Friday, August 16, 2024

Farm, calves, school bells: Our visit to Anjana


My students and I recently visited Anjana Vidya Kendra, nestled in the rural outskirts of the ever-expanding Bengaluru/Bangalore city. Started as a philanthropic endeavour with deep personal meanings for its scientist-founders, the school continues to enshrine its early values even as it welcomes all those who wish to be a part of its affectionate world. 

We landed there on a Monday morning, 23 students of Design and an educator amazed by what people make possible for others.  "Why are we here?" asked one of my students as we stepped into the school. I had ideas such as 'experience' and 'immersion' in mind, but I just said, "Let's find out". Joy took over the group as we freely wandered about the small campus with stone and wood structures, cheerful green, hosts who greeted us with hot tea and biscuits, and smiling students who addressed everyone as "teacher". For a bit, I think we forgot it was some kind of study tour.

An interactive session followed, with us blending into groups of 12-year-olds who were drawing and chatting excitedly. Their creativity amazed us, and their enthusiasm at lapping up everything we had to offer left us very touched and just a little sheepish. 

The school also houses a special "goshala" for rescued calves, a small piece of farmland from where fresh produce is sourced to ensure the children's nutrition and a solar drier to dry the produce. 

Meeting the warm people who held together Anjana was a memorable experience in itself. Their dedication was more than evident in the way they attempted to convey to us what the school was meant to be and how it had grown over time. Their earnest dreams for the children and the families they come from are a fine reminder of why we create human systems and what makes them worthwhile. 

P.S. Happy to share updated details with those who would like to make a small contribution to this initiative.

Friday, April 3, 2020

Locked down with the notes: Kalyani


A favourite among learners, teachers and performers, and easily recognisable in both its Carnatic and Hindustani forms, Kalyani (in Carnatic), or Yaman, (in Hindustani) is a prolific raga in which every Indian who loves music must know of a song or two.
Straightforward, yet teeming with gamakas, and easy to learn but challenging to learn well, this raga is introduced in great detail to the Carnatic student through the two exquisite varnams that form an integral part of the pedagogy. Then there are those gems of kritis such as "yetavunnara", "nidhi chala sukhama" and "kamalambam bhajare".

Equally alluring are the numerous semi-classical compositions that carry the label "Yamuna Kalyani".  A popular piece in this form of the raga is Purandara Dasa's "Krishna nee begane baro", loved by singers and dancers alike. Here is Hari-Les' trend-setting fusion version of the song that the generation that went to college with me is unlikely to forget.
There is a profusion of film songs in the raga. Of the top of my head, I can recall the unforgettable "beeti na bitayi raina" from Parichay and the more recent "gaana mere bas ki baat nahi" from Astitva.
To conclude, a masterful Jugalbandi between the two towering flautists, Hariprasad Chaurasia and N. Ramani.

Thursday, April 2, 2020

A raga for an auspicious day



It's Rama Navami, so I will let the composition lead me to the raga of the day. The Carnatic repertory has innumerable pieces dedicated to this anthropomorphic God, mostly by his ardent devotee, Saint Tyagaraja. Here is Sikkil Gurucharan rendering the glory of Sri Rama's life story 'Rama Katha Sudharasa' in Madhyamavati.

Popular kritis in this raga include "palinchu kamakshi" by Syama Shastri, "Adadu asangadu" by Oothukadu and "Bhagyada Lakshmi baramma" by Purandara Dasa.

Madhyamavati is an alluring pentatonic scale that can be sung as elaborately as any sampurna raga. The lingering gamakas around the notes Ri and Ni guide the imagination to build a measured gamut of phrases. Although the cadences of the raga are too characteristically Carnatic to afford any close parallel in Hindustani music, the notes themselves closely resemble Raga Megh, which finds a place alongside Madhyamavati in jugalbandhis.

Madhyavamati is culturally associated with auspiciousness. Which is why the "mangalam" at the end of a concert is sung in this raga. Speaking of culture and turning back to the gods, this devotional piece immortalised in Yesudas' voice has become iconic in Ayyappa worship.


Wednesday, April 1, 2020

Locked down with the notes: Khamas



#Ragaoftheday

From one of the most 'performable' pieces eager beginners learn ("Saamba shivaya nave") to the controlled mastery of a pada varna like "Mate malaya dhvaja pandya sanjate'', the splendid notes of Khamas dance their way through several kritis known to the average Carnatic connoisseur.

Preferred particularly by Thumri singers, Khamaj as it is known in the Hindustani tradition has also attracted many music directors in Indian cinema.

With its characteristic inclusion of two Nishads, its sparing use of the Rishabh and some unmistakable phrases, the raga has not surprisingly often inspired the image of a dancing Krishna or Nataraja in familiar compositions that are as appealing for their poetry as they are for the melodious music they encapsulate.


I never tire of listening to the delightful swara kalpana in Sanjay Subramanian's concise rendition of ''Santana gopalakrishnam".

And as a refreshing contrast, here is a sprig from the evergreen bouquet of songs in the classic Hindi film, Amar Prem.

And of course, the Hindu's archives give us Charulatha Mani's quick sketch of the raga and its riches.

Tuesday, March 31, 2020

Locked down with the notes: Self-help through music during the Covid 19 crisis

I am running a series of FB posts, one raga at a time. Here are the first two, posted yesterday and today.


30th March: Hamir Kalyani


My pick for today is Hamir Kalyani, or Kedar, as it is called in Hindustani music. Charulatha Mani's article below makes any further comments redundant.




Venkata Shaila Vihara, Parimala Ranganatham and Manamuleda are immortal classics. I still remember listening to Sreevalsan Menon rendering Swathi Thirunal's  'Gangeya Vasana' at Dombivli Fine Arts decades ago. Here he is, singing the same kriti for Doordarshan:
https://youtu.be/Y_5dHJqoEio


Also attached are clips of a lesser known canonical composition rendered by the faultless Sanjay and one in a modern idiom presented by the trending iconoclast TMK.
(Sanjay Subramanian)


31st March:  Shubhapantuvarali

Shubhapantuvarali, evoking a sad, sombre atmosphere, is considered an auspicious raga, as the prefix in the raga's name indicates. The notes map to the Todi thaat in Hindustani music. Once again, Charulatha Mani brings together a wealth of compositions in the raga, in a range of styles:

The more famous pieces in the raga that Charulatha Mani mentions are easily accessible. Tyagaraja's 
plaintive 'Ennalu Urake' is a personal favourite, still unfortunately on my list of kritis to be learnt. The clip below is an interesting Jugalbandhi of Shubhapantuvarali with the shades of Lalit that has several matching notes and shades.
And as an illustration of how the raga's quick association with sorrowfulness has been exploited in cinema, here is a hyperbolic sentimental piece from Malayalam cinema:

Sunday, June 2, 2019

Rain IV, written in 2009

It rained today. The puddles formed
quickly, coalescing with the hungry mud.
The droplets were big as hail.

I went out to explore the shredded quarry
of my garden. A few roots gleamed here and there,
serpents uncoiling slowly out of their hibernating homes.

Dead leaves were coming to life among
the stripped stones. Moss grew green flesh
over the bones once again.

I knew well this ritual of reawakening, new life
sprouting from old vestiges sedimented for a season.
But the rain had reached farther this time, closing over

riches deep-interred by years of longing remembrance.
The whiff of red rose caught me unawares.

Sunday, February 25, 2018

To Strand Book Stall, and all that it has meant to me

At the age of 17, equipped with a Higher Secondary School Certificate, I decided to earn my own pocket money. My motivation: buying books, building my own little library. I scrupulously put away the small sums I made by giving tuitions. And at the coming of every new year, I would watch out for that large advertisement in red on the first page of the Times, announcing the Strand Book Fair at Sunderbai Hall in New Marine Lines. Spending a whole afternoon there and trudging back through the Azad Maiden loaded with my booty in those glossy beige-cloloured shopping bags from Strand was inexpressible happiness in those innocent days when I would wolf down one book a week. 


Mr. Shanbag and his team soon became angels of joy. Strand Book Stall was never just a store: it was a place where I often made delightful discoveries, always felt rewarded with unbelievable discounts and at times bumped into an equally nutsy friend with whom I could squeal at titles and share a snack on my way back to Victoria Terminus. In those days, Strand was my only hope if I wanted a title that was hard to come by. Soon, I simply stopped bothering to approach any other bookstore, for the amazing guys at Strand never disappointed. What’s more, however difficult to procure the title may have been, they always offered their 20% discount. You can imagine what discounts meant to someone who made around Rs. 3,000 a year.


When I started teaching at Ruia, I made sure my religion of madness was rapidly disseminated among my students. Then the annual book fair became a picnic on which I would be accompanied by a few excited students. I became one of them as we navigated through the crowds browsing the rows of books in the large hall, where my relationship with my young students transformed into friendship. My trips to the store also became more frequent in these later years, for I would regularly order multiple copies of books prescribed on the B.A. syllabus, and the staff would readily oblige. 


Sadly, I have forgotten when I last visitied Strand and the annual book fair. It was quite some time ago. On my last visit, the store still had its loyal visitors, but the old lustre and spirit in the air was gone. Like many other converts, I too have given in to the comfort and ease of online shopping. My home collection has branched into several cupboards and I don’t need to count every penny to invest in books anymore. But I have to admit that with this ease, that joy and sense of fulfilment that each new book brought seems to have dwindled, thanks also to the increased responsibilities of life and work.


What Strand will always mean to me is the motivation to strive for small joys, the carefree discovery of new knowledge and the desire to share that delight with those around me. And it stands for the wonderful tactile, smell-good world of books that are not just digital pages never quite real -- a world distinct from the lure of quick commerce and quicker paperless expenditure. And it means memories of the texture of a book, the colours of its covers, small bends in the mind’s infinite journeys and those pages that slowly turn yellow, shade by shade, when you are not looking.


(Strand, Mumbai's iconic bookstore at Fort, is all set to be closed down permanently. The news has led to an outpouring of sentiment among book lovers in the city.)