For the love of Raaja December 26, 2011

Here are four reasons I should not be writing a post about the music of Ilayaraaja.

1)      It is utterly stupid to try and write something about the music of a man, most of whose music I am yet to discover. I am slowly going album by album, spurred on by two friends, both of whom have obviously listened to and internalized waaay more of Raaja than I have. I have a looooong way to go.

2)      Better and more worthy listeners and writers than I, have paid handsome tributes to Raaja. Readers have hung on to every word of theirs, and nodded here and Ah!ed there. I am most definitely not a worthy successor.

3)      I am not a long time connoisseur of Tamizh film music. This means that I cannot compare Raaja’s songs with anyone else’s and draw clever, insightful parallels. I cannot with a flourish say, “And in 1982, XYZ composed ABC which one may indeed say is comparable to Raaja’s PQR!” Readers love such things, especially the erudite variety. They can vociferously agree or disagree, in turn quoting six other songs as a support framework.
(Besides, I wasn’t born yet in 1982. Just saying. Not that the year of birth should have much influence on someone’s knowledge of anything.  Unless it happens after their lifetime. But I digress.)

4)      I am technically unsound. For the longest time, for instance, I did not realize that interludes were called as such. Everything sans the actual vocals falls under the broad umbrella of ‘BGM’ for me. BGMs 1, 2 and 3 describe: the intro to the song, the interlude preceding Charanam 1 and the interlude preceding Charanam 2, respectively. I don’t know my ‘parts of a Tamizh film song’ at ALL. Purists look at me pitying and with scorn. Muttered insults abound.

Okay, so now you know what not to expect from this piece. For those of you who are lawyers and like your disclaimers in black and white: Don’t Expect Any kind of Intelligent Analysis, Deep Insights Of Any Nature, or Any Value Add To Your Knowledge Of Raaja.

And yet, none of these factors though true is sufficient to dissuade me from writing about the pleasure his music gives me.

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For those of us lucky enough to experience it once in a lifetime, true love takes us by surprise, shaking the foundations of our orderly existence and splashing our hitherto dull lives with hues to match the rainbow: the glorious red of passion, the dark green of jealousy, the sea blue of contentment.

Imagine falling in love afresh every day… plunging to the depths of bottomless sorrow, rising to the heights of ecstatic joy, and experiencing everything in between: querulousness, pleasant surprise, gentle flirtation, overpowering anger, dismay, bitter betrayal, light mischief.

No day is like another, and yet every last one glorious.

Welcome to the music of Ilayaraaja.

I have seldom taken to anything as freely as I did to Raaja’s music. I am normally as anti-newness as it is possible for a person to be. Very few songs catch my fancy at first listen. And then there is the ready censure. Somewhere, in a song that the whole universe adores, I must spot a small part where the shruti does not align. Or where the voice wavers. The concept of looking at a song as a whole and not dissecting it, was simply not introduced to me. I am slowly picking it up, and not sure if even should.

One of the first Raaja songs I heard was Ninnukori Varnam. For a long time as a child, I was confused about whether this was an alternate Carnatic take on the popular varnam. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it and the ‘interludes’ were fabulous! I remember trying to master it on the Casio keyboard while in primary school.

Raaja’s intelligence at composition blew my mind. As a small child, I was absorbed with what little I heard of his music from time to time.

When I first heard Aagaya Vennilave (Arangetra Velai) at seven or eight years of age, I was puzzled. The song seemed to follow the meter of ‘rupaka taalam’ which I was somewhat familiar with. This is why. I have tried in my novice way to draw the meter of the pallavi of the song.

1     2     3   4   5   6    1      2       3       4     5      6

aahaaya veNilaave  tharai meedhu vantha thEnO?

1     2     3   4   5   6    1      2       3       4     5      6

azhahaana aadai soodi arangerum veLai thAnO?

So far, so good. But then!

1          2      3      4      5      1           2   3   4    5   6    7
malar soodum koonthale   mazhai kaala mEgamai kooda
uravAdum vizhihale iru veLLi meengaLai aada

The lines “malar soodum koonthale mazhai kaala mEgamai kooda  /uravAdum vizhihale iru veLLi meengaLai aada” followed a 5-7 split metre.  This could not be rupakam because it did not come in cycles of 6 and 6! The world had ended. I grimly looped the song and told myself my taalam was bad. What was the point of music classes! My mother did not seem to care one way or the other. She was happy to just listen. This further irritated me.

I remember being confused for a few full hours  before I realized that it was indeed rupakam and that the sum of 12 can be split both ways: 6 + 6 and 5+7! Simple maths can sometimes seem way more confusing in musical form and add to this the fact that I am no genius. To add further to all this confusion, the interludes were in an entirely different taalam all together: Aadi talam! Once I had the song ‘figured out’ to a reasonable extent, I strutted about, chest puffed out with pride. It seemed then, the ultimate achievement.

But what the mind cannot fully analyze to perfection, the heart can still enjoy. Aagaya Vennilave was and continues to be one of my favourite songs, rendered to easy perfection by a vibrant Jesudass and the splendid Uma Ramanan.

Another song that fascinated me when I first watched it / listened to it, was ‘Oru Poongavanam’ (Agni Natchatiram) – as much for the music as for the cinematography. The beginning of the song was so inventive; if a person who had never heard the song overheard the first two lines, they would be inclined to think they had caught the ending of the song, because of the way it tapers off.

Oru poongaavanam pudhumanam…

Adhil roamaanjanam dhinamdhinam…

Think about it, wouldn’t they make fitting ending lines, the way the tune has been composed? And they form a natural ending for the song too.

And in line with the soft, sensuous nature of the video, the music swathes Nirosha, undressing and dressing her in the imagination of thousands; caressing her every movement, capturing her every mood. Small wonder Karthik is captivated! With music like that in the air, I could fall in love with pretty much any man. There is a dreamy quality to the song that I loved at first listen and still continue to lose myself in, every now and then, as if Raaja had composed it especially for me to listen and revel in.

A favourite that I had heard before, but paid attention to (and therefore truly discovered) only recently is ‘Aaathadi Paavada Kaathada’ (Poo Vilangu). Raaja’s earthy rendition coupled with the terrific catchy tune makes it a must-listen. This song is to me a shining example of Raaja’s intuitiveness while making music. The song is apt for the accompanying video, that of a young lad who catches his love bathing and mercilessly teases the shy girl, alternately flirting and pleading – and yet, it is so much more than a light hearted number; every time I listen to it, I can hear also the woman’s heartfelt, if shy, response – perhaps why each charanam ends slightly more seriously than the rest of the song.

(Bear with my imagination – after all, half the beauty of music lies in what mood and meaning the listener invests it with, at that listen.)

I am now compelled to describe my love of the most enchanting BGM in Punnagai Mannan, a brilliant Raaja musical. We know it only too well, that slightly-over-two-minutes portion of the movie where an overwrought Kamal, tormented by conflicting emotions of love and frustration, commands Revathi to “Clap!” and the proceeds to dance his heart out, initially by himself and then as if drawn inevitably to her, clasping hands with her in tandem. As the couple moves on the dance floor: hands clasped,  eyes locking, bodies swaying, Raaja’s criminally beautiful background score takes the celebrated scene to a whole new level. It is breezy enough for the couple to dance, but heavily invested with a meaning that sends shivers down my spine. Closing my eyes, I can feel my pulse dancing in answer.

This is Raaja adding a layer that did not exist before the music.

Above all the maestro’s perfection takes my breath away. Not one note is out of place. On the fifteenth, and thirtieth listens, each song of his gives me the same sheer, perfect listening pleasure that it gave me the first time I pressed the play button.

Take ‘Unna Nenachen’ (Aboorva Sagothargal). Or ‘Vaana Mazhai Pole’ (Idhu Namma Boomi), recently introduced to me by a friend. Perfection is Raaja is perfection.

To remedy my deficient knowledge of Raaja, I am dedicating a week this year to him. This week, I propose to do a Raaja marathon, only it will be a learning marathon for me. Seven days of sheer Raaja, starting today. I started with the apt Puttham Pudhu Kaalai (Alaigal Oivadhillai). Macchana Paatheegala (Annakili), Raaja’s first number followed, succeeded by Andhi Mazhai Pozhigirathu (Raajaparvai) and Enna Satham Indha Neram (Punnagai Mannan).

I am welcoming the new year with Raaja’s music ringing in my ears. If there is a better way to usher the new year in, I genuinely don’t want to know yet.

Thank you for coming past the disclaimers to read so far. Please do tell me which Raaja songs or albums I should not miss over the coming week. And share your unique love of the Master of Music in the comments section.

Happy New Year in advance.

Conversations December 25, 2011

We lie in bed quietly.

Not long ago we were making passionate love. A little later, we lay back, cracking languorous jokes that despite their entire lack of humour, left us weak with laughter. Passionate argument followed, matching wits, sharpening our verbal knives against each other’s.

And now we parry silence for silence. It is a gentle parrying, nonetheless. The silence is warm with acceptance. It is as if, at this very moment, we accept each other in full measure and wordlessly affirm our choice of the other’s company. It is comforting in a way that words will never be.

Unusually, he breaks the silence. Sing for me, he asks, eyes looking deep into mine. What? I ask, distractedly, studying the colour of his eyes, a rich coffee brown.  Anything. Just sing for me. Not again, you know I cannot sing, I protest weakly.

In truth I love singing for him. To his ears alone, I seem to make perfect music. I can sing without fear of either the errant note – lying in wait to entrap me – or the rusty patch marring my voice; his ear recognizes neither flaw, it reaches past it all to the core of my song, the very core of my being.

And so I begin to sing, a song of love, longing and loss.

I am unsure at first, taking my time, choosing to cajole each note rather than conquer it, placating those elusive notes now with whispered dips and then with murmured rises. He savours it all, eyes closed, following my journey, his brow smooth, his manner unhurried. Emboldened, my voice rises. I begin to tentatively reach out for notes flying at higher planes.

The music, waiting patiently for me to discover it, smiles and gives of itself. What each proud note refuses, music as a collective gives freely, soothing my angst and feeding my confidence. I remember telling him this a day ago – or was it two days? – that music may be composed of notes, but it is not the same as merely a sum of perfectly placed, well-timed notes, sometimes it is not even about notes; music is passion, soul, feeling, emotion, the harsh cry of a bird and the rhythmic thwack! of a woodcutter’s axe, the raw hunger of the first droplet of fresh rain slapping against the eager earth. Music as a whole is greater than the sum of its parts… And part of its magic, its universal appeal, lies in that it can give of itself to anyone, seasoned performer or nervous novice, with the same passion.

There is a rustle of feet in the living room outside, but I am lost to everything but the moment. With each note I sing, his hands respond, hands that seem like an extension of my voice, living the music with me, his grip on my fist tightening as he devours the soaring highs, caressing my palm as I explore the hesitant troughs, our fingers entwining as I touch that glorious highest point in the song, the cry of an exultant woman to the man she loves, my own cry carrying in the sultry afternoon air…

Long after I am done, he continues to hold my hand as if unable to let go, as if letting go would somehow put an end to the music, for he knows – the song has ended, but not the music. The silence is pregnant with the longing that the song bequeathed even as it died away…

To his loving ears my music is perfect in a way that only my music can be. In bed, ridiculously naked, inelegant hair all over the place, lying in the most awkward of positions, I can make perfect music in a way that the most orchestrated of symphonies cannot and somehow capture his heart. He sighs deeply.

We lie quietly. I study his fingers: larger than mine, but neat. I place my own palm against his and he captures my hand neatly, a slow smile dawning.

What are you to me? I ask.

I don’t know, he evades. Why?

Are we friends?

Yes.

And?…

The word lingers in the air.

He pauses, weighs his words.

Then, he starts to speak.

Somehow, I have the feeling I have unleashed a patient storm.

Some relationships have no name, he says. They are best left that way. Words complicate, creating something which is not true. Feelings are the only real entities in a relationship. Every second, we weave in and out of them, gossamer thin strands of relationships. A sudden smile, an angry word, the light, burning brush of your fingers against mine… Small frissons that leave us with the blissful, necessary illusion of a web of exciting, complicated relationships.

I take in a sudden breath as his fingers brush mine to prove a point. Then he squeezes my fingers and I am caught up in the flow of his words.

So much of it is imagination. Who knows what the other person was thinking at that exact moment, I muse aloud. Maybe my smile reminded him of his lover’s and that is all there was to that moment, at least to him… while my imagination leapt sky-high!

Exactly! – he says – and yet we conjure up entire self-deceiving illusions, desperately needing the ties that we use to bind ourselves to the perceived identity of another. And everything needs a name now.  A mere ‘relationship’ will not suffice. Are you seeing each other, they ask. Is he your date for the evening? Are you lovers? Or friends?

As if – he says, a little angrily now –  as if they must be mutually exclusive. Or as if a lover somehow outweighs a mere friend – ‘we are not just friends, we’re lovers’ – fools! he says, savagely.

I stroke his hand. He continues, almost unaware of my touch.

Lover s or friends, they will ask. And if you say Both, a smug smile. Lovers, then, their eyes say. Definitely lovers. So many questions – he pauses for breath – so many questions, some asked aloud and some poorly concealed behind curious, snapping eyes that follow you around, trying to strip you down to your last, naked thought.

He turns to me, eyes afire. His hand is curved around my hip.

I love my best friends passionately – he says – I am my lover’s best friend.

I smile at him, knowing I am both, and more. So much more… that our relationship does not have a name. I am suddenly terribly proud – of myself, of him, of us.

Let them smile, I tell him. Let them assume what they will, for they complicate, they create something which is not true. They are best left that way.

The light casts shadows on our bodies, revealing and concealing, distracting us from loftier matters, and our conversation dies down to glowing embers as it has forever now, and as it will forever hence.

The Dirty Woman December 7, 2011

(Everything here is in my opinion only. You may disagree. I hope you do.)

There are very, very few women actors in Bollywood today who can take a role, make it theirs and deliver a performance that stays with you long after the credits have rolled. The less that is said about the movie The Dirty Picture, the more space that is saved on the internet or on paper. However, the only reason I was able to sit through the movie was Vidya Balan.

I grew up in a time when Silk Smitha seduced the small screen. She was the reason parents in my neighbourhood (and in countless other neighbourhoods) switched the TV channel abruptly in the middle of a song. Given this fact, I was curious to see what justice was done to the character of Silk.

I will place it on record here that Vidya is nothing like Silk – in appearence, in mannerisms, in the sheer veil of sleaze that Silk wore so brazenly. In her most seductive, moaning moments on screen in this move, Vidya is nowhere close to recreating the unique brand of soft porn suggestiveness that belonged to Silk and Silk alone. Well before I walked into the theater, I was disappointed with the choice of actress to portray her, and still maintain that the two are as alike as chalk and cheese.

And yet – I came away with two major revelations.

One – Vidya Balan is a powerhouse. From the initial scene where she manages to outrage an irate neighbour until the closing moments where she confronts grief with a hand that excessive alcohol has rendered unsteady, she lives the role to the hilt – saucy, brash and utterly in control of each emotion. No careless moment of overaction, no one scene where she could have brought just that bit more to the moment – a seamless balance of spontaneity and measured reaction.  Each time she faces despair with yet another chain of cigarettes, you can see the dawn of yet another clever, sometimes manipulative, idea on her brow. In spite of a storyline that should have been burnt at birth, I ached for the Silk onscreen when she broke down, begging for human company, and yet a mere two scenes later, she managed to leave me with a trace of guilty shame – dare I pity THE Silk Smitha?

Two – it is possible to take a role and create something else out of it altogether, fitting it around you to take part of your persona. While I watched Vidya sway and swagger on screen, I managed to forget that this was not the quintessential Silk Smitha – well, perhaps except for a couple of moments when her innate classiness owerwhelmed her intended tawdry portrayal of the vamp. What I did take home however was a new version of Silk altogether – and I liked this one; I loved her intensity, her unabashed defence of her image, her fiery comebacks. This was a different kind of appeal. I came away with respect for an actor who moulded the role to herself, delivering the performance of a lifetime. I tried to think of one other actor of today, any peer of hers, who could have played this role with the same level of conviction. I could find no one.

Well done, Vidya Balan. If this is what you can do with a joke of a movie… For God’s sake, woman, take on more roles!