Rafi at Buharis

MOHAMMED RAFI'S golden voice had been amplified beyond the limits of human tolerance. However, the turbanned, white-uniformed, middle aged waiter managed to make himself heard over the din of the jukebox, croaking "Yeh mera prem patra padhkar", while serving our table our 14th cup of tea for the afternoon.

To that bunch of truant undergraduates, to hang out at Marina Buharis was posh and to attend classes passe. Singularly lacking in a sense of history, we hadn't for a moment regretted passing up the chance to drink in the classroom atmosphere of Presidency College once made famous by the likes of Dr. S. Radhakrishnan and Sir C. V. Raman. We had slipped away ignoring the stern eye of the Powell statue that stood staring disapprovingly in the corridor. In our callow youth, we had failed to recognise the pre-eminent stature of our principal, the botanist, Dr. B. G. L. Swamy, who wandered around in oversized khaki shorts, cloth bag slung over his shoulder, communing with the varied plant life of our college. We did not know enough to know that the head of our English department, Professor Ramaswami, was someone special, or that Dr. Pai of the Chemistry department was a worthy successor to Dr. Govindachari of international fame.

There was one class that polyglot collection of young men rarely missed. It was not love of our national language that bound us to our Victorian benches but the happy circumstance that brought the best looking girls in the college to our Hindi class. A most entertaining time was had by all except the poor lecturer, with the tubby Gourang Kodical making funny noises without moving a single facial muscle and the giant Naushad engaging the teacher in a deeply philosophical dialogue only remotely connected to the curriculum.

The Hindi class also drew our seniors like a magnet. Eager to be introduced to the statuesque JJ - full name withheld - they would bribe us with Charminar and imitation coffee in our prehistoric canteen. Alas, the object of their affections left soon to join medical college.
Our idyll was shattered by the anti-Hindi agitation. Before it spread like wildfire to force the prolonged closure of schools and colleges all over the State, it first targeted the Hindi class.

The extended vacation that followed brought together a strange assortment of unemployed youth that met everyday at the Kutcheri Road residence of G. S. Krishnan, then a student of Vivekananda College. The gang that met to play a variety of indoor games from carrom and rummy to Literature and Scrabble, included Venkataraghavan, on the verge of playing for India, and fellow cricketers Ramji, Venu, Jaggu, Suri, Sivaraman and occasional guest Ram Ramesh who had just joined Indian Overseas Bank. The evenings were spent playing badminton or discussing Indian cricket threadbare at Vivekananda College.

College cricket was soon to follow. We had a few university cricketers and a number of enthusiastic unknowns, who thankfully were no respecters of big names and therefore managed to spring a few surprises against fancied opponents. "Alley" Sridhar who was living proof that not all left handers are necessarily graceful, hit the ball mighty hard and fielded and threw like a man possessed. N. Ram would go to sleep at the crease and suddenly burst into a flurry of sledgehammer blows. V. V. Rajamani, handsome and athletic, was a past master at mind games, somehow fooling the opponent into believing that his gentle medium pace held hidden dangers. An all rounder, he taught me more about off spin than any coach. P. S. Ramesh, our resident "poi bowler" bowled tiny offbreaks and legbreaks with the same action and grip, a la Ajantha Mendis, when he was not sending in "well-flighted" throws from the deep. S. V. Suryanarayanan breezed in to make the ball wobble, a song on his lips and his unruly hair pointing like a radar device, and played dinky little shots just out of reach of exasperated fielders. Bhaskar and Vidyasagar, Ravi and Prem, Shashi and Bala, all made valuable contributions from time to time and before we knew it, we were in the final of the A.M. Jain College Gold Cup, only to lose to the formidable Engineering College team. The champions had Venkat, Satvinder Singh, Rajendran, Manohar and identical twins Lakshmanan and Ramachandran.

Academically, the high point of my first year in college was getting caught offguard by the English professor Mr. Seshadri, when he spotted me in his class towards the end of third term, my onerous cricket duties for the season behind me. Apparently curious to find out if the first time visitor to his classroom knew anything of the subject, he asked a fairly straightforward question on The Grammarian's Funeral. When I concocted a rather involved but vague reply, he was more amused than angry. "That, dear stranger, is an original insight, but entirely inappropriate," he shot back at me.

November Fest

Chennai Online

November 2005

As though the Chennai music season needed padding up, ‘The Hindu’ has added to its considerable repertoire with the introduction of a new programme entitled ‘The Friday Review November Fest’, with dazzling jugalbandis to herald the more orthodox fare that will soon follow.

As I ignore a light drizzle and set out on my morning walk, I see an intrepid muffler-clad warrior braving the bitter cold of November Madras. The lady is well equipped for an Antarctic expedition, but of vital significance is the secure wrapping she has subjected her ears to, allowing no entry to the treacherous winter wind.

I immediately experience the familiar goosebumps of the seasoned concert-goer of the Madras cutcheri season in withdrawal, someone whose poor time management skills have denied him the pleasures of month-long sabha-hopping for some Decembers running now. For who doesn’t know that the time the Madrasi brings out his or her winter finery is the time the Seshagopalans and Unnikrishnans have to keep their fingers crossed and throats hot-water-gargled to do battle with their audience of mamas and mamis swathed in their warm woollens and swirling silks, and entice them away from their copies of ‘Kutcheri Buzz’, distributed by overzealous volunteers just before the start of the concert?

In the evening, I am driving homewards and as we cross the Adyar bridge and turn into Besant Avenue, I ask my companion if the annual convention of the Theosophical Society is still the big event it used to be - one of the high points of the year for young residents of south Madras, because it was a time you could hang out with members of the opposite sex from different parts of the world - and the answer is in the affirmative. I wonder if the convention is any longer a big draw with our youngsters who have enough else on their plate - unless of course they happen to be precocious theosophists in the making.

We soon enter Kalakshetra Colony, the residential enclave that once belonged to Rukmini Devi's Kalakshetra, prime real estate the institution sold to the lucky residents of the area, choosing to locate the college of fine arts in the area further south with its profusion of lotus ponds and coconut palms, its relative proximity to the local cemeteries notwithstanding. The ponds have dried up but Kalakshetra is in the heart of thick woods lovingly nurtured by some of its founder’s closest aides after it moved here from Adyar in the sixties.

Another legacy Rukmini Devi has left behind, the annual Art Festival at the Kerala-style auditorium in Tiruvanmiyur, is round the corner, and soon scenes from the Ramayana will unfold before a mesmerised audience, though old-timers will rue the passing of the good old days and the stalwarts of the past.

It’s early days yet for the migratory birds from all over the world to gather at the Vedanthangal bird sanctuary but it’s the time of the year overseas Indians swoop down on Madras. In the past, they came to listen and watch; today some of them come to sing and dance as well. While the rest of sabhadom is in the throes of scheduling concerts featuring the top stars, Hamsadhwani of Indiranagar showcases NRI music talent!

NRIs are not the only strange birds the season brings to Madras. There is quite a sprinkling of foreign nationals dotting the scene, ranging from wide-eyed seekers of nirvana to serious scholars of music and dance whose thoroughness and dedication can shame the best of local students. And if you read the programme cards carefully you will see that some of the morning lec-dem sessions are by experts from quite distant lands.

Many great artistes of the past have passed on and we shall miss them sorely, and I don’t mean the big stars of Carnatic music and dance alone. Many solid performers, composers and teachers who were an integral part of the music scene have left us. We’ll miss them.

But this is no occasion for grief. It is celebration time. The usual excitement of anticipation catches up with you. The young tyros you watched make their spectacular debuts a couple of decades ago are today masters of their art, occupying centrestage where once was an earlier generation of stars. The sensational teenager who took Madras by storm in the 1980s with his tiny mandolin. U Srinivas, is today a seasoned veteran, while an earlier child prodigy, Ravi Kiran has mellowed with the years to deliver music of surpassing beauty with his ‘chitravina’. Another prodigy of a later vintage, Shashank, today explores brave new paths with the flute, deeply moving one moment and frenetically fast-paced the next. Will the new season throw up some exciting new talent offering similar magic, you wonder.

As always, there will be some variations of the theme, for those who seek a change from the standard cutcheri fare. That brilliant Carnatic violinist Sriram Parasuram will also perform Hindustani-Carnatic vocal jugalbandis with wife Anuradha Sriram. O S Arun will sing Tamil ghazals. A number of percussion ensembles will thrill lovers of rhythm, led by such laya wizards as Karaikudi Mani, Vinayakram, Tiruvarur Bhaktavatsalam and Karthick. For those harking back to the past, there will be at least one four-hour vocal concert - by Malladi Brothers.

For now, let’s feast on The Hindu Friday Review’s November Fest.