IMPRINTS

“The artist took up his paintbrush and stroked a mighty sea,

That seemed to flow with colour, boldness and majesty;

I gazed upon his canvas and wished that I might add

One small detail of beauty- yet I no talent had.

Until he said that actions could paint a picture too

That smiles and bits of singing could make a heart less blue.

And so we are all painters of one great work of art

A masterpiece of friendship, each doing one small part.”

This was written by an old school friend on a birthday card sent to me more than thirty- five years back. Our friendship goes back to the Primary School days and it has stood the trials of time and fortune for more than forty years though we were in the same school and city for not more than four years.  Her father was in the Indian Navy and mine in the Indian Railways and our paths crossed for a few years before we moved to other parts of India. The card I have preserved all these years and the lines have remained in my memory. We exchanged letters through school, college and knew every little thing that was going on in each other’s lives- every little crush, every little heartbreak, dreams , aspirations, ambitions, successes and failures. Though smartphones have replaced the letters and cards, we are still in touch and till date have not missed birthdays or anniversaries or for that matter have not forgotten to share any little ups and downs in our lives.

Those cards of yore bore a distinct stamp of individuality. Even without opening a card you could guess who it was from, the colour, the design, the paper, handwriting all gave away the sender’s identity. Unfortunately, the ever circulating wishes and messages making their way through various apps to the little gadgets, which have completely usurped our lives, have no identity at all.

As I rummage through my drawers, I find many such little cards and notes which I had kept in the pages of a diary- all handmade, handcrafted and painted by my friends. I have carefully kept them, preserved them all these years. As I hold them in my hands and smile, my eyes turn misty. They belong to an era when friendship did not start with a friend request.

 Junior college forged a deep bond with two of the best girls I have ever met. Though each of us chose a different path later-medicine, bio-science and literature- we probably had the best of times together. The number of movies we saw together, the number of hours we spent listening to music, exchanging bits of gossip from our respective colleges and the number of books we bought and exchanged can never be surpassed by anything in later years. We were in three different colleges in Calcutta but that never posed an impediment. There were no mobiles, no WhatsApp, no Facebook but we managed to meet, laugh, share and enjoy. We made sure we did not miss each other’s weddings. Life parted us as we moved in different directions, post job, post marriage. One of us left the country, another left the city, while the third stayed behind.  My search for them in Facebook continues. I have not yet managed to find them on social media. I joined Facebook only to reconnect with friends like them but in all probability they are yet to come aboard. May be they will, someday.

Facebook has unearthed a lot of other friends with whom I lost touch. The searches have come more out of curiosity. Yes, we do get to peep into their drawing rooms, see their families, compare who is looking older and who has aged drastically, whose hairstyle has changed and who is just the same. We get to know who has married whom, who is rich, who is famous, what their kids are up to, who has turned into an activist and who has metamorphosed from the caterpillar into the butterfly, from the ugly duckling to the beautiful swan and who has burrowed deeper into the hole. But a lot remains unknown. What sadness is behind those layers of make-up or what tears are hidden behind that gorgeous smile will never be known. Interaction is minimal- photographs and status updates. Like it or leave it. Share it or forget it. A birthday wish comes because all are wishing , a congratualtion is in order so as not to be left behind. Yes, Facebook has definitely reconnected me with many whom I remembered but had completely lost touch. Yes, thanks to Mark Zuckerberg. But the magic of those letters and cards is never there.  I miss that magic of friendship- are these friends for real or just another number added to the list? If I die will they mourn for me, if I lose the race will they stop for me, if I cry will they talk to me? I wonder.

Another thing that puts me off is how people unmindfully click on the ‘Like’ button to the extent that I have seen people liking a status informing about the demise of a loved one. Or when a self proclaimed crusader chooses to voice his dissent with everything under the sun his friends, in hordes, like it irrespective of whether they have any views on the subject or not. ‘Dissent’ is after all what gives you credibility in today’s world! Unless you manage to stick out like a sore thumb you might be overlooked.

The other day, a gentleman wrote on his status that when his mother was taken ill he felt impossibly alone despite his 'Friends' list showing a stunning number of 2301.

Recently, I found from a status that a friend from the US was in town and was put up at a place not too far. It was the day after a wisdom tooth extraction and I was feeling particularly down, but nonetheless, I felt like meeting her. I inboxed her my number and told her where I stayed asking her to drop in. The least I had expected was a call in return or even a message. But there was nothing. It made me wonder whether Facebook friends are for real or just lovely profile pictures with brilliant status?

Or am I just a number?

DS

God’s Grace

What comes to your mind when I say Bangalore, Thanjore and Madurai? Of course you will say these are cities in southern part of the country. Bingo…any idiot would answer the same. What if I told you that these are names of people and people who are famous…you may start wondering who I am talking about. These were three foremost artistes who left an indelible mark on Indian cultural history. They were Bangalore Nagaratnamma, Thanjore Balasaraswati and Madurai S.Subbalakshmi.

Bangalore Nagaratnamma (3 November 1878 – 19 May 1952) was an Indian Carnatic singer, cultural activist, scholar, patron of the arts and a historian. Nagarathnamma was born in 1878 to Puttu Lakshmi whose ancestors served as singers and musicians in the court of Mysore. Nagarthnamma continued her studies and learned Kannada, English and Telugu, also becoming proficient in music and dance.  She made her first stage appearance before a learned audience as a violinist and dancer at the age of 15.Nagarathnamma became a singer early in her life and emerged as one of the best Carnatic singers of her time. She sang in Kannada, Sanskrit and Telugu. Her special musical forte included Harikatha. Her talent in dance attracted the attention of the Mysore ruler Jayachamarajendra Wodeyar who, impressed with her talent, made her the Asthana Vidushi in Mysore. She later shifted to Madras as it was considered the "Mecca of Carnatic music".

According to Nagarathnamma, she was directed in a dream to build a memorial in honour of Saint Thyagaraja and create a platform for perpetuating Carnatic music. Following this, she turned to an ascetic way of life and donated all her earnings to this cause. Nagarathnamma restored the dilapidated samadhi and convert it into a memorial in honour of the Thyagaraja. In the 1920s the music festival held at this location was male-dominated. As a challenge, she started organizing a parallel music festival at the back of the saint's temple.  Eventually, in 1941, her activism paid off, and the opposing groups involved with the festival merged into a single entity, allowing both men and women to sing in the festival. This music festival is now one of the most popular musical event in South India.

As an erudite and scholarly person, Nagarathnamma dabbled in editing and publishing books on poetry and anthologies. She was a linguist who held religious discourses not only in Kannada, her mother tongue, but also in other languages such as Telugu, Tamil and Sanskrit. She re-edited the Radhika Santawanam, The book was reviewed and attacked over some of its pornographic contents as totally "inappropriate for women to hear let alone be uttered from a woman's mouth.” Nagarathnamma strongly defended her version of the book and protested against this double standard and wondered, "Does the question of propriety and embarrassment apply only in the case of women and not men?”

“It may be true that I had dancing in my blood... I was a toddler when I danced deliriously with that street beggar. All called him a madman when he brought the house down with his frenetic dancing. Was he really mad? His unerring jatis (danced to rhythmic patterns) reverberate in my mind. Who knows which siddhapurusha (literally: “with all accomplishments”) he was? I can still see the gleam in his eye. If I am dance-mad now how could it be otherwise?My first guru was a madman.”

At the age of 7, in 1925 when Tanjore Balasaraswati was presented to the world in the Ammanakshi temple, Kancheepuram. Spellbound was the audience of devotees by the perfection with which the little girl offered her art at the feet of the deity with full devotion.The little bird, as one of her friends used to call her, Bala, was born on May 13, 1918. She was not the first in her family to be a perfect dancer. The family traces its roots to T. Papammal who was a noted dancer at the court of the kings of Tanjore six generations earlier. The mother Jayamal was a renowned singer and the grandmother VeenaDhanammal was the noted and respected Veena player. All the family members would snub her when she made dancing movements. But the more she was snubbed the more she would dance. There was agility in her body and she was electrified to movements like an electronic toy.

It was only when Bala's grandmother Dhanammal recognized her talents that she was given lessons in dancing by Guru Kandappa. The girl rose from strength to strength learning the art with perfection, working strenuously, waking up at 3 in the morning to do some basic dance movements. She introduced such natural movements with the accompaniment of music that in her later years her name became synonymous with 'abhinaya'. She believed that for a dancer of Bharat Natyam, dance and music are one, rather Bharat Natyam is the personification of music.Thus, she had mastered the art of music too which she had partly inherited from her mother and partly mastered herself. That is why when Bala came to the stage, the dancer, the singer, the accompanist and the mood became one.

Although Balasaraswati had mastered the art much earlier, the first public recognition came in 1932. It took Bala two decades more to be presented before national audience in Delhi. The Sangeet Akadami Award followed her perfection immediately in 1955 and the Padma Bhushan in 1957. A doctorate degree was conferred upon her by Rabindra Bharati University in 1973 and the Madras Music Academy too gave her the title of Sangeetha Kalanidhi. Many dance connoisseurs rate her the best dancer of all time.

"Who am I, a mere Prime Minister before a Queen, a Queen of Music"-Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru had this to say about her. Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan termed her Suswaralakshmi (the goddess of the perfect note) and KishoriAmonkar labelled her the ultimate eighth note or Aathuvaan Sur, which is above the seven notes basic to all music.

Madurai ShanmukhavadivuSubbulakshmi (16 September 1916 – 11 December 2004), also known as M.S., was a Carnatic vocalist. She was the first musician ever to be awarded the Bharat Ratna, India's highest civilian honour.She is the first Indian musician to receive the Ramon Magsaysay award, often considered Asia's Nobel Prize, in 1974 with the citation reading "Exacting purists acknowledge Srimati M. S. Subbulakshmi as the leading exponent of classical and semi-classical songs in the Carnatic tradition of South India."

Subbulakshmi (Kunjamma to her family) was born in Maduraito veena player Shanmukhavadivu Ammal.Her grandmother Akkammal was a violinist.She started learning Carnatic music at an early age and trained in Carnatic music under the tutelage of Semmangudi SrinivasaIyer and subsequently in Hindustani music under Pandit Narayanrao Vyas.

Subbulakshmi’s first recording was released when she was 10 years old. Subbulakshmi gave her first public performance, at the age of eleven, in the year 1927, in the 100 pillar hall inside the Rockfort Temple, Tiruchirappalli. Subbulakshmi gave her first performance at the prestigious Madras Music Academy in 1929,when she was 13 years old. Her performance consisted of bhajans and was described as spellbinding and earned her many admirers and the moniker of musical genius from critics. Soon after her debut performances, Subbulakshmi became one of the leading Carnatic vocalists.

In 1936 Subbulakshmi moved to Madras. She also made her film debut in Sevasadan in 1938.MS Subbulakshmi also played the male role of Narada in "Savitri" (1941) to raise money for launching Kalki, her husband's nationalist Tamil weekly. Her title role of the Rajasthani saint-poetess Meera in the eponymous 1945 film gave her national prominence. This movie was re-made in Hindi in 1947 and gave her national prominence. Sarojini Naidu said, “Subbalakshmi’s performance shows that she is not an interpreter of Mira but Mira herself.” Her many famous renditions of bhajans include the chanting of Bhaja Govindam, Vishnu Sahasranama,  Hari Tuma Haro and the Venkateswara Suprabhatam (musical hymns to awaken Lord Balaji early in the morning).

The Kancheepuram Saree shade known as MS Blue was named after her. A commemorative postage stamp on her was issued on 18-December-2000. United Nations decided to issue stamp to mark birth centenary M.S. Subbulakshmi. She was bestowed with enormous prize money with these awards, most of which she donated to charity.

The three legends of Indian classical music and dance had another cord which bound them together- all three were offshoots of the Devadasi system. 'Devadasis'- meaning female servants of God. Devadasi system is a religious practice in parts of southern India, whereby parents marry a daughter to a deity or a temple.Originally, in addition to taking care of the temple and performing rituals, these women learnt and practisedSadir (Bharatanatya), Odissi and other classical Indian artistic traditions and enjoyed a high social status as dance and music were essential part of temple worship. The Devadasi system was set up as a result of a conspiracy between the feudal class and the priests (Brahmins). The latter, with their ideological and religious hold over the peasants and craftsmen, devised a means that gave prostitution their religious sanction. Poor, low-caste girls, initially sold at private auctions, were later dedicated to the temples. They were then initiated into prostitution. MS Subbalakshmi once said, “When I was small, men would only think of how to spoil me. Seeing all this frightened me.”

With the death of Sashimani Dev in March 2015, died the last devadasis of  Jagannath Temple, Puri and brought a final closure to the 800 year old cult. Truly God’s Grace when you see the heights of glory Bangalore Nagarathnamma, Tanjore Balasaraswati and Madurai S. Subbalakshmi achieved in their respective fields. The noble rebel trio refused to live the lives of their mothers and their mothers and their mothers.

SS

La Marseillaise

It was the middle of the night

When the lights were out

And the world was sleeping

When I got up

Stood firm and straight

With arm turned in salute, singing

Arise, children of the Fatherland

The day of glory has arrived!

Against us tyranny’s

Bloody banner is raised.

Just when the song was reaching crescendo

A woman sleeping on my bed

Raised her head in horror

And threw a pillow on my face

Ki  Korcho Tumi?

Paagol  hoye  gaycho  ki?

I am singing the French Anthem

La Marseillaise

But why this anthem, did Robi Thakur write this?

You silly Bongo Santaan, I said

You think all anthems of the word

Were written by Rabindranath

I have learnt the song by heart

For have now made up my mind

And heart to migrate to France.

My tricolor just changed its shades

From Saffron, Green and White

To Blue, Red and White.

Give me one good reason

For you to take this call.

One, I will give you Three

Each one more powerful than the prior

Hearing which you too shall join me

On board the flight to La France.

Firstly tell me what my medical report says

All organs are fit and fine

Just like a lad of eighteen

But for one thing…my little heart

The cholesterol levels are high

How much more can I exercise?

How much more can I control my eating?

Now only one solution remains

And that is to drink wine

Drink wine and be merry

Cleaning my arteries and veins

Where else do you find the best wine,

But in France alone

A hundred miles north of Paris

Lies the wine region of Champagne

Producing the best sparkling white wine

That’ll cure me of my ailment

And they say in France

You open the taps, wine flows.

Her eyes sparkled but her vicious tongue lashed

Gotchha you fool, for wine you want to leave

And what about daab chingri, shorshey eilish

Arsalan Biriyani and Hyderabadi Halim

And choley bhaturey, chaat and gol guppa

Will you get them in France…No Never.

She had a point there

No bread pakora, alu parantha and the rest.

My first argument was put to gastronomic rest.

Second reason for going to France

Will bowl you over My Love

Frenchmen are the sexiest

Frenchmen make more love than any other

And of course the French women

Are so beautiful that you fall in love

With every lass you meet

On plane, beach and every street.

What more do you want in life?

The woman was desperately looking

For a rolling pin or slipper but got none

But threw a volley at me

Don’t get ideas by seeing Vicky Donor

All that crap about Bengali men and their powers

Release …Release..dialogues nesting in your mind

Oh! give me a break please

Are good for movies alone

With a balding head, fading vision and falling teeth

If you think French women are so desperate

To fall for men like you

Remember Carla Bruni loved a President

And you no Sarkozy by a mile

Understand you fifty something baldy aloor dum!

Third reason is the best

And there is no way you can find fault, My Dear

Did you know French laws for work?

Just thirty five hours a week! Yes 35 Only.

Just seven hours a day for just five days

 And here

We work ten to twelve hours everyday

Almost six days a week

Add to it three hours of travel a day

And even after it the phone never stops ringing

The laptop knobs keep tapping

Calls at one in the morning

Mails at midnight…it just goes on and on.

In France you disconnect your phones and laptops

After office hours.

Even if Boss calls

You say ‘ello ‘ello, wrong number Monsieur.

We live a dog’s life here and I say no to it today

I too want my life back

I too want to live again

I too want to give time to

My family, my hobbies and my friends

So Darling, let me go and come with me

To the land of Moulin Rouge, Eiffel and Louvre

Viva La France!!

Passeport Stamped.

SS

Yeh Dosti

It was the holy month of Ramadan in the summer of 2015. Faraaz Hossain, an eighteen year old, said Khuda Hafiz to his mother as he left his Dhaka home to meet two of his friends at an upmarket eating place of Holey Artisan Bakery where they loved eating bagel, croissant and coffee. Of course the ambiance was also very appealing. The restaurant was in the diplomatic area and security was hardly a concern. Around 8 pm, a group of eight mad boys armed to the teeth with guns, knives, swords and explosives entered the place and took all the guests and the workers at the Bakery as hostages. After rounding up all, they spoke about the bad influence the western culture was having upon the pure Islamic way of life.

By now the news had reached the security forces about the terror attack and they had surrounded the restaurant completely but refrained from entering fearing reprisals on the hostages which included over a dozen foreigners. Meanwhile the terrorists made an offer to the hostages, “Recite from the Holy Quran and you can walk out free. Fail and we shall damn you to hell!” The Bangladeshis among the hostages quickly recited from the Holy Quran and they were let off. Faraaz could have easily done as others had done before and walked to his safety. The terrorists asked him repeatedly to recite the Quran but the young man stood there and said, “I will recite but you will have to also let go of my two friends Abnita Kabir and Tarishi Jain. They study with me at America and are my guests here. I will go but not without my friends!”

Next morning after the security forces stormed the restaurant, they found the body of Faraaz which was hacked by the terrorists. There were signs of major injuries on his palms and shoulders which indicated that Faraaz had resisted the terrorists physically holding the sword which had been raised to kill him and his two friends whose mutilated bodies were also found.

I’ve often wondered if friendship can be such a powerful force which makes a boy of eighteen forget his safety and life and makes him stand before death to say, “No, not without my friends.” Around thirty years ago, I had an experience which makes me question this excessive glorification of the Sholay song,,,Yeh Dosti….hum nahin todengey…chodengey dum magar, tera saath na chodengey (This friendship we will never break…will give up our lives but never leave the friend’s side). The scene was quite alike as in Dhaka- an upmarket place near a diplomatic enclave, friends, cops and big trouble.

It was early December 1985 when my mind was occupied with football, football and more football. As captain of the college team, it was so important for me to play well and make sure the team won the Inter-College Championship. Just at that moment one of my closest school friend Sumit decided to get married. And as luck would have it, my first championship match and his marriage date fell on the same day. I had decided to play the match and then go to his house in the evening to attend the marriage. Nope…my friend and some more school mates landed at my place the evening before and forced me to pack my bags. The plan was to enjoy the Bachelor’s Night, stay overnight at Sumit’s place, next day I would be allowed to go to college to play during the day and from there I would return to his house to go for the reception.

Started off as an unwilling hostage in the group but gradually started enjoying the fun evening that went into early morning when we hit the bed going from restaurant to restaurant and from bar to ice cream parlour, the night seemed young. In the morning, however, while the other folks were in deep slumber, I got up, packed my small bag with the football kit and left for college. The match started in the afternoon and I found it difficult to keep my eyes open in the most important match of my football career. Surely Ronaldo would have felt alike playing in Stade de France playing the World Cup Final in 1998- completely looney and lost. Fortunately we managed a draw against a team we had beaten so many times in practice matches, thanks to the numerous missed chances by the captain who appeared to be taking a stroll in the park. Disappointed, distracted and dejected I returned to my friend’s place to freshen-up and get dressed for the big party at night.

The reception was being held at Taj Palace Hotel which happened to be part of Delhi’s diplomatic enclave. Not having been to five star hotels, the place really looked fit for kings with the opulence seen in every quarter. Many guests came decked up in gold and silk and so did my family- my father, mother and elder sister. Having known Sumit since class 5 it was almost a decade of friendship and a friendship that was really thick. So on his insistence my family members were there and enjoying the grand party. Suddenly there was commotion in the banquet hall. Someone had stolen the purse in which the jewellery and cash that was being gifted to the newly-weds was kept. Sumit’s mother claimed that there were two saree clad women who were near the stage who surely had stolen the bag and had left the hall. My mother and elder sister who were at that moment returning from the rest room to the banquet hall when they were surrounded by a host of people with Sumit’s mother pointing a her finger at them shouting, “Yehi hain who dono!”

Large hotels had the CCTV coverage available so the hotel security asked my mother, sister and father to go down to the floor below where the footage could be viewed. Sumit’s father accompanied by some of his influential Punju friends and relatives also barged into the room. The footage was played over and over again. We could all see two women, who definitely did not look remotely close to my mother and sister, walking out with a purse being tucked beneath the saree. The head of hotel security confirmed that the suspects were different and surely not my people but Sumit’s father insisted that my mother and sister be searched thoroughly. I rushed to my friend Sumit to tell him what was happening and what his parents were doing to my family, but he stood stoic and kept quiet. My mother and sister were let-off after a physical search. We returned home, almost all of us in tears of shame.

After a couple of days a police van came home and an inspector knocked at our door. He was very courteous and said that Sumit’s father had lodged a police complaint against my mother and sister and they would have to go to Chanakya Puri Police Station next day for enquiry. He said since the video footage was clear, the matter would be easily sorted out without much hassle. He assured us nothing bad would happen anymore. Happy that the police were convinced at our non-involvement and eager to close the case once and for all my mother, sister and I took an auto-rickshaw and went to the police station where we were informed that the inspector who had come home the previous evening was on leave. We were to meet another officer who was initially friendly but the moment Sumit’s father came along with a Superintendent of Police known to him, the situation changed. The police got abusive and compelled my mother to confess to the crime and tell them where the loot had been stashed. I tried to intervene upon which the inspector said one more word and they would put me behind bars along with the rest of my family. I tried telling them that my elder sister was unwell and was a special child, they, however, would not listen to anything. The grilling went on for over an hour when they asked me to bring my father to the police station. Leaving my mother and sister to the mercy of the police there, I took a bus home but before going home went to a friend’s place whose father was a Senior Advocate for CBI and requested him to come along with me. He refused to get involved. I reached home and asked my father to come along. By the time we reached the police station, the SP and Sumit’s father had left and my mother and sister were let off after interrogation.

Next morning I went to college and spoke to a classmate whose father was the Joint Commissioner of Delhi Police. While narrating the ordeal and the case, I broke down. I needed help and she understood. When she came back to college on the following day, she asked me to go to the Police Headquarters at ITO and meet her father’s deputy. Undaunted, I went there that very evening all alone and narrated the whole episode and how the police and Sumit’s father had been harassing my family for no reason. The officer took down the case details and names of the police officers who had invited and interrogated. He assured me of acting quickly and, for once, the police did act with haste. Within two days the police, with the help of the video footage captured at the hotel, were able to catch the two thieves who confessed to the crime. They had a past record and the modus operandi was always similar. The jewellery was recovered but the cash was all gone. Next morning the same police officer who had invited my mother and sister to go to the police station came down to our house to apologize and confirm that the case had been closed.

For all these thirty years despite having lived at Delhi for long after that, Sumit never came face to face. Thank God for him and me for don’t know how I would have reacted. He never apologized for the way his father behaved, for the spineless way he himself had behaved….that’s why I sometimes doubt the word called friendship. But life has given me more than one Sumit. I don’t know where I would be without many a wonderful friend in this journey of life who have given me so many opportunities to laugh and love life. Have come across many a Faraaz on the way so I sitting on my mobike of life with my family sitting behind as pillion and friends in the side car just like Jai & Veeru singing  Yeh Dosti, Hum Nahin Chodengey….

SS