Lured by legacy

Last Sunday select students of Dr. Lakshmi Ramaswamy’s Sri Mudhraalaya had the opportunity to spend a morning of interaction and learning with their grand guru – Padmasri Chitra Visweswaran at her residence in Alwarpet.

The aura of the welcoming terracotta tiles, a pebbled pathway and staircase leading to a red oxide floor with intricate carvings, sculptures, paintings and wooden furniture had already created an excitement for the vintage of sorts. A traditional piece choreographed by the Smt. Chitra – Chokkanathar Kavutuvam in Misra Chapu, was thought to be the light of the day through which the students of Dr. Lakshmi could get a first-hand experience of their grand guru.

Delimiting the introduction to the lyrical meaning of the piece alone, the session began with the history of Kavutuvam and the guru’s tryst with Kavutuvams beginning from her master the legendary Vazhuvoor Ramaiah Pillai to how she took it up as a topic to research. Drawing references and anecdotes from ‘Barbara Millers Love Songs of the Dark God’, the prevalence methods of dismemberment in India and Europe even if they were miles apart, Bhakti movment and keertanams in India and Shakespeare, she oscillated our minds back and forth bridging the gap between ages gone and the present times.

A Pandya king named Rajasekaran worried about the pain that Lord would suffer by standing in the right leg for all the time. He requested the Lord to dance by changing his leg posture and the Lord did so. That is why even today, Lord Natarajar here is dancing by raising his right leg.

The brief practical session (to be continued) can be best described as lilting in rhythm, swaying with the core tightly hold and dancing for the Chokkanathar. Trying to emote her quintessential style while depicting ‘siriththu muppuram eriththu madagari’ gave all a joy that each of us felt in our own ways.

Certainly it was ‘an eye opener’, an ‘enlightening morning’, an ‘intellectually enriching experience’, a ‘food for thought on dance and more’, a spark of tradition and its richness and a feeling of childhood circling the grandmother listening to facts and fables. That’s the beauty of our Indian tradition that thrives on the foundation of the guru-shishya parampara – lucky are the grand students who can bask on the glory of both the guru (Dr. Lakshmi Ramaswamy) and the grand guru (Padmasri Chitra Visweswaran.

Blessed indeed!

Hope

“You found me from somewhere and stretched your hand
I clasped your hand and held them very close.
In a few days time you taught me how to fly.
I would fly – sometimes with you; sometimes without.
And then one fine day you locked me up in the cage
The cage, had just enough space to flap my wings
But wouldn’t let me fly.
I thought it was a game. You would come soon.
I waited, waited…
interspersing with old memories and the hope of new ones
There is joy in hope. There is a blush incomparable. There is happiness bountiful.
And so I kept waiting until one day
You came and stood before me and opened the cage.
Stretching out your hands to me you gave your charming smile.
Only to realise I had forgotten to fly.
The long await, the patience had torn me apart.
I was left without hope.”

As it pours, it unwinds

There are rains that make loud announcements of its arrival. Clouds gather, hefty winds blow in space and tend to dislocate everything around us. And then there are rains that incessantly drop down at its own pace, pretty much quietly. We often name these as drizzles. They continue for hours without even making its presence felt. What sweeps away the mind is the sudden downpour. Out of the blue, they make a powerful statement of who they are.

This range creates a bare rocky mind, with steep hill sides. At the edge lies the memories that you can neither take back or shun away from. Suddenly rearing up in front of the tired discouraged soul, there is a sight of a short green grass, trickling through it sliver of clear water. You have perhaps not noticed it before how it has been growing tall slowly from the mud pot trying to tell you that its out in the world.

The nearby stones become smooth with the rain on them. The rain does that for all, soothes an injured heart. Somewhere between clarity and simplicity, life has lost its way. Nevertheless like a compulsory traveler, I walk through its bends and twists. It still knows its destination; clouded with fog and mystery. It is this mist that the rain helps to clear.

Rains are the best aphrodisiac in the world. We cannot destroy our memories until we destroy ourselves. And with all their damp and decay, it still appears as glittering diamonds in an underground cave, waiting for someone to capture and treasure in a whole new look, for one more time.

Musical memories triggered

Indian mythology believes in Cupid being the God of love and how he with his arrows strike and trigger a particular kind of love. To go at depth, there are five types of flowers that hits at different places, be it the eyes, lips, heart and so on to arise and awake the feeling of desire.

Hope and desire are two things that are most unpredictable and you never know when it can set in motion. If it’s not with the moon, then it’s during sunrise or even at dusk. But barely can anyone say escaping from these. Sometimes they might even be a repercussion of memories collected through the years.

For me, music has played a role greater than that. I may not be a music expert but notes in tune dig out all that’s in me and bring it forth like a mirror standing before me and I feel lost and devoid of myself. I have always been a matured music listener. During my growing up years, cassettes were still alive and music stores had them arranged in various orders with pride. Every month my father would take me to ‘Melody’, a famous store in Kolkata or even the HMV showroom in Esplanade where I would spend a lot of time browsing through cassette covers even though I already had my list ready.

Pandit Jasraj, Bhimsen Joshi, Girija Devi had occupied considerable space in my shelf along with Bhupen Hazarika, Begum Akhtar. But who stole my heart was Kishori Amonkar. My brother would immerse into Iron Maiden and Pink Floyd, but my room would vibrate in all sorts of alaaps, bhajans and thumris. Be it a Saturday night or while doing my home-work, my stereo played music that was way matured for any child of my age then. This naturally had pushed me away from many children of my age with whom I could no longer relate and found them weird for not getting lulled by Indian classical music. While they would be engrossed in their new additions of Mills and Boons gossips or what Cosmopolitan had to highlight in their glossy monthly issues, I would enjoy basking in ‘He mero mana mohana’. Accompanied to all this would be ‘Ma’ spending her evenings in the roof singing compositions of Atul Prasad, Rabindranath and Rajanikanto. To me these writers and singers became heroes.

Then came the period when I started imbibing what was more into vogue amongst my peers. Loud and bold, determined and ambitious not just inward but whoever sees me barely remembers the older me, who had once suffered seclusion and outcast by friends who found me on a completely different track.

Between then and now, several years have passed by. I have learnt to keep away engulfing fantasies and ones that do nothing but while away time. But all of a sudden, an encounter with an artiste brought it all back. The impact was simple. I spent an entire Saturday evening listening to Kishori Amonkar, not just playing it in the laptop but putting my head phones so that it’s just the galvanising effect of her tunes in my thoughts.

If you are wondering how? That’s what, you can never tell when it can set your subdued thoughts in motion and yet you are not irritated but calm and complete. Perhaps because he looked like ‘Pt Shivkumar Sharma’, a legend whom I call resembles a Greek God and whose santoor can create vibrations so fresh and luring; Perhaps because it was an unexpected evening of flute and tabla; Or perhaps I needed someone to drive me to memory lane.

Whatever it is, music has unfathomable reach. I might have taken to dancing but it is music that touches my soul; it is music that triggers love and it is music that makes me nostalgic.

 

Caves that set me free

Cave 1 and 2

Cave 2

Shivalinga in Cave 2

Cave 4

Cave 3

Cave pillar

Pallava Inscriptions

Small things start us in new ways of thinking.

“Just a couple of more months down south and I am done with Chennai,” I have been telling this to myself for the past couple of weeks. But as I say it, I feel like filling it up with all the places in and around Tamil Nadu I have not seen so far; the lesser known with more priority so that I could pacify the wander lust me with greater cups of adventure, thrill and magic. After all what good did Bibhutibhushan Bandhopadhyay, Ruskin Bond, Sunil Gangopadhyay and of course the National Geographic Channel do then!

My mission ‘Complete Down South’ began with a small village which was once a hub of royal patronage and the Capital of the Pallavas, Mamandur located on the Kanchipuram-Vandavasi road in Tiruvanamalai district in Tamil Nadu. A 7^th century fiesta, it has 4 rock-cut cave temples which is considered by the Archeological Survey of India as monuments of national importance. The cave contain Tamil Brahmi inscriptions and cave paintings.

An exceedingly tapering muddy pathway guides one to the caves which are located one after the other and overlooks the rising sun. The caves have a typical Mahendravarman attire with a cubical top and bottom and an octagonal middle. The top and the bottom have lotus medallions. Behind the first row of pillars is another row of pillars and pilasters which gives it an ardha mandapa and mukha mandapa structure. The cell inside is empty. The platform constructed for the deity is empty and has a square cavity suggesting its work remains unfinished.

A flight of rocky boulders and stones coupled with bunches of brown and dry grasses take one to the second cave marked as the Rudravalisvaram, owing its name from the shrine of Shiva (shiva linga) that remain seated even after 1300 years. Since there are two other chambers, with distinct characteristics of the trinity, archeologists believe they might have been of Brahma and Vishnu. Limited traces of painting have been found in these chambers.

One in the afternoon, I was sitting on the cool volcanic basaltic stones with not a single human soul around me. About 200 metres were two cows oblivious of my presence. I started climbing the boulders hoping to figure out the entrance of the other two caves. Solitude gives rise to thoughts; unstoppable and infinite. “What if a snake glided its way through the rocks? As a consequence, what if I rolled down? How would anyone trace me up here or would I be found by someone who like me would want to flip through the pages of history some day and reach Mamandur?” I drew abeyance from all these thoughts and continued climbing looking back and forth the ground and the cows. When I reached a considerable height I saw a cave like structure to my right below which was not visible from Cave 2. This meant I would have to go down again and the climb was futile. The calm and serene atmosphere superseded the debilitating heat of the sun and I chose to sit back for a while before I headed down again for cave 3.

The largest of the four is cave 3 which stands on five pillars and two pilasters. Staircases in front of the platforms lead one to the paintings on the back wall of the cave. All the cells are empty and asymmetrical works suggest its incomplete nature.  A well-defined boulder staircase leads to Cave 4 which is the southern-most cave on the hill and the smallest. The pillars are left unfinished. The front façade was cut almost 3 feet deep inside. Perhaps the plan was to excavate a three shrine cave as the left cubical blocks on back wall reflects such ideas. But cracks on the roof gives evidence to the heavy load and why the work might had been stopped.

The charm of the site is that the caves are unfinished and therefore gives ample scope for imagination. One is free to be a part of the 7^th century architectural labour cutting stones and carving out figures that will be embedded over time. I thought of king Mahendravarman on his horse chariot passing by with his minister reporting him of the progress of the work. I pictured the labourers being rewarded of their work. I questioned myself what is it really love to do.

Too many thoughts might have bound me but I felt unbounded. Most people are not really free. They are confined by the niche in the world that they carve out for themselves. But I am free.

It’s maroon and illuminating

There was a time when I wanted to give up school and just dance. School, I felt was too fast, the change of mind every 40 minutes with a new subject and a different teacher was difficult for me to enjoy as I like doing something at depth and taking my own sweet time. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar never gained enough empathy as I must have been working on the left over algebra in my mind, trying to interpret numerical parallels of alphabets.  While others would get enthusiastic about Sir Newton’s gravitational theory, I would imagine him, the apple and tree and a lush green around, an influence of the art class near the alluring old library that we would call, the room with a stretch of windows and a lot of breeze.

My grades began to scale down and I found myself demotivated to study. It was then that my ‘mamu’, a humble government employee whose world revolved around me had gifted me a crystal idol of Ganesha. “This is a lucky charm and if you keep it safely, this will bring good luck and good grades,” he said. Of course I believed him and kept it safely. The Ganesha barely had any effect on my grades but it somehow gained a little more attention from me in comparison to the other ‘Gods and Goddesses’ in posters, clay models and paintings in the house.

Then started a period of loadshedding, especially in the summers. I loved it because it allowed me to escape to the roof with Ma, my grandmother and my nanny. It was a special time for me as Ma would sing her favourite Rabindrasangeet songs and I would join her as well. But this did not last long.

The board exams were on the way and my uncle had a solution. One day he came home in the evening with a box in his hand. It was a medium sized, little heavy box like object with two lights in front. He said, “Charge it for the next 24 hours and keep it plugged in. When there is loadshedding tomorrow, you can use this light.”  The spark of light emerging from its maroon body fascinated me. It was kept in the drawing room and I would carefully carry it to my study when the power went off. It kind of made me feel responsible.

Academics took off, and I gradually developed interest. I landed up taking up higher education and continuing dance.

Now, after 15 years, I have again lost interest, but this time in dance as I somehow cannot push myself to imagine a lover being late with marks on his body and the heroine asking explanations or the Gopikas being awestruck with an imaginary Krishna playing his tricks. I miss Tagore and reading my own language. I miss debating about why Indian Railways found it justified to sign up with KFC when Modi is trying to promote consumption of Indian products.

Incidentally, loadshedding have begun again. Two days back the lights went off in the night, it was pitch dark. I have recently shifted to another locality which would be my shelter for the last 9 months in Chennai. I felt terribly lonely and helpless. There is no roof I could escape to, Ma too far to sing a song and Mamu no more.

The next day I went to Big Bazaar and bought an emergency light. I charged it for the next 24 hours and switched it on to check this morning. Iv kept it in the drawing room; a smile to many memories I once had. It is maroon and illuminating!

Because I like scribbling!

The diary and my dolls were my ‘assets’ to me when I was five. I took great care of both, devoting a lot of time teaching what I learnt in school to my dolls and sharing all that I had to say to my diary. My English vocabulary was limited and hence my thoughts often found vent in the form of small and inky illustrations, which too was difficult to decipher for others. My first diary was gifted to me by my uncle, who was a lawyer and his stories of around the world and his own personal adventures fascinated me. He had a big library, the books of which has now been donated to a public library after his death. But if I have to find the point of beginning, it must have been my uncle.

The first poem I had managed to write was ‘My Dream’, a short collection of few sentences of a nine year old and was published in the school magazine. ‘My Dream’ was followed by many more for the next decade until I ran short of words and time.

My thoughts and sentences have grown over time; some manifest into concrete meaning, some wander about awaiting to find their own direction and some remain as scribbles. The scribbles however are most interesting to me because I find them characteristically non-judgemental. They are free and innocent, worldly and wise, unbounded and infinite.