Abdul's vow

Murugan Bhai My friend Abdul often spoke of his visits to Palani, the abode of Murugan, the Tamil deity symbolizing simple living and high thinking. Still, it never occurred to me that he was a devotee of the lord of the hills. I put it down to his great love of nature and travel, his concern for the ecology of the hills, constantly under threat from mindless development. I was more than a bit surprised, therefore, when one day last month, he expressed his disappointment at his inability to place his wedding invitation card at the lord's feet at the Palani temple. "Somehow, I couldn't get the card ready in time. I, however, promised to bring my wife on my next visit, provided, of course, that I could persuade her to visit a Hindu temple," he told me, to my growing surprise. Abdul had always been fascinated by the mythology of Subrahmanya, he explained. There was nothing unusual about his interest either. Back in his hometown, there is much intermingling between the two communities, who not only respect each other, but also participate in each other's festivals to an extent. During the annual temple chariot festival, the honour of being the first to pull the car is by tradition reserved for the head of the Muslim community. It was his wife Salma's turn to spring a surprise, soon after the wedding, just when Abdul was about to broach the subject of the promised temple visit to her, knowing that she was a devout Muslim who prayed five times a day. "I have a confession to make," she said, "My father has vowed that he will take me to the Tiruchendur Murugan temple after my wedding, even if you won't consent to go there with us. Do you think, you could accompany me just this once?' Abdul was thrilled. He was quite convinced that it was Providence that had brought him and Salma together. And to think that he had been so reluctant to get married, that too through the old-fashioned route of arranged marriages! Abdul reminded me of an old conversation we had had on my own religious beliefs or lack of them. I had told him I was no great temple-goer, though I sometimes enjoyed visiting old, not so wealthy temples that attracted few devotees. Listening to my wife sing a couple of songs before the sanctum on those occasions had been an elevating experience, I had told him, maybe because of the spirit of surrender in which these offerings were made, embellished as they were by the superb acoustics that invariably featured these temples. I had described how moved I had been by the tears that ran down the cheeks of a priest as he listened to her rendering of 'Varadarajam upasmahe', a song in praise of the daily object of his puja. Abdul told his new bride how lucky he thought he had been to marry someone with such a wonderful, eclectic outlook as hers. "But I also expressed my one regret in my happiest hour," he told me, "I told her how much I regretted not being able to listen to her sing at a temple." Salma's reply stunned him: "Oh, I have learnt Carnatic music. I haven't sung for years, but I'd love to take lessons again, practise hard, and sing for you one day at the Tiruchendur temple," she assured him. At the Tiruchendur temple, Abdul who performed an archanai as he had done many times before, sidestepped the priest's usual question as he always did, by saying, "Please do it in Swami's (the lord's) name." But this time, the priest insisted on full disclosure of the names of the beneficiaries of the archanai! "Abdul and Salma," my friend said and then added their parents' names as well, fearful that the priest might take umbrage. Nothing of the sort happened, and the priest listened with a straight face. And after doing the puja, he blessed the couple: "May you both come back here next year with a baby in hand."

SELF MADE! 1. K Pandiarajan

Ma Foi K Pandiarajan He lights up hope in everyone he meets, like a lamp that ignites a hundred others and glows brighter. K Pandiarajan, founder of the Rs. xxx crore Ma Foi, India’s no.1 human resources company, started life as a child worker in a match factory in Sivakasi. “My very birth brought unhappiness to many,” recalls Pandiarajan. “I was an “unlucky” child in a community riddled by superstition; my father died within three months of my birth, just as some soothsayer had predicted on reading my horoscope. Forsaken by all, I came under the loving care of my grandparents. We lived in the small village of Vilampatti near Sivakasi, known as a mini Japan those days. Grandfather was a cook by profession. He was a man of rough exterior, a stubborn man. I was grandma’s pet. Match manufacture was a cottage industry in the Sivakasi region, and I worked in one such ‘’match factory” after school. Until I went to college my fingers were inseparable from the odour of the chemicals that went into making matches. “The product we helped manufacture might have brought light, but ours was a life of darkness. I found refuge from poverty in my studies. The greater our suffering, the harder I worked. My hunger, my thirst for knowledge, for success, made me a class topper throughout. Fortunately, there were no obstacles in my way, as my academic excellence brought pride and honour to my school and my village. My grandparents and my maternal uncles spared no effort to educate me, even if it meant that they had to starve. “A new door opened for me when I gained admission to the PSG College at Coimbatore. I was one of the few Tamil medium students to be admitted there. Though English was a challenge initially, my school education in the Tamil medium had laid a strong foundation for me. “I made friends easily with my classmates and their families, though I had not the slightest idea that this natural gregariousness would one day help me reach heights in the human resources development field. I became an honorary son of the parents of all my male classmates. I invariably went to the home of one of my friends to spend my vacations. As a good student, I was always welcome at their homes. “My friends encouraged me whenever I felt low in self-esteem. They assured me that I had ability. One of them, Subramanian, sent me the MBA application form for admission to the Xavier Labour Relations Institute, the excellent institute of higher learning run by Christian missionaries at Jamshedpur. It was a turning point in my life. He helped me shed my inferiority complex by telling me I could compete with smart youngsters from privileged backgrounds. When I received my admission letter, I could not believe my luck. “At the interview, I was literally in rags compared to my well-dressed peers. Yet my good grades got me in. The next step was to secure a bank loan, which was made easy by the excellence of the institution I was about to join. I soon became the cynosure of all eyes when I earned the Hindustan Lever scholarship for MBA students after a written competitive test. I became the most wanted person in my class, as Lever would hire the scholarship winners during campus placement at the end of the course. I was guaranteed a job in an MNC within three months of joining MBA. The village yokel was now the fount of wisdom every student sought out as a mentor. “I had never known a woman so far—if you did not count my mother and grandmother. A girl entered my life now. I was love-struck. She was bright and beautiful. And she cared for me. It was a novel experience. For the first time in my life, I neglected my studies, lovelorn. I became a backbencher in class. “It was shortlived. What she felt for me was sympathy for my poverty, not love, I was to find out. All of a sudden, life lost its meaning for me. I became a victim of self-pity, cursing my ill luck. “Life was not worth living, I decided. I was so crazy that I tore up the Hindustan Lever job application form. All my classmates took up attractive jobs, but I joined an ordinary firm on a monthly salary of Rs. 5,000. Still, it was a good start for someone of my background, the best yet in my family. For the first time in my life, I faced the frightening, routine prospect of marriage and an average existence, with an average job. “Having slid down rapidly in a real life game of snakes and ladders, I tried to resurrect my old self-confidence, and grab a ladder. “The darkest hour is before dawn. I was confident that the doors of success would open if I worked hard, with patience. My experience has proved that confidence right. “An American expert commissioned to put out a fire that broke out in an oil well in Andhra Pradesh needed 35 engineers to assist him in the project. The Australian HR firm appointed to hire these personnel included 31 Indians in the list of 35 it recruited in all. Of course, an Indian oil major was to pay their salaries! “The Australian company received a fee of one million dollars for the assignment, higher than the annual income of India’s top human resource enterprise. The episode had a strong impact on me. I could not reconcile myself to the idea that a foreign company earned such huge revenue out of a transaction involving an Indian company and the Indian engineers it hired. We still see the Indian population in excess of a billion people as a burden, not as the huge asset it is. “Under pressure to find a job, I wondered if it wasn’t a better idea to start an HR company myself instead. My wife Lata supported me in my venture and gave the new business the French name Ma Foi, which meant “my word.” Our dream venture was born on 15 August 1992. Today a Rs. 600 crore enterprise, Ma Foi was launched with a capital of Rs. 60,000. “We started selecting the right candidates for different prospective employers, training them and sending them on their way to their jobs. We swore never to collect any fees from the job seekers. Our promise to employees was the result of all the bad news we constantly read of people seeking jobs overseas being taken for a ride by unscrupulous employment agencies. Our decision to collect fees only from employers was the first and most important step in our journey. “According to an old saying, we plan to fail when we fail to plan. My wife and I sat down together to draw up Ma Foi’s objectives and plans, like parents plan their children’s future. “I was our first full time employee, and Lata a part time resource. I went round on a motorcycle and knocked on the doors of several companies, carrying my dreams everywhere. “It was not the industry practice then to meet job applicants personally. Recruiters asked them to mail their resumes and applications or drop them in a box at the office. We broke the tradition, by welcoming job aspirants with a cup of coffee and personal interaction. This helped us to match individual expectations with job specifications, as many tended to seek positions for which they were not suited, not really knowing their own attributes. Through personal interviews, we were able to assess the candidate’s qualities accurately and find them suitable employment, earning a good reputation in the process. “Regardless of our success in finding jobs for the young applicants who came to us, we managed to convert most of them into our ambassadors, thanks to the trouble we took over these personal interactions. The young people who came to us seeking careers were our unofficial ambassadors. “A poor young man from the Gudiyattam region of Vellore district was the first job applicant we placed abroad. He almost became a victim of the monopolistic practices of Mumbai based HR majors which placed obstacles in the path of smaller HR agencies. Successful candidates in the overseas job market had to go to Bombay to obtain medical certificates. These big companies made sure such candidates were declared medically unfit by bribing the officials concerned. When our young man was similarly treated, we were in tears along with him. We almost got into a street fight with the medical certificate issuer. We had to threaten legal action to obtain the medical certificate. He eventually left for Doha to take up a job that would pay him a monthly salary of Rs. 40,000. The gratitude in his eyes when we saw him off at the airport was incredibly motivating. “The world famous Apple Computers opened in India and decided to hire 300 employees. The company approached many Indian HR firms. In a highly competitive situation, we were given the job, based on our blameless track record. It was a huge opportunity for us. Advertisements were released across India in all the leading magazines, calling for applications for jobs in Apple to be sent to Ma Foi. The campaign gave us great visibility. We won the confidence of educated youth with our slogan Ma Foi shapes your future. “Ups and downs are inevitable in business. We created an atmosphere of employee participation in the growth of Ma Foi, which enabled everyone to share the success of the company, thus reducing the chances of failure. “The journey that began with an individual has now grown to accommodate more than 30,000 employees joined together in one common goal. Ma Foi, which opened its first office near a slum, now has offices in 14 countries. Ma Foi places one person every two minutes of an eight-hour workday, some 5,000 new employees every month somewhere. Our next goal is to place one person per minute. Pandiarajan has a keen sense of social concern and expresses it when he speaks of the charitable work his company participates in and encourages. “Every year we spend more than a crore of rupees on education and health through the Ma Foi Foundation. When an employee involves herself in social service, we give them suitable credits in their performance appraisal. We give such employees six days’ leave with pay annually to do social work. We have many more dreams. The sky is the limit.”

Rasam and talcum powder

"The rasam Brahmins make is different; it becomes part of their house odour. It is a smell that is imprinted in my brain. In the quarters, during Krishna Jayanthi, my borderline obese toddler brother was dipped in rice-flour paste, to recreate Krishna's footsteps. My mother was more than happy to lend him for the festival." This is an excerpt from House of Powders, a chapter by Sanobar Sultana, from Madras on My Mind, the cocky, irreverent anthology on the city many of us grew up in. Sanobar, as you can see, is a Muslim, a young lady known to thousands as a radio jockey and TV personality. At one point she says, "The six years that I spent as an RJ, I received enormous support from the Brahmin community. How they loved me!" She dedicates her article to her "mentor Bala Kailasam." "Radio was fun but I wanted to try television,too," says Sarobar. "I had written to Bala Kailasam (BK) who was with Pudiya Thalaimurai. He... wanted me to host an all-women's programme on a new channel that they intended to launch. The programming team was baffled. "A woman in a burqa?' they asked him. 'She would be sending the wrong message.' He argued with them, saying that they could not force someone to give up her identity." Sarobar says she cried when she heard this. Things change. Sanobar is not so welcome at a Brahmin friend Sangeetha's wedding, though the bride herself is fiercely loyal to her old friend. She hugs her when her mother is not looking, and her aunts run up to her and ask her why she doesn't visit them any more. "My heart danced like a swan with those words, with Carnatic music playing in the background. I pirouetted in happiness when I saw the cook from Gnanambika Mess carry in a bucket of rasam." Sanobar ends her story on a happy note, not untouched by poignant recall of happier times. "Every time I hear Subramaniam Swamy's rants against Muslims, I remember BK Sir, Sangeet's aunts, Saundarya Rajesh (who prompted her everywhere impressed by her TV work), Sriram who paid my term fees once, and my childhood memories. Everything is okay with the world. Attars and powders both make the world beautiful." In a world rapidly dismantling the trust and mutual respect of old friendships, Sultana's voice comes as a breath of fresh air.

On MADRAS ON MY MIND

"I am the ultimate Madrasi. "I certainly don't fit into the north-of-the-Vindhyas idea of that term. Meaning, I don't wear a pista-green polyester safari suit, speak like Mehmood in Padosan, sport vibhuti, nor am I named Swami Iyer." This is how Krishna Shastri Devulapalli opens the introduction to the recent anthology Madras on my Mind: A City in Stories, edited by him and Chitra Viraraghavan. In addition to Krishna's brilliant, in-your-face humour and Chitra's delicately phrased editorial utterances, the book contains the unexpected pleasures in the writings of some unexpected authors, steering clear of the usual suspects. The editors have contributed their own Madras stories in quite inimitable style, but they have generously showcased some fine writing by others in the form of both fiction and non-fiction. To me, the undoubted star of this collection is the venerable Bujjai of Panchatantra fame, a self-effacing artist of extraordinary quality who lit up my childhood with his exquisite illustrations in the magazines of my time. His chapter Flowers on the Madras Trains begins with the words "If you lived in the 1930s, and had passed through Pithapuram on a train with your head stuck out of the window, chances are you would have seen a boy on the station's lone platform. I'm talking of one particular extra-slight boy of five or six, seated on the shoulders of a girl only a tad bigger than him. If you could have tuned out the hiss and rumble of the train, you would have heard the melancholic song on his lips: Flowers on the Madras train, O, My Lord, My Lord, Flowers on the Madras train. "The boy was me, and the put-upon girl, my slightly older cousin, Seetha." After his first visit to Madras, the young Bujjai had a bagful of stories to regale his relatives back in Andhra with. "When I returned to Pithapuram, I told the country bumpkin kids in my neighbourhood of my Great Madras Trip, beginning with the conquest of Moore Market, followed by my victory run in the tram, my ascent of the lighthouse, and my life-saving discovery of comic books," The chapter ends with this passage: "Today, as I sit on a concrete bench overlooking the Kottivakkam beach, it is hard to imagine that more than seventy-five years have passed from that day when I first set foot in Madras. My favourite pastime is watching my son and grandson walking up and down the one kilometre stretch of road every evening, albeit in opposite directions, and listening to the sounds of the sea. Each time a wave crashes it seems to be saying 'what if', 'what if' to me. I'm at that age, I suppose, with all the time in the world to ponder the 'what ifs' of my life. What if my father had sent me to school? What if my wife hadn't died so young? What if my grandson wasn't autistic? "Of all the 'what ifs' the waves bring my way every day, the one I never contemplate is 'what if I hadn't come to Madras?' In between, Bujjai tells us the story of a talented boy who stayed home in Triplicane to fill drawing books with his illustrations while other, less fortunate kids went to school, and mouthwatering tales of sundal on the Marina beach withis uncles in the evening. Every story in the book is redolent of a Madras gone, now only belonging only to the realm of memories, yet celebratory of today's Chennai as well. The wistfulness of the book is as unmistakable as Madras bhashai and sultry afternoons and the seabreeze that follows. Among the several other gems in the anthology, two sparkle with a special brightness that appeals to me: House of Powders by Sanobar Sultana, and My Mother's Madras by Vamsee Juluri. To know more about them, you will have to watch this space. Better still, why don't you buy the book? Madras on My Mind, edited by Chitra Viraraghavan and Krishna Shastri Devulapalli, HarperCollins Publishers India. Price Rs. 350. Available at bookstores, but at the best prices online at Amazon, Flipkart and other sites.

By PNV Ram

S Kedarnath was a talented opening batsman who performed consistently for the State Bank of India team in the 1970s and 80s. He was thought of highly by some illustrious teammates like GR vaViswanath, and could not go beyond a handful of first class appearances because the Tamil Nadu scene was dominated by some excellent openers who rarely gave even half a chance to would-be successors. After retiring from active cricket, Kedar has been constructively associated with the game as a sought-after coach, with his Kedar Academy in T'Nagar attaining high standards and producing several promising players to the state. Kedarnath is a man with a nice sense of humour and an excellent mimic. His take-offs on players and umpires can be hilarious and very convincing. He is musically talented and trained as a mridanga vidwan with a top-notch guru of his day. He also has nice sense of sruti and a ringing voice, with which he can imitate singers as varied as MD Ramanathan, Semmangudi Srinivasier, KV Narayanaswami and DK Pattammal. He has this habit of ringing you up and launch a fair rendering of Giripai, the sahana song made famous by MDR. On many a similar occasion, I have almost died of laughter.

Kedar's mentoring inclinations have not stopped with cricket coaching. Last year, he started a sabha of the name Kedaram under whose auspices he has been conducting Carnatic music concerts of quality, insisting on traditional renderings true to their pathantara by mostly young musicians, but also the occasional veteran. He stipulates some rules of decorum including one on a 'whites only' dress code! Today, Kedar celebrates the first anniversary of Kedaram at Raga Sudha Hall, Luz, Mylapore, in the presence of some luminaries of the Carnatic music world. The three-day programme kicks off with a concert by Swetha and Raamya, a young duo accompanied by VV Ravi (violin), Mannarkoil Balaji (mridangam) and H Prasanna (ghatam). The programme will continue with vocal concerts by Karthik Narayanan (accompanied by MR Gopinath, B Ganapathyraman and Alathur Rajaganesh) on Saturday, and N Vijay Siva (accompanied by Embar Kannan, J Vaidhyanathan and S Krishna) on Sunday.

Sangita Kalanidhi

FROM THE EDITOR The Music Academy of Chennai will soon announce the name of the next Sangita Kalanidhi. Many sabhas will also announce similar awards and honour musicians with comparable ceremony, but the Academy’s title is still considered the highest honour in the world of Carnatic music, even if there have been a few hits and misses in the eight decades and more of the institution’s life. We hear talk of the existence of a rotation policy and quota system, considerations of youth alternating with those of experience, vocal versus instrumental, concessions to demands for inclusiveness, so on and so forth. Because last year’s Kalanidhi was a woman violinist, for instance, we may surmise that the next one will be neither female nor an instrumentalist. It is of course easier to criticise these so-called errors of omission and commission than to sit down and select a worthy claimant to the title. What is more, during the good times of abundant talent, some excellent artists are bound to miss out, especially those not blessed with longevity. Examples abound from the past, when an artist of such eminence as Lalgudi Jayaraman had to refuse to be considered for the award as a mark of protest, and giants like T.N. Rajarathnam, Palani Subramania Pillai and M.D. Ramanathan were left out. A few living maestros, especially instrumentalists who strode the Carnatic music stage like colossi (yes, that is the dictionary plural of the word), have even expressed anger and unwillingness to accept the award if it comes their way late in their lives. We have also heard that some stalwarts of the past have bullied or lobbied their way to the coveted title. None of this is unique to music awards or the Sangita Kalanidhi in particular; they are true of awards in general, and it is of course impossible to satisfy all constituents of the music world as to the genuineness of the claims to greatness of all the awardees. Sruti has been advocating the broadbasing of the Sangita Kalanidhi award to offer at least three classifications: vocal, instrumental (wind and string), and percussion. We are convinced such a move will not dilute the award, while taking a step towards recognising the contribution of a greater number of outstanding musicians. While the actual Sangita Kalanidhi conferment date is months away, another event in the cultural landscape of the state and indeed the country looms much closer ahead: the selection of the new director of Kalakshetra. Will it be an eminent artist or someone with credentials as an arts administrator? The prescribed age limit of 60 (or 65) will keep out a number of distinguished artists and teachers, who might otherwise qualify for the position. The process of calling for applications also rules out some worthy prospective candidates who are not comfortable with the idea of applying for a post. This can of course be dealt with by the selection committee making a short list and finding out if the shortlisted persons are interested in applying. Regardless of who makes the cut, we hope for a worthy and controversy-free choice to be made to helm this remarkable institution. V. RAMNARAYAN

SIFAS Festival 2017: Ravikiran in sublime form

Arriving at Changi Airport, Singapore, on 1st April, I was happy to be received by Sushma and Shruti. Shruti left with my co-passenger Mannargudi Eswaran, while I stayed back with Sushma to await the arrival by another flight of Satyajit Talwalkar the tabla ustad who was to accompany Kaushiki Chakrabarty (vocal) and Rakesh Chaurasia (flute) in a concert on the 2nd at Esplanade on the Beach. Satyajit turned out to be a cool character, easygoing and confident in his self, the legacy of his tabla maestro father Suresh Talwalkar sitting lightly on him. We were taken straight to the SIFAS premises, where we freshened up in the guest house and had a breakfast of idlis and coffee, before we trooped to the auditorium to listen to Kauhsiki Chakraborty and Rakesh Chaurasia in conversation with a sizable audience. Moderated by the American accented Ganesh Anand (a Hindustani vocal student of SIFAS), the session proved lively and entertaining, even if Kaushiki spoke of how divine her father's (Ajay Chakraborty's) music and nature were in typically traditional tones of guru worship. Both she and Rakesh, who is flute maestro Hariprasad Chaurasia's nephew, spoke of the advantages and disadvantages of their inheritance, though even the so-called negatives did turn out to be positives in the long run. For Kaushiki the child, music was play, and growing up, she revelled in translating every song she learnt into sargam syllables, and pushing herself to extremes while traversing the octaves. Rakesh, in contrast, was lazy about daily riyaz, but Hariprasad overcame this obstacle in his nephew's musical path, by leaving blank cassettes with him in the morning and demanding that they be filled with his practice exercises by the time he returned in the evening. Both confessed to their openness to the idea of collaborations and fusion efforts.in particularly, gave a strong reply to a member of the audience who suggested that some of these attempts to take classical music to the common folk would result in dilution of the art. Kaushiki drew parallels from the history of music, by referring to the Persian influence on Hindustani music, and even traced the raga Bhoop to the Chinese pentatonic scale. Kaushiki proved an articulate and confident champion of her school of music, and gave some lovely samples of the incredible range of her voice and her amazing virtuosity. He reached out easily to the young in the audience, though she tended to go on a bit too long. Rakesh showed several glimpses of his uncle's sense of humour and repartee, but he fooled no one into believing that he was playful in his pursuit of musical excellence. Like Kaushiki, he spoke of the collaborative work he enjoys doing. Chitravina N Ravikiran’s concert that evening was as good as his best concerts in India. Every raga and every kriti he played was rooted in the traditional mode, and the sound of his instrument resembled some ancient cry to the beyond, giving you goosebumps with its purity and magnificent reverberance. Is there a better Carnatic musician in the authentic tradition? Ravikiran had great support from Akkarai Subhalakshmi (violin) and Mannargudi Eswaran (mridangam) who was celebrating his 72nd birthday. Both of them complemented the chitravina with their sometimes subtle, sometimes dynamic playing. It was also an opportunity for the versatile local percussionist who was playing the ghatam this evening. Charged by the brilliance of his mridangam playing senior, he perhaps got away on occasion. All in all, it was a most memorable concert. By V Ramnarayan (To be continued)