi umeed bar nahin aati



2) A full concert called Nawa-e-sarosh with four qawwalis



Caution: Dost ghamkhwari mein meri is a potential ear-worm! I haven't thrown it off in days.

Ramnagar ki Ramlila

Last month, I spent a week in Kashi. An absolutely memorable week that seems to have changed me, transformed me. I have never been so hung over over one city before. (Although I do remember going on a bit about my travels in the Himalaya: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5).

When I came back, I absolutely had to write about one aspect, my last evening in Varanasi, when I went to the famous Ramlila of Ramnagar. It was an immersive experience that delighted me on every level. I have been day-dreaming about going back to Kashi at this time next year, negotiate some reasonable long-term lodgings and stay for the whole month. Wander around the city in the mornings... see the 56 Vinayakas, the Nava Durgas, the Panch Kroshi temples, the secret underground temples, the eight Bhairavas, the 12 Adityas... everything! In the evenings, I would head to Ramnagar to see the lila.

Today, as I write, the Ramlila is playing out its last day in Ramnagar. At this moment, perhaps the swaroops and other primary characters are in the palace-fort, being given a hospitable meal by Kashi Naresh, receiving their dakshina from him, before leaving the palace on adorned elephants.

I wrote about it, and the piece appeared in The Hindu’s Sunday Magazine earlier this week. This is a longer, more detailed version of that piece.

======

Ramlila, the dramatic folk re-enactment of the life of Rama is conducted across North India during the Dussehra. The entire culture has been designated an intangible heritage by UNESCO, and the most notable traditions are those observed annually at Ayodhya, Ramnagar and Varanasi, Vrindavan, Almora, Satna and Madhubani. Against the ten-day version at most places, the Ramlila at Ramnagar is an elaborate, protracted affair, and takes 30 to 31 days to tell. The folk narration is done by gaslight and without microphones. The crowds range from a few thousands to over a lakh on different days.
 
Patronised by the Royal Family of Varanasi, the Ramlila here is an extraordinary example of site-specific or environmental theatre. The 5 sq km of Ramnagar town are designated to be various locations: Ayodhya, Janakpur, Lanka and so on, and the performance shifts between these locations, sometimes moving to as many as three locations in a day.

Ramnagar’s Ramlila

“Chup raho!! Saavdhaan!” hollers a frail man from the stage. That command for silence is the cue that ‘samvaad’ or conversation is about to take place on the raised platform. The crowd quietens and pitches its collective ears forward, straining to hear the dialogue. Surely, without microphones, the voices wouldn’t carry beyond a 100 rows, and the gathering is several thousands strong. But it doesn’t seem to matter: everyone is following the action closely, already familiar with each line, intimate with the characters and their motivations, keenly anticipating the unfolding of a story they’ve been told and told again since childhood. That is the Ramilia at Ramnagar.

It was chance that my visit to Kashi coincided with the 31-day, elaborately-told Ramlila that unfolds here each year. I had heard so much about this spectacle, and although I’d seen performances in Delhi, it is understood that haven’t seen the lila till you’ve seen ‘Ramnagar ki Ramlila’. I dearly wanted to go, but I was a solo woman traveller... Ramnagar is 12km away and across the river... how would I go, would I be able to muscle my way through crowds, and if the lila ended late, how was I to get back? My hosts put me in the care of Shuklaji, automan and local guide, who would take me there, orient me and bring me back. It was perfect!

But the morning of the day brought worrying news. The previous day’s performance had been cancelled much to the consternation and disappointment of the thousands who had gathered –a thing that had never happened for as long as anyone can remember. Four of the five ‘swaroops’ – the children who don the five primary characters of Ram, Sita, Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrughna – were down with gasteroenteritis. They were in hospital, the newspapers said, and expected to recover by the evening, in time for the next performance.

So we went. We were early, and I had time to wander about the Ramnagar fort and palace-grounds for a while. As I made my way back, elephants were being brought around to the entrance. Kashi Naresh, the nominal ruler of Varanasi, is the patron of the Ramlila and takes close interest in it. In fact, the Ramlila here was started by his ancestor Udit Narayan Singh around 1830 and further honed by Maharaja Ishwari Prasad Narayan Singh, who ruled 1857–1889. He not only took the Ramlila out of the palace-fort into the main town but also commissioned scholars to compose dialogue in Awadhi. Even today, the selection and casting of actors for the main parts is done by the king, and the actors are chosen based on their fluency in Sanskrit, diction and throw. He also provides provisions and upkeep for the thousands of sadhus who come to see the Ramlila each year. Naturally, Kashi Naresh Anant Narayan Singh would be attending the festivities and it was just a matter of time before he and his family set out for the performance.

We trundled off deeper into the dusty town of Ramnagar, and I saw the various locations: here, the site for Ayodhya, over there, Lanka. Today was supposed to be the ‘Dhanush Yagya’, a thrilling episode where Rama strings the bow that wins him the hand of Sita but alas, with the previous day’s cancellation, the program has been rearranged. But Shuklaji consoles me: the ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ or the ‘Conversation Amongst Eight Women’ and ‘Phulwari’, the garden scene where Sita first lays eyes on Rama are highly prized too! The women particularly flock on this day, I learn.

Bhajans by the roadside

We settle into the front rows and the crowd slowly swells. Mats and sacks are laid out, some bring foldable chairs, and some, with great foresight, carry steel dabbas, which do double duty for snacks and a low stool! I also lay out the felt ‘aasan’ I’ve brought for the purpose. (This was a recent acquisition at a charming shop near Dashashwamedh Ghat – a mat woven with kusha grass and this bright-red fabric for Rs 25.) It’s warm, and almost everyone buys a palm-leaf fan.

There is uncertainty in the air. If the swaroops are still ill, this could be a wash out again. “We came yesterday as well,” Tulsiji, next to me, says, “I live near the fort but many walk hours to get here. Nirash ho gaye... everyone was disappointed!”

Thankfully, it’s only a 3-hour delay. I saunter around, eating jalebis dipped in jaggery (a delicacy that’s only served during the lila), sample some excellent revdi and buy a cone-packet of makhana. The Ramlila is famous for ‘niyamis’ – these are regulars who ceremonially attend every day of the lila. I get to be on the sidelines of a pageant of what Shuklaji calls their “aan, baan, shaan”, in other words, their pomp and splendour. Typically the niyamis first take a ritual dip in the waters, wear new clothes (usually blazing white) and walk with what’s almost a swagger. I see an array of forehead markings indicating clan, or Saivite/Vaishnavite orientation. One point of pride are the staffs that they carry – ornate, worked wood with inlay and handles of silver and gold.

The elders wait for the programme to start

Staffs of many impressive kinds

In yet another piquant practice, the niyamis come armed with bottles of ittar, and it is customary to smear your friends and acquaintances with a touch of perfume. The cost of a small vial could go up to a lakh, and the kinds of ittar you carry (a different one each day, if you can afford it) says much about your status. Shuklaji met a friend and my heart leaped for joy when the man we encountered brandished a small sheesha of perfume. I was honoured with a dab – it turned out to be an ambergris-based flavour that I revelled in all evening.

“Has the Maharaja come?” I ask. “Arre, madamji,” Shuklaji says scornfully, “Agar aaye hotey toh ’Har, Har, Mahadev!’ ka aisa gagan-bhedi utkrosh hota ke aapko pata chal jaata!” Had he arrived, cries of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ would’ve pierced the skies! Informed of the delay, the king has delayed his own departure.

Finally, he arrives, and so do the swaroops: Ram-Lakshman are bedecked with sequins, sparkling stones and heavy crowns. Their limbs are smeared with sandalwood paste, lightly scored through to form lines and whorls. The scene is the ‘Asht Sakhi Samvaad’ where Ram and Lakshman walk through the streets of Janakpur, setting the town abuzz with speculation. The boys look regal and impassive as they walk through the crowds, both real and theatrical. All the swaroops, even female parts, are played by boys under the age of 16. In fact, all parts in the lila are played by men. In recent years, the character of Soorpanaka alone has been enacted by a woman, I read later. 

Two of the sakhis in conversation

The swaroops

On stage, the eight women (young men in women’s garb) hold forth, exclaiming over the beauty and grace of the two young men from Ayodhya, wanting one of them to wed their princess. Interestingly, although the actors broadly know their parts, each line is prompted by Vyasji, the director of the performance. He stands behind the actors, with a helper shining a torch on the book he holds open. He mutters the dialogue sotto voce and the actors then pick up each line, declaiming them in a curious sing-song fashion. leaving room for the prompts. To one side, below the platform, the swaroops sit, poised and phlegmatic. The villagers attending them fan them continuously. It is a curious mixture of worship and pragmatism: worry for the sick boys who still have IV catheters embedded in their veins as well as reverence for the gods they represent.

What prompted the actors to perform when their bodies are so frail? Sheer mind over matter? The age-old compulsion that the show must go on, but also because this is a tremendous responsibility. From Ganesh Chaturthi onwards, when they’re cast into their parts till the lila culminates 40 days later on Ashwin Poornima, the boys remain in character. No one addresses them by name, and even amongst themselves, the Ram-swaroop gets all the respect due to the oldest brother.

Now, the scene shifts and we all make our way to an antiquated Gomteshwar temple some distance away. We hunker down around the temple precincts and Shuklaji finds me a spot that lets me see, without craning my neck, both the shrine and the made-up ‘garden’ outside, where the romantic encounter takes place. In the audience, Kashi Naresh sits in a prime spot, unimposing but upright, his white kurta and cap gleaming in the falling light. Finally ‘Janaknandini’ Sita arrives on a palanquin. There are exclamations of delight, and everyone cranes to get a better look... she is clad in red, in contrast to the four brothers who always don yellow. Her bearers shoo crowds out of the way, and the dedicated light man replenishes his ‘mashal’ or torch constantly with kerosene from a quaint, old-fashioned dispenser.

The Gomteshwar mandir which serves as the backdrop for Phulwari

Sita and her companions make their way up the temple steps. I come to realise that time takes on quite a different meaning in rural India. The assembled crowd took the three-hour delay completely in its stride. Shuklaji informs me that every day, the performance, which begins at 5pm takes a flexible break at dusk, so that everyone – from the Maharaja to the performers – can do their ritual sandhya vandan. Small wonder then, that when Sita disappears ‘off-screen’ into the sanctum for a good eight minutes to do her Girija pujan, everyone simply waits. The puja isn’t for show and neither is their devotion.

The Ramlila is punctuated by singing from the Ram Charit Manas by Ramayanis, a group of twelve men who narrate the story in verse. This is followed by the actors who then perform the re-enactment. The Ramayanis finish their verse and the samvaad begins. Ram and Sita meet in the garden, and there is a flare of attraction. Each hopes they are meant to be together. In the rapt audience, mobile rings are frowned upon, chatter is sternly shushed. Some just read the Manas by LED light, following events their own way.

An hour more, and it is done. The swaroops stand for the final aarti, a white firecracker is set off to indicate finis. Within ten minutes, the entire crowd disperses. Till the next day, when Shri Ram will string the Shiv Dhanush and win his bride.

Sahib ne bhang pilayi

I said earlier that this year felt like it had been running wild? Well, one of the exciting things we did was to go to a workshop on Kabir. A five-day residential workshop on one of the most hard-hitting raconteurs of the spiritual journey. Readers of this blog will know how much I love this man, and love to quote him: for many years now his utterances have served as clinchers to my primary quandaries as a seeker.

In 2009 – what a year that was! – I happened to go to a Kabir Festival in Delhi. I speak of what happened to me here, and a little more about the festival and its personalities here. 

It seemed extraordinarily important even as I went through the weekend, but what it was doing to me, how it was preparing me and to what end... this became apparent only a few days later. The immersive festival experience happened on 4, 5 and 6 September 2009. Around the same time, my mother was feeling poorly and went through a few medical tests. On 11 Sept, the results came and we learnt that we were going to lose her in a matter of weeks.

Now, this – that my mother might die – had always been one of my worst and very active fears... the stuff of nightmares. As much as I was sure that I would not be able to bear her loss, I had fretted about it for decades. And now it was coming true.

It was my Guru’s compassion, his grace, his love... to prepare me for a blow I had dreaded all my life. Buffered by Kabir, I took the news better than I could ever expect to. The next few months, I was able to live intensely, love intensely and let go gracefully, even joyfully.

Now seven years later, here was a chance to go to a workshop conducted by the inspirational Prahlad Tipaniya himself. It was meant. A chance to express my gratitude – and close a loop.

And another chance to bow low, very low to my Guru.

No luck

I was on my way to an event today - a dastangoi of extracts from Alice in Wonderland. Very excited, I'd arranged my whole day around this event, although I'm very stressed for time.
Halfway there, I look at my phone and find they've rescheduled from 5pm to 6.30. I take a u turn and come back home. I can use even 45 minutes to do some of the things on my list. Then finding myself still enthusiastic, I set out again. Now I'm caught in horrendous traffic and am sure to be at least 20 minutes late to a 50 minute session.
It's one of those days!

A gala time

It has been a crazy month. I was swamped by deadlines of varying levels of clinginess – it was just one thing after the other. In the middle of all this though, there was something I was determined to do – attend the Park Hyatt’s Masters of Food & Wine event. This is a series of sophisticated culinary and beverage experiences hosted at Park Hyatts across the world. Award-winning chefs, sommeliers and experts are invited – it is a celebration of food and drink.

The Park Hyatt in Hyderabad is fairly new and they were holding their first Masters of Food & Wine between 19th and 22nd September.  The Masters in this case being Spanish 2 star Michelin chef Koldo Royo, Thai chef Maitree Polboon and French cheese affineur Eric Mickael.

The whole programme sounded fascinating but work! But I managed one night off – donned a dress and took off to a five course gala dinner at the Tre-forni where Chef Koldo Royo’s offerings would be paired with wine from the house of Torres. It was a lovely experience.

Some lip smacking Sangria and fritters whet the appetite, strawberry gazpacho followed and then buttered and herbed mushroom on a bed of mashed peas. Two desserts – a convent-style coffee custard and a rice pudding flavoured with Spanish anise. The wines were fabulous too and I was taken with the dessert wine Floralis - Moscatel Oro – a sweet mouthful with tints of rose, geranium and lemon verbena.

The Spanish Ambassador, Gustavo De Aristegui, honoured the evening with his presence, and he came by to talk of wines, India, culture, Japan and Bollywood movies. Has Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara made a difference to tourism, I asked. Emphatically yes, he said, in fact the filmmakers and cast may be meeting the King of Spain to receive his appreciation.

I wish I had attended the Thai event as well. Another time.

Dhuan dhukhay mere murshid wala…

….jaan pholaan taan laal ni*


My heart was cleansed anew two or three days ago. It had gathered debris, a film of dust perhaps, or to borrow and stretch a metaphor: like a lit cigarette that has a thickness of ash still clinging. A small flick and the ash has fallen – the flame breathes and smoulders red again.

Earlier this week, I attended a lecture on Daag Dehlvi and the speaker quoted this evocative sher by Sauda, which appealed very much.

Aadam ka jism jab ki anaasir se mil banaa
Kuchh aag bach rahi thi so aashiq ka dil bana

आदम का जिस्म जब भी अनासिर से मिल बना
कुछ आग बच रही थी सो आशिक का दिल बना
 

When the five elements blended to form Adam’s body
A leftover flame went to making the lover’s heart.

========

*From Farid's Mae ni mai kinnu aakhan
[Trans. My Master’s fire spits and smoulders
Red hot, everywhere I blow]

Kahat Kabir

Kabir Festival 2

Just a brief overview of what the festival offered. It was an effort to broadcast the work of the Kabir Project - a project that involved "series of journeys in quest of this 15th century mystic poet in our contemporary worlds." The output, if you want it in concrete terms, consists of 4 documentary films, 2 folk music videos and 10 music CDs accompanied by books of the poetry in translation. The person who has propelled this effort is filmmaker Shabnam Virmani and all of this was the result of an Artist-in-Residence program at the Sristhi School of Art, Design and Technology.

The films have taken some four years to make: they involved extensive and intensive travel and although they have been constructed into four stand-alone themes, there is substantial overlap (at least, of personalities) and the tetralogy is best, in my opinion, seen and taken together.

The first of these was Chalo Hamara Des that starts by introducing to us Prahlad Singh Tipanya, a folk singer of Malwa, whose way of life is coloured by Kabir. With Prahladji in tow, Virmani travels to Stanford to meet Linda Hess, a scholar of comparative literature who has translated Kabir and now is working on the oral traditions that thrive in various parts of the subcontinent. Early in the film, Hess talks of the peak of Shoonya that Kabir refers to, the peak that is the destination of anyone on the spiritual path. And earnest though these seekers are, and sound though their theory is of what they must do, it is the practice of it that was fascinating to me. Through the films they expand into something larger, and fall back again into their selves, trapped by habit, structure and personality.

The next film Had-Anhad is the most toasted of the four. It starts in Ayodhya, with a few chest thumping Hindu reactions on the Babri Masjid issue. Then the film seeks Ram - Kabir's Ram, the Sagun Ram, the Nirgun Ram and it seeks Kabir or rather the various Kabirs that appear scattered here and there. It follows the trail to Rajasthan to interact with Mirasi sufi singer Mukhtiyar Ali to see what he makes of it and then over the border to Karachi to meet with Farid Ayaz whose family has been singing qawwalis for 700 years - a man so intensely possessive of his Kabir he tells his contingent of guests very frankly that he is not about to tolerate their dissenting views.

Kabira khada bazaar mein - which some might perceive as the weakest in the chain - is still interesting for its examination of how Kabir has been appropriated by various sections of society. Some are interested only in his incendiary stances, some use him for his dalit status, some take Kabir to represent an alternative religion that goes against the very essence of what the saint might have himself said or meant.
However, the truly ticklish point of the film comes when it traces the actions of Prahlad Tipanya. A man whose singing has earned him a considerable following, a man who has all through believed in the essence of Kabir and tried to emulate it to a subtle pitch, does the unthinkable: he joins the Kabir Panthi Sect as a mahant. His work now involves ritual, wearing a hierophant-ish hat and he must perform (and exhort others to perform) the chauka aarti. Tipanya is criticised in the film by his own assistants, his family, his friends (Hess and Virmani included) and his contemporaries. He protests albeit softly that he wants to change the system from within. It is a weak argument. What is clear though is he feels he must; however obscure his motivations, it is obvious he thinks his path goes through the establishment, not around it.

The fourth film Koi Sunta Hai moves to fresh arenas: classical music. It explores the influence of Kabir on Pt Kumar Gandharva and in turn, classical singing, as well as of course, what this did to elevate Kabir's own status from being considered the literature of beggars and mendicants to more refined circles.

The films are avowedly a personal search as far as Shabnam Virmani is concerned. She wields the camera herself, we see her occasionally caught in mirrors or shadows but she pervades the films far more than through appearances alone. She is addressed by name by her interviewees, that they are in fact in a dialogue is never in doubt. It must be her manner, her skill as a questioner that she manages to evoke such spontaneous responses, such charming reactions.

Music occupies a large chunk of the footage and it is quite central to the project. It enhanced the experience of the festival so much that the personalities whose lives that were being minutely examined in the films were also present. When they sang of course, we knew them intimately.

The festival was expensive too: entry was free but there was music on offer and after each screening or concert I went back, quite sure I needed to have that CD as well. So ended that a bit poorer and a bit richer.

Sahib mera

Little bit blown. Actually very much blown. I’ve just spent the weekend from Friday evening to Sunday evening at a festival devoted to Kabir. An explosion of music, of Kabir’s words, his personality, his timelessness. An explosion of ideas, perspectives, people, their intimate personal lives. Their words, their attitudes, their common goal. The politics of it, the ownership of it, the fluidity of it — the high brow application of it, the accessibility of it... it has been all somewhat overwhelming.
I want to blog at some length but am tumbling over my words, so incoherent am I in my hurry to say all the very important things at once.
So this, just to capture the first flush. But I will, insha’allah, come back to blog about the various aspects of what I have learnt, what I have observed. Already my state before I went to IIC on Friday evening is fast fading; I have assimilated too quickly.

Bands of boys

Rock concert last night as part of the Times Festival. Headbanging crowds, sea of cornas and lovely weather. Bands Parikrama and Pentagram, both of whom were very good. I enjoyed Parikrama very much - their violinist was amazingly talented - and I might have enjoyed Pentagram more had Vishal Dadlani not insisted on putting us through our paces with the 'hands in the air, come sing-along, now clap with me' routine.
I've missed everything else - the Balamurli concert, Shiv Kumar Sharma and not going tonight to Manto Ismat Hazir Hain.

Ru-ba-ru

GUESS what I’ve been doing? Having tea with Aamir Khan!

Aamir has been blogging for a while and, I think, finds it an excellent way to interact with his admirers directly without being interpreted by the media or other filters. He is in Hyderabad now, shooting for Ghajini, and asked last week if some of his local readers would like to meet him. Guess who put up her hand? Moi.

He was nice! Affable, articulate, attentive. Asking questions, seeking opinions; telling us his own with startling frankness. There were about 15-18 people in all – a diverse, well-informed, interesting gathering. Conversation flowed, flitting from Indian mythology to the state of our media, lingering on AP politics, staying quite a while on movies.

+++++++

We met on location for Ghajini and that brought a chance to see Aamir Khan in action. He invited us in to see the filming and sync-sound demanded that we keep quiet as mice. It has been a while since I was on a set, and the small exposure had me yearning… the dust, the heat, the cables underfoot… the ordered mayhem of it all.

It has been years since I was involved with TV and film, and I had, in fact, been itching to see how the years have altered film-making. It was a lesson to see the changes – sync sound, super light-sensitive cameras, the recording process. AR Murugadoss, who directed Ghajini in Tamil, directs this project as well. With him flew out my idea of the director as a loud presence. Diminutive, almost retiring, he sits in front of the monitor, closely watching the frames, darting off now and then to have a quiet confab with his star. The commands for silence, camera and action, in fact, came from a bossy (sounding) assistant.

Do you know, they don’t necessarily say ‘Lights, Camera, Action!’ any more? They dropped ‘Lights’ altogether on this occasion, it’s ‘Roll Video’ now, but mercifully, they say ‘Action’ still. They lit the scene entirely with ‘normal’ lights yesterday – wall mounted lights, lamps throwing pools, which apparently were more than adequate for the moody indoor ambience they sought. No sign of the heavy duty arc lights that have for so long been such evocative symbols of cinema.

Also, a great number of young women in the crew! Director’s assistants, sound recording and mysterious other jobs. All of them frightfully efficient.

++++++++

So much has been said about Aamir Khan’s perfectionism and it is indeed true. His concentration is phenomenal and he sees very clearly what must be achieved, I should think. Once that is clear, he spares no effort in achieving it. If another take and twenty more minutes must be spent in producing a shot a touch more menacing, or attain movement a little more beautiful, it must be done. Not to do that, to settle, is intolerable. It is an admirable work ethic.

Whirligig

My friend Sudha’s visit to town coincides with the Krishnakriti Art Festival and so this past week has been a whirl of sensory experiences replete with food, drink, music and an extravagant visual feast – all very well in their own place but together manage to leave me sleep-deprived and not a little stunned. All this has also gripped me with a desire to blog about it, so I shall in exhausting detail.

The first of the Kalakriti events was a play based on Mahashweta Devi’s short story Stan Dayini. The play was called Choli ke peeche kya hai and it began by playing the entire song – all six-odd minutes of it – with one actor keeping beat (or rather following it, because his rhythm was a bit off) with cymbals and the rest of the cast all wandering in and out of stage looking meaningful. I muttered to Shweta that they were going to spoil this song for us and that is almost what happened. Pretentious drivel! We saw the play through to the gory end and removed to Kamat next door to calm our nerves, where tasteful coffee and tasteless jokes set us to rights.

*

I missed the jazz concert the next day but went instead to dinner at Barbeque Nation, and I was completely delighted with it. Kebabs are the speciality here and the fun part is each table at Barbeque Nation comes with a hollow centre which is cleverly designed to hold a brazier. The kebabs are brought and you can cook them as you please, choosing from herbed and flavoured oils, and garlic butter. Rs 400 includes all the grills you can eat as well as a nice buffet. Wasteful you would say, seeing as I am vegetarian, but they had five vegetarian kebabs for us types and I appreciated the thoughtfulness.

Hyderabad cannot pretend to a winter but the chill in the air makes you glad of sitting around warmth and eating hot food. We staggered out and meandered towards Taj Deccan, not because we were hungry, I assure you, but merely to uphold a long-held tradition of midnight tea.

*

I was determined to go to the Kalakriti event on Thursday. I have a special fondness for folk music and the Manganiyars of Rajasthan I admire very much. Even had they just lined up to sing in a sedate row I would’ve considered it a high treat but this was something special. Called The Manganiyar Seduction, this was music propped by such drama as to be astounding. As we settled in the open-air auditorium at Taramati Baradari, the set drew all eyes. A tall four-tiered affair with 36 cubicles, each box curtained with scarlet cloth, each box lined with golden bulbs.


It began quietly. A small box at the left corner was revealed and highlighted, and a diminutive musician on the sarangi drew his bow across string to set tone and mood. Slowly gathering force, other curtains were parted and voices joined in, as did sarangis, harmoniums, kamanchas, dhols, morchings… it was spectacular. They sang sufiana kalaam drawing from Bulle Shah, wove in and out of other pieces all in one fine, continuous, well-coordinated piece. The lights dipped and grew bright, highlighting now this box, and now that row as artists had their say in the amalgam. How talented these musicians are, how mature and sound their grounding in their art! Is this what Rajasthan is like? Minstrels hidden behind every sand dune? I want.

Taramati Baradari is a goodish distance from where I live but it is a gorgeous place. There was another reason that made going all that way worthwhile – a tea place called Finjaan, where they serve 36 varieties of tea. Very elegant it was and I chose an infusion of rose buds, a delicate tasting drink that made me feel very regal. We had stopped at Finjaan before we went to the concert, and as I listened to the Manganiyars, a faint waft of roses clung to me, as if there was still something more the evening brought out for me.

*

Yesterday, a reading of poetry by Ranjit Hoskote – he deals image-rich, musing phrases with a light hand. We missed the introduction, alas – mea culpa, I was caught up with work and Shweta, who keeps me waiting nine times out of ten, muttered at me all the way there and back.

Dinner then at Aromas of China – jasmine tea, some fabulous crisped vegetable starters in pepper-garlic sauce, butter noodles, gently flavoured clay pot rice, potatoes and corn in some sweetish sauce and for dessert, date pancakes and mango jelly pudding.

That is all.

Hyderabad BirdRace

Sorry for the hasty post but it's BirdRace time again. We had one last year and it was terrific fun!
It's on 2 December this year - do do come. You'll need to register with Siraj Taher (32936937) or Sushil Kapadia (9393319333) of the Birdwatchers' Society of Andhra Pradesh. The official site is here and Ludwig has all the details here.

The days are just packed

Nice things this weekend. One excellent documentary on elephants, the Federer-Gonzalez final, a sitar recital and the icing, a temple dance.

So rare these days to see living arts. We see dance performed of course, but it was satisfying to see it as part of ritual, as integral to prayer, to living. Temple dance sank earlier this century along with the morass of the Devadasi system surrounding it, and what we attended yesterday may or may not have been the authentic thing, but it was fascinating anyway.

It was a Iyengar temple for Lord Ranganatha, and the occasion an annual 8-day Brahmotsava. The dancers circled the temple premises, the priests placed offerings, recited shlokas and invoked 11 deities, with invitations to come grace the festivities. There was Brahma, Garuda, Indra, the elements Agni, Varuna, Vayu, the yaksha Kubera.... Among the directions was Ishan, whom the dancers interpreted mainly as Shiva. There was another whom I hadn't heard of at all: Neruti or Nairutya. Apparently the god of the south-west, a rakshasa-god in charge of controlling the egos of the gods. And his vehicle? Man, or rather, higher man. Not a very high profile chap, wonder why that is. Reminds me strongly of Pratchett on gods and fashions, but too lazy to go look up and quote now.

Samaroha – Day 4

The last post on the music festival, I promise, and the last on classical music for a while, but I just have to get this much out.

The morning session on this last day was pushed to the evening and the programme was packed. Started with Devki Pandit, whose list of gurus reads like the who’s who: Jitendra Abhisheki features there as well as Kishori Amonkar. She sang one of my favourite ragas, Madhuvanti. Nice voice she has, great shruti and it rings out clearly. But also a bit boring.

Pt Prabhakar Karekar was next. We rubbed our hands in anticipation. This man has one of THE most mesmerising voices I’ve heard and he’s got taseer like you wouldn’t believe. We settled ourselves, ready for a high treat.

He began on Bhoopali and dismay! he was struggling. He was greyer than we remembered, and Shweta turned to me, pale, “He can’t have grown that old, can he?” It wasn’t that, just a congested chest and tiredness. It was like watching your favourite player play with an injury – you feel for them at every wince and you’re torn between having them retire and take care of that pain, and carrying on. However, it got better, and genius burst through more frequently. The great ones it seems do play hurt.

Karekar was all for rising after the one piece but was persuaded to sing one very sweet-sounding Marathi natyageet, after which he wrapped up determinedly.

Samaroha – Day 3

My first proper exposure to Dhrupad. I’ve heard so much about how the khayal nearly pushed this ancient style of gaayiki into extinction, and how fascinating a genuine recital can be. The Gundecha brothers from Bhopal are among a fistful of singers who still maintain the purity of the form and are leading a revival.

They started yesterday with Shuddh Kalyan, and for the first half hour or so, reminded me persistently of elephants. Prolonged notes, often near infrasonic rumbles, sustained vibrations. The raga was being picked out strand by strand, with such long pure notes as to make it seem like you had to move far back to see the pattern. Dhrupad’s priority, I felt, lay with sound, not necessarily melody. That came too, but the point was austere, primeval sound, set in a sophisticated classical pattern of three speeds.

They followed that up with a Shiva stuthi in Raga Adhana – dramatic, rousing: Shiva, Shiva, Shiva, Shankara, Aadi deva, Yogi, Mahadeva…

Then, at Pandit Jasraj’s request, Kabir in Raga Charukeshi with Jheeni jheeni keeni chadariya. I was extremely moved, but as I struggled to translate all that sensation into some form of communication, Durga Jasraj came up and quoted Javed Akhtar: “Hamare yahan badon ki taareef karna bhi badtameezi maani jaati hai.” Which said enough.

If the audience sat solemn through these two hours as individual islands of feeling, it all became communal with the violinist brothers Kumaresh-Ganesh, who were remarkably polished and very enjoyable.

Samaroha – Day 2

Ghate ka sauda

Am thoroughly upset with people at concerts these days who greet every successful nuance and turn with thunderous applause. I wish they wouldn’t. Yes, it’s appreciation but wouldn’t a well-placed ‘wah’ or a murmured ‘kya baat hai’ do? No, they break into claps, and people next to them wake up and then it goes around the gathering in ripples. It breaks the flow for the artiste, and if some people have been transported by the music, they’re brought to very rudely.

This happened rather often with the Ulhas Bapat performance last night. But then he had more than the audience to contend with: he had as accompanist on tabla, Vijay Ghate. Bapat started off with in Raga Charukeshi, a very lovely alaap that augured well. Once Vijay Ghate joined him however, Charukeshi was pushed into the background, a mere foil for his prowess. Completely oblivious to Bapat’s plans for the recital, his intention to examine phrase after phrase, and weave them into a many-hued tapestry, Ghate jumped in and thundered away at his drums with short gimmicky flourishes. The audience obligingly clapped every time, and the santoor man’s smile became increasingly fixed.

Why cannot accompanists stay within their roles? Can they not see the bigger picture? If you’re asked to play a humble cog, you play that goddamn cog. Even if you think you can be the entire wheel, or the chariot. Because that’s what is needed of you this minute, your cogness. Anything less, or anything more is useless.

The Jasrangi jugalbandi

This jugalbandi is an experiment of Pt Jasraj’s, and as the maestro outlined his vision for what would unfold, Arjun whispered to me, 'This is either going to go very well or flop miserably.' It went well, oh, it went well.

The Jasrangi jugalbandi has two singers, one male and female. Based on the system of moorchanas, the two singers sing different ragas in different scales at once. The pancham of the male voice becomes the shadj for the female voice. I have a very tenuous grasp on the technicalities, but it sounded heavenly.

Clearly the ragas must be chosen with care: the first piece had Abhyankar singing Purya Dhanashri and Ashwini Bhide Deshpande coming back with Haveli Basant. Two distinct ragas in conjunction. Sometimes, while they bantered in swaras, it seemed as if this was a cultured argument, each person with their clearly delineated point of view, understanding the other, but preferring nevertheless to hold their own perspective. It celebrated the divide of the sexes as well as possibilities of union.

Ras bar’sat tore ghar

The Jasrangi exercise has been done before but singers on those occasions had been disciples of Pt Jasraj, all from the Mewati gharana. This, we were told, was the first time two different gharanas attempted to come together thus.

The second piece had Abhyankar on Kalavati and Ashwini on Abhogi. They chose to sing a composition popular with Bhide Deshpande’s gharana, Jaipur Atrauli, and succeeded beyond hope. Superb, simply superb.

Ashwini Bhide was a little nervy – the screeching mike didn’t help, and nor perhaps the fact that she was on Mewati turf, so to speak – but she carried it off fabulously. As for Abhyankar, he approached god-like dimensions yesterday, channelling the essence of Kalavati from the very first note.

Gundecha brothers today, followed by Carnatic violinists Ganesh-Kumaresh.

How the race was run

Ever been so happyexcited, so tired that you had no words left? Had your head in such a whirl of activity, been so pumped up with the thrill of competition that you couldn’t tell anyone else what the hell that had been about? That was the Hyderabad Bird Race. I came back with honest intentions of a nice long post on it, I sat down to write it, and nothing would come. Best say it baldly: it was FUN. Bole to, kutte ke maze.

Three days later, I feel calmer and more able to give an account of sorts. More than 15 teams, people of all ages (the youngest was four or five and we certainly had people in their sixties), more women than men – all haring off after birds. What’s more, we discovered our true characters: who’d stretch a half glimpse into a tick on the checklist, who’d conjure up a pink headed duck, and who would play it so scrupulously as to come back with half a dozen less than they should have.

More than half the teams wound their way first to the beautiful ICRISAT-Patancheru campus, which has never yet yielded less than 50 species to anyone knocking at their gates.

Winning team: Geese with a final tally of 110 captained by naturalist Rajeev Mathew.

We were allotted teams so as to even the playing field a little. So there was one captain, usually a more experienced birder, with a couple of wet-behind-the-ears newbies in each team. The first couple of hours in many cars went like this:

Newbie: What was that?
Captain: That’s a rock pigeon. You’ll see great numbers in our cities. Greyish bird with glistening sheen of green and purple.

Newbie: Oh, look, look, another bird, there, flying in there.
Captain (who’s driving, avoiding pedestrian and craning neck perilously): That’s a rock pigeon.
Newbie: Oh? But it was so far, how could you tell?
Captain: Aaaah, umm… it flies in that typical way…

A few minutes later
Newbie (alert and determined): Oh, there, there!
Captain (pulling over to look, and then, with voice ever so slightly edgy): That’s a rock pigeon.
Newbie (with embarrassed laugh): It looks so different…

Silence

Ten minutes later
Newbie (hesitant): Oh, there’s a bird there. Maybe it’s a rock pigeon.
Captain (not turning around and driving past resolutely): Yeah, probably.

Behind them a Peregrine Falcon swoops for its prey.


ICRISAT was good, but nowhere up to its usual standards. The lakes were almost bare where normally you’re unable to look at one bird for any length of time because there are at least half a dozen others clamouring for your attention. Still, slowly, with more hard work than we’re accustomed to at this campus, the numbers went up.

Reluctantly, we shifted to the Hyderabad Central University which gave us many of our more common birds, as well as the gorgeous Tickell’s blue, a bronze-winged jacana and what Shweta is fairly convinced was the brown flycatcher. A peacock silhouetted on a rock against the dying sun was our last bird of the day. My team’s tally was a middling 79.

I must tell you about this mystery bird at HCU. Clearly a babbler, rusty brown down the back, distinct white underparts, sharply defined. And – I’ll need your special attention here – red, red eyes. The newbies shuffled impatiently – such a fuss over one bird! but Arjun, Shweta and I needed to know. We rifled through the books to the babbler pages. The rusty cheeked scimitar babbler strayed across from the Himalayan foothills? Perhaps not. Had we missed a little grey on the head, could it be a Wynaad laughing thrush? After all, how far are the Western Ghats anyway; the birds don’t really refer to distribution maps. Finally we filed it under the suspense account.

The mystery was cleared up for us after dinner by Rajeev Mathew. It was the yellow eyed babbler. ‘But, how…the red eyes,’ we spluttered, ‘we saw it distinctly – it couldn’t be the yellow eyed babbler!’ Patiently, the explanation came: yellow apparently is only for a yellow ring the dratted bird has AROUND its RED eye – the yellow was bleached out in the afternoon sun and we hadn’t been able to see it. Salt was rubbed into wounds by Sharada Annamaraju, who knew all about this little trick the bird plays on gormless birders, and was disgustingly superior about it. Incidentally, the bird was in our neck of the woods quite legitimately: its distribution is widespread and splatters into every contour of the Indian map.

Well then, much maja came. We are going to insist that BSAP have this every week.

This evening...

Just back from watching a wildlife film by Shekhar Dattatri called Monsoon – India’s God of Life. Didn’t expect a crowd of over 200 people for such a screening, but organisers Orient Longman and Universities Press had done their groundwork and the turnout was impressive and interested. Chennai-based forum NatureQuest is seeking to establish a similar platform in Hyderabad and they have Romulus Whitaker, the snake man from Chennai visiting next.

Monsoon... has high production standards, was really well made but left me a little discontented. It sought to look at how the rains affect wildlife in the subcontinent, and while it did do that, it did so erratically. I’m quibbling – it was fun, it informed and it entertained.

Met many people I haven’t met in a while, the Birding Society is having a Bird Race (more of that anon) and I’ve just had two cups of irani chai. All of this is leaving me pretty buzzed and so you get a post.

Totally soofi, dude

Went to Ruhaniyat last weekend – ‘a festival of a Sufi and Mystic music’. Event organisers Banyan Tree have been doing quite a bit for classical music this past decade and this festival devoted to sufi and mystic music is into its second year.

Mind-expanding stuff. Strictly speaking, the two-day event was more about performing arts than music per se. The people behind Ruhaniyat have managed to source and put together a fascinating set of traditions that are interesting by themselves but when juxtaposed give you this sense that India is indeed a many many layered thing and leave you to wonder how much more there is. Has anyone, anyone at all a grasp on the whole of it?

Just to give you a sample of the smorgasbord on offer:

Tibetan monks with mystic chants. Mostly sounds from what I could make out… sonorous, droney and calculated to work on your nadis or psychic nerve centres.

Shastanpaattu. Quirky chanting tradition from Kerala, which goes on all night in temples apparently. There is storytelling but the odd part is each singer sings in a different pitch. Bit startling at first but you get into the stride of things and you find yourself listening to distinct voices but together in a way that should be discordant but isn’t. We wondered about why people might have thought this a good thing to do and one of the reasons might be simply, concentration. To continue in one pitch when the person next to you is singing another requires a surprising amount of self-belief and a sense of your purpose. We tried it at home with cacophonous results.

Then there were the Jagars from Uttaranchal. I was really taken with this. Singers from this community are apparently called in when lots of things go wrong with a household… too many calamities, deaths, illnesses. The singers come and sing the jagars; it goes on till one member of the household becomes possessed and then questions are posed and answers are sought.
These artistes from the Himalayas, with their typical mountain voices, were so good. They rounded off with the hanthya jagar – sung especially for those who die young, I believe. They sang of Abhimanyu, whose spirit they say resides in Uttaranchal.

The Baul Movement. The Bauls of Bengal are very in at the moment. Wandering mendicants who sing. (I’ve always wanted to use ‘mendicant’... hee hee). The Bauls were generously sprinkled through the entire event. There was Parvathy Baul, dreadlocked sadhvi with a sweet gaspy voice, star of the ensemble.
But the others were most endearing. Old, learned men with almost-breaking folk voices, ek taras and small dhols. They sang, jumped, circled and danced, as frisky as four-year-olds and seemingly as innocent.
Something else about the Bauls that struck me. While the rest of the Sufis liberally use dariya and samandar as metaphors, these chaps like to be factual, technical even. What do they sing about? The subtle energy field. The charkas are described, we are asked to beware ‘the upturned lady’ in the mooladhara, coiled 3½ times. There is talk of sushumna, ida and pingala, and the lord who resides between your eyes, rhyme be damned.

There were other, more mainstream performers also: singers from Rajasthan, and an all-woman troupe from Assam who dripped honey and at least four groups of qawwals, who were the most disappointing feature.

From the perspective of anthropology/musicology, the festival offered much variety. But it achieved another thing for me – it expanded notions of what music must be and what it can be even outside the narrow confines of what we’re taught is melody. Glad I went, really.

Yeh chukker kya hai

Unexpected pleasure this weekend – sudden, unsought exposure to the world of polo. There was a Polo Ball on Friday and I went, lured by food, drink and dancing. Hadn’t quite focussed on the ‘polo’ aspect till we got there. Saddles, stirrups and riding paraphernalia adorned the entrance and the place was full of polo players. It turns out Hyderabad’s been having a ten-team tournament this past week. Polo, to me, was something only the raeeszaade indulged in, posh affairs that took place in Argentina and such. I was rather surprised at being so casually admitted into the daayra, bemused by its accessibility.

The dance devoted space to a series of polo illustrations by artist Sujata Dere. Natasha, who’s quite horse-mad, gave us a really informed overview of the game – the rules and the magic. Here’s a rough idea:

Polo is played on horses, four men to a team. Like hockey, the idea is to score goals.

Polo has the largest field in organized sport – 300 yards long and 160 yards wide.

Six chukkers – each with seven minutes play – make up a match. Four chukkers at this level, I think, because that’s how many they played yesterday.

Players are handicapped from -2 (beginners) to 10. Only half a dozen 10 handicappers in the world. A zero handicap would be ‘scratch.’

The rules of the game are heavily decided by the safety of the horses. Polo’s all about the line of the ball, an imaginary line along the direction of the ball. The player who strikes the ball has right of way and may not be crossed by another player. The trick then is to ride him off, ie ride alongside and force him to abandon his line. Basically, a matter of nerves. Cool, huh?

We were fascinated and it must’ve shown, because Natasha then said, ‘There are a couple of matches tomorrow. Want to come?’ Yes, of course.



The Bison Polo Grounds in Secunderabad are lovely, screened from the roads almost entirely by trees. Great weather also. There were two matches: the first between two AP Riding Club teams and the second between the NDA Navy and an Artillery team from Nasik.

An education to see how the different teams performed. The teams playing first were rather haphazard, which they made up for by individual brilliance – they had Samir Suhag, one of India’s two six-handicappers, and Dhruvpal Godara +5 on opposing sides. Both players also play for India. The second match had teams that were more even in quality – a clutch of scratches, ones and twos. They played a much more beautiful team game, scattering and coming together in an intricate dance. Speedier too.

Four players, but eight minds per team. Speed, precision, coordination, guts. Snorting horses, yells of ‘my line’ renting the dust. Fabulous.