January 22, 2012
Yesterday evening, walked with Amma to the Nishagandhi amphitheater at Kanakakunnu palace to see the Odissi dance recital by Padmashree Ranjana Gouhar. The wonderful 'chenda melam' group were on in full swing at the entrance as usual. Since we reached half an hour early, feeble crowd in the palace grounds. At that time we did not know that there were a few other events scheduled simultaneously. One of the old mango trees had abundantly flowered. Innumerable kites and eagles circled below the dusky sky.
The musicians and lights team were setting up. Even the tech trials by the vocalists were impressive. It had the looks of a great evening in the making. Beautiful cut outs of stone statues resembling those at Konark or Khajuraho formed columns of the backdrop. Verily, objectionable material according to the moral authority of India, Mr. Kapil Sibal. Luckily he wasn't around.
At the center, a magnificent six foot poster of Shiva in his Natraj form. Inlaid, the color minimalist brush strokes representing the same avatar that forms the logo of the Nishagandhi arts festival. We took seats at the edge of the row close to the central aisle right next to the tripods of the video crew. Two rows in front of us a grand old man. "Look...Gandhi," Amma said. He did have a resemblance. But the lack of teeth gave him more of a cashew nut than Gandhi appearance. Two rows behind us, a little girl and her parents.Owing to my stiff back and neck, I never managed to turn around and see them. The little girl was very inquisitive and talkative. She wanted to know about everything. The light boys, the technicians, the greenrooms, the eagles, the pakhavaj, the mike testing ritual, feedback. I realized that there is a limit to toddler cuteness in my mind but there is perhaps no limit to parental patience in this world.
The evening began at 6:30 sharp with the fest's theme song being played.The young women who compered was a delight. Well dressed in a saree, she spoke without any attempt to hide her accent. There was none of the usual DJ/RJ/VJ bullshit that assumes nursery level IQ in the audience. I am talking about the airheads on TV who keep insisting that everyone applaud every half minute. Kudos to the Department of Tourism for arranging genuinely smart folks to host these shows.
The evening's Odissi recital began Deep Aradhana set to Ravanastotra. The musicians performed with the prelude. I have never experienced rain through music so vividly. First drops fell from the sitar. The the intensity picked up steadily. Rumbling of the skies supplied by the Pakhavaj. Then from the flute, that gentle cool, moist breeze that sweeps the skin drenched in the rain. And finally the human voice. Magnificent.
Dancers entered from either side carrying lamps. Not the fake flickering LED ones, the real oil ones with dancing flames. Only one among the 12 was extinguished during the dance, all the others remained lit for the entire 90 minutes of the show, so one can imagine how much oil was skifully managed. The lighting crew did a spectacular job during this first dance giving the formations with the light the maximum effect. Unfortunately, they screwed up couple of times during the rest of the show when what demanded maximum light was given total darkness. "Super" the little girl sitting behind us approved the opening number.
The second dance was "Rathi sukha saare" from Jayadeva's Geet Govind. It talks about Radha getting impatient to meet Krishna. In fact, this theme of women perpetually waiting and longing for men seems to be a standard fixture in all forms of traditional Indian dance forms especially the temple based ones. I am quite inclined to agree with Kancha Iliah about this being a symbol of the subjugation of women and the artificial shaping of their psyche propagated in Hinduism. This was barbie-doll and pink for gals kind of propaganda from centuries ago.
It was Jayadeva who was popularized and not Muddupalani for her more liberated, liberal, explicit expression of Krishna and Radha's love. It will be great if someone adapts Radhika Santawanam to Bharatnatyam or Odissi.
The other contrast that Kancha Iliah draws between the upper class Indian dance forms and the traditional, rustic, unformalized ones is the solitary nature of the first and the essentially group format of the latter. But yesterday, except for a few minutes, the entire troupe was on stage. It was brilliant choreography.
Well, I presume it was brilliant for I paid very little attention to the group. I was completely consumed by just one dancer. Here is how it unfolded.In the 'Rathi Sukha Saare' piece, there was a line that sort of went "Pavana chalith anurenu.." about the breeze giving goosebumps to Radha who has already reached a peak imagining her lover. The expression of the dancers were all distinctly different at this point. The leader, Niranjana Gouhar, looked restrained. The tallest girl in the troupe went by the book and showed exactly what she had learnt. One looked more thoughtful than in the throes of unbearably sweet pangs.Another looked too young to have any clue about the emotion and reaction that was being sung about.But there was this petite dynamite on stage who completely nailed it...twice...as the line was repeated. And I was totally hooked.
For the rest of the show, what the rest of the troupe did mattered very little to me. My attention was consumed entirely by this single epitome of grace on stage. I realized what a stupendously sensuous dance form Odissi is. I think it is by far the most photogenic because the dancer strikes and holds incredibly evocative poses. There might be less in terms of facial expressions compared to the southern dance forms, but Odissi is certainly a language that uses the whole body.
I sat wonderfully dissolved in her charms. I envied every strand of the fabric on her, every tiny mirror on the sparkling silvery belt that hugged her exquisite waist, every bead of jewelry on her, every bead of sweat that glistened off of her and those wisps of whispering smoke that descended and embraced her through the beams of colored light: red, green and blue. I envied the stage. With every turn of her adorned svelteness, every movement of those achingly beautiful limbs, I died again a little more. She was the sole dancer, I was the sole viewer...since the beginning of time!
There was a piece from Kalidasa's Ritusamhara and the recital ended with a Hindi translation of Swati Thirunal's work on Kashi Vishweswara which was clearly and audience favorite.
When the final pose was struck and audience lights were back on, I was back too. So were the mosquitoes on my feet. And Amma sitting next to me who spoke admiringly of the musicians. I am sure they were great. For me, it was great to be so thoroughly infatuated for an hour. I don't think it is the sole purpose of art, but I am glad it has this effect too. To be completely lost for the duration and then get back to life, refreshed. Ephemeral infatuation with the artist is an essential perk of the art.
After they took the bow, the troupe was introduced. I finally had the name of the captivating performer: Sanchita Banerjee. http://sanchitabanerjee.org/profile.html
A momento was presented and Ms. Gouhar invited to talk. Unfortunately at this time the blaring speakers of the 'gaana mela' (concert) nearby invaded the open air theater. When Ms. Gouhar took the mike, the audience were startled by the noise of "Vaada Vaada Paiyya..." song. Highly avoidable. But Ms. Gouhar, a veteran of several international stages, stayed poised expressed her gratitude for the organizers.
On our way back, we realized that there is a Kathakali fest also in progress inside the Kanakakunnu palace. Will check it out in the coming days.
Sunday morning: Amma had decided to prepare chicken. It was my task to fetch the raw material. I went to the 'Halal' shop that I had noticed near Vellayambalam. "Athu pootti poyi" (That business is closed) informed a helpful local. One option was to wait till Spencers grocers opened and get frozen chicken. But then my sentiments towards frozen chicken is same as that towards frozen vegetables. I called my uncle to find out other options. "The government has their mobile sales unit. But you have to find out at what time they park and do business near your area. The other option is at Sasthamangalam toward Pipinmoodu," he said and bang! I remembered. When I had gone to the Creant art gallery, the final directions I was given were that it is next to the butcher's.
The Bismillah Halal Meat shop is a set a little inside from the main road with a 'Milma' milk booth hiding it. Half a dozen men were already waiting for their order. My queue position kept me out of the shop entrance for a couple of minutes. In a shelf outside, torn "Data Structures" notebook of one Keval Menon who had studied at the SCT College of Engineering in 2011. I wondered if all those algorithms knew their fate as meat wraps.
The chicken at the back of the store looked like they knew it was their final moments. They were huddled up in two corners. Frequent noise and panic movement while they are picked up one by one based on the orders received. The young man cutting up mutton up front had to rest his right hand every few minutes. I admired his skill of precisely bringing down an extremely sharp knife from such a height so close to his fingers. A young man in jeants, tshirt and branded shoes entered the shop. He quickly removed the shoes, changed the tshirt and went about assisting the butcher at the back. The queue gathered speed. "Entha vende?" (What do you want?) asked the owner who had been busy taking care of the accounts as well as the final packing. Surprisingly, he did not have the squeaky voice I had stereotyped for most butchers. "Chicken, small one!" I said. He went to the back of the shop, picked one up, folded its wings backwards and put it on the balance. "onnu ennuru und, edukatte?" (This is 1-800. Will that do?) It was impossible to say no to a number like 1-800. As he walked back to the cash register, the 1 kg 800 gm bird went under the knife in the halal way. It reappeared headless and featherless onto the granite counter at the back. While the skin came off in one expert pull, it was well on its way to the familiar "full chicken" look of the supermarket. It had been a long time since I saw the full blood look of a freshly skinned bird.
"Currikkale?" (For curry, right?) the artist with the knife shouted from the back to confirm that I didn't want the bird for a tandoori. I nodded. Super quick knife motions got rid of the feet and wing ends. At that point the body still kept twitching. Flawless disembowelment. Swift clean movements quartered it up in less than a minute. Into the clear plastic wrap. Newspaper over it. Two rubber bands. Rs.123/-
The queue had elongated. There were couple of girls whose bird was weighed at 2-100. An 50 something gentleman ordered two, 1-900 and 2-400. An younger imbecile who cut in the line wanted 2 kg of mutton. Another young man placed an order for 6 small birds and said he will be back to collect. Looked like a regular customer who ran a local eatery. Brisk business.
Exceptional skill with knife and life to watch early in the morning after witnessing a night of learnt expressiveness on stage. We are such an incredible species!
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