Nadopasana: A Story of Sound and Soul: Part 2 of 4

 Best Laid Plans

Ponnan lost his parents to the great disease when he was five. Fortunately for him, Manian, his older brother, took him under his wing. To be more precise, it was Manian’s wife, Gauri who did. Gauri, barely sixteen herself, cared for the five-year old as though he was her own child. She fed him, bathed him, sang him to sleep when his nightmares woke him, walked six miles each way during the hottest months to get exotic breeds of mangoes for him from santhai, the weekly farmers’ market.

Ponnan always called her by name. She transformed from an easygoing adolescent to a protective tigress when people chided Ponnan for not respectfully addressing her ‘anni’. She put the whole family on a diet when he fell sick and had to follow a bland food regimen. She glowed with pride when he returned from the temple and sang thevaram verses, imitating the priest. In due course, his nightmares disappeared.

The family owned agricultural land south of Thiruvaiyaru. As per local custom, Ponnan was expected to help Mainan in the farm. Gauri cited Ponnan's interest in music, and urged her husband to find a suitable teacher for him. Manian acceded to her wishes, and arranged for Ponnan to learn from a famous local nadawaram teacher, Aiyarappan Pillai. He would learn music full-time, instead of farming.

Aiyarappan Pillai taught him the basics, taught him the various scales, and impressed upon the need for devotion in music. Ponnan had a photographic memory for ragas and songs, but was somehow unable to make the connection between the carnatic music and its spiritual aspects.. He made progress, but remained detached from the devotion that his guru was advocating. This continued into his teens, with him staying with his teacher, and his brother continuing his farming.

Everything unravelled when the war broke. The English and the Sultan of Mysore were fighting each other, and the fight spilled into the Kaveri region. There had been a battle near Kumbakonam, in which the English were routed. The Sultan’s men chased the Englishmen all the way into Thiruvaiyaru. A few English soldiers hid in the haystack in Maniyan’s farm. When the Mysore soldiers found them, they got hold of Manian, who was working nearby, and killed him as a warning for anyone who might have dared shelter the enemy soldiers. Gauri was never seen again. Some said they saw a woman being carried off by the Mysore soldiers.

Ponnan’s world fell apart once more. Manian’s death was shocking, but Gauri’s disappearance was devastating. She was the only mother Ponnan had known and remembered. The couple left behind two children - Ramaiya, who was six and Kamakshi, who was two. Just as Gauri had assumed the role of a mother at sixteen, Ponnan had to assume the role of a father at fifteen.

With the help of Guruparan, the priest, he performed the final rites for Manian. He wanted to perform the final rites for Gauri too, but the priest forbade it. She might still be alive. Oddly, this made Ponnan sadder, as it didn’t provide him closure. It was as if he was neglecting his final duties to his adopted mother.

Ponnan went to Aiyarappan Pillai, touched his feet, and asked for permission to leave his training, so he could work on the farm and feed his family. Pillai consented with sadness. In parting, he remarked that he had great hopes for Ponnan, and had been holding out hopes that he would discover the devotional dimension of music.

To be continued.

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Nadopasana: A Story of Sound and Soul: Part 1 of 4

Year 1826, Thiruvaiyaru, India

Richard Baker wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeves. He was breathless as he tried to keep pace with the younger man. He paused to take another swig from his water bottle - a gift from the military men who had cleared him for the visit. He offered Valavan a drink, who simply shook his head.

‘How much farther?’.

‘We’ll enter the town in ten minutes. The house is very close to the Aiyanaar temple at the entrance to the town’, replied Valavan, and started chuckling.

‘What is so funny?’

Valavan paused to translate the words in his head and then said in halting English. ‘You’re asking ‘how much farther’ every few minutes. Reminds me of the lines children chant in my village as a part of games - how much farther is the washerman’s house?!‘

Richard grinned. Valavan was obviously not the deferential sort. Most Indians froze with fear and awe as they talked to the colonizing race. Valavan, refreshingly, talked as an equal, and even teased Richard on his appearance as he seemed to wilt under the sun.

Richard took another look at the man walking ahead of him. Slim, dark-skinned, energetic. His eyes seem to always wear an amused look. A man of uncertain age. He had been working as a translator to the East India Company’s forces. Richard’s friend, John Morrison, had lent him as a local guide and translator when Richard arrived in Madras on his research mission. Valavan had suggested a bullock cart for the trip into town, but Richard had refused, not wanting to draw too much attention. He was interested in speaking with one man, arousing as little interest or suspicion from the locals as possible.

The house was a modest one - shingled, neatly painted in white with red decorations along the bottom. Two neem trees provided shade in front of the house. The ground was smooth, devoid of vegetation - perhaps treated with cow manure, as was the custom in those parts. There was decorative floor art in front of the house. Richard later learned that it was called kolam in Tamil. There was a granary painted in black, sheltered under the shingled front porch, the thinnai. The host had arranged a simple, but elegant mat to be spread on the spacious thinnai. 

An older man welcomed them with his palms together as a mark of respect for the visitors. He was dressed in all white, with a white towel on his right shoulder. His skin was wrinkled from exposure to the sun. The skin suggested that he would be about sixty, but his gait was upright, suggesting a younger age.

The man spoke a few words of welcome. Richard had trouble understanding him. He would normally understand most of the words, but this man’s accent seemed very different from that of the people in Madras who had taught him the little that he knew. Valavan performed the superfluous introductions, as both men had been told about each other. The man was introduced as Ponnan, respectfully known as Ponniah, the great nadaswaram artist. Richard had been in awe of nadaswaram, the wind instrument, and had been looking forward to meeting its most famous exponent.

Two young girls brought buttermilk, some fruit, and a tray with betel leaves and betel nuts to welcome the visitors. Richard took the buttermilk gratefully. Ponniah also told the visitors they would be served lunch in an hour or so. Valavan smiled, as if that was expected. Richard accepted, thanking his host profusely.

Seeing Richard struggle to sit on the mat, the host arranged two cots under the neem tree for them to sit on. They started talking. Two bare-chested young men, probably Ponniah’s students, stood at a respectful distance.

Richard thanked their host for agreeing to see him, and said, ‘I’ve come to India to learn about the various music forms and musicians. I come from a very different land, and am fascinated by your music culture, your tradition of learning by staying with your teacher, the gurukulam. I’d like to understand how you learned the instrument, how you teach and so on. I’d also like to listen to your music.’

The older man nodded, wiped the sweat with his towel and asked something that Richard was unable to understand. Valavan replied, ‘No, he is not related to the kumbini. He is a traveler and writer’. 

Ponniah’s face cleared. He seemed to relax. 

‘There are hundreds of good musicians around here. Why did you ask for me, specifically?’, he asked.

Richard replied via Valavan, ‘Sethurama Pillai from Madras called you the greatest living exponent of nadaswaram. He suggested that I meet you, and gave me a letter to give you.’

Ponniah asked one of the disciples to open the envelope and read it. ‘My eyesight is not what it used to be’, he added as an explanation. He seemed pleased to listen to the letter of introduction. He started his story.

Click here for part 2 of 4.

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Episode 4: Recalling a Favour

Continued from:

Chapter 1: The Secret Letter

Chapter 2: The Confidante

Chapter 3: Summer Doldrums

Vichu, 1991, Bengaluru

The room was silent but for the low hum of the air-conditioner. There were some business newspapers on the table, each bent on outdoing the others in shallow stories. There was an Asterix comic that was a welcome outlier in the pile. I picked it up, and browsed it in a distracted manner.

The receptionist came in and told me that the interview panel was ready to see me. I picked my binder up. I briefly wondered if my tie had gone astray as it tends to do, found no reflective surfaces, and decided it didn’t matter. I walked into the interview room.

There was a woman and two men seated across the table. They smiled without warmth, and asked me to take a seat. After introductions and a few pleasantries, the woman asked me for my life story. I gave them a response, glossing over some parts that were painful to talk about. That was followed by a few questions on what I would do in response to a few hypothetical situations. I found those tiresome, and answered them as well as my limited patience would allow. 

There was an uncomfortable pause as the panel exchanged a few hand-written notes between themselves. 

The morose looking man who introduced himself as Raju broke the silence: ‘We are in the final leg of the interview. A few more questions. Can you tell me a compelling reason why we should pick you over all these other candidates?’

I wanted to respond with, ‘Mr. Raju, have you had to tear down a successful family business and sell it a at scrap value?  Have you had to work under the burden of knowledge that you will be betraying everyone who relied on it for a living? I have firsthand knowledge of what not to do, and have been burnt by experience. I bet I’ve experienced more at this age than you have in your comfortable middle age existence.’

Externally, I said, ‘I pride myself in being able to create and evaluate ideas. I have a decent academic record. Finally, I think I did fairly well in the entrance test. They didn’t tell me the scores, but if you check it, you will be reassured as to the aptitude part.’

His face broke into a smile. This time, it didn’t seem forced. He said, ‘Mr. Vishwanathan, it’s better than that. You came first among the 120 people we’d invited for the aptitude test. Congratulations!’.

That was indeed better than I expected. It was my turn to offer an authentic smile.

They asked me what my dream job would be. I gave them a stock response. Vani would have added that I would make a great worker, as long as the work met my snobbish standards. She likes pointing out that I lose interest when I don’t regard the work as interesting. Fortunately, these people wouldn’t be meeting her.

The offer came in the next few days. Amma was thrilled to see the generous salary, and got all tearful, imagining how my father would have reacted, had he been alive. The offer advised me to have my passport ready, as there would be a trip abroad for training. I applied for a passport. I felt no thrill, looking at the world through my skeptical eyes. 

****

Vani phoned me the next day to let me know that Krishnan would be in Bangalore that weekend. I found a sense of elation at rediscovering the childhood friend. There really had been no one who understood me in a non-judgmental way since his abrupt departure. 

I counted the days and then hours before I could meet him for lunch. I had picked an Anglo-Indian restaurant on St. Mark’s Road that served good tea. Krishnan arrived on time, beamed, and hugged me. Not being a hugger, I responded awkwardly.

I ordered a pot of tea for myself. Krishnan made a face as he heard the word tea, and ordered a cup of coffee. That facial expression took me right back to our boyhood days. We ordered sandwiches.

He told me about his work, his bachelor life and his recent pastimes. I lingered on the topic until he brought my father up. I told him about the abrupt end.

I was finishing the first year of my M.B.A in Coimbatore. The call came early on a Sunday. I was roused from sleep by my roommate, who looked very uncomfortable as he said I had an urgent phone call. When I emerged from the room, Sami, the caretaker, appeared to be waiting for me. He quietly walked with me to the phone room.  I picked up the instrument. It was Vani. She said in a few words that appa had suffered a massive heart attack, and had been hospitalized. She wanted me home immediately.

I called a taxi and left immediately. When I arrived at the hospital, appa seemed conscious, but appeared too weak to speak. Amma was incoherent in her panic. Vani was calmer, but seemed uncharacteristically shaken. As I approached appa, he opened his eyes, smiled at me, and went back to sleep. He never woke up.

The cremation and the ceremonies kept us busy in the next few days. Everyone who arrived on hearing the news expressed shock: ‘He looked young for his age. Never even complained of a headache. Just shows you how fickle we are!’ Mom cried relentlessly upon encountering each visitor.

Nagu mama appeared in as much grief as we were. On the fifth day, he approached me haltingly. “Vichu Kanna, I know this is not a good time, but we have to talk about some important…”. He appeared to lose his nerve, paused for a few seconds. “... things.”, he finished.

I walked with him to the terrace of the house.

“Has your father been telling you about his finances?”

I noticed he was using the wrong tense, I simply shook my head.

“How about Vani? Does she know?”

Vani was not interested in monetary things. I was about to say so, when I realized I had not been very keen myself, although I was financially savvier. I shook my head again.

“Do you know that your father had borrowed money?”

I gave him a puzzled look. Why did appa need to borrow money?

“He had always run in business in a lean way. I mean, without much slack in money. He would have a two week payment arrangement with the suppliers, counting on the customers to pay on time. It was working well for him. However, ever since we opened the new store across town, things have been tighter, with no room for error. Since he.. ahem.. fell ill, supplies have been coming in, but the orders have slowed. People may have heard the news and switched suppliers.”

“How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad. I can show you when you feel well enough to go to the office.”

I nodded.

“And there is one more thing. He had borrowed money to open the new store from a guy called Chinnaraju. He’s a loan shark. Interest and principal installment are due the first of every month.”

I realized the urgency. It was only a week away. 

We went the same evening. Nagu mama and Ashok, his son, sat with me all night. We went through accounts payable, receivable and the bank accounts. It was clear that we had a significant shortfall. We had enough money to keep the business running. But there was no way we could pay Chinnaraju.

“This is bad news. He’s not exactly humane in how he collects his dues.”, remarked Nagu mama, looking shaken.

We made a quick plan to suspend deliveries until we used up the supplies in stock, estimated the upcoming salaries, and worked out a cash flow statement. 

In the process, I discovered how little Nagu mama was being paid. And Ashok was not even an employee. They had been staying up with me all night. How was I going to repay such loyalty? I had been taking these people for granted all these days.

The next few days, I visited the stores and the factory, and was calling all the debtors to gather the dues. Everyone seemed to empathize with my situation and agreed to pay in a few days. I suspected most of them were sincere, but not all.

We managed to pay the month’s wages, but had no clarity on how sustainable the business was. I made several spreadsheets with the best case and worst case scenarios, and even my most optimistic case didn’t sound good. The orders kept coming in, but the lack of confidence from the suppliers and anxiety among the employees were palpable.

That’s when Chinnaraju, the moneylender, chose to pay a visit to my house. I was in the shop. Amma and Vani were in the house. Chinnaraju barged in with two other men, and asked when my mom intended to repay the principal. She had no idea, of course. He demanded that the principal be paid back in a week, and made some veiled threats about women’s safety if the deadline wasn’t met. 

Vani phoned me. I asked her to take mom to a relative’s house and conferred with Nagu mama. The only way for us to pay Chinnaraju’s dues was to do a fire sale of the business. I brooded for a while and came to a quick decision.

I headed to see my old acquaintance Seshan, the criminal lawyer. I didn't tell Nagu mama where I was heading - he might stop me. It was strange that I thought of him. The name hadn’t entered my mind for years, and I had no contact with him since the eventful day in my boyhood. But my instinct told me that he might be able to help. 

I arrived at his office, told his assistants that I needed to meet him, and sat down. He seemed thoughtful as he received me. When I tried to introduce myself, he interjected, saying he knew who I was, and offered his condolences on Appa’s passing. 

Without explaining why I thought he might be able to help, I explained the situation with Chinnaraju, and asked if he could help me buy some time. He seemed thoughtful for a minute, and asked me to wait outside. After about 10 nervous minutes, he called me inside.

He addressed using the affectionate title ‘thambi’, and used the respectful plural in addressing me. ‘Thambi, I owe your family a debt of gratitude. I usually don’t get involved in the business dealings of my clients, but I may be able to talk to Chinnaraju about this. If you end up not paying him, I will be in trouble, but I feel I have to do this. Go home and expect a phone call from me tonight.’

I thanked him and turned to leave. He called after me, ‘And one more thing. Do you know Kareembhai, of the bicycle shop?’

I nodded. That was a name from my childhood. I had occasionally seen him. I knew that he had ‘retired’, after handing his businesses to his son, but hadn’t kept in great touch.

‘I’ve asked him to come and stay with you for a couple of days, just for safety. He knows all of Chinnaraju’s men, and knows what to do if anyone comes visiting. That’s just to be cautious. I think I can buy you more time. I’ll ask for two months.’

That still seemed short, but I didn’t know what to ask for. So I nodded.

When I reached home, Kareembhai was already there. He was seated on the swing in the portico, drinking the buttermilk that Amma had brought. He had brought a small bag, presumably clothes for overnight stay, and a cassette player with some tapes. He asked me where he could sleep. I showed him to my father’s office room at the entrance to the house. He promptly found a socket and plugged his cassette player in, remarking that he couldn’t sleep without listening to a few songs.

Seshan called late in the evening, giving me a new deadline two months out. I wasn’t fully confident I could meet it, but was grateful for the reprieve and thanked him profusely.

Again, how was I going to repay all these folks?

When I explained all this to Vani, she seemed shocked that I would seek the help of a notorious lawyer, but admitted that it was a creative idea that wouldn’t have occurred to her. After all, she conceded,  if he made his name by supporting loan-sharks, wasn’t he the right person to help?

The two months didn’t save the business, but it saved us from bankruptcy. We were able to keep the house, and enough money to last until Vani and I finished our studies. I’d missed the academic year so had to go back the next year to finish my MBA. Vani resumed her M.Phil in English.

I sold the business to our chief competitor. I didn’t get the market value, but that was the best we could do. The buyer kept half the employees. I paid generous compensation to the others, including Nagu mama.

Krishnan seemed shell-shocked. He sat frozen as I finished the story. 

(To be continued)

Vignettes of Reality #2: Hindi-Madrasi bhai-bhai

I had been to the airport with a friend to receive his father, who was visiting Canada for the first time. The man, in his seventies, whom we’ll call Mr G, had had a distinguished career with the government of India, and had rubbed shoulders with several celebrities. I had been somewhat in awe of his reputation before I met him.

I waited with my friend as the passengers started streaming out the exit with their large bags, Mr. G arrived somewhat late. He was tall and energetic for his age. My friend touched his feet, asked about the trip and introduced me in Hindi, his mother tongue. As he went to fetch the car, he asked me to keep his father company. 

Mr G peered at me for a while, and asked what I did for a living, whether I was married, and where I was from. I answered the questions briefly, but not so brief as to sound abrupt. He was still curious. The questions were in Hindi. My answers were mostly in English with a bit of Hindi..

‘Did you say your name is Anand Khanna?”

“No, it is Anand Kannan, actually.”

“So you are from Madras?”.

“Yes, close, A place called Trichy”, I said, conflicted between irritation, and gratitude for not bing called a Madrasi.

“So you speak Malayalam?”

“Tamil, actually”.

“I thought Trichy was in Kerala”.

“You're thinking of Trichur, perhaps? That's in Kerala.”

“Do you know Hindi?”

“Yeah. I can read and write, I can speak but I’m not very fluent.”

“99 percent of Indians speak Hindi”, he said. 

I was about to disagree, and give him a revised estimate, then thought the better of it.  There was no point arguing. He kept looking at me, as if daring me to disagree. I was saved by the arrival of my friend.

This experience has recurred several times in different settings. I get complimented for having learnt Hindi, but it’s always accompanied by a follow-up. Sometimes, it’s a condescending statement, along a nod to my Indianness. Or it’s gratuitous advice to lose my accent. The good ones are gracious enough to tell me my Hindi is good for a Tamilian. (Perhaps comparing my accent to Mehmood's?). The less tactful ones offer me advice on how to improve the accent, without accounting for my lack of opportunities to speak the language. At some point, I’d made up my own top 10 responses to such statements. That can be its own story!

Vignettes of Reality #1: The Neighbourhood

A story.

This happened soon after I arrived in Canada - in the1990s. I was in the country on work, and had no thoughts of immigrating to Canada. I was a detached spectator as I observed Canadians - their strong civic instinct, the way they instinctively step aside to give you extra space, their constant care not to offend.

I was standing in line for a transaction in my bank branch situated in a mall. The mall was open, but the bank and the stores hadn’t opened yet. It was usually a busy branch. My thought was - ‘if you’re there 10 minutes before opening, you can be the first to be served’. Apparently others had the same idea. There already was a line of a few people. I joined. I started thinking about Stephen Leacock’s masterly account of his encounter with a Canadian bank.

An older gentleman of Chinese origin, with a gesture, asked to those of us in the line to stand closer to the wall. He had a group of people with him. We complied. 

The gentleman turned out to be a Tai chi instructor, and the rest of the group, his students; a dozen or so of polite, smiling, older adults. The group started warming up. More people joined them. 

After warming up, they started more sweeping motions. The additional participants and more elaborate motion needed elbow room, so the group started getting closer to us. Those of us in line squeezed closer to the wall. 

The woman in front of me turned around and rolled her eyes. I just smiled. A minute passed. She must have worried about how that came across. She turned around again and said, ‘You probably think I’m racist!’.

Surprised, I said something to the effect of ‘What - that? Not at all’, although her comment planted that thought in my head. She got talkative. 

“I grew up on this street. My parents still live in the same house. I bring my kids here on the weekends to see the grandparents.”

I nodded, for lack of anything to say. Encouraged, she went on. “All our friends and neighbours have moved away. This area, Agincourt, is now called Asian-court. You know what’s happening in Hong Kong, (indicating the Tai chi students) - they’ve all moved here. It’s hard to recognize my street now. All my neighbours have moved out. This used to be a small strip mall with a grocery store we could shop at. Not anymore. I can’t speak English in this mall. On weekends, I drive my parents to Finch so they can do their weekly shopping. When I call this branch, I have to listen to a greeting in a foreign language and then press 7 for English. It’s as if my neighbourhood has disowned me.” I nodded, and worried if the Tai chi students could hear her, and understand.

Then she talked a bit about missing a row of trees, a landmark from her childhood that was removed to make room for the expansion of the mall.

The branch opened with just one teller. When her turn came, she insisted that I go ahead of her, as she had a ‘complex thing to work out with the teller’. I thanked her and went in.

True story. I think about this event a lot now with the debates on immigration and neighbourhoods.

Seven Shades of Grey: Attitudes towards Immigration

1. Immigrants are taking my jobs and eating my pets; deport them.
2. Immigrants are ok, as long as they're my kind.
3. We need immigrants, but they will never be fully American/Canadian.
4. We need immigrants, but not in such numbers that they change the society.
5. Immigrants are ok, as long as they're legal, including refugees.
6. Illegal immigrants are ok, as long as they're my kind.
7. Everyone here is an immigrant - who cares about legality!

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