FACT & FICTION

This week J. VASANTHAN narrates his experience with some rare characters.




MY WIFE and I used to visit a gift shop in Tallakulam quite often to buy greeting cards. Those days computers and e-greetings were unheard of.

A smart salesgirl


There were three sales girls there. One of them, Jeya, was a pretty and smart. She became quite friendly with us and we took a liking to her. One day, just as we entered the shop, it started raining heavily. We had to wait inside for about half an hour. Since there were no other customers, Jeya chatted with us. And we came to know her tale of woe. Contrary to what we had thought, she came from a very poor family. Her father died when Jeya and her sister were small. The mother supported her two daughters by making and selling pickles and appalams. It was a hand to mouth existence. The mother felt that she could educate only one of the two daughters, and inevitably, the younger one was favoured. Jeya had to drop out from school after 8th standard, though she had been doing very well in her studies. She went to work in a shop. When it came to buying clothes or jewels, the second daughter was the lucky one. "I can buy new clothes for only one of you. Since she is going to school, she needs nice clothes". This was a refrain that Jeya got accustomed to. And she too liked to help her sister. Jeya had tears in hereyes as she told us all this.

Fact and fiction


Later I decided to write a story based on what Jeya had told us. But in the story Jeya does very well in her sales career. She attends Spoken English classes and sales management courses. Eventually she becomes a sales magnate and marries a director of a big firm. In the last paragraph they are both flying to Paris for their honeymoon. Well, that is fiction for you. When the story was published in a magazine, I gave a copy of it to Jeya, who was all excited about it. When the remuneration for the story arrived, I put it in an envelope and gave it to Jeya. She was overjoyed since there were just three days more for Deepavali, and this money meant that she wouldn't have to make the usual seasonal sacrifices. Many of my friends who read the story and had heard the story behind the story, visited the shop to see Jeya, and having gone there, bought something or the other as a friendly gesture. The proprietor of the shop who had been observing all this, raised Jeya's salary. An elated Jeya told us about this during our next visit.

The ragpicker


When we were living in Natchathira Nagar, near P & T Nagar, we used to see young boys and girls picking rags and other waste material from the open area in front of our house. One of them, Karpagam, was a 12 year old girl. Her face was encrusted with dust and clothes were torn and filthy. Yet, there was a brightness in her face. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence. She was a friendly soul, and quickly befriended us. She carried an enormous sack filled with junk that she later sold and made a modest sum every day. She was accompanied by a little dog which followed her about like Mary's little lamb.

No school for her


Impressed by Karpagam's intelligence, I offered, along with the help of some of my friends, to send her to school. We were willing to pay her school fees, buy her books and clothes. "My father will kill me," she said. Apparently her father was a drunkard who expected his little daughter to bring in enough money every day to nurse his habit. If she brought in a little less, he would thrash her with his belt. "No school for me," she said sadly. So we decided to help her in some other way. Several of our neighbours agreed to give their old newspapers to Karpagam free. She collected huge bundles of old papers and took them to the paper shop. When we heard that the paper shop was not paying her the correct price, we went there and spoke to the owner, and after that Karpagam got the full amount. One day I saw Karpagam sitting near a fence and blowing through a reed, creating some kind of music, which gave me an idea for a story.

The ragpickers


In the story, a renowned music director happens to visit the locality, and hearing Karpagam and some of her friends playing a tune on reeds and tin cans, he `discovers' them, and launches them as a music group. They are known as `The Raga Pickers', and become very successful. The story was published in a children's magazine, and when the cheque arrived, I encashed it and kept the money ready to give to Karpagam. But she didn't turn up for months. One day I saw another girl picking waste material. I called her and asked her why Karpagam was not coming nowadays. "Karpagam died one month ago," she said. A crushing sadness descended on us, and lasted for a long time. Even today when we see small children collecting junk for a living, we think of Karpagam, and the wasted life of a wonderful girl.





© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu

REMOTE POWER

When we sit before our TV sets and go through excruciatingly tedious scenes and nauseatingly vulgar dances, boredom and disgust sit heavily on us.

And then we realize that we hold their fate in our hands, for we have the remote control in them. So when the aged hero makes like a young man and throws his geriatric limbs about in what he fondly hopes to be a dance, all we have to do is press a button – click – and he vanishes from the scene.

The same can be done with the heroine when she oversteps the bounds of decency. And when the noisy comedians yell their lines at us – click! And when forty year old actors coyly play college students, the remote can come to our rescue.

It is wonderful to have such power in one’s hands. Wish we could have a remote control for real life too.

J.Vasanthan
(The New Indian Express – March 2, 2005)

SOUNDS OF ANGUISH

The greatest non-verbal sounds of Western Theatre and Indian Screen


Sir Laurence Olivier was an actor I admired greatly from the earliest of my film-going days. His old films have an impact on viewers even today.

An Innovative Actor


Olivier was a great stage and screen actor. He also devised a method of cinematically presenting Shakespeare's plays, underplaying their inherent theatricality. `Hamlet' (1948) which he directed and starred in, won two Oscars. His `Richard III (1955) was a definitive interpretation of the character, neither surpassed nor equalled till now. Towards the end of his life he did `King Lear'. It was a masterful performance where he used the infirmities of his ageing face and body to convey emotion.

Once he was offered two challenging roles to be performed in one day on stage. He played Oedipus Rex in the first part of the performance and later did a clownish role in a frothy comedy. According to the story of Oedipus, when he was born an oracle predicted that he would eventually kill his father and marry his mother. In order to avoid this calamity the baby was sent away to be killed. The man entrusted with this job leaves the baby in a neighbouring kingdom. Oedipus grows up in ignorance of his origin. The prophecy comes true when Oedipus, during his travels, kills his father and marries his mother without knowing their true identities. One day a soothsayer tells him that the misfortunes of the kingdom have been caused by his terrible sin. Oedipus is overwhelmed with shock and grief.

Olivier felt that the usual theatrical speeches and gestures would not be adequate for the enormity of the catastrophe. He was trying to find some way of conveying extreme anguish. At that time someone told him about the hunting of seals in the Arctic region. Some kind of powder was scattered on the snow, and when the seals stepped on it, they got stuck. They let off some loud cries that were heart-rending. Immediately Olivier left for the Arctic with a recording expert and recording equipment. When the seals' cries were recorded he came back, played the recording, and tried to find a human approximation to those pathetic sounds. After several weeks of practice he appeared on the stage.

And when the time came, he let out a seal-inspired cry of extreme agony, which froze the blood of the audience. Reviewers described it as "the greatest non-verbal sound in the history of the Western Theatre". This performance was never filmed, and so we couldn't see it.

An Indian Counterpart


But many years later we were able to hear some sounds of anguish, which were perhaps as good as Olivier's. Kamalhaasan in `Nayagan' played a gangster, Velu Naicker. His only son gets killed, and those close to the don come to his house. Unaware of what has happened, Velu Naicker is pottering about on the terrace. Seeing all the people standing sombrely, he asks them what the matter was. "Velu Bhai" says a North Indian associate, "Mera beta aapka beta. My son is your son." "Has something happened to Surya?" the old man asks. He looks down into the courtyard, and sees a dead body. He comes down the stairs unsteadily, accompanied by Ilaiyaraja's poignant music.

He asks a man to remove the cloth covering the face of the corpse. The man refuses, saying that the face is horribly disfigured. "Don't look at it", he says. Whereupon Velu Naicker puts on his glasses to see better. And then he lifts the cloth.

The audience is spared a view of the mutilated face. But it has its vision glued on Kamalhaasan's ravaged face. And then the actor lets loose a series of anguished cries that stunned the audience.

If Olivier's cries were the greatest non-verbal sounds of the Western Stage, Kamalhaasan's inarticulate cries are perhaps the greatest non-verbal sounds of the Indian Screen.






J. VASANTHAN



© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu

MUSICAL MESSAGES

J. VASANTHAN munches how he relished music in his youth

I HAD an uncle who was very fond of music. He once bought a gramophone in Madras and brought it to his house in our town. It was a large, hand-wound instrument with a big megaphone type speaker, looking very much like the one featured in the `His Master's Voice' advertisement. My friends and I who were in elementary school at that time, would sit before this music box in the attitude of the little dog in the ads.
My uncle's collection of records, which had just one song per side, included `It's A Long Way to Tipperary' which set our feet tapping. This was our favourite song, and we made him play it often.
Let my people go
One day he played some records featuring Paul Robeson, and we were struck by the unusual voice. It was a deep, vibrating bass. We were told that on some occasions his voice was able to crack the glass in the windows of the auditorium where he sang.
My uncle told us about Robeson's deep and abiding consciousness of the plight of his ancestors who were African slaves sold to American plantation owners by slave traders. So when he sang `Go Down Moses,' he put a lot of feeling into it. This song was about Moses freeing the Israelis from Egyptian rulers. "Go down Moses/Tell the Pharaoh/Let my people go." But Robeson was singing about his forefathers.
Slaves were force-marched for miles and miles to reach the plantations. When they were allowed some rest, a boy with a jug came and poured some water for them to drink. When Robeson sang the song `Water Boy', it was a plaintive call for temporary succour after all the pain and exhaustion. It was difficult to control one's tears when Robeson called for the water boy.
Ol' Man River
Slave families were deliberately split, some being sold down the river Mississippi and others up the river. So, there was a lot of sadness, with no scope whatsoever for a reunion. Robeson gave voice to this despair in `O1' Man River'. The river keeps flowing along oblivious to the anguish it was causing. Other signers like Frank Sinatra attempted this song later. But none could match the intensity of Paul Robeson.
Later in his life, disillusioned by the discrimination against the Blacks in the U.S., Robeson refused to sing in America. He said India would be the only country he would like to sing in. But nobody here bothered to invite him. And so, that was that.
Daisy, Daisy
A well known headmaster in a southern town had several pretty daughters. The youngest, Daisy, was noted for her long and slender neck. During the 30's, there was a popular song titled `Daisy'. A young man next door, smitten by Daisy's charms, used to sing this song loudly, standing in full view of the headmaster's house. "Daisy, Daisy/Give me your answer, do/I'm so crazy/All for the love of you/I can't afford a carriage/For the day of our marriage/But you'll look so sweet/upon a seat/of a bicycle made for two." And Daisy, who was not indifferent to the young man, would sit at her piano near a window and play the same tune, like an accompaniment.
Sing No More
Unbeknownst to these love birds, (or should we say song birds?), the headmaster had been observing these goings-on. One day he summoned the young man to his house and asked, "Do you want to marry Daisy?" The flabbergasted young man was barely able to stammer his assent. "All right," said the old gent. "You can marry her. But don't sing hereafter."
The couple got married and made beautiful music together, taking care not to sing aloud. Their son grew up and fell in love with a girl called Masilla. He serenaded her with the song "Masilla unmai Kadhale", which was from an old MGR film. Their parents objected to the singing, but not to the match. They got married and are now a happy old couple. They had a son who grew up and ...well, perhaps that will be about enough of love songs.
Suffice it to say that music does have charms, wrong notes and all, to win the heart.
© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu

OF DOGS AND MEN

J.VASANTHAN looks at the spectacle of a dog and a man together


I NEVER much cared for dogs, and usually gave them a wide berth. But some dogs went out of their way to be friendly with me. Randy and Sheba were two such.

Two dachshunds


They were dachshunds in my aunty Raji's house. Randy was of standard size, golden brown in colour, while Sheba was of miniature size and black. They made much of me when I visited my uncle's house in Vepery. I was at that time in the Madras Christian College, and usually dropped in on Saturday evenings.

The two dogs came out onto the compound to receive me, and held on to my trouser legs and guided me in, all the time making little moaning sounds of sorrow over my long absence. Once inside the house, Sheba went off to her favourite sofa. She didn't like to be fondled by anyone except her master. Randy on the other hand, was a good-humoured fellow who liked to be scratched, patted and even pummelled.

A man and his dogs


My uncle, Mr.S.Subramaniam (called SS by everyone including me at his request), was an assistant editor in `The Mail', a newspaper published from Madras. He was a scholarly man noted for the pithy editorials that he wrote. SS was a curmudgeonly character, always bored and irritable in the company of men. But while with his dogs, he came alive and became genial and jolly.

Sheba made it a point to sit with him on his armchair, and wouldn't allow Randy to do the same. SS also made it clear to Randy that only Sheba had the right to occupy his chair. Randy didn't mind this so much as long as he had somebody to scratch him under his ears.

They were intelligent dogs. When they wanted to go out into the compound and found the front door locked, they came to SS and made some mewling sounds. Without looking up from his book, or raising his hand to point, SS would say, "Go through the back door". And the dogs would make for the back door immediately.

The bold ones


One day SS and I took the dogs for a walk. The way the dogs moved steadily, short legged and long bodied, attracted many a glance from passers-by. SS usually took them up to the Andrew's Church in Egmore, and turned them loose in the church compound to romp about for awhile. That day a cobra suddenly appeared from underneath a bush, and took on a hostile stance when it saw the dogs. SS and I tried to call the dogs away. But both of them were intent on attacking the cobra. And by taking it on from two sides they quickly tore the snake to bits. I was amazed at the feat, but SS seemed to be familiar with this aspect of his pets. The small dogs attacking a dangerous adversary was not unlike the diminutive journalist crusading against crooked politicians

When the dogs sat with SS in the drawing room, I couldn't help drawing a comparison between them. There was some kind of similarity between the dachshunds and their master. SS was small in stature like his dogs. And even the habitual expression on his face resembled those of Randy and Sheba.

Lookalikes


I noticed this later in the Race Course Road in Madurai, where men took their dogs for a walk in the morning. One gentleman tried to exude a quiet dignity as he accompanied a massive dog of obviously high pedigree. Both looked regal and imposing. The effect was marred however when a scrawny little street dog came yapping and attacked the huge canine. The pedigreed dog yelped with its tail tucked between its legs, and sat whimpering even after the saucy stray had left the scene. The master sat down and crooned to it, both cowering together in defeat and loss of face, just as they had paraded together earlier. The resemblance between dog and man was striking.

There were other dogs too in the Race Course bearing a remarkable resemblance to their owners. One gentleman who wore glasses with a thick black frame brought a dog along that had black circles around its eyes that gave it a bespectacled look. The dog stopped at every lamp post, and the man waited patiently. And when they came to the last lamp post it was the dog's turn to wait. There seemed to be perfect rapport between the two spectacled companions.

Well, a dog and a man together can provide quite a spectacle.




© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu

A BRIGHT STUDENT

Remembering a favourite student


One morning during my tenure as lecturer in the Madras Christian College, I saw in the newspaper that a first year student from MCC had won an essay contest conducted by The Hindu. I was not sure whether he was my student, since the classes were quite large those days and it was difficult to remember all the names.

A Shy Youngster


When I went to the first year combined class, where students from three different disciplines came together for English, I asked the class who K.Prakash was. Several fingers pointed at a tall youngster who stood up awkwardly with a shy smile. "Congratulations" I said and he mumbled his thanks.

After the class was over Prakash came to me and wanted to know whether I had read his essay. I had. Then he asked me how he could improve on it. "You have already won the prize" I said. "So why bother?" "I am not quite satisfied with it", he said. "Can I come to your flat and discuss it?" He came to my flat in St.Thomas's Hall and we talked about his essay and about literature in general. From then on Prakash was a regular visitor. I found that true to his name he was a bright student.

To Japan


He went to Japan sent by The Hindu. When he came back he held forth on his trip, and the splendours of Japan and the thrills of the sports meet he had gone to witness. Some of my friends also took a liking to Prakash. One of them was Ramasamy (Ramu), a photographer in the Indian Air Force, who had seen a lot of action in a couple of border wars. He always carried his camera with him and clicked several pictures of all of us. Prakash avidly listened to Ramu's account of his war experiences.

Prakash had lost his father at a very young age. And his mother brought him up with a single-minded vision of making him a successful and happy human being. She had a house in Kodambakkam, and Prakash commuted from there to the college in Tambaram . He persuaded his mother to get him a Jawa motorbike, which was all the rage at that time. He insisted on giving me a ride, and I held on for dear life as he plied his vehicle with youthful exuberance.

After I got married I moved out of the campus to a house in the city. Prakash visited me there too. Actually he was the one who organized the house-warming ceremony there. By then he was interested in films, and kept me talking about all that I knew as an ardent film fan. We saw `The Ipcress File', starring Michael Caine as Harry Palmer. Both of us liked the British actor who was always in a long overcoat in this series of films.

One rainy night Prakash appeared in a long raincoat, stood near my window, and said "Harry Palmer. Harry Palmer here", imitating Michael Caine. And then we went for a film in the rain.

To Edinburgh


Sometime later Prakash got a scholarship to study economics at Edinburgh. When he came back he was a changed person. He kept talking about Marxism, trying to convince me of its importance. He also told me that he was a party member now. I didn't much care for this new development, and I am afraid I told him so rather harshly. I felt that all his mother's dreams for his success might come to naught.

But he rose from the ranks and is now a big leader who hits the headlines almost every day. K.Prakash is now known as Prakash Karat.

Well, all's well that ends well.

J. VASANTHAN

THANK YOU FOR THE MUSIC

J. VASANTHAN pays glowing tributes to the `Queen of Music'.

WE WERE a group of devil-may-care young men and we were having a riotous party that day. The air was blue with our inebriated humour, as we cackled over our own witticisms. The friend whose house we had chosen for the occasion happened to have an excellent record player, and it spewed forth rock and jazz music that competed with our own vociferous frivolity. It was pandemonium.

A leavening influence
And then suddenly somebody put on an M.S. Subbulakshmi record. The melodious voice began mildly, and came sinuously creeping towards us. It gradually permeated the atmosphere and edged towards us like a cat on velvet. And before we knew what was happening, it had seeped through our skins and was whispering in our bones. The jokes ceased, the laughter dwindled out, and conversation came to an end. There was a tingling silence which the haunting voice filled with moments of glory. As they say, music hath charms to soothe the savage beast.
We were drugged with music and our limbs were heavy. It was as though we had eaten of the lotus fruit. And when the final melodious notes had throbbed and quivered and come to an end, we still lay there overwhelmed by the impact. The Queen of Music had moved us to the very depths of our souls.

We rose like men dreaming and started trudging home. And as we walked, the beautiful voice was still with us, gambolling along by our side, filling our being and echoing in the chambers of our hearts.
That was many years ago, but the magic continued to cast a spell on us as we grew old, and on our children and grandchildren.

Stage presence
Unlike many other singers M.S had a pleasing presence too. The saying `singers should be heard not seen' did not apply to her. Her charm lay not only in her voice, but also in her stage presence. Her face had a beauty that was ageless.

It was her face that arrested one at first. Add to this her graceful demeanour on stage and her utter humility and you got a picture of a remarkably gracious lady. And when the lips parted in song, the lady was divine.

Screen Goddess
I first saw her on screen as a young and beauteous heroine in `Sakunthalai'. Another great singer, G.N Balasubramanian, played Dhushyantha. M.S and G.N.B made a very handsome pair indeed. There was not a young heart that did not miss a beat when they broke into that famous duet, "Madananga Sundara rupa - Manamohananga Anenge".
Later, she played Narada in a few films. Her innocent face and straight look hardly suited the wily Narada. And then came `Meera'. She winged her way into our hearts like a gentle breeze with `Katrinile Varum Geetham'. Perhaps Shakespeare could describe it best.

"It came over my ear like the sweet sound

That breathes upon a bank of violets

Stealing and giving odour".

Even today when this song comes on in the T.V or radio, life comes to a standstill as everyone pauses to hear the song in its entirety. Many of the films in which she starred are no longer seen, and have been forgotten. But the songs in them are still remembered and enjoyed.

Stunning the audience
I saw her in person for the first and last time in 1977 when she sang at a concert for the benefit of The American College. The Lakshmi Sundaram Hall was packed to full capacity. And when the frail, dainty old lady came on the stage in a slow, hesitant walk, the audience went wild, standing up and cheering lustily, while she gently acknowledged the greetings. It was one of the most emotional scenes I had ever seen. And it was something a person could never forget. And when she started to sing in a voice that was mellower than in the Meera days, it was an unforgettable experience too.

There are many musicians who can dazzle you with their virtuosity. They make you aware of their mastery of the art. But M.S was among the few (the very few, alas) who could tug at your heartstrings and make you aware of yourself.

So let us thank God for the music, and for the one and only Madurai Shanmugavadivu Subbulakshmi.

© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu

INSIDE THE TEMPLE

This week J.VASANTHAN takes you to his favourite haunt, the Meenakshi Sundareswarar Temple.

AS A college student in the early 50s, I used to visit the Meenakshi Sundareswarar Temple with a group of friends almost every other day. It was our favourite haunt.

We used to walk across the Albert Victor Bridge, go past Sokkanathar Koil, and enter the temple on the eastern side. After spending a lot of time admiring the architecture and the sculptures, we would exit on the western side, go through West Tower Street to Town Hall Road, and then back to the hostel by city bus.

Fabulous sculpture


We never seemed to tire of this routine. The temple was full of surprises. Every day we discovered some new aspect or some small exquisite idol. The sculptural marvels like the musical pillars or the pebble in the simha's mouth fascinated us. We debated endlessly on how the sculptor would have carved the pebble. And sometimes, egged on by my friends, I played a tune on the musical pillars, usually Swarajathi, a remnant of my brief foray into Carnatic music during my school days.

Meeting Sivakkizhar


One day as we were roaming about inside the temple, we noticed that a religious discourse was just starting in one of the Adi streets. We sat down to lisen. The topic was `Karaikkal Ammaiyar', and the speaker was Sivakkizhar Thirunavukkarasu. We came to know that he was quite often a stand-in for Kripanandha Variar.

There was a certain arrogant self-assurance about Sivakkizhar, which was justifiable, we presumed, considering his mastery of the subject. Unlike most other speakers, he didn't sing, which was a good thing perhaps, since he had a hoarse, rasping voice. But he had a fund of anecdotes and a rollicking sense of humour. We enjoyed the discourse thoroughly.

After the talk we went over to meet him. He was a short, stocky, middle-aged man, with a lantern jaw and a thick mop of prematurely grey hair. He was surprised that youngsters like us had been a part of his audience; and even more surprised to know that we visited the temple often. He seemed to take a liking to us, and we to him. After some judicious questioning he came to realize that we didn't know much about the temple.

"I'll take you around and explain things to you," he said. "I will be back in Madurai next week. How about Thursday?"

A guided tour


We agreed to meet at six in the evening just outside the East Tower. Those days the gopurams were not multi-coloured like now. They were monochromatic, mainly a light yellow ochre with some dark patches here and there. Somehow we still prefer that to the present colour scheme. On Thursday we stood gazing at the eastern gopuram when Sivakkizhar appeared and took us on a grand tour of the temple. This was the first of several such excursions he took us on during the next two years.

He guided us through places we had never seen before. He took us right into the sanctum sanctorum, behind the main idol, ignoring a few priests who tried to object. He showed us the remains of the ancient tree under which the idol must have originally stood. And he had a novel explanation for every piece of sculpture in the temple.

He also told us about the principle on which the temple had been constructed. This theory may have been familiar to many, but for us it was new and fascinating.

The Dwara Balakas


"When you go into the temple you come across hundreds of idols," said Sivakkizhar. "Does that mean there are hundreds of Gods? Before you enter the temple you see these two small figures at the entrance. They are the Dwara Balakas. What do they say?" And we learnt what they said. One of the dwara balakas held out one finger. He was saying, "Yeham Yeva" (There is only one God). And the other balaka held out two fingers of one hand, and a negative gesture in the other. "Na dvaidam Brahmam" (There are no two Gods). So there might be thousands of manifestations of God; but there is only one God.

A fascinating theory


Sivakkizhar also explained to us the structure of the temple. "The temple is constructed in the form of a human being. Assume a person is lying down on his back. His feet will be pointing upwards. That is the gopuram. Count the kumbhas on the gopuram. There are ten, like the toes on one's feet." We enter the temple as if we were entering between the legs of the prone person. And we come to the lingam. If you go to the right, that is the left of the prone person, where the heart would be, is where the Sokkanathar shrine is. The tank (potramaraikulam) represents the human lungs and the flagstaff (kodimaram) stands for the vertebral column. The number of ridges on the kodimaram correspond exactly to the number of vertebrae a human being has. And finally the chief deity is in the position of the brain. And so on.

God is in man


"So what does this tell you?" Sivakkizhar asked, and proceeded to give the answer himself. "You go within the temple to find God, and then realize that God is within you."

We lost touch with Sivakkizhar after that. But what he told us about the temple still lingers on in our minds.

(The author can be contacted

at jvasanthan@sancharnet.in)





© Copyright 2000 - 2006 The Hindu