Bring on the Music!

Whats In-

Musical Ties

Sirpy

The Other son of Ganges

Matangi Mawley

Draupadi

Manasa

In Perfect Harmony

Mridula Arjun

Sing

Raghuram Godavarthi Solitude’s Melody

Anuradha Chandrasekaran

The Devil is in the shruthi

Nivethitha Kumar

Music

Pratap Chandran

Dafatan

Aditya

Music that makes you smile

Shoba Nihilani

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Readers,

This month’s issue features “Music” as the central theme, the reason being

popular demand from our readers and the fact that Music plays such an

important part in our lives - births, weddings, deaths and all the stages in

between.

What can we say about music that has not been said before?

There is particular line from a song in a movie named “His Highness Abdul-

lah” where he defines music as such

“Anandam anandanandam jagadanandham sangeetham”

Literally translated

“Music is Happiness, blissful happiness and the Supreme form of Happiness”

That probably says it all. I hope you guys enjoy reading the issue

Thanks

Editor

Book Review—India I Love

Nivedita

SOLITUDE’S MELODY

Sealed in a box surrounded by four walls,

Sometimes you tend to forget

What is the reason for your existence?

For what obscure reason does the heart still beat?

Words appear and words fade away

Does it matter when there are no ears listening?

I used to know a little song once

I used to hum a couple of lines once in a while

Solitude can do very many things

With footsteps ever so stealthy

It steals your own self away from you,

Makes you ask questions and doubt the very same

One day when I thought I was sane no more

I heard something I had heard once before

It was a series of musical notes from a bygone

melody

Making me feel something in my soul

I felt weightless, uplifted almost

I felt like I was a kid, I wanted to fly

I felt like I was alive, I wanted to live

I felt Happy; yes I believe I could even feel so

Anuradha Chandrasekaran

http://www.flickr.com/photos/michelle-b/298185982/sizes/l/in/photostream/

DAFATAN

We left Kitty Hawk at around 8:12 pm. It was still twilight as I got behind the wheel because the only other driver in the group suffered a few cramps. Trucks and SUVs entered the market, fresh off their fun in the beaches while we exited. The main road leading from Kitty Hawk to Roanoke Island was awfully quiet for that time. Sufficiently armed with print outs of Google Maps, we were looking for the turn that would take us into US 64, towards our destination - Raleigh - and once that was found, I could switch on the iPod, the rest of the gang can drop into their Pizza & beer induced slumber, and I can fall into my subcon-scious. That's the only way I could drive. Ash King was crooning,"Teri khamosh zulfon ki gehraaiyaan hai jahan… The US-64 is mostly flat and two-lane between Raleigh and the Outerbanks. It's also part of the scenic byway that mostly consists of the route from Nags Head to interiors of Roanoke Island. Once you

crossover to the island, the mainland is ac-cessible through the bypass called the Vir-ginia Dare Memorial Bridge. The bridge sce-nic by itself, doesn't offer much in beauty in the darkness of 8.30 pm. The Mazda 6 cov-ered the distance in no time with the beaches and the lights from the Outerbanks dissolving behind as the car inmates them-selves dissolved into higher state of beings. Not me. Nothing romantic or poetic except for the fact that Virgina Dare was the first child born in this part of the world (in the co-lonial era). We touched mainland. Dil mera uljha hua hai wahin kho gaya.... One of the most encouraging sights was the speed limit of 70mph on US-64. On that par-ticular night, there wasn't a soul on the road, the land on either side barren and endless, making you wonder how neglected these state highways really are in comparison to the more bustling and overused interstates. In that respect, US-64 that night was truly pristine, and especially to North Carolina, it formed the backbone from Outerbanks in the East to Murphy in the West. The unparal-leled thrill in realizing that you own the road, with no potential usurper threatening your

worlds. Foreign becomes native. It's about changing landscapes, changing people and changing surroundings. You can listen to it with several things on your mind, as you drive through the US-64's changing faces or as you sit and think about the Prettiest Girl Of All Time. Kyu gunj rahi hai dhadkan… At around 10.30 PM I wasn't sure where we were. We had passed Rocky Mt. at the last exit but how far from Raleigh, I had no idea. That was around the time my friend put a hand on my shoulder to tell me I had crossed ninety. Quite inexplicable, not only how we got away scot-free that night, but we had not spotted a single cop car. Then all of a sudden, the density of the traffic increased and we were on a six lane road. We had merged onto I-440 W that would take us into Raleigh. Exit 295 would take us home. Dil gira kahin par dafatan..

- Aditya

crown can be more inebriating than the strongest alcohol. The needle crossed eighty, counties disappeared on the sides in a jiffy, the road was like the most placid of lakes, and I walked on it. As lightning struck far ahead in the horizon, it hit me that there was only one thing constant - the song on an endless loop. Samundar lehron ki lehron ki, chadar odh ke so raha hai, Par mein jaagu, ek khu-mari, Ek nasha sa, ek nasha sa ho raha hai, Tu magar hai bekhabar, hai bekha-bar.. Delhi-6 was a magnificent album from the Mozart of Madras. Nothing short of a mas-terpiece. In particular this song, with its almost indistinguishable tonality and lyri-cal masterstroke, forms the zenith from A.R Rahman in the last five years. The two Academy awards notwithstanding. From the outset, it might sound like a love bal-lad but in the film it's much more than that. It's about a change of place, a shift in location, a disturbance in the norm. It's about getting out of the comfort zone, adopting a new family, merging two

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mkrigsman/2852232536/sizes/l/in/photostream/

Music that makes you smile

Shoba Nihilani brings forth all those songs from Bollywood that has

become so much a part of our lives and put a smile on our faces

Every emotion has been immortalized in

Hindi songs. When we listen to its pro-

found lyrics combined with its lilting

tunes, aspects of our own lives surface and

swirl in the language. Some timeless ren-

ditions have the power to touch you to the

core. I’ve always been a quiet listener. I

avoid sharing my opinions, likes or dis-

likes, even if I love the same songs every-

one else does. What does bother me is that

I don’t know why I enjoy some of the

more zany numbers. I just do! So, to avoid

the smirk and contemptuous ‘you like that

song?!’ I keep mum on many of those off-

beat songs that entertain me.

In Hindi movies, the music is not just a

coat of lacquer – it is the essence. Very

often the music is the talking point of a

film. More often than not, the success of a

movie is based on its songs. People recall

Hindi films by their memorable sound-

tracks. Over the years, film music has

definitely evolved and has become a liv-

ing, growing entity, respected in its own

right.

Hindi film music has had a definitive im-

pact on our culture. In particular, film di-

rectors never tire of making their charac-

ters attempt to woo each other through

song. And sometimes after hundreds of

songs, with the hero having wooed the

heroine hundreds of times, the film direc-

tor will ask the composer to create some-

thing totally offbeat – like you are my

chicken fry, you are my fish fry. Out of

ideas, perhaps? Or maybe an indulgence

of the director’s odd sense of humour.

Back in the day, when emotions were not

expressed eloquently enough in dialogue,

or when flighty romance went beyond a

physical connection, it was very cleverly

brought forth in a song. For exam-

ple, Padosan is a classic film from 1968, a

comedy that cleverly portrays the effect of

Hindi music. One particular scene comes

to mind, where Vidyapati (Kishore Kumar)

tries to teach his friend Bhola (Sunil Dutt)

how to sing so he can impress his

neighbour, Bindu (Saira Banu). But in-

stead of wooing his beautiful beloved,

Bhola’s tone-deaf braying attracts don-

keys to his doorstep. The movie was

masterfully handled by the geniuses of

their time, and is worth watching even

today. Even my kids loved it when they

were teenagers – go figure!

I never realised that all this quiet listen-

ing to of my favourite songs would get

me into the limelight one day. Back in

the late nineties, I was coerced to sing

on a bus ride from Pune to Mumbai. I

wasn’t much of a singer, but the bus-

full of jovial people ranging from cyni-

cal teens to picnic basket aunties and a

very happy bus driver with a Rajesh

Khanna hairstyle, were all geared up

for Antakshari. I didn’t want to be the

spoil sport. And as a result, it was quite

a memorable time. I produced the zani-

est numbers, and they all loved it. And

I surprised myself when the strangest

of Hindi songs would pop into my head

and gleefully escape my lips. “You are

my chicken fry, you are my fish

fry,” (Movie: Rock Dancer). Other

classic Govinda gems like “Main to

raaste se jaa raha tha, mein to bhel

puri khaa raha tha…”(Movie: Coolie

No 1), “What is mobile num-

ber?” (Movie Haseena Maan Jayegi).

And another one when the aunties

whipped out the snacks - “Bataata

vada, hey bataata vada, dil nahi dena

tha dena pada” (Movie: Hifazat). If I

had a chance to do it again today, I’d

add in the recent “White white face

dekhein, dil beating fast” (Movie: Ta-

shan).

Songs range from eighties-style high-

pitched numbers to copies of Western

compositions, from rigorous classical

to the fusion between modern techno

and Sufi style. The music is dynamic

and moves with the times. And with it,

my own taste in music has changed. If

I were twenty again, I’d love to be

wooed with the song ‘I’ve Been Wait-

ing’ (Movie: Jhootha Hi Sahi) and

well, although it belongs to the realm

of the classically trained singer, I do

hum this one –“Bade natkhat hai more

kangna” (Movie: The Great Indian

Butterfly).

Please do listen to these. And enjoy the

saaz aur awaaz.

http://movies.rediff.com/slide-show/2009/may/21/slide-show-1-from-sari-seller-to-producer-no-one.htm ,

http://www.uiowa.edu/~incinema/Padosan.html

The Other son of Ganges

Matangi Mawley

9. THE PANDIT’S OBSEQUY “You pull the nerve. You pull the life…”, began Bhai.

Every end has a beginning. And all of it began when all of it had ended. Like the

soil parting away for a layer of new soil beneath itself ,as the rain breaks through

its surface. Men, women and children, all have to face a downpour of time upon

them that breaks through their selves. The rainy night upon the terrace was one

such night. Back home, on the banks of the Ganges, somewhere along the

Harischandra Ghat, a sadhu sits and speaks of wisdom that lay hidden in a

battered book. As a boy, he remembered going near the Sadhu just once- he could

never manage to do it again. The Sadhu tried to bite him. Everyone did call him

mad. But the Sadhu spoke of a book- where a teacher taught a pupil about truth

and the very existence of all beings. The pupil could not fight some war against his

kith and kin. But the teacher showed him a way. And it all made sense, once the

teacher spoke.

Bhai was the teacher and Bhanupratap- a pupil.

“… It’s a truth explored a little too many times, perhaps, in the past. And yes. We

still do like testing it. The taste of the nerve before being cut”, said Bhai.

“But I do not understand. Isn’t that cruel? And the agony that is left behind…”,

said Bhanupratap.

“People, I find sometimes, find pleasure in savouring agony. Odd choice of words,

there. But true, nevertheless. People like a

meltdown. Stories of sacrifices, heroism,

love- they just seep in deep down, making

us uncomfortably heavy at places,

completely unknown even to us! People

relish these pains. Their eyes—oh you

must see it, just glow with the molten

pains from their insides”, said Bhai.

“It’s a game played upon most, I guess”,

said Bhanupratap.

“Precisely. Have you ever been afraid”?

asked Bhai. Bhanupratap nodded and

smiled. “Beautiful thing, ‘fear’, isn’t it”,

continued Bhai, “A small dose of it, the

thing ‘inside’ is ‘out’ and ‘outside’ is lost

forever. Trust, hope, happiness- however

you claim that things would be fine

someday- they desert you. May be not

forever, but they do- for a while. I think

‘fear’ is beautiful”.

“All things created in heaps and mounds

inside a human mind- are beautiful”, said

B h a n u p r a t a p .

“Back again, are we, Panditji ? I am an

admirer of this particular thing- ‘fear’, the

most- Panditji. Learn to admire- for it

exists only to be admired. For the real

beauty in things is not shouting out loud.

It is subtle. It’s for the admirer to trace it.

‘Subtlety’, an art in itself. ‘Fear’ is subtle.

It lies deep down in the stories of ghosts

that track down naughty kids, or behind

those big books of law written in words

that one can never understand, or in

calamities that strike places that you have

never known to be so close to you. It may

even be in those closed eyes of a child

who has slept a little more than usual!

S u b t l e ” .

“One can never overcome this beauty for

they are born with it. Right since that

journey from the dark, yet comfortable

life of a cozy womb to the light outside,

waiting to engulf the little life with just

too many of its games- we are born with

it. Why else do you think, we learn our

defenses there? Nails grow in there. We

learn to react in there. We are burdened

with these little skills to help us live with

‘fear’. And it always stays inside us- till

the grave turns cold- sleeping off only

when we do”, said Bhai.

When Bhanupratap left, Bhai’s words

were still ringing aloud deep inside him.

The rain water, he felt, had cleansed him-

just like the Ganges poured herself upon

his forehead out of a tiny bronze nozzle,

when he was little. It was an end and a

beginning. It was again an end and a

b e g i n n i n g , n o w .

“Fear- is white”, Bhai had said. “White-

for its fair and just and a part of everyone.

Unlike ‘life’- a dark hole, that never

plays fair. But it’s this combination-

that makes us all ‘grey’. People color-

coded. Al l species - grey”.

As Bhanupratap settled down, thinking

about a life ahead as Bhanupratap- he

began to wonder in awe, about Bhai- if

he had known about this day, when

they first met in the tiny little prison

cell, before. Seemed ages back- when

all that happened.

“Admirers of beauty in ‘fear’, they like

the white. For they bring out the white

in people, better. For in white- and only

in white, things show themselves. The

truth. We ‘admirers’ like the truth. Out

in the open. They are the ones with the

‘power’ to bring out the white. ‘Power’-

brings out white. The ‘dark’ is put out,

so that the ‘white’ can come out. And

‘Power’- does all that”, Bhai had said.

May be it was his calling. He was the

one with ‘Power’ to bring out the truth

out of its hiding. Just as Bhai had told

him. Tomorrow- a new day. For

tomorrow, he would be born, again.

Tomorrow, Bhanupratap, would

become- Bhai…

(..To be continued., Part 10: “Of Power, Truth and Who”…)

h t t p : / / c l i c k -

india.blogspot.com/2008_08_01_archive.html

In Perfect Harmony

- Mridula Arjun

From one voice it turned to two,

In unison they began,

Beauty in their voices,

Everlasting admiration,

A feel of liberation.....

It felt like running free,

A childish glint appeared,

A sudden gush of heavenly breeze,

Drops of rain stinging my body,

I found myself humming along.

From one voice to several,

In perfect harmony,

The song continued,

Oh! I could go on listening,

To the violins and violas,

The singers and the chorus,

The music spoke to me,

In harmony, I discovered

Melancholy and rage,

In harmony, I discovered

Serenity and rage,

All at once....

The song ended,

The feelings prevailed,

I had nothing to offer in return,

But it offered so much,

All in perfect harmony.

http://blogs.wsj.com/metropolis/2011/03/01/met-operas-music-director-withdraws-from-concerts/

It all began as a silly childhood pastime. Anupama’s parents were music aficiona-dos – everything from Indian and western classical to jazz and rock was played at some point or the other in their house. She was always humming some song her-self, and often got so lost in the song that she had to be rudely brought back to real-ity. Ishwar’s parents were tone deaf, and he had no exposure to any music other than film songs. Perhaps just for this rea-son, Anupama’s musical reveries capti-vated him. Often, he too had to be awoken from his trance when listening to Anupama sing. They lived at opposite ends of the same street, and he would often wait until Anupama walked past on her way to school and then quietly fall in step with her, knowing that she would invaria-bly be too occupied with whatever she was listening to in her head. Then she would break into song in the middle of a line and Ishwar would temporarily be transported to heaven…

Anupama liked the company of this awestruck friend, and she decided to take his musical education in hand. So it was rather a shock for Ishwar when she stopped right outside his house gates and called out to him. Then he was mercilessly quizzed about this or that song, artists and bands until he wasn’t even sure whether he was be-ing teased and mocked for his igno-rance. The next day Anupama sur-prised him again, this time with a tape and a walkman, and ordered him to listen. Ishwar sat through quite a bit of parental ire but faithfully lis-tened to the eight songs on the tape until he was sure he could sing them himself. He couldn’t tell who had sung them and was thankful for the labels Anupama had attached. He ea-gerly awaited her at the gate the next morning… and she didn’t appear. So he took a detour and went to her house, stood at her gate, and with a

SING

silent prayer, sang the first song from the tape. Anupama’s mother appeared at the gate with a smile on her face, and said Anu-pama’s father had dropped her on his way to work so he better rush to school. Ishwar, em-barrassed to the core, muttered a few 'Sorry Aunty's and scrammed as fast as he could. He prayed and hoped his parents wouldn’t hear of it. Or for that matter, any of the other boys at school. He hid his embarrassment behind his books during class hours, but Anupama cornered him during recess and simply said “Sing!” His face probably changed colors faster than a rainbow, but he shut his eyes tight and sang in a quiet firm voice the same song he had so boldly belted out in the morning. When he finished it, he took a moment before opening his eyes, only to see not just Anupama, but half the class staring at him with the most awestruck expression possible. He rubbed his eyes and pinched himself, but the scene stayed the same. He then gave in to a shy smile and a shrug of the shoulders and asked Anupama what she thought. Since then, it was a song a day for the next three-odd years and then, it was the last day of school… Ten years happened with the song-a-day

routine still continuing. They ran through genres, artists and bands and even singing styles. The pursuit of education and mean-ingful life had led them to different cities and countries, but Ishwar was coming back for his vacation and Anupama too had come back to live with her parents. For Ishwar, the plane journey back was a rapid run through all of the songs Anupama had sung for him over the years. He was hoping that life would give him a chance to listen to these songs from much closer. But he’d remember a story he had once read about a songbird that wouldn’t sing in a cage, and always think of Anupama to be that songbird. Anupama’s desire to pursue a creative career had not gone down well in her house, but even so she chose to live with her parents. This inevitably meant that as she grew older, her mother poured more and more marital advice down her unwilling ears, which still heeded only tunes and lyrics. She would spend her days trying to compose a new tune, and decorate it with poetry and mighty though her skill was, she hadn’t managed a breakthrough into a professional singing/songwriting career. She had only Ishwar to share her musical traits with, but to her, it

Ishwar decided to repeat his antic of many years ago and right after ensuring all was well at his house and devouring a much-needed meal, he skipped out. Stop-ping at Anupama’s house, he waited to check if anyone was passing by, and then burst into song. He raced through the three stanzas and paused. Nothing had moved. No one came out. He decided to be more conventional and went in and knocked on the door. No response. De-jected, he slowly walked out and headed homeward. He stopped at his own gate, and decided he wanted to be alone for a bit, and walked around the neighbor-hood, reliving the memories of his walks to school. He walked into the little public garden and sat at the little bench in the gazebo there. He had been brooding but a few minutes when his cell phone beeped. New message…

Anupama’s latest quarrel with her mom, like all the previous ones, had her father acting as a referee. One of their relatives living in the same city had tried to get An-upama signed up with a local music label,

but Anupama’s mother did not want any more fuelling of what she considered foolish ideas. She conveniently forgot the musical upbringing her child had re-ceived, and also passed on. Anupama’s father was helpless – he had silently seen his wife cross the gulf of thought from her days as a liberal, picketing, protesting col-lege-goer to an arch-conservative de-fender of the faith and he cursed his own decision to give up an academic career, which would have allowed them more luxury to travel and, so to speak, keep the mind broadened. To broker yet another peace, he had suggested they all take a short vacation. When Anupama had pro-tested and said Ishwar was coming, her mother had gone ballistic. Her dad took upon packing duties himself and within an hour was driving them away from the city into the foothills. Sadly for her father, the trip was a major flop. Neither her mother nor Anupama seemed remotely interested in the vast vistas on offer, and after gamely pushing his luck a little fur-ther, he solemnly put them all back on the road for another 4 hour drive. No

sooner had they arrived, Anupama was off. Racing down the street, she crashed into Ishwar’s house, only to be told he had gone to her place. Back out on the street, she looked about for him, and de-cided to take a walk herself, uncon-sciously treading the same steps as Ish-war…

Ishwar pulled out his phone and opened the message. One word. “Sing!”

Now, my dear Mr. Ishwar, if you have fin-

ished taping your latest interview, shall

we please leave? We have to be back-

stage by 6:30!

- Raghuram Godavarthi

http://www.flickr.com/photos/19173564@N00/4636844374/sizes/z/in/photostream/ http://www.flickr.com/photos/deathtogutenberg/100816254/sizes/o/in/photostream/

DRAUPADI

Episode 10 - Games at Hastinapur

One morning about six months later, Drau-padi sat with Kunti-ma and Sahadeva on the lawns on the palace and watched as Arjuna and Bhima bowed to each other and picked up their maces. The two heavy men balanced themselves and swung the heavy mace out slowly, so slowly, that when the first 'clang' of contact came, it made the leaves rustle and birds take flight. The impact was not much, and both men recovered immediately and swung their maces out again. Draupadi lay back, resting on a tree, lazily chewing a piece of grass, watching how their feet moved. "It is all in the feet," Bhima had always told her. If you lost your footing, your own mace could come down on you and kill you. Being grounded was very important. "Are the babies' things packed?" asked Kunti-ma. "Yes, Kunti-ma, I personally supervised it," returned Draupadi. She did not relax the lazi-ness of her posture or stop looking at the feet

of the men. "Of course. Anyway, I need to go and sort my things out. My maid always forgets to pack the extra flannel and you know how I hate using anyone else's. Don't stay out too long in the cold, dear." "Yes, mother," said Sahadeva and Draupadi together. The both of them looked at each other and burst out laughing. Of late, she had been struck by how old Kunti was turning - the change had been very sud-den, all in a matter of six months. Her hair had suddenly whitened quite a lot, and were there always so many wrinkles on her face? She also noticed a change in herself, her atti-tude towards Kunti, or for that matter her multiple husbands. It was not like she had lost respect for any of them, but gained more respect for herself. She had always thought Kunti would be angry if she did not meet her eyes or treat her with utmost deference. But

she seemed to get things done better in this state of self possession and confi-dence. And indeed, what did it matter if these people thought any less of her? "What are you thinking?" asked Sahadeva, intruding into her train of thought. Draupadi smiled. "Just how old Kunti-ma looks of late." Sahadeva smiled in return. "Yes, time flies, doesn't it? Has it already been four years since you came here?" "Yes, almost four now. Next year I stay with Nakula, and the year after that with you." Sahadeva flushed at the insinuation. "What, don't tell me you don't like me," teased Draupadi. "No, no, it's not that," said Sahadeva in his slow, forthright manner. "I was only think-ing of how bad all this business must be for you."

"Not at all, I think I enjoy it in a way," she said, and then laughed out at the horrified expression on Sahadeva's face. "Now, now, don't look so shocked, or else I will have to pretend to be shocked at myself too. It is what life has thrown at me, and I might as well enjoy it while I am here." Sahadeva paused as if he was trying to say something very difficult. Draupadi turned towards the fighting men who were now working up a fine sweat trying to displace each other. ""Draupadi," started Sahadeva, "When you came here first you were such a young girl, so fresh and...and pure...you were so happy. But now, for all your talk of enjoyment, I can sense that you are un-happy. I know that you are angry with Kanha for getting Arjuna married to Sub-hadra. And now, you are talking like this. This kind of cynical bitterness does not suit you." Draupadi rose her eyebrows. "Is it that obvious? Very well, you are right. I am an-

gry with Kanha. He was one person who I thought would look out for my happiness, but that is not true. It looks like the only person who has to be responsible for my happiness is myself - not you or Yud or Bhima or Arjuna or Kunti-ma. I am neither cynical nor bitter, just realistic." "But I want you to be happy Draupadi," said Sahadeva. "Why else would I ask you whether everything is fine with you?" "Sahadeva, you say you want me to be happy, but why were my desires never taken into account all this while? How else could I be happy?" She cheered loudly as Bhima sent a well aimed thwack with his mace at Arjuna's leg. Arjuna rallied, and got on to his feet, still unsteady. Draupadi continued: "It is obvious that when you and your brothers married me, it was more for my family connections than for my own sake. It was to preserve unity be-tween all of you that I had to marry not one man but five. I did not rebel then, be-cause I was too diffident. I cannot rebel now, because my life is entwined too

closely with all of yours. I have two chil-dren. While all of you have other wives to give you more children, my sons will never have other fathers. So I try being happy with what I have." Sahadeva remained silent. Draupadi then asked, after a pause: "Since we are talking so plainly, let me ask you - do you judge me for not being equally devoted to all of you?" Sahadeva was quick in his response. "Of course not. It is not humanly possible, and besides, all of us not not equally de-voted to you either. You are right, this was a marriage of convenience. These things tag along." Draupadi relaxed again and smiled. "How are you so forthright and radical for someone so young, Sahadeva?" "Because only two things can turn a man's mind," said Sahadeva, displaying the first sign of playfulness in the conver-sation. "The first is power and the second

is woman. I am neither powerful enough to want to lust after more power, nor do I think I am sufficiently in love with you, yet." Draupadi giggled. "Well, well, let's see what we can do about the last part in a year's time." Before Sahadeva could answer, Bhima let out a huge roar as Arjuna fell to the ground panting. It had been a good con-test, but towards the end, it had turned into one of endurance, not just sheer strength. Bhima had won. Both men come to where the attendants waited with cool towels and water. "We are go-ing to cream them," said Bhima, with a glint in his eye. "Arjuna is getting so good, almost as good as Duryodhana." "While you are certainly nowhere as good as me at archery," muttered Arjuna, only to have a good natured blow aimed at his face. "So are we going to Hastinapur tomorrow

to fight?" asked Draupadi, raising her eye-brows. Bhima laughed. "Not tomorrow. At least I hope not. We are just going to be playing some namby pamby games. But soon, I promise y o u . . . s o o n . " __________________________________ The reception at Hastinapur the next day was cool. None of the Kaurava women were there. Instead, the elders were there to welcome them, gripping arms and slapping shoulders. Draupadi folded her palms and silently acknowledged the presence of Bhishma, Vidura and Shakuni, and spoke a few words to Dhritharashtra. The men looked older to Draupadi too. It was as if a sudden onset of aging had swept through the kingdom and had left the older ones among them with silver hair. "How are the children doing?" asked Dhri-tarashtra. He touched the face and hands of the infant while Draupadi held him up to the blind king.He laughed, and then said "Lots of hair," and rubbed his own

semi-bald pate. Everyone in the hall laughed. "My brother was the handsome one in the family, with lots of hair." "Yes, we lost out there, but we are lucky where it really matters," said Duryodhana as a rejoinder, flexing his muscles. Dhrita-rashtra looked anxiously towards him and then at where the Pandava brothers might be standing. Bhima had one arm on his sword already. Bhishma laughed immediately "Good that we don't need to fight games of strength to play a friendly game of dice. Come in, dear children.This should be fun." An attendant came in immediately to es-cort the ladies to their own chamber. ___________________________________ Bhanumathi welcomed Draupadi and Sub-hadra with open arms. "What is pleasure it is, to see you girls here," she said, making them sit by her side. "I cannot imagine that in all these years you have never been to our home.And you must be Subhadra," she said, smiling kindly.

"It is very nice here, sister," replied Sub-hadra. She was a thin, tale, pale girl, her long, thin hair hanging down her back in a twisted braid. Her big eyes darted around the room shyly, taking all the beauty in. Draupadi sat by her side, her leg tucked below her, clearly at ease in the grand bed-chamber, and with Bhanumathi. "Why, bless your heart. How is your dear brother doing? I was expecting him for the games today," said Bhanumathi to Sub-hadra. "How good this woman is, trying to make Subhadra feel at home" thought Draupadi to herself, her fondness for Bha-numathi growing. "No, sister. He would not be able to come today because of some work back in Dwaraka. I was so disappointed too," she replied. "Yes, I would have really liked to meet him. He is very fond of me, you know, even though my husband has been very blunt to him at times."

A roar from the front hall reached them at this point. "Oh! They must have started," said Drau-padi, stretching herself on the divan and yawning like a cat. "You look very tired, Draupadi. Do you want to take a nap?" "Why, yes, Bhanumathi. Will you wake me up for dinner? They will be done with the games by then. Hopefully these boys would not have lost much. Sigh...these hot after-noons," she said, and curled herself up into a little ball facing the wall. She then re-moved a hair ornament, and let her long flowing, thick hair trail behind her, drop-ping to the floor. Bhanumathi laughed at her and said, "Well, I will show Subhadra the garden and maybe then she could take a look at the oil painting I am drawing right now? I under-stand that you like art very much..." But Draupadi had already fallen asleep, and

soon floated in a happy land where deer and peacock feathers came in and out. She dreamt of a sunny day in a meadow, where Sa-hadeva and Bhanumathi came, calling for her, "Sister, sister.." She turned around and ran, gathering up her skirts. They followed her running. 'Sister, sister...wake up..." But wait. Ghat could not be right. Wake up? "Sister!" The insistent voice sounded again. She awoke to see the frightened faces of Bhanumathi and Subhadra. "Wake up. They want you there. Wake up..." Draupadi opened her eyes, bewildered.

- Manasa http://www.srimeru.org/balavihar/krishna.html http://nupur-khurana.blogspot.com/ http://duniasa.net78.net/dice.htm

The Devil’s in the “Shruthi” Nivethitha Kumar My parents always favored my sister more. There, I said it and I have no issues saying it. She was the more prettier one, she was better with studies, she was the obedient one, she was their perfect little daughter who would do everything they wanted of her. Ask them about world peace, they would not put it past her. And on top of it she sang, and she sang like a nightingale.

Like every other dutiful tambrahm* household, our par-ents too sent us off to learn carnatic* music at the age of 5. When I showed more interest in playing with dolls or kids my age my mother was heartbroken.

“Why cant you be like your sister,” she would say.

When I responded to that by trying to give my barbie a bath, she would take the doll away from me and ask me to follow my sister's footsteps, who for some reason took to singing like oil to fire. After a few weeks in to music class, the teacher and I came to the same conclu-sion. I sucked and had no sense of shruthi* whatsoever.

Image Credit:http://hubpages.com/hub/South-Indian-Classical-Music.

We had both made our peace. It was my parents who were beyond consolation.

“But how?” they kept asking me and the instructor. In an attempt to save the poor instructor from more tor-ment, I immediately started in to the latest taatu varisai* that we had learnt. The abaswaram* finally got to my parents and they took pity on the instructor and the rest of the class. Taking me out of the class would be a great favor to bestow upon them. My parents did that much to the relief of everyone in the class. Alas for me, if I had any hopes of going back to what normal kids my age tend to do, play, I did not know my parents fully well.

There can be no tambrahm* household without music and dance. When my parents realized I had no talent for music, they took me straight to a dance school. So all my weekends and a good portion of my weekdays were now spent in dance practice. I don't know if it was the intention to please my parents or to not feel absolutely lacking in the arts department, I somehow started faring better in dance than in music.

Now my parents were relieved because they had been dreading another call from the dance teacher. But they were nowhere close to being as elated as they were for

my sister. It was more of a saving grace. When we had relatives or guests over and they asked pointing to us,

“So, what do these kids do?”

“Med school!” or so, I would have loved to say. Really what sort of a question was that, kids aged 5-6 don't do anything, they wake up, eat, talk, play, sleep, eat, play more and sleep. That is all that is really required from them. But no, not us, the super babies that we were.

My parents would very proudly showcase my sister first and ask her to sing a song. Her songs became better and better with age. She sang Geethams* with ease, var-nams* with grace and kirthis* with aplomb.

She was very good . So once she gave this magnificent performance, all eyes would turn to me and they would have this “How are you going to top that, you poor poor thing?” look in them. As luck would have it, I had really thick skin. However my parents, in order to not lose face and follow up a super talented daughter with an also ran, would talk proudly albeit a little fake about my dancing prowess. .

Taathu Varisai: One of the many initial parts to cover before graduating to the higher levels.

Now see, I really was good at dancing. But there is a very practical problem when it comes to dancing in our Indian MIG households. We all had small living rooms made smaller by the scores of absolutely unwanted furniture. Now by the time I could do the namaskaram* in my dance I would have potentially hit the table fan in the corner, the coffee mug in the uncle’s hand and probably stomped on the aunty’s feet.

So me displaying my dancing prowess did not often hap-pen and our guests had to take my parents word that I was good. Most of them eyed me very suspiciously.

Anyways years quickly passed us by with each of us excel-ling in our chosen field of art, making our parents head's bloat up in pride. I was really worried for them. They took the whole thing so seriously that it was actually scary look-ing at their furious enthusiasm during my sister’s mini con-certs and at my dances in school. Then the biggest day arrived, my sister was going to sing solo at the local temple. She had a whole hour to herself and was going to do a mini concert . She had it all pre-pared. Her music instructor had already drawn out all the songs. The varnam* to begin with, two small songs to fol-low that, a big kirthi* with kalpana swaram* and all. It was like a super big deal at my house. The days leading up to it was chaotic to say the least. I am not sure if my parents would have even noticed if I had gone missing those few days. The eternal optimist that I am, I tried to look at the bright side of everything. I used this time to get my report card signed by my dad, escape house duties and play with friends as much as I could.

Kalpana Swaram: Composing ones own swarams based on the raga. Geethams/Varnams/Kirthis : Different types of songs in carnatic music.

Each one generally represents a certain level. You move up from geethams to varnams to kirthi’s . Namaskaram: Traditional greeting in

Bharatanatyam.

Now I am not a mean person by any stretch, you got to take my word for it. However all this attention be-stowed on my sister ever since she was born was getting to me. Really. So I thought - why not play a silly little prank to sort of dampen the spirits a little bit. I mean, after all, some good fun never hurt anyone, right? Espe-cially if its a lot of fun for you and not so much for others. So I did the thing that every less talented little sister tired of seeing her elder sister get all the attention would do. I turned up the “shruthi” a notch on the shruthi box and tiptoed out of the room with no one noticing. With satisfaction painted all over my face, I walked out, with a sense of accomplishment.

What happened afterwards, I did not expect. I really thought that once she heard the shruthi, she would realize it was higher than her usual range and turn it down. But she did not. I blame the situation. She was probably nervous. It was her first time in the stage after all. The result was sort of a disaster. I mean, when your voice breaks at the higher Ri and Ga notes, you know you have lost the battle. I know very well, that being a battle I have lost many times. Luckily for her, my mom ran over and turned down the shruthi to her level and all was fine. The rest of the concert was a huge hit. Everyone loved it and you could hear everyone say “She sang so well, except the first song. Wonder what happened, poor thing.” Unfortunately my sister, unlike me saw only the negative in these comments and refused to speak to me for days. I kept telling her that she should really focus on looking at the brighter side of things. She eyed me differently. Something told me, she knew. Well, as months went by, I was preparing for the most important day of my life. No, not my exams, this was my first dance recital on stage. My parents had invited a bunch of people and I had to prove myself. All those un-cles and aunties whose hands and feet I had stomped claiming to showcase my dance were going to be there to see my dance without any fear of physical pain. I had practiced my routine over and over and was fairly con-fident of doing a good job. My sister was going to sing for my dance. Now when my parents told me this, I was shocked. I mean she was the last person I wanted to sing for me .The reasons were manifold and fairly compli-cated. But they were mostly because I did not want to share my thunder and I pretty much sabotaged her first music recital. So this would be the proverbial sweet revenge for her .

Picture Credit: http://mumbai.burrp.com/images/evt/y/o/yof5by2g_gku_1_300.jpg

I tried reasoning with my parents and then after realizing that they paid less attention to me than squashing the mosquito that was hovering around them, I gave up.

This was it. The moment of truth. It all came down to this. After years of being the underdog, this was my time to prove my detractors wrong. I was going to dance like a peacock and nothing could stop me. AFter all this and more pep talk from myself, I walked straight to my sister who was preparing for the songs herself and told her

“About you first concert…”

“I know”

“I know you know. You always do. Now listen, about today….”

“Dont Worry. We are not the same….”

A huge relief came over my face. She was after all my elder sister, how much love and affection I had for her. She was adorable. Wait, the muscles around her lips were changing shape, those eyes resembled mine more than hers. Before I could say anything she said.

“I could be worse. You will never know what will happen today.” She said.

And then she smiled. What a diabolical smile that was.

Picture Credit:http://www.miradha.com/historia-del-bharatanatyam/?lang=en

Picture Credit :http://www.flickr.com/photos/robwiss/4172345672/sizes/l/in/photostream/

"Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness" – Maya Angelou.

Now, how many of you have felt like this before? I, for one, have certainly felt like this a number of times. When we are swept by strong emotions, what better way to relate to our feelings than to listen to a piece of music that reveals just the way we feel at that moment? And how many of us have certain songs associated with certain memo-ries? And when we just listen to that song, out of nowhere, all those memories come rushing back to us… Or as Ray Charles put it, “I was born with music inside me. Music was one of my parts. Like my ribs, my kidneys, my liver, my heart. Like my blood. It was a force already within me when I arrived on the scene. It was a necessity for me-like food or water.”

Music For Change Prathap Chandran

Music does not only reside inside us. It’s out there. It’s eve-rywhere. If only we take the time to stop and listen. Like birds in a forest taking turns to pitch in their notes, forming a pattern that you could decipher if you listen for a while – A natural Orchestra. Diego Stocco derives music from the wind. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MvuBNRSUUo). Or if you are the romantic kind, watch August Rush, where a kid, the lead character of the movie, can hear music even f r o m v e h i c l e s o n t h e r o a d . Music’s role does not stop with nourishing one’s soul. It is a universal language. And its omnipresence, thus, presents us an opportunity. For peace. There is not a soul that does not get filled with compassion when he/she listens to the words “Heal the world.” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWf-eARnf6U) Neither is a soul that does not hope when he/she listens to Lennon singing out “Imagine there’s no country.” Just imagine. A world without countries. Where people can move about as free souls, enjoying every piece of earth with as much rights as every other person. Where patriotism is replaced by compatriotism. “You may say I am a dreamer, but am not the only one.” Am I? “Playing for Change” believes in this ideal. That the world can be connected through music. If you find it hard to be-lieve, just watch this - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Us-TVg40ExM. The joy that you just experienced, is the

same that I experienced, as everyone who watches this video experiences. It’s just a reminder, to you and me, that no matter what our differences are, we can relate to each o t h e r . A s f e l l o w h u m a n s . A l w a y s . Vairamuthu brings out the message so beautifully, through R a h m a n .

“எங்கு மனித இனம், ப ோர் ஓய்ந்து சோய்ந்திடுபமோ, அங்கு கூவோப ோ, வவள்ளை கு ிபே!” (http://

www.youtube.com/watch?v=FjMs_imWkFM) I hope for a day when we drop our weapons, and lose our false sense of the right to own borders, and get back to the basics. That we are a single race. And have evolved to-gether, from the same ancestors, amidst the grand scheme of Mother Nature.Scott Stapp wanted to escape a dream world where love replaces all hate. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J16lInLZRms) I don’t want to escape. I believe the earth and his dream will become the same. Do you?

The book is a delectable collection of prose and poems. The nine-teen chapters deal with Ruskin Bond’s tryst with the part of India, (i.e., Mussoorie and connecting places) we all must visit and if lucky enough, stay for a couple of years. The easy language and the grip-ing tone of the book transports you to places Ruskin speaks of. However, if you have read Ruskin Bond’s books earlier, you will find a similar tinge of his previous books in this one. Nevertheless, in negligible proportion. The book surprisingly starts with Ruskin’s take on education and the young boys whom he sees everyday going to school. He quotes the following for any determined young person (applies to every age g r o u p ) : We get out of life what we bring to it. There is not a dream which may not come true if we have the energy which determines our own fate. We can always get what we want if we will it intensely enough… Do few people succeed greatly because so few people conceive a great end, working towards it without giving up.

Book Review Series Nivedita

Ruskin humorously deals with celibacy, telling us readers that despite being a bachelor he is a

twelfth man of a large family. Sharing generously, a few pages from his diary in his life in the 1980s, we are slowly enticed into the author’s life during his stay in London, which he vehemently dislikes.

A dollop of Himalayas and then we are introduced to Ruskin’s notorious and interesting friends. In the Chapter “The Songs of River” we traverse the holy , the interesting history behind places. At a

distance of few pages, you find another poem, which is ought to linger in your mind. The last chapters are particularly interesting for writers as he mentions about his tryst with his full-time profession: writing. Battling his expenses and his joy for writing, Ruskin Bond jocundly writes

a b o u t h i s v a s t e x p e r i e n c e s .

My Thoughts: This is a perfect holiday book. For those of you who have visited the part of India (Mussoorie) this book could bring a fresh perspective to your memories and those of you who wish to visit, a surely inviting read.

Book: India I love

Author: Ruskin Bond

Pages: 144

Musical Ties Arul Sirpy

Picture Credit: http://humanityashore.com/ha/archives/34

As I waited, a cold draught nipped at my feet and I whimpered. I shied away from the moonlight. The thick London fog saved me the blushes and I tiptoed, dart-ing between the shadows, occasionally bumping into kissing bystanders and re-ceiving the wrong end of a few well-directed words from disgruntled roman-tics. I plead a rather blighted excuse - this is my first time. I am a trained robber. Though the term "trained" has been used expansively by authors and ambitious movie-makers to great extent, there is no such thing as a trained robber or a well-written Chetan Bhagat novel. There is an experienced robber perhaps; but trained ones are imaginary. Or that is what you, the gen-eral populace, has been led to believe. On the morning of his 6th birthday, a freshly scrubbed Subbu found himself climbing the stairs to a class, occasionally tripping over his already marred-for-life dhoti. His mood was

far from general amicableness as he rang the bell. A tall man, also clad in a dhoti opened the door and led him to a courtyard. There were around 40 kids sitting on the floor, in neat rows of 8 each with a glass of warm wa-ter in front of them. Subbu went and sat next to the last guy in the last row. The ambience was as solemn as a funeral.

Before I reveal the secret whereabouts of the highly secretive and quite non-existent Robber Academy for Trained Stealth (RATS), let me explain my cur-

rent predicament. My penultimate year's summer project was due and I had not stolen as much as a paisa from a blind beggar. Frantic and desperate, I ran squealing to my professor and fell to scraping the skin off his feet. He took a great breath and with some amount of pity, set me this mission to submit as the summer pro-ject.

There was a low mosquito-mating drone from a machine in the corner. The tall man walked to the centre of the room and bellowed one word, "Drink!” All of the kids sitting on the floor promptly picked up the glass in front of them, gulped it down and burped collectively. Subbu acted the perfect parrot. A couple of poor chaps had wet themselves in the process. The tall man continued to bellow, "Repeat after me!" Saying so, he went into a drone that synchronized almost perfectly with the sound coming from the box. Subbu thought he could hear the dying pangs of a crow some-

where.

The mission dossier enclosed exactly one page attached with a scrambled pen-drive. The details covered the location, the item that was supposed to be ex-tracted and a poster of Himesh Resham-maiya for some reason. Taking it from the top, I sincerely staked out the ad-dress. I realised after a month that it was useless; the chap was hardly at home. Next step (according to Basic

Concepts in Spying Techniques – IVth Edition); I earnestly stalked the person in question, shuttling between galleries and concerts all over London and Vienna, using up my entire collection of Ray Ban glasses and specially-customised newspa-pers with eyeholes. Once sure that I had his habits and timings down, I decided to go for the steal. I chose a weekend when he would be out of town for a shady meeting with his mistress's maid. Musicians are eccentrically lame, I re-monstrated. Picking his apartment's door lock was first level Keys and Locks 101. I stum-bled through the apartment, something

not very different from a cow prancing in a ballet, learning an important lesson on the way - possessing a blueprint is not the same thing as understanding it. I finally located his computer and booted it. This is where I hit the first real snag - the pass-word. I sat down and stared at the screen hoping for some inspiration and nothing happened for about an hour. Finally, when I was almost about to lose the par-ticularly well-fought staring match with the computer, the question mark next to

the answer bar loomed away. Like all Facebook users across the world do to the Like button, I clicked it, crossing my digits for some hint. Out popped a rid-dle, The beginning and end of notably everything . My brain started running on V8 cylinders and various images started flashing through my mental projector - Alpha, Genesis, Adam, Eve, Gisele Bundecht, model, aeroplane, Boeing, God, Sachin. And then it stopped. The sheer number of permutations and combinations de-railed my brain and the projector smoked, eventually self-destructing. I realised with a great sense of foreboding

– I was going bonkers. "Saaaaaaaaaaaaa”, he went on. The kids and Subbu chimed in unison , "Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" It was cacophony and that is a rather generous adjective for that sound. That was Subbu’s first music class.

Then it hit me. I gingerly typed two let-ters – ‘Sa’. The computer nonchalantly smiled, blew a raspberry and victoriously proclaimed that the password was incor-

rect. I bally well wanted to tear out my latex head mask and throw it to the ground in dramatic frustration, but it was quite expensive and I decided against the rash act. Slowly, a memory train commenced. It chugged along the course of my life till it ended at a recent discourse that I had with my friend over a mug of beer, on Western music and Carnatic music. I put two and two together and came up with one answer. It all sounded so simple that a 2 year old kid with dyslexia could have done it. I once more typed in, two letters again ‘Do’.

The computer dejectedly booted and I could have run around the streets in my birthday suit, having cracked the pass-word; something significantly better than cracking bad jokes to pick up girls. That was a bad joke. 6 years later, Subbu found himself posing for a group photograph along with his music master. It was the last day of the class and he was scooting off to London for his so-called higher studies. Subbu’s music master had

exactly three words for all of them before they vanished forever from his life, "Always, be original."

I quickly navigated to the file that was specified in the dossier and started copying it. As I waited, scratching my beard, think-ing which idiot would have Columbus as a screensaver, I grew curious. Like Columbus. I opened the file – a wee bit, just to see if everything was intact.It was a musical composition. As I read it, tears welled up in my eyes. It was beautiful and mov-ing. The gentle ebb of the clarinet over the strings, a single trumpet at every fourth beat – it was genius. Ok, whom am I kidding? It looked complex and might have been very beautiful but I had no idea what it meant. I stopped cry-acting and stopped copying the file, shutdown the computer and left the place, dejected. I could have stolen anything, but mu-sic. I went to my professor and told him I was ready to fail this year. He smiled and said, "There are rules everywhere, Subbu", and pointed to a faded photo on his desk. There was a much younger version of my professor and music master standing next to a tall man; all in dhotis. Music is deep; musical ties are deeper. I graduated with top honors the next year.

Manjushaa—Jewelry for every occasion