Krishna consciousness

Chennai’s Carnatic music aficionados were in for a shock when the maverick musician, T.M. Krishna, decided to stay away from the December music season.His announcement in his social networking site went viral with shares and comments from fans and critics.

This most awaited annual event has global resonance, with people from all over the world converging to the sabhas (concert halls) to soak in the music and savour the sumptuous food dished out by the auditorium canteens!

But this year will be different.

Over the years, this art form with its exclusive caste and class patronage has been frustrating this controversial musician. He has been called “eccentric” by the patrons, who were essentially the educated elite Brahmins, for his on-stage “brusque” body language. 

His recent book, A Southern Music: The Karnatik Story, delves into his growing restlessness in wanting to change this caste and class dynamics. The book not only explores the historical evolution of this art form but also asks uncomfortable questions on the discordant notes of caste  hegemony over this art form.

A few years ago, he sang a different note during the December season to break the class jinx by making his performance a free-for-all. The sabha committees had no choice but to agree to the condition made by one of the biggest crowd-pullers. They decided to give him the morning slot as they could not afford to reserve the prime evening schedule, where the strains of music would ring in cash into their coffers.

Last year, Krishna organised an alternative December music season, roping in both classical and folk artists. The weeklong open air music concerts on the Chennai beachfront was a unique initiative to net the interests of fisherfolk and Dalits, and in the process break the concert walls that had been made sound-proof by the elite.

In a social networking site, Krishna recently added a dollop of dollar dynamics into the simmering caste-class Carnatic music pot. He alleged that the strength of the dollar against the rupee was causing corruption among the sabha committee members and middlemen who arrange the “meetings and concerrts”. This meant that Thyagaraja kritis emanated more from the vocal chords of NRIs, with the burgeoning local talent being sidelined.

After an uncomfortable silence from the music fraternity, soft whispers are being heard in the corridors of social networking sites. Critics point to Krishna’s “hypocrisy” in accepting fat cheques for concerts abroad while turning his nose up when dollars make an entry into the Chennai music circuit.

The musician’s decision has clearly stirred the fuzzy caste-class Carnatic broth, sometimes adding to the flavours and sometimes adding to the stink.

The Dravidian politics in Tamil Nadu has always kept the caste cauldron simmering. It came to a boil last fortnight in IIM-Madras after the authorities banned a Dalit study group, and later revoked it after protests spilled over across the country.

Today, the raga has gone off-tune.

My Appa and I

The movie, Piku raised a lot of laughter, its humour endearing audience across age groups. But I lifted the thin layer of film that coated the screen and felt the underlying happiness and melancholy in the relationship between my Appa and me.

My Appa was certainly not a copybook-style “cool dad” that we read in books and see in advertisements. Whenever my friends made glowing tributes to their fathers, I would create a tally sheet to see if any of this matched with my Appa, and failed miserably. God must have been at his creative best while assigning him the most unique human traits. He was a bundle of contradictions. He had his own way of looking at life and interacting with people.

He was generous to the point of suffocating our guests. Our home was an open house and our house guests were not just familiar relatives and friends. They comprised mutual friends, friends of friends and relatives and friends of friends of friends. Many taxis from Howrah station and Dum Dum airport have brought guests to our place for them to enjoy Appa’s almost-claustrophobic hospitality. We were the casualties in this: the constant activity at home denied us the pleasure of peaceful reading or concentrating on our quadratic equations!
He has helped a lot of people find jobs, but refused to recommend one for his brother because he hated nepotism!
When I was barely six months into my first job, he planned a summer holiday to Chennai. He was entitled to air fare for his dependent family members. But I had to take the Coromandel express train, while the rest of them availed the travel allowance. He reasoned that technically, I was earning and was, therefore, no longer a dependent. That was the level of his integrity.
He was opinionated and intolerant of dissent. I would argue, fight, sulk and sometimes mutely follow his diktat. Our relationship was anything but smooth and easy.
He was embarrassingly honest and, believe me, I have often wanted the earth to part so that I could sink into oblivion to avoid Appa’s gift of putting me in the most awkward of situations.
But he was a gem, an unpolished gem.
And then, late one night Appa slipped into coma in his sleep after an attack of cerebral haemorrhage. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be at peace, without feeling the pain of multiple needles connected to tubes going in and out of his frail, diabetic body. Normally, a minor cut was all it took for him to bring the house down. I saw him through the glass window and visualised him waking up and shouting at the medical staff for “torturing” him. “Wake up, Appa. See what they are doing to you,” I silently instigated him.
Five days passed, and he showed no sign of waking up to throw his weight around. The doctor told us he would be a vegetable even after coming out of coma because his haemorrhage had caused significant damage to his brain. That was when I wanted him to die. I could not see him helpless.
There were many who revered him, but there were also many who ridiculed him after taking advantage of his generosity.
He passed away after 13 days. The doctor told us he lost the battle and died. I told myself he has won the war. He has left for a better place. He may have been whimsical, but never boring, he may have been annoying, but never unpleasant.
Whatever he was, he was my Appa. I could say anything to him, but could not tolerate anyone saying anything against him. He left me 14 years back, but I still love my Appa.

Smartphone: Connected or addicted?

“I am part of five WhatsApp groups, and sometimes find it so cumbersome to chat with all of them. I find myself chatting the whole day and it is tiring,” commented my friend, an avid smartphone user. I felt the comment sounded more like a lament.

This prompted me to think about whether I must buy a smartphone to stay “connected”. I own a conservative, 1200-rupee Nokia handset, which helps me take and make calls, send and receive messages and set the alarm for 5 every morning. It is rock steady even after having fallen from great heights a million times.

Coming back to chats, we are often faced with these virtual interactive sessions. Often, in the middle of some work, I hear the ping sound from the desktop (by the way, I am really old fashioned. I still do not own a laptop, happy with all my virtual connections through my desktop!) I always respond, though I must admit, it is sometimes done with a little reluctance as it would disrupt the flow of my work. I answer, not just out of politeness, but out of reciprocation. This is because I am equally guilty of clicking on my friends’ names that have a green circle next to it, indicating his/her availability. Sometimes, even when the circle is red indicating availability, though busy, I have pinged to say that “quick hi”.

I have been blissfully unaware that my virtual friend might really be busy and is responding out of politeness. And, what is more, I am unaware of the expression on the other side.  Then, of course, the chat never seems to end. The “byes, take cares, we must catch up soons” keep continuing, unless one of us abruptly pulls the plug.

When laptops replaced desktops, it made internet accessibility more mobile. And now, the smartphones/androids have made us all roving, active social butterflies. We are taking the idea of always being connected too seriously. Is this making us intrusive and ill-mannered?

Intrusive?  In a way, yes. We tend to intrude into the other person’s space, without realising the time that goes on in this cyber socialising. And, it can happen at any time of the day, night and late night. We do not even bother to feel whether that person is really free. We often assume and take their time for granted.

Ill-mannered? Again, yes. Virtual chatting can slowly eradicate manners among us. We tend to say things which we would have otherwise shied away from.

Virtual chatting can be dangerous, and sometimes even fatal. There have been cases of suicides after a virtual spat.  We tend to cross our limits as we are ensconced in our private space and there is no indication of any discomfort either in the form of body language or in the form of physical eye-contact.

Touch phones have made virtual interaction very convenient and trendy. College kids and adults often swim along in the (un)intentional flirting that goes on, which is often laced with sensual/sexual references. Lack of proximity helps virtual friends get that feeling of being “emancipated”. Sadly, that is only in cyberspace.

Another point is that this bunch of youth, which is so comfortable with virtual chats, is often seen to be pathetically backward in real interface. Small wonder then that they are unable to fluently communicate in the real world in a single language as they are often breaking into pitiable linguistic pauses like “you know”, “like” and “umm”.

Of course, I know I am opening up a can of criticisms as many of my friends will be hopping mad at my way of looking at things. The cyberspace has been a wonderful world where we picked up pieces of our childhood and found so many friends. So what is wrong with that? I do not have a problem with social networking at all. In fact, it is blessing that has made me run into friends I had lost touch with; my friends with whom I had shared my lunch in primary school.

Virtual chatting is my concern, not an abhorrent. Concern because it is time-consuming. I feel it is alienating us increasingly from the real world, reducing us into zombies, with our fingers moving back and forth, up and down the screen all the time, even when we are among “real” friends.

Having said this, do I switch to a smartphone when communication will be at my fingertips?  For the moment, I will stick to my old Nokia.

I want to stay connected, without being addicted.

Virtual bouquets and brickbats are welcome!

Rail’wayward’

If you wish to escape to Bangalore from the “unbearable” Chennai heat in the air-conditioned comfort of Shatabdi Express, think again.

The Indian railways’ recent decision to “upgrade” the coaches of that train by installing television screens in them, has, in effect, downgraded the sensibilities of passengers having to travel amid the cacophony of pure, unadulterated film music.

A travel by Shatabdi to Bangalore is anyway irritatingly punctuated by the catering department, from the sinful snack tray that ushers in the journey to the overloaded and overflowing dinner platter for that climactic ending.

But the torture is now magnified by the continuous cacophony of “fresh from the oven” raunchy film songs that comes packaged with provocative movements. What is very disturbing is that the railway ticket does not carry a U, UA or A certification. The coaches are indeed full of children, running up and down the aisle. Now, they have a distasteful baby-sitter, blaring raucous songs accompanied by gyrating pelvises and heaving bosoms.

The point is: Is film dance and music the only entertainment for us? Television channels observe even Gandhi Jayanti with “superhit” films, sponsored by videshi colas.
But why did the glorious Indian Railways succumb to this lewd temptation? The old and prestigious institution can surely sense aesthetics and introduce a low-volume, high-interest package on television. It could be a circus show, a gymnastic presentation, an animal channel, anything but these suggestive visuals. Is the Indian Railways listening?

Chaos or custom-made cities?

A river cruise takes me till the area where the sea takes over. The port is Malaca. The river is dotted on both sides with beautiful, old quaint buildings. Portuguese architecture vies for attention with stunning Dutch and English buildings along the way, as old-style bridges connect the opposite sides.  There is a connect, after all. The connect of the ancient and modern; of an antiquated post office building and an internet café; of the gastronomic excellence of a Nasi lemak and the ever-present pizza-burger; of ancient churches and the new temples of worship: malls.

The first Dutch ship to have landed in Malaca has been redesigned as a museum for the younger generation to understand the dynamics of a nation, born out of maritime trade relations between East and West. This southern Malaysian port is sleepy, but it had once been a hub of active trade, and one of the inspirations of European colonial ambition. Today, it stands as a mere reminder of the past. The aggressive sophistication of the present has conveniently swept those memories under gorgeous Persian carpets, desperately being preserved by standalone connoisseurs.

But this was one of the small pieces of Malaysia one can taste. The rest of the cities are like any other. The buildings, the flyovers, the malls, the brands, the food: there is no sense of heterogeneity. They all look alike. Probably they would in any city in the world, what with its indistinguishable flavours of burgers, pizza and mall “getaways” stocking identical brands . Is there anything native about a place today? I doubt it.

At least, the countryside in Malaysia has some pockets of pleasant distractions in the form of stray landforms and stuctures. But its neighbour, Singapore, was built, it seemed, in an assembly-line factory. The residential buildings and spaces look alike, the parks are mirror images; their cafeteria-food line-up almost clinically exact. It was as if a template was created and the city built on that. This clinical and too perfect a city can evoke a sense of boredom. Its lack of authenticity and the absence of nativity reflect an identity crisis, a personality disorder. Are all cities going this way?

Pockets of Indian cities, for sure, look the same with their malls, pizza-coffee-burger outlets and brands. But there are still native elements preserved in its chaotic nerve structure. Give me the chaos; I will choose it any day to the clinical precision of modern cities.

Water bomb's ticking

We pack our children’s school bag, doubly ensuring that they do not leave behind the two essentials: the lunch bag and the water bottle. But do we carry a water bottle when we leave the house?  Why bother. All we have to do is part with Rs 12 or Rs 15, depending on the “brand” of pure water, and we get to quench our thirst in “convenient” plastic bottles, stocked in every corner shop in the country. Right? Wrong!

We need to bother as the bottles we use and throw are all out in its bio-non degradable form, choking our planet’s dump yard. Recently, my friend had sent a picture of a heritage site buried under a mound of plastic water bottles. That was just a fragment of the bigger time bomb merrily ticking away in our planet.

Will it be simpler to just fill up a bottle whenever we step out? Just our little bit. I have heard people say, what difference does it make if one person does it? What about the rest? Someone has to start somewhere.

This sounds pedagogical? Sorry, cannot help it.

Today, drinking water flow freely at large conclaves and conferences, small gatherings, fat weddings and  family functions through mini packaged plastic bottles. What is even more frustrating is when even quarter-used bottles are binned. This is double whammy: drinking water flows into the drain and more plastic is added to the planet.

Our fitness freaks run marathons, well-advertised and sponsored by corporates, and leave behind a monstrous clutter of plastic water sachets, making our planet that much more unfit.

The world water day is on March 22 to remind us of the resource that is getting scarily scarce. But we do not seem to just get it. We start rationing water when there is a red alert on scarcity. Once the dark cloud passes, we resume scrubbing vessels leaving the tap on. We do not tell our children not to turn on the tap during the process of brushing their teeth, but only to rinse. Our children have enough and more of television and ipods; they can do without the water music as they wake up or before they slip into slumber. We indulge in the Jacuzzi-type shower (like we see those jaw-dropping men and women in ads). We scrub and wash our cars like they are hitting a night club. We water the pathway like there was a storm the previous night. We mercilessly throw the water filled up in our buckets two days back when there would have been a water crisis warning, saying it is “old”.

The water bomb’s ticking;tick, tick, tick. It is time to wake up to this alarm.

Green drain

Will our cities ever allow us to go green?

I have been thinking about this question over and over again as I walk to my College as a green initiative at least three days a week. First, there is no road as I come out of my house, so to speak. It is gravel, sand and stones just put together on undulating patches and the rest of what is there or not there is in pits, literally. Patches have been dug up in the name of storm water drainage and it has been like that for months.

This challenging stretch leads to the chaotic four-point crossing with a narrows fifth lane pushing itself for attention.

The Chennai transport corporation buses charge menacingly, disregarding the red light. The threatened pedestrians are then forced to retract apologetically despite the signal post flashing green over the walk sign.

The SUVs and Sedans along with the two- and three-wheelers complete the chakravyuh (the circled trap), frustrating the poor pedestrians’ attempts. And, senior citizens are in for a rude, insensitive shock as they are unable to importune their way across the ominous crossing to reach their nationalised banks to update their passbooks or collect their pensions.

Once I manage to go to the other side, as a person and not as a corpse, I am forced to manoeuvre around piles of garbage, left unattended by corporation officials. The trash strays into streets after flowing out of unkempt bins. If I am not careful, I might just about squash a plastic bag of smelly, discarded sambhar or assorted plastic rubbish or used poopy nappies or even used sanitary napkins.

We want to go green. We want to walk, we want to cycle; we want to take the public transport. We want to save fuel for the next generation. We want to reduce ravaging our planet. We want our next generation to breathe easy.

There is enormous temptation to take out the car to avoid the bad roads, the disrespect of vehicles to pedestrians and cyclists and walking on trash. We will fight that. But wouldn’t it be helpful if there was some cooperation from corporation and the government and a little compassion and show of concern by our motorists?

Coming back to the question: Will our cities allow us in our green endeavour?