There is a look of surprise, shock, joy and disbelief on my aunt’s face. Her eyebrows are raised, mouth open, head tilted up (because I’m taller than her) and arms shaking. I have just told her that I had been to four kutcheris the day before. She shrieks (in an aunt-like fashion, not like my sister when Christina Aguilera’s Lotus was brought to our house by the Flipkart man. (The Flipkart Man is awesome because he always has a smile on his face.)) and claps her hands, as if she just remembered it’s her birthday (last year). Note: I think she would have had the same expression if she had walked in on me masturbating. She and my uncle then say that I have intellectually and spiritually matured. Puberty is pretty underrated these days.
South Indian Classical music (Carnatic music) and I have been bitter enemies for the last seven years. It is a gigantic part of my family’s culture and my parents unsuccessfully tried to get me to love it too. Every kutcheri (concert) I went to, I would doze off within the first fifteen minutes, regardless of where I was seated. I found it too slow, uninteresting, and not having anything to say – completely opposite to the Tamil film music and English music (with lyrics) that I preferred. The only highlight of these kutcheris was the excellent food available at the canteens of each of the sabhas (halls). Kutcheris meant sleeping and eating to me at that time.
In South India, December is the month for kutcheris and dances and dramas: if there’s a stage, it probably has an audience during this time. Every day is packed with at least thirty events all over the city, starting from as early as 7:00 AM to 10:00 PM. Most sabhas have canteens and messes attached, and the food during this time is the best, and the most economical, that you will find all year.
And yet I have been to 8 kutcheris in three days. I sway along with the music, roll my head, tap my feet, beat my hands along with the pulse of it and clap at the end of each awe inspiring musical peak. How and why, I do not know. Maybe it was because of the Chennai International Film Festival; watching three movies a day can push you to undertake previously unappreciated things in a frenzy. Maybe I really had grown up in my grasp of that shape shifting beast that is music. Or maybe Anirudh had inadvertently succeeded in his goal to convert me into a Carnatic enthusiast.
Anirudh Venkatesh, right now, as I type this, is reclined on my bed with a yellow face mask of orange peel and turmeric, reading the screenplay for Reservoir Dogs and checking his email. Never has there been a funnier sentence on this blog. But jokes apart, Anirudh is very much part of the family after descending upon us like a Carnatic hurricane and inspiring my father to get on the path towards becoming a concert mrudangist. He’s an up and coming Carnatic vocalist and has won a bunch of awards for his mellifluous voice. Music flows in his veins and he will gladly slit his wrists if it means more people will join him in appreciating Carnatic music. He has hardcore morals and values; I have never seen him angry, selfish, upset, or bad mouthing anyone. And he’s what’s called a ‘chamathu paiyyan‘ (super good boy). I used to resist his enthusiasm and music suggestions because of the narrow-mindedness that emerges from dismissing what you think you don’t like. But suddenly, I surrendered this time, I wanted to give it a fair chance, because this was a part of my culture that I hadn’t immersed myself in like many of my friends. And I am on a clock now; in eight months, I might never get the chance to go kutcheri hopping – hitting concerts, gobbling food at messes, engaging in discussions about musical styles – like it should be done.
Oddly enough, for something that is very personal and emotional, in these three days, I’ve met a ton of new people and enjoyed music with my own friends. Here are the kutcheris I’ve gone to so far:
This was Anirudh’s second kutcheri of the season. The violinist is in the 11th grade and so my mother has a fine example to compare my sister’s violin skills with.
Anirudh and I were running late for this kutcheri (because someone takes his time in the bathroom as if he’s on the catwalk later in the day) and so we weren’t in the most calm state of mind. As we entered the Vani Mahal premises and went to the main entrance, we just happened to destroy half of the glass doors that had been installed recently. I use “we” very loosely because Anirudh pulled the handle of the door. Physics-wise, we still aren’t sure how pulling open one half of a set of doors demolishes the other half. What happened after: the watchman grabbed Anirudh’s arm as if he had stolen an orange in Saudi Arabia and dragged him to the manager’s office. Along the way, Anirudh was called a pair of breasts, a prostitute, a penis and a fucker by the watchman, but he didn’t feel hurt in any way because they were all in Tamil. It was as if the glass doors protected Anirudh from these expletives and so when the door shattered, the words flew out and cascaded over him with the grace of a raging elephant. Anirudh and the manager have known each other for a long time and so the manager greeted us warmly, until we brought up the door incident. His demeanor was unchanged, and he merely said that he would have to talk to the committee members and figure out what had to be done. He and Anirudh also discussed Anirudh’s upcoming kutcheri at Vani Mahal. Note: Anirudh still feels bad about it. In fact, he labels it as “the worst thing he’s ever done”. Clearly, he something of a model citizen of this world.
This kutcheri was so packed that we ended up sitting on the ground in between the rows of seats.
Imagine being in the middle of an electric thunderstorm with lightning constantly hitting you. That’s the power of Abhishek Raghuram and I’m glad I got to experience it live. The mridangist on the right is Anand, his cousin and the violinist is Mysore V. Srikanth.
You can only see a bit of him, but Patri Satishkumar is a beast when it comes to the mridangam. His hands are always a blur when they’re at work.
Note: There’s one picture missing, and it’s Prasanna Venkatraman’s kutcheri at Music Academy.
I’ve noticed certain things about kutcheris in general in my brief introduction to this new world. Each “song” has a structure of it’s own: some have an aalapanai, where the artist explores a raga. Ragas are basically the melody behind each song, and this abstract melody is played with during the aalapanai. After the aalapanai comes the actual song, which has a beat, or taalam, of its own. There are three basic taalams: adi taalam, rupaka taalam and misra chaapu. There are thousands and thousands of ragas, so Carnatic music can technically never be exhausted of new material. One of the most amazing things about Carnatic music is that the artists on stage do not practice the songs that they play together beforehand. It’s all improvisation, on both an intuitive and practical level. It is this spontaneity that makes it so fascinating. No song is ever the same, even when it is performed by the same artist. Variations depend on what the artist sees at that point in time. So far, I’ve singled out a few of my favorite ragas, even though I know so little: abheri, sindhubhairavi, and ritigowla (though I can’t really identify them in a song 100%).
I find Carnatic music a very immersive style of music, like drifting in an ocean and seeing new things all the time. I don’t know whether this is a phase, or a permanent part of my lifestyle. Either way, right now, I just want to keep swimming.