The Reluctant Farmer
Ponnan learned the art of farming. He worked hard all day, but his nightmares returned to deny him the necessary rest at night. The local medic was unable to find the cause or a cure.
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A ten year old girl, with a smaller, shy girl in tow, came out of the house. She interrupted the story at this point, announcing in a squeaky voice that plantain leaves had been laid for lunch.
‘The two girls here are your grand-daughters, I presume?’, asked Richard.
‘You can say that. Ramaiya’s children. Ramaiya is as good as my son. You remember the name, right? Ramaiya is Manian’s son. And Gauri’s.’
Richard noticed that his voice fell as he pronounced Gauri’s name, as if trying to avoid a painful memory.
A woman, who was introduced as Ramaiya’s wife, greeted them with her palms together, and served lunch with the assistance of the two girls. The lunch was elaborate, but unfamiliar to Richard. He ate so as not to be rude to his hosts. Valavan seemed to relish the meal.
They returned to the cots after the meal. Richard was a bit stiff from sitting cross legged on the floor for the meal. It was still hot, but somehow he was less bothered by the heat now.
The older man seemed a bit lost in thoughts. He came to the present, and asked if Richard would like to listen to some music before hearing the rest of the story. Richard, engrossed by the tale, wanted to hear the story first. Ponnan seemed relieved, and remarked that late afternoon or early evening would be a more appropriate time for music in any case..
‘So, you went back to farming. I’m eager to learn how you managed to master the instrument’, prompted Richard.
‘I didn’t touch my nadaswaram for a few months after leaving my guru.’, resumed Ponnan. ‘But I got to listen to music. I used to go to the river first thing in the morning to bathe. In the evening, I’d return to the river to wash the cows, clean my plough and spade, and simply rest and catch some breeze. This man, Tyagaiyya, simply called ayya, and his disciples used to teach younger students in the mantap nearby. The locals used to say in hushed tones that the group assembled for music every day. They didn’t pause their practice even when the armies clashed and the soldiers were running around.’
‘I would listen passively as they sang. Once again, the melody, the ragas and the improvisation in the music appealed to me. The lyrics were in Telugu and Sanskrit. They used to explain the meanings as they taught, but the meanings never registered with me.’
‘So, you never played nadaswaram those days?’, asked Richard.
‘Guruparan, the priest, occasionally persuaded me to play at the temple. But I was aware that my fluency was gone. I wasn’t playing the instrument enough to retain the skill. I found that I couldn’t translate everything that came to mind into notes through the instrument, and started playing safe, simple phrases. I was listening to music every day. Pristine, creative, exhilarating music, but purely as a listener rather than a student.’
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