Soaring
For Siddhartha — in gratitude for our conversations on music, books, and human nature. Thank you for encouraging me to write without fear!
When S. told me about his visit to a hill town, I asked immediately if it was wrapped in mist and had scope for horror. He is a writer, after all, and which writer does not find inspiration in the hills and the fog?
“Mist is more than just horror,” he said. He is right, of course. There is romance and mystery in mist. There is freedom, rising, and soaring.
Soaring. This is the feeling I associate with good music and this was one of my responses to S., when he prompted me to look beyond horror. I soared when I first heard Erik Satie and M S Subbulakshmi. The feeling is driven away by the earthly, then sneaks back on occasion. It returned at two separate points in a couple of Carnatic concerts this week. So, even as incidents of soap operatic proportions try to drag me down to this plane, a part of me continues to soar and revel in what it doesn’t understand. With S.’s encouragement, I’m attempting to make sense of it, and my larger relationship with Carnatic music.
Waiting to enter a packed hall for a concert by Ranjani and Gayatri, who are among the most respected artistes currently for very good reasons, I had the magnificent fortune of striking up a conversation with a lady who turned out to be a guest of the singers. She was given a front-row seat and took me along — a total stranger who was making awkward, shy conversation with her. (I am still pinching myself.) This was my first experience being in the front row in a concert hall, among people who had special passes and VIP seats and memberships and other golden tickets.
The novelty of my position gradually sinking in, I concentrated on the concert. The sisters created magic. Incidentally, my first December Season concert, back in 2014, featured Ranjani and Gayatri — they eased me into the headiness of the month and introduced me to the lovely raga, Aahiri. My learning through live performances began there. Now, listening to their voices flow in a series of compositions and ragas I had never heard of, which can be overwhelming, I fell in love all over again. The headiness returned and I was walking among clouds. And so, towards the end of the concert, when they segued from a virutam into Enna Solli Azhaital Varuvayo (How should I call for you to come), there was no more waiting, no pleading. The power was here, holding me, unravelling secrets to a novice.
For, you see, I am quite the ignoramus when it comes to Carnatic music. I sing along with my (trained) mother, yes, but my singing cannot be likened to traditional classical music by any stretch of the imagination. When I read a concert review, I do not understand what korvais or nadais are; I often can’t tell whether terms refer to the raga or the tala. My practice is more a form of meditation than art: it is in gratitude to the teacher who once taught me a little Hindustani music, to my mother and her guru, my very Thanjavur grandmother, and to all the musicians who send me into raptures that can sometimes drive sleep away.
When I connect with a piece of music, it is at a primitive level. I am curious about the technical aspects of classical music, but I don’t go too much out of my way to understand them. What moves me most is an emotional or spiritual connection. Added thrills come in the form of identifying a raga correctly, or figuring out a tala, like solving a cryptic crossword clue.
Going to concerts alone, therefore, has its pressures. The “knowledgeable Chennai crowd” can sometimes be quite intimidating — people sing along to kritis in ragas I can’t identify, make comparisons with artistes I’ve never heard. What if my face shows my confusion, I worry. What if my fingers, which have the habit of keeping time to the percussion without my knowledge, get into a muddle when the composition is set in the Khanda Chapu tala? I feel exposed.
And so, when the Trichur Brothers invited the young people in the crowd to move to the stage and give up their seats to the elderly, I tucked myself into the wings on the left, feeling like I was in 1984. (For context, the last time I was on a stage was as a member of my school choir in 1998.) In a span of two hours, I developed an enormous amount of respect for artistes who perform on stage, facing with confidence all those eyes watching like hawks, the bright lights shining down disconcertingly. From the first row the previous day to the stage now — these new concert-going experiences were turning out to be almost as fascinating as the music itself.
As the concert progressed, I watched the little exchanges between the brothers and the accompanists. I saw how their expressions went from admiration for co-artistes to concentration, as they prepared to sing. With their choice veering mostly on sedate ragas, the atmosphere was meditative. When they came to the main raga, I puzzled over it, but gave up a couple of minutes in, because how did the name matter? I was in the presence of music that brought to mind mountains and clarity. (But curiosity being what it is, I had to find out— if you are interested, it was Madhyamavati, which I mix up with a handful of other ragas in the family.)
I almost felt that with a little effort, I would be able to read their minds, see what went on in a musician’s head in the moment of creation. I was aptly taken to task, because I didn’t anticipate the Sindhu Bhairavi one bit. And when it came, it washed over me like a massive wave of peace, driving away all the anxiety I had ever felt, ending all need and desire. I was soaring again.
I’d give much to cup that feeling in my hands and hold on to it tightly. But perhaps its value is in its sporadic nature — maybe it is so for a reason, to push us towards better things. Both these concerts, with the brilliance on display, drove home the point that while I’ll keep being pulled back to earth, I am fortunate to have access to music I can connect with, and beautiful-souled people who are willing to share their knowledge and help set me free.
