Encore!

Reetigowlai, you've arrived unannounced -

And so I demand a celebration

I want to dwell on every 'swara' that forms you

Every 'gamaka' used to describe you, makes me green in envy of the singer who sings you

I want to see how you flow as a raaga

My joy knows no bounds when your chords hit my senses

Don't stay away from me for so long 

For there is no poetry without you

Come back to me in good measure

Each time you feel I need your dosage...

Nose

For what do they smell like?

Smell, completes the ritual,

Instilling a real-life feel to the virtual

Do they smell of imported fragrance,

Fresh tulsi, petrichor or the smell of food that lasts despite a good soap-wash?

This mad smell is what they were dying for,

Awaiting with a heart that overflowed with songs

No cover, no controller, just the songs from the air-waves

Reaching each other in timely moments,

Keeping them sane until they met and smelled to their heart's content

Long, deep breaths, in every pulse point and strand of hair

For they were not images that could be shot

Or tastes that lingered

Smell was all they yearned for.

Kolam

Staircase leading to the kolam, pond

Moss-laden, slippery

Porus-bricks that looked like blocks of home-made mysurpa

And then khadhar mundu

The air threatening to assume the smells of 

the yellow Sunlight detergent and the dark-pink Lifebuouy toilet soap

A specific smell of the village.

Dark-green water with a sheet of shadow and dry falling-leaves.

They stood immersed in water

Nudging each other under the green water cover

Purposefully oblivious about the translucency of water

The slow-rapid growth of their parts 

From flat surfaces to little mounds

The waters knew clearly how much they had grown

For they felt the heaviness of the parts, with each passing year.

Pickle

Washed once, washed again, and again

Until the conspicuously accumulated 'dirt' was removed

Chopped, diced - in geometric shapes

Triangle, square, rectangle, cube

All shapes reflecting the soul of the main piece 

Yet every new geometric form threatening to claim importance

Their perpetrator thus sent them for a batch of sun-drying

Dried, wrinkled, they returned, 

Yet strong, as though they had digested the rays of the sun

Their vulnerability sent for a sun-bath

Returned with pickled-freshness

Leaving a mouth-watering taste

On the tongue, that stuck-out,

Inviting more vulnerability-

For vulnerability added to the spice 

More sun-bath, a whole new process of metamorphosis.

570 dear

Headlights like ears, and a digital forehead-

A vehicle-kind that descended from the sets of Shankar's Urvasi Urvasi

With its wheels plying on the roads of generation 2K

As much as the song take-it-easy-policy makes you unwind,

Defeating the theory of Charles, elusive it never is.

Rahman and Ilayaraja played alike- drivers with an ear for music.

With the constant rhythm of the conductor's phrase- "ullava ullava!"(come in come in)

He is forever proud, flaunting its miraged sprawling spaciousness,

As though he owns the bus,

Taking account of every inch which was devoid of feet.

Myriad smells of toiletries from the bathrooms of software professionals

Threaten to remain fresh 

Circulating within the vents.

With music plugged in, books being read, Whatsapp screens nudged;

Virtual and real talks exchanged,

Laced with warm, familiar smiles amongst passengers.

A feeling of togetherness with the driver and his believers.

No rows assigned for "pengal" (women).

NO Gender Divide. Absolutely NONE.

Greets you with a hiss, when its doors open and close.

Brinjal

The rotund brinjal went to the kitchen

With all the pride of an egotist.

A firm green stem atop,

And a matte-purple bottom,

Resembling the sketch of humpty-dumpty.

Ignorant about hitting its pyre

It seethed with life,

Displaying fullness.

Soon- its heart, pierced, and body burnt

Shedding tears, ego shrouded

Skin wrinkling, fullness shrinking.

Hissing with hesitation, the fat vegetable cried even more

The firm green stem remained

Only as a grip to strip the vegetable.

In all its famished benevolence,

Brinjal dear was soon food for the egotist human. 

Cusp

You know what, I know it now!

You are a cusp!

He whispered into her ears

She asked why in amazement

Shades of two

The thrill of being with two women at a time

Both satiating him equally

Like the Parijatha tree

Symbolising Rukmini and Satyabhama alike.

But Draupadi, is aided by Krishna too :

She retorted. 

And chose to remain a multi-shaded Cusp

Drinking up mirth from every glass

Living her living by the day

Forgot and remembered things per convenience

Insanely dumb, cusped-madness.

Rickshaw

They met in a night's dream

And chose to take a rickshaw ride

Their arms brushed as the rickshaw was pedalled 

Across the streets of the city

Whose air was laden with the smell of spices

Pepper, dry ginger and cardamom in particular

Their disposition was 

As modest as the mode of transport :

Little nothings were shared, and careful kisses planted 

Their fingers entwined, held tight,

Under the cloth- shelter of the rickshaw;

Stealing a look or two of each others' hidden naughtiness.

As they went past the spice city in gay abandon,

They dozed. 

From Dream to Reality.

Girls

When their handwritings had not taken shape yet

As much as their chests hadn't;

Much before they knew what the word friend actually meant

Times when they were obliviously dressed in petticoats

Or even carelessly walked about in their red and green, particularly short PT skirts.

When they went about blowing a kiss to every red car they saw

Only to get get lucky with some favourite food of theirs back home.

They said the name of every car of their time that passed by :

Daewoo Matiz, Contessa Classic, Mitsubishi Lancer, Esteem and the likes,

Some silly fetish they had nursed to remember these names :

Lest they could even think of owning one!

Mathematics remained elusive, anything related would make them freeze in fear

They tried their best to just scrape through the exams :

By inspiring themselves with pretty stationery:

Smiley, Apsara and Natraj Pencil, Natraj and Faber Castle Eraser, Pens that had refills with incense.

Whatever they wrote would come out with a pleasant smell;

However Maths still stank for them, and vice versa!

At a time when The Hindu's Young World came out on Saturdays

The Mahabharatha on Sundays

Swabhiman, Junoon and Shanthi during the week

Their days were made, their childhood, pretty much the same!

Sunsilk shampoo came out with small pretty clips- pink, black, yellow and crimson hues

Their hair was long enough to be decked with these clips.

They went through the same drill for their hairgrowth :

Coconut oil followed by Clinic Plus or Sunsilk Shampoo.

Menstruation was almost together too-

They whispered and stayed-free...

They were together almost always,

Familiarity never bred contempt, even once.

Even as they parted from school, they kept in touch

In the most intimate manner:

Neither via phone calls, nor by meeting each other at their homes;

But through letters- they felt the sameness through their handwritings.

And then they remained elusive

Until recently when they first spoke on the phone

Not once they had realised how they sounded on the phone

How their voice had developed

What it meant to call each others' name on the phone

For they had always only met or written to each other!

They still had remained those girls of yonder in their heart

Regardless of the changes they had gone through.

For some strange reason, they looked the same.

Women of their thirties

With a shapely body and mind.

Hamir Kalyani

Reeti Gowlai remained elusive

For no rhyme or reason.

It simply was not heard

Despite frantic requests.

Then came Hamir Kalyani,

To mitigate the sinus, fever and coagulated messy mind.

The singer spoke in Hamir Kalyani to the violinist

The violinist knew his language too;

Reciprocating each nuance of Hamir Kalyani.

A phone message popped asking:

"How are you?"

She replied, I am with Hamir Kalyani.

Jus Fusion-Kriya at OMR Escapade, Kriyates- Rasikapriya Festival- 13th Dec'14

The OMR music festival organised by Rasikapriya had just begun, marking its début. The very atmosphere was unconventional in every sense- the place, and the event by itself. An evening which wasn't for an esoteric crowd- quite clearly threatening to melt the heart of even a layman. Jus Fusion- Kriya, as the band was named, were unfazed by the predictably unpredictable Chennai rains. The music they created was a euphoric treat amidst the breezy, neatly mowed locale of OMR. 

The band consisted of S.Muralikrishnan on the Drums, Karaikal Venkatasubramanian on the Violin, Madurai B Sundar on the Mridangam, Varun on the Keyboard and Mridul on the Guitar. A set of 11 songs they played were a transportation of sorts to joy land. Murali was quite charming on the mike too- announcing the names of each composition and the ragas in which they were composed. No question of being raga-illiterate there, the hunger was well-fed in terms of music and knowledge. 

The names of compositions were just as stimulating: Ganesh in raga Hamsadhwani, Walking in the Dream set to the raga Malayamarutham, Brahma- in raga Jog, Lotus Colony in ragas Chala Nattai and Pantuvarali, Chennai Rain- in raga Madhyamavathi and Out in the Wild- in raga Kalyani: one outdid the other. However, Chennai Rain takes the cake, for it was a contemporary piece that blended seamlessly with the wet weather in Chennai. The other songs that ensued were Yentharo Mahanubhavulu , Raguvamshasudha, Bho Shambo, Kurai Ondrum Ilai and Vande Mataram- not to forget the thaniavartanam which was incorporated into the fusion with so much ease. 

Engineers by profession and musicians by passion - could be a one liner to describe this beautiful band of musicians. A special mention to the violinist, he easily zipped past the sounds of all fellow accompanists, making sure to lure us with every sound he produced. Nevertheless, Murali's power with the drums could never go amiss despite a power outage for a few seconds- he continued to play on without letting an eyelid batter. That happened exactly during the song Chennai rain- just as unpredictable! Drums power was royal during the song Bho Shambo- as powerful as the deity that was being invoked. Something as simple as 'hara hara shankara jaya jaya shankara' blended with the raga Revathy was magnetic. 

Carnatic music is certainly treading along newer realms with each season witnessing a sense of novelty. Jus Fusion-Kriya was one such. Thanks to the band for an exotic evening.

Photo courtesy: S. Murali Krishnan (Drums Murali)

Tribute to Mandolin U Shrinivas at Tchaikovsky Music Club - Russian Centre Of Science And Culture - Sunday, 14th Dec'14

Sunday couldn't have started better- last night's showers gave way to some morning warmth- with a blissful session of piano, mandolin and ganjira. The artistes included: Anil Srinivasan on the piano, U.Rajesh on the Mandolin and Krishna Kishore on the ganjira. The melancholy of Shrinivas’ demise was wiped out albeit just temporarily, through the music produced by his brother U.Rajesh.  The performance was the season’s first festival dedicated to Mandolin U. Shrinivas. Being the first musician to use the electric mandolin in Carnatic music, every tune played was but a resonation of the sounds produced by the maestro.

All the compositions played were personal favorites of Shrinivas – they were recorded 14 yrs ago in his presence- all the ragas chosen to be played had been recommended by Shrinivas to both Anil and Rajesh. The morning began with the raga shyama with the lilting notes of Annapoorne Visalakshi – which gradually gave way to raga dhenuka with the song Teliyaleru Rama. Kaliyuga Varadha composed in the raga Brindavana Saranga was heart rendering; especially with some fleeting moments during a prelude consisting of an eclectic raga assortment- nalinakanthi, reetigowlai, chandrakauns and bilahari- This song was composed by Shrinivas for the Hollywood movie’s sound track- Eat Pray Love.

A tall vinyl image with black and white undertones of the maestro adorned the stage – setting a class apart. The concert closed with John McLaughlin’s composition–Lotus Feet, in raga durbari kanada - Shrinivas had rendered his alluring Mandolin notes to this heartwarming unison of eastern and western classical music.

Picture courtesy: Agni Sharman- Photography blogger

Coexistence

O come all ye faithful and joy to the world

Ring in cheer along with the fervour of yentaro mahanubhavulu and bruhimukundeti.

While the smell of filter kaapi engulfs Chennai's December air,

A glass of red wine and a slab of plum cake threaten to entertain better.

Chennai's December is special;

A shankarabharanam of sorts:

When the western notes of shankarabaranam seamlessly blend with its carnatic counterpart.

A point of convergence- Carols vs Kutcheris or Kutcheris vs Carols?

All the same- for its Chennai, and coexistence is a way of life!

Thirst

The pen drank some ink;

To quench its thirst:

For it had dried up fast;

Keeping up pace with the rush of her thoughts!

Balancing

Bhayya, one plate pani puri please-
He is quick to ready a plate;
Puris placed demurely
Broken only at the top-
(As though an egg is tapped on its top for yolk)
Stuffed with appetising fillings:
Boiled potatoes, onions, chopped chillies-
And then the elixir of hunger:
Meeta and tika - jaljeera pani
A rush now- that ends with a hiss when spicy masala hits the palate
Bhayya gets ready with one after the other;
Stirring the urge to be lost in crunchy delight-
A faint virtue develops-
That of 'Balancing';
The mouth, the puris and my shaky hands;
Quite tactfully blended; along with the salt from bhayya's hands,
All until he signals- "hogaya!"

Prick

Why do you never fail to prick?
No matter how carefully I hold you, you still prick.
But your very beauty is brought out best;
Only when you are felt, fully.
So pretty, lost in the prettiness of your petals, layered one after the other,
I touch you with blithe disregard-
Forgetting your quality of pricking;
And yes, I hiss in pain.
Is it the anger you want to vent out,
Because we don't let you be, and pluck you?
You just do not know, dear 'rose',
You add beauty to us, or even lend it to us in full,
In return, you give us that 'prick';
Just so you are remembered...

Fragrance

They longed to meet
They never had met though;
Until then, they decided to -
Bottle up their emotions;
Store them in tinted glass bottles;
Use them, as though they'd use their perfume-
Rendering fragrance to each passing day...

Shampoo

Long, yet no so long tresses. That fell on her neck and the sides of her ear lobes- with the earrings barely visible. Thick strands of hair; not black- brown, or rather the colour of rust- that was the colour of her hair. Hair up until her waistline- that was the length. 

Shampoo: She loved shampooing. Neatly oiled hair- with oil soaking in every strand of her hair like pickle; for a couple of hours. Each time a new bottle of shampoo was bought she would make up a reason in her mind to wash her hair at the earliest. For the mere love of trying the new product out- same was the case with all toiletries- face wash, soap, toothpaste too! A ridiculous craving to try out something new. 

She loved reading the description about the shampoo- what it would do to her hair when applied. She had been shampooing since time immemorial. Yet each time a shampoo was bought, she would hold the bottle in her hands against droplets of water from the overhead shower and read instructions to rinse with a girlish delight. Wiping out the water off the wet bottle of shampoo with her already moist hands, much to her fancy, she believed to this date, that the shampoo would exactly do what is written on the back of the bottle. She would also diligently read the French bit on these bottles. Most of these bottles carry instruction and some advertising matter in French as well perhaps because the language is as popular or even more widely spoken than English. She had a quaint craze for checking out packaging and manufacturing details- the place of manufacture, the place of packaging, and who marketed it. How did it matter anyway now that she was a already a buyer of the product? Ah some gobbledygook reason. Inexplicable. 

Once washed, she would collect strands of her hair together, and hold it like how a bunch of coriander or spinach is held, and smell it until its tip; run her fingers across the texture of her hair and test if the instructions on the shampoo had indeed worked! 

Silliness, a lathery indulgence it was.

Red

Red- not just about any red though. It was the red that rendered colour to the maruti 800 of the early 90's. Her first favourite colour was that particular red. She loved to wear red-hued cut shoes: one of her school-time crazes. She liked to see her feet covered with cut shoes in red colour, especially the ones that had a tiny red bow on them, and a certain sound that these shoes made- cluck-clucking, as that of a police officer, it sounded crispy. She considered red to be springing some luck. Every time she saw a red-coloured car, she used to blow a kiss to it- a flying kiss. If she did so, that evening was going to be lucky for sure, at least she believed with all her childish innocence. Well, much to her innocuous delight, when she returned home from school, she would see what she wanted, yearned for, as a child. Nothing great- just some favourite food or snack would have been prepared by her mom. How she loved to eat them daily: she never got them on a regular day; lest she blew a kiss to a red-coloured car. This soon became a hobby; each time she saw a red car that is. Staying in a joint family meant a lot of disadvantage- she would get to eat what she wanted only if it happened to be on the day's menu. In other words, she could not demand, she just had to obey and enjoy what was provided to her. But this new technique of blowing kisses to a red car, got her all she wanted: sweet little something- bajji, vada, or her favourite crispy adai; that's all.

 She was an understanding child- was not too demanding. However red had made her feel empowered; charged up. She loved her ball-pointed Reynolds in red ink. She used to scribble on her white Nataraj eraser with her Reynolds pen in red ink which only teachers used for correction. She scribbled so hard on it that she felt the ink all smudgy, sticking to her fingers- she ran her index finger through the texture of the eraser and feel her finger print against the white eraser. She enjoyed this exercise- for after a few days, the eraser assumes a whitish-red hue. She loved to see that colour. Erasing with her Nataraj eraser now was more fun, for she had lent colour to it- Red! 

Red Riding Hood and poems on red and all things Red formed part of her childhood. 

Black was next. All pervasive- she grew up- to be a beautiful woman-embracing black- the colour of Krishna.

Custard Apple

She broke open a favourite fruit of the season: custard apple. Its rough, greenish-black exterior looking like a cell-diagram given to us for drawing rehearsals back in high school for Botany classes. Its coagulated, messy interior. Some were messy, some popped out like eyes covered with phlegm-coloured flesh and sat inside safely until they were carefully opened. 

Eating this fruit is a painstakingly pleasurable task- the niceness of the fruit is realised only when it is put into the mouth, and sucked, suavely balancing the seed and its yummy flesh. Very little flesh gets into the tongue though, most of the time. Quite a slimy indulgence it is: unable to enjoy it, in its fullness- yet there is a stealthily, irresistible inquisitiveness associated with custard dearest. She sat with a fork or a spoon and relished the fruit of the season. She ate it so often that, she had mastered the art of eating it! She cupped her hands and held the fruit and dug deep, sucked and licked the flesh up. She ate up all the coagulated mess and spat out its black seeds. Before, she could discard the peel, she would look into it, one last time, and scrape the remains out, and experience child-like delight. Her fruity meal is complete, like how words flow out of mind, and heart and a piece of writing is extrapolated.