Oct 15, 2015 Culture, Ramblings and Musings

As a young teenager, I used to wake up to all the songs on this album, and this one always moved me deeply, both for the beautiful pentatonic scale (1, flat 2, 4, 5, flat 7, 1 – or, Do, flat Re, Fa, Sol, Flat Ti, Octave Do –for those who want to know) of Revathi Ragam and MS Subbulakshmi’s heart-moving singing.

Tears sting my eyes now, as I listen to this, and it’s impossible to tell why — I mean I hardly know anything about this song, nor do I understand the words (it’s in Telugu, not my language).  What this song does for me is to recreate an entire way of life, along with the song itself.  It’s ringed about with devotion and quiet contemplation.  It’s redolent with the scent of sandalwood or champa, or amber incense sticks which my parents would light in front of the gods in the mornings on festival days.

It reminds me of when I was a two-braided student, ugly, earnest and geeky, worrying about the shape of my toes and fingers, and practically everything else about myself.   It was hot, hot as an inferno down South where we lived, and the air shimmered with salty heat.  Sweat and humidity were part of simply being alive there.  And we were SO alive, so full of vivid and vibrant energy!  My father was alive back then, my parents were happy, my brother was an adorably charming, beautiful little toddler, and my sister was at IIT, singing like an angel, and studying and making new friends.  And life was simpler, and I longed to grow up and face the world and make my own decisions, and … here I am now.

It reminds me of Tamil cultural events happening in my neighborhood, of the singing teacher next door, out of whose open windows would come the sounds of students earnestly learning Carnatic music, and being mostly in tune.  I’d sometimes go to the terrace, to play at being a schoolteacher, and talk at the top of my pre-teen voice to unseen students, while I waved a branch from the drumstick tree that drooped over the other side of the terrace.

It reminds me of my mother’s exquisite singing voice, as she sang along, while making Madras coffee (the best filter cafe au lait in the world), and our breakfast.  My mother’s voice contained in it (and still does, even if she doesn’t sing much any more) worlds of longing, of devotion, of pain, of contentment, of love and sacrifice.

On a more gustatory level, this song reminds me of upma, and dosai and idlis, and tengai chutney, sambhar, and rasam, and kootu, and porutcha kozhambu, of chakkarai pongal and venn pongal, and gotsu, murukku and ten kozhal, and patchadi, and  … and temple bells, and marigolds, and of starry-white clusters of blooming jasmine and other swoon-inducing flowers in our garden.

It reminds me of Sunday mornings, when I’d lie in bed and read Tennyson, or D.H. Lawrence, or Jung … for FUN!  Or, when I’d read the Oxford English Dictionary — for FUN!  Or wrote poetry — for FUN!   Or, played the guitar — for … well, you know.  (Yes, I had no life, I’m sure!)

And it reminds me of how music always, always speaks to me.

An entire culture and way of life, and I don’t have it here, in these benighted States!  And the sad thing is, I don’t even try and seek it.

Because, I say to myself, I’ve created my own culture — with our own music (Indian and Western), our home-grown fresh food, our own cadences, our own lovely day-to-day routines.  Because, I say to myself, I dislike following rituals, dislike tradition which forces me to do more work than is necessary (and yet, we celebrate Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas in a vegetarian fashion).  Because, Indian culture is hard to follow in a foreign land without getting together with a bunch of traditional people, and that has its own baggage.

And yet … I want my daughter to have it all, too.

All mothers want their daughters to have the sum total of their life’s experiences without the pain, or the sweat, or the tears, or the doubts, or the poverty, or the fear of what tomorrow might bring, or the heartbreaks and losses.

Ah well!  Someday (soon, I hope), I shall resolve this matter.

_______________________________________________________

Tags: A way of life, culture, festivals, Indian culture, M.S. Subbulakshmi, music is life, North Indian Classical Music, Revathi Ragam, tradition