Elevated Consciousness

I woke up with a start. The Volvo had just been rudely violated by another pothole on the road. My eyes were weary from jittery  sleep. I was on my way to Trivandrum. I badly wanted to pee. The bus had an attached loo that I eyed longingly.  How many more minutes to TVM? I asked the conductor. “Ohh, only one more hour sir!”

“Loo?”

“Locked Sir!”, he said.

“Trivandrum, 10 km” – a signboard read.  A butterfly flew past, overtaking the Volvo.

Should I ask to stop the bus?

• it would cause a traffic jam. (Not me peeing; the roads are narrow)
• I knew it would take me a long time to get started. You can’t perform when you know that a bus full of people is watching you.

I decided to think of something worthwhile. I thought of Meenakshi Srnivasan. The mania started sometime back. I happened to watch a video of hers and was hooked. I was on my way to watch her dance, all the way from Bangalore. Of course, Someone would also be coming. If Someone did come, one could perhaps discuss intricacies of various talams with her, and perhaps with any luck a whisper technical question or two in her ears.

Reached Vailopalli.  Just as I hoped out of the ric, I saw Her with her Dad. My razor sharp intellect swing into action to find seats such that I could sit with her without having her Dad in between. She conveniently decided to ditch us both and went and joined members of her troop – and I had the full pleasure of sitting beside her Dad. Ahh well!

The show started. The Dad fished out a camera. I was a bit alarmed – is he going to take shots with flash on? The first thing he did was to turn the flash off. Worthy father of the dancer, I thought to myself, and found myself warming up to him.  I took a few deep breaths – I had to relax. It was as if I was taking on nervousness on behalf of the artists. The vocalist started off offering us a melodious keerthanam. I did get goose pimples. Anything that gives me goose pimples is art. Simple.

Now, when you dance like the Meenakshis, it shows. Is this lady supposed to be in her 40s? I couldn’t believe – ‘coz I saw a 18 year old on stage. She started of with a < I don’t know technically what it is called>. It featured Krishna prominently. What would these dancers do if  Krishna, the character, did not exist? I mused.

It would be a cliche, if I wrote here how nice it was and such. Hence I won’t. Instead, let me just write down random feelings.

There was a piece where the heroine felt that she was born to be united with Krishna – emotionally, physically and spiritually. Think of it – how many faiths or schools of thought are there that can accept the idea of treating the Higher One as something that can you love physically? If that is not a liberal mind, what is? The enactment showed the heroine wearing the garland offered to the deity.  Not everyone can shed every bit of inhibition and pick up a garland and experience the bliss of togetherness she wants to feel. So did this Nayika. She was a bit conscious of herself – looking around, is someone coming? Is someone watching? Would the dancer too be conscious, initially? About the audience? About people watching her emoting? Will she be able to feel that “togetherness” unless she lets  herself sink into it, taking her own time?

The Nayika grew progressively more and more into a trance. She finally picked up that garland and with extreme tenderness, wore it on her neck. She bowed down and offered herself totally to Him, as the percussion worked itself to a climax. I raised my palm to clap. But I couldn’t clap. Meenakshi was still that Nayika and not Meenakshi. The veins on her face and neck throbbed. Her fingers shivered. If I were a more evolved soul, I probably would have felt the pleasure (or was it devotion alone?) she felt.

She took her own time to switch back to being herself.  I just sat there. For a brief moment, I forgot the audience, and the stage and the other artists. All I saw was that Nayika, who just felt the bliss of being with her beloved. I folded my palms, and let it remain so – a gentle mark of respect.

That was followed by a piece where the Nayika is cross with a rooster. She has just bedecked her lover with the choicest jewels and such and a blasted rooster crows, before she gets to be with him to her heart’s content. Why would the Nayika bedeck him with jewels, if she was about to remove all of that to enjoy him? I wondered. Ahh well, in art, one must not use too much logic! And women, they are not straight forward like us, men, anyway! I couldn’t follow the lyrics, but I suspect this was the theme.  Suffice to say that it was a cute piece. There is this tiny part where she stands clutching a stone, waiting to hear that spoil sport crowing once again, waiting to shed her frustration by way of a sharp, well aimed throw. She can’t find the rooster so she lets the stone drop. The mridangist was spot on on synchronizing with the falling stone. Pure joy to watch.

Many a time, I caught myself focusing on the accompanists, ‘coz they were that good. Meenakshi had introduced the mridangist as someone whose mridangam sings. Quite. The audio mixing too was just too good. The effects that he could produce from the valam thalai could be heard with breathtaking clarity. The violinist was another interesting study. He played in very sedate tones for most part – no show off at all. I kept wondering, why? And then, in a small interlude his brilliance came forth. I felt this shudder of pleasure in my body – and cocked my ears to listen to the passage he repeated. All it takes is  a small flick of the fingers to set you apart from the others – no sweating brows, no super fast hand movements.

Meenakshi showed no signs of tiredness. Is this lady for real? I wondered. Unknowst to the world, about 3 weeks back, I had tried to enact a few random movements – such as balancing on one leg and swaying back and forth, in the confines of my bedroom. If you were willing to stretch your imagination to bursting limits, you could be forgiven in guessing that it as an attempt to ‘dance’. I still haven’t recovered from the energy drain! Ohh, and during my self absorbing “show”, I caught myself in the large full length mirrors in my bedroom. I thought I saw Mr Bean, sans the coat.  All my pretense of making small graceful movements just swooned away. {The large mirrors were installed there by the previous tenant. I am sure she put them to good use.  I too find them quite useful – I get to offer myself a good shave everyday}

The vocalist did an alaap after this piece. I had to exercise my iron will from breaking into a hum myself.  He had that joy in his voice – effortless control and beautiful expression of feelings. Awesome range too – he was equally good at the delicate highs and the deep lows.

Meenakshi concluded with a thilanna. I couldn’t help wonder  – does she have shoulder sockets like the rest of us? Her arms swing on their shoulder hinges, even when they are perfectly straight! So can I, but we are talking of grace here. I wish I knew enough technical terms to convey what I wanted to, better. I sat for a few moments, soaked in bliss. But, as I sat there, relishing all that, I couldn’t help wonder. Isn’t this what  separates the Human from the countless animals that pretend to be one? I don’t use those words with arrogance; instead with sorrow, and empathy.

How is a man supposed to find himself/herself “in the zone”? Where he/she feels an elevated sense of consciousness, a feeling of being separate from the nether world? Physical union with someone you deeply love and “connect”? Love for an offspring? Devotion – surrendering yourself to the concept of divinity? Creativity? Do even the evil find joy in what they do? Or is that just my macabre thought?

Do you find that by exploring yourself? What are you? Why is it that I feel so deeply moved by something when my sister yawns at the same? Do the memories and interests of someone up your ancestry persist as genetic code, only to resurface sometimes? All right, I think I am getting too deep, too fast. Some other time, some other blog.

Nishagandhi

How do you appreciate art? There is a school of thought where the practitioner and the audience understands the intricacies of laid out rules, and the practitioner lays out a performance that demands as much of the audience.  There is an intellectual connect perhaps between the audience and the practitioner.

There is another school of thought where you connect at an emotional level. You don’t know the rules. You don’t know why you like something. You don’t know why you don’t like something.  I belong to this school – perhaps more out of necessity than choice, for I don’t understand the rules of things I like, be it bharatanatyam, mridangam, paintings. Even if I were to understand the rules fully well, I would wish to feel more of an emotionally connect and less of an intellectual one.

If Art were to please, to amaze, to wonder, to admire, to feel  then that part of us that we don’t control does a better job of it than our logical reflections.
I happened to watch a performance this Onam. Something that I liked. Something that momentarily helped me focus, and made me vaguely conscious of some sense of optimism.
The day was ThiruOnam. I suddenly remembered there was a Bharatanatyam concert at Nishagandhi open air theater that was supposed to take place that evening. The clock showed 2:30. There still was time. Trivandrum was 3 hours away. Asked the sis if she would like to come –  She gave an indifferent “No”.

I set forth to the bus stand and finally found myself in a bus to Trivandrum. A beep. “It is pouring at TVM. The dance might not happen” – said the Aunt. “Too late. In bus. Will watch anyway”, said I. “Come pick me up” – came the command. Got down at Mascot Hotel and started to walk towards Aunt’s home. There were no ricks on the road. Most mallu men who could walk or crawl would be inside or near a bottle on Onam day. I know that is a generalization, but I guess not too far away from truth. It was raining. I started walking. And then the biting started. I was wearing my dad’s sandals. The bloody thing started biting with a vengeance. Half a kilometer and the skin had almost started coming off. Found a rick fortunately and soon found myself warming up to a cup of coffee and love.

We set forth for the dance show. Do you want Uncle’s shoes? – asked the Aunt. I admit I retain traces of vanity, and would like to be the centre of attention of a crowd, but not by wearing a pair of shoes along with Mundu. I declined. Take mine, she said and offered her sandals. I took a deep long philosophical look at it. After carefully weighing all options, I decided to wear them. You were more likely to be spotted walking barefoot than wearing a (hopefully) inconspicuous sandal, I reasoned. Arming ourselves with 2 umbrellas, 3 large plastic sheets to keep bums dry on wet chairs, a towel to wipe the chair dry and plastic bags to protect mobile phones, we set forth. (The Aunt was some big shot in some bank a few years ago. Planning is in their blood)

The good part about the rain was that the open air theater was relatively empty- which suited us admirably well. It kept the mobile-phone chattering public nuisances away. We had the place all to ourselves. We found ourselves two nice chairs at a suitable vantage point that offered us a full view of the arena. As we parked ourselves, the dancers came in took up their positions. I pointed out the Aunt’s fav niece in the troop. I had watched this dame perform before and knew a treat was in store. However, the performance being a choreographed group effort, I didn’t know what to expect.

Lights came on. With mridangam, vocals, flute and violin accompanying the dancers, the show started.
Time passed. I observed each of the dancers in turn. One couldn’t help notice that there was a noticeable difference among the artists. A few were better than the rest. I didn’t know why. You just felt it. Many a times, when I watch a performance, I see a heavy movement of arms and limbs.. but nothing stirs inside. May be I have filters installed that have made me numb to most things.
Eventually I started following the movements of the niece alone, occasionally following the others. “This dame is good” – opined the aunt. I nodded. Together, we watched her perform. Then I stopped watching, and started observing… After some time, I failed to remember I was observing. We were in it.

Her movements, her grace, her light footed springs and soft landings, economy of movement! When she held a posture of rest, only her panting bosom heaved. When she broke into movements from stillness, it was with an easy fluidity. Her arms and limbs seemed to have inborn elasticity. A movement would be arrested within an arm without the momentum getting transferred to her torso.
Expressions – you could see her eyes sparkle from 15 meters. They seemed real, and not affected. Mirth, gaiety, playfulness played up on her face. When she shook a tree as a gopika, one could see the flowers falling on her face, for her eye lids batted as the imaginary flowers fell on her face. When she held a spear as Mahishasura mardini with burning eyes and flaring nostrils, I couldn’t help wonder the plight of the future husband of hers if she decides to give him one of those looks. (Remember to see footnote)
I was woken up from reverie by my Aunt’s innocent question: “I wonder why don’t they ever show the scene where Krishna steals the maiden’s clothes?”, she mused. I thought about it for a second – an entertaining thought indeed. Nishagandhi would not have enough seats to absorb the sudden onslaught of art-hungry audience Auntie, I thought to myself.

The program was over soon. Danseuse came down to meet her Aunt with her mom and the two soon started coo-chi-cooing. Without warning, Aunt started laying out thick stories about how I had spotted off-beats in the percussion and things like that. I am pretty used to the artificially high opinions she has about me, but then this was not the right audience for that. Especially people who spend most of their waking hours near a mridangam.

I suddenly thought of Aunt’s sandals that I was wearing. V..e..r..y slowly, I pulled my limbs back lest she notices them. It doesn’t pay to look gay to beautiful maidens. The mom and daughter soon left.

Satisfied and content, we picked up our umbrellas and left soon. The rationalist at Aunt’s home would have woken up and be searching for his coffee. I couldn’t help feel a sense of lightness. A tiny but unmistakable sense of feeling good. Anything that does that to me, is Art.

Edit (a year later): “I couldn’t help wonder the plight of the future husband of hers if she decides to give him one of those looks“.  Circumstances have conspired such that I will now have ample time – rest of my life – to experience first hand the plight of that husband 🙂

 

 

The evening

This was the next day after Onam.

This humble historian and his mater were paying the due visit to his sister’s recent mergers and acquisitions. My BIL’s home is in a god-forsaken country side in remote mallu land. If you thought of chirping birds, marauding elephants, occasional leopards and slimy pythons, you are mistaken. Remote wilderness in Kerala context means a lot of rubber trees – mallus fantasize about planting rubber trees on every available square inch. On one of those rubber trees, my BIL’s comrades had tied a blasted loud speaker that was driving me nuts. I had originally planned to go attend a Bharatanatyam concert organized by Kerala Government as part of Onam celebrations at Trivandrum. Now, trivandrum is a full 3 hours away, and attending that would mean I get to reach home at 12 night. Aunt Agatha, my resident aunt @ TVM was out of station coo-chi-coing with her husband in some jungle. Her offspring was imprisoned at her GMom’s place. Couldn’t stay at either place, so was still dilly dallying about attending. The loudspeakers gave me the much needed impetus and off I set forth.

BIL tried to put a sad face and all, but when a man is interested in spending an onam evening with his buddies and not with his wife, I kinda found it hard to believe that he would want to spend time with his BIL. After giving the matter due consideration, which was none, and nodding acceptance to the mater’s 1432 rules and regulations and advice about how to travel to Trivandrum and back (including the necessity of carrying an umbrella), I was anxious to scoot and 10 minutes later you could see ThomasTheCat standing in a bus-waiting shed.

It was raining hard, road was full of slush and mud. Now, since I am not this regular mallu, I am not entirely well versed in the art of  waiting for a bus in a bus shelter during the rains in Kerala. Consequently, it was not with a great deal of amusement that I looked down on the huge splash of mud on my mundu, which a moment ago was on the road – a passing truck had assisted in the transfer. I heard a rumble. Was that some distant thunder or coming from the deep recesses of my tummy – I wasn’t sure. There was this mild food poisoning that was bugging me those days.

Only option was to abort the mission, but that meant going back to the loud speakers. Reluctantly, I crossed over to the other side of the road – this time taking care to stand a respectable distances from potholes. I meditated – a dance concert in TVM might attract a bevy of dames, and you wouldn’t want to be seen in a mundu that kinda looked like it was soaked in the nearest gutter.  However, the concert, to be honest was a strong pull. You see, I have this thing for Bharatanatyam. I can’t tell you a mudra if you showed me one (except, the raised middle finger. .. but I guess that is not an acceptable Bharatanatyam mudra). But still, I love B.natyam. Mind you, not always. Very few dancers induce that chemical reaction deep inside – again, don’t know why.

We ThomasTheCats are known for our iron nerves. We don’t cow down just ‘coz you splashed mud on our mundus. No body knew me there, and I could pretend to be somebody else –  I reasoned. Also, reality kinda dawned on me that no one in TVM was really going to lose sleep over my mundu, or even perhaps the lack of it. I decided to put my mundu fears to rest and set forth.

After an uneventful journey, I saw myself alighting in front of Vylopili Sreedhara Menon memorial in TVM. Vylopilli was some kinda dude poet. There were a dozen cops lazing around. Khakhi and I don’t go together – remind me about that later.. material for a separate blog. I put on my serious, stiff upper lip, upwardly-mobile expression and asked them where the dance program was. They fell for it, and showed me the place. Wow! You got to see it. Rather nice place. Called Koothambalam. Resembles a temple, and meant for performing arts.

Only problem was, I was the only soul in sight. I picked up a suitable chair in second row, aisle seat and sat humming some tunes. Was that my humming or was it my blood – I soon had company. Mosquitoes! I amused myself for sometime playing Roger Federer with them. They did hit a lot of aces! People started trickling in slowly. An aunt and her troop came and occupied the adjoining seats. It was raining heavily outside. Mozzies left me for newer, fresher pastures. I sat, lost in reverie, thinking about Lalettan,  Jhonson master songs, Bhanupriya (no.. not that.. just her dance in Rajashilpi) etc.

Some time later, I saw this little elf of a creature, the dancer, coming in, hooded to protect herself from rain. She stole a glance at us and ran off backstage. A gent and lady were seen satelliting around –  her parents. To my dismay, the elderly aunt who sat next to me gesticulated to the Mom and the Mom slowly made way towards us.

This was cause for panic. My hands slowly towards my face. I know, you are wondering why. A flashback is in order.

About two months back, there was this match making in progress, driven primarily by my resident Aunt @ Tvm. She had this niece – pretty, is a … , …, …, and in the words of the mind-reader husband of hers – “A spirited one”.  (adjectives removed … ) I was introduced to her at a social function too. I took one look at her and I got to confess – the heart stopped still. Using my admirable command of the English language, I said “Hi”.  I thought she appeared a bit tense – but then who wouldn’t be? OK. I admit, I was hooked. Even though I did put on a strong appearance of disinterest, well, one has to be honest sometimes – this babe was something. Quite a dish. I don’t know how/why we feel this sometimes – but yes, sometimes you get this I-think-I-know-her feeling. The wise advise that there is no such thing. But then who knows. Do we really know our subconscious mind and its powers well enough?

Anyways, the resident Uncle went ahead to speak to the Mom and Dad of this elf. For various reasons, the event did not take off.  One of this was she was rather young to marry and wanted to wait for a couple of years before biting the bullet. Sadly, I hadn’t thought of that angle – not having much experience around this sort of stuff. Naturally, I felt rather sheepish, silly, embarrassed for not doing due diligence et al.

I decided to write to her explaining my ignorance of the deeper issues involved. Now, those of who you know me well know that I invented Foot-in-the-mouth disease. Without thinking I wrote to her “I am sorry I didn’t realize you are only 21! You look older” or something like that.  Pat came the reply – “What do you mean? I am a ‘lil one”.

I had to bend over backwards to offer multiple theories about what I meant, each worse than the previous one. Finally I settled on something around my eyesight being not what it was before, and how I didn’t see her well, and only caught a fleeting glimpse and things like that….  yeah, I know.. sigh. She had enough humor sense to laugh it off. I had made a vow not to set foot in 1 km radius of where this person and her parent’s stay to avoid running into the various dramatis personae and witnesses – which included this said Mom.

Now,  the Mom  standing a couple of feet away from me was the mom of this dancer. (No! I know what you are thinking. I went to see the dance, not the artist! I was told that she is a wonderful dancer, quite a pro at that. And just wanted to see for myself. I know I haven’t convinced you – All right! Indulge yourself!)

I briefly toyed with the idea of using my mundu and covering my head – like how mallu men visit the resident prostitutes at night. Not having done that before, I would most likely mess that up, and the contingent of mallu cops outside – who first beat you to pulp and ask questions later – were enough deterrents to abandon that plan. While I sat there sweating and blushing away, a sudden thought sprang up – was this really the mom? I had just met the Mom last time for a micro second. What if she wasn’t the one?  I stole a glance at the Mom for a closer look, and our eyes locked. To smile or not to smile was the question. I waited for what seemed like an eternity – she didn’t seem to recognize me.  Thank God for small mercies! I averted my eyes and studiously observed an ant crawling up the chair in front of me.

The shadow passed, the rain stopped and the dance began. The next hour, my friends, was sheer bliss. The dame was good. I mean seriously good. Now, I know that is like the deaf claiming why Mozart is nice.. but her sense of timing, expressions, grace, effortlessness was just superb. Heck! I suspect all of us stopped “observing” the dance and were lost with her in the flow. The music was superb – nice percussion, violin, vocals.. Class effort. When she played a young lover, we all were watching a young lover and her cycles of misery and bliss – not a dance show.

That was a photographer’s dream – I wish I had my camera with me. All good things come to and end. I wished she had danced a bit more.

She bowed and walked off stage. I let out a content sigh. I sat for a moment reflecting on a new discovery – the MisraChaapu is what we call 7-beat.

“Have you learned music?” – I turned to my right to the source of the sound. The Aunt sitting next to me was beaming at me.

“Uhmm.. no.  I mean.. why .. what made you ask?” – I ventured politely.

“You were enjoying it a lot..  I felt you have learned music..”

“Well.. not really Aunty.. “.

“That was nice wasn’t it?”

“Ohh yes!”

“Have you come here to meet someone? Where are you from? Do you the the dancer personally?”

Now this was getting into dangerous territory.

“Uhmm.. well.. no .. not really..  Got to rush Aunty.. Coming from Adoor.. Will take me three hours to get back. Good night!”

I gathered my wits, before she put me through further interrogation, said bye to her and stepped out. Toyed with the idea of going backstage and offering my compliments. Decided against that – why give heart attacks to Moms of  young, single women? Felt bad about walking off without a word of appreciation, but then you got to do what you got to do.

The rain was back. Thomas the Cat flipped open his umbrella, walked past a dozen pair of police eyes, and was seen vanishing into the dark, rainy night. He did feel a slight heaviness in his heart, but he pretended not to notice it.

(Addendum: 4 years later)

This lady, waylaid the Dancer’s mother after this performance and warned her that some ‘guy’ had designs on her daughter and that she must be careful.

Now, by a sheer case of coincidence, I ended up marrying the dancer a few years later. The lady, when I met her next, said, “Ohh, I was the one who told them about you! I told them that you had handsome ears, and how nice it would have been if the Dancer could be married off to you!”

Oh well, success has many fathers!