Spaces

I’ve just come home from a walk down to Sangeetha Veg Restaurant where I had a South Indian thali for 20Rs. On my way, I decided to stop by the dhobi to get my clothes that were ironed. After a minute’s pause outside his usual haunt, I realized that the tiny, nondescript shop that I pass by unseeing everyday, might be his house as well. Wife folding piles of clothes; son industriously ironing every unwanted crease out of existence. Before giving me my expertly ironed clothes, done for 2 Rs each, the son gave each a departing press under the warmth of the coal-fired iron. My eyes turned from the heavy iron, to the sweeping movements of the arms, to the the muscles of the father-son duo that no benchpress or fancy gym could fashion. I looked around and saw the mountains of crisp, perfectly squared saris, lungis, shirts, pants, bedsheets waiting to be possessed again. As I turned away, a film of wetness inadvertently appearing in my eyes, I asked myself, who would I be, if if I put that much effort -- that much of me -- into all that I do?7 minutes down from my house, lining the road by the smelly canal, is a slum. I passed thatchments reeking with the scent of unwantedness. Deep, dark interiors emanating bodyodorcigaretterice. Entrances so short that even small, hobbled, old women crouch to slip underneath. On my way past the crowded row of back-to-back huts, I saw the women, colorful kodoms at their hips, waiting for a few drops of precious water. An image of their lives in those huts flitted through the screen in my head: married at 16, mothers by 17; alcoholic husbands, motherinlawfatherinlawchildren to tend. Birth and Death. Cooking, cleaning. Waiting.
All in a space the size of my bathroom.

Mridangam Class

After nearly an hour’s wait, the shuffling of people hurrying to their feet told me the appointed hour had arrived: The Master Has Come. After gladly receiving the proffered greetings from the adoring audience of parents and grandparents, he looked in my direction and instructed me to come at 10am the next morning.

So the next morning, I went back to the school and sat and listened. Young schoolboys came tottering in, some clearly wishing to do something a tad different this sunny Sunday morning. Most came accompanied by a family member, inevitably a mother or grandmother. In intervals of about 30 minutes, boys were ushered to the center of the group for their lesson. Nervously, muttering the last few breaths of a talam hurriedly called to the lips before forgotten in front of the master’s discerning eyes, they sat. Even the smallest mistake, they knew, would incur a terrible wrath. Wrath not only of the master, but of mother too. Added to it all would be the annoyed titters of the numerous grandmothers who had perched themselves comfortably in the room for the day. No, I did not envy those boys.

It struck me how much the class mirrored the social structure here. At the center of the universe was the glorified son (a dautghter learning mridangam? Unheard of.) taught by a male master. Orbiting around the boy-master duo, was the support system, the cheering squad: the women.

A little boy of 8, with big horn-rimmed glasses and curious eyes, caught my attention. He was pretending to scratch some notes in his tiny notebook, but was actually staring at the boy in the center having his lesson. And whenever the kid under scrutiny made a mistake, the boy would burst into fearful giggles, burying his head in his notebook in an attempt to hide his mirth. Soon, the instructor, annoyed at the kid’s lack of progress, noticed the amusement of the boy. With the practiced look of an angry master, he chastised, “Why you’re laughing at each and every item? Why you’re not concentrating on your own work?”

Of course, this sent me off into raptures, which only further emboldened the little boy and caused me to be the object of the boy’s stares for the rest of my time there.

I waited for about an hour, only to be told that the appointed time didn’t fit so well with the schedule. I would have to come back in the evening.

Evening came. It took about 45 minutes for the master to grace his presence. He slumped onto a chair, and we discussed nitty-grittys. While I asked if I could pay monthly based on the 5 months I planned to be here, he said a lumpsum amount would be best for him. How did Rs. 25,000 sound to me? I almost choked in my seat. That was the monthly salary of a well-paid professional in this part of the world. But how do you bargain with a music viruoso? Extremely embarassed, I quietly mustered, “what about 20,000?” while secretly vowing never to come back. "Done", he said. And, after he deigned to inititate me into his elite circle, he mentioned that the puja formality would have to be done before my class could begin. Did I happen to bring along plate of fruit+flowers+coconuts for this ceremony? Oh, no problem – if I gave the senior student the money he would get it for me.

Half an hour later, the plate arrived. I looked at the bananas, pomegranate and coconut flanked by the flower chain, and thought to myself how amazing it is that these things can be procured so swiftly, so cheaply. That was before my change was returned to me: the plate I had quickly calculated to come to 20 Rs, seemed to have been purchased for ‘only’ 100 Rs.

After answering numerous phone calls, he finally beckoned me to the puja area that took up a quarter of the living room area. The plate looked beautiful, he remarked, “the only thing missing is the money.” Did I happen to have 500 Rs on me?

With my cheeks firing an indignant red, I managed to convey that I only had the 400 Rs that was returned to me as change. After a disappointed pause, he said “200 Rs shall do” after which he added a one rupee coin (for luck) and placed it on the plate.

An elaborate – though mercifully short – puja took place in which chandan was smeared on my forehead, and I was given the 40 second scoop on how musical instruments were in fact manifestations of the Divine. Hence the puja. As the master left the room to answer another call – the ladies hurriedly called me over: did I not know that I had to prostrate in front of the master with the fruit as an offering (after all, he is the Human form of God)? Clearly, these minor protocols had slipped my mind. So, to the bemusement of all around, I offered him the plate, and dropped to the floor to touch his feet, trying, admittedly, to hide my gritted teeth.

And the class finally began. After instructing me on how to sit, he looked at me solemnly. During my periods, he warned, I was to not come to class as I could not touch a mridangam. The reason was that, if I were to touch these instruments – these pure, manifestations of god-- “cracks and tears would develop” owing to the pollution. “Ladies I am not accepting as students. I am having hundreds of students, never girls I am teaching. Even if they are asking, I am refusing.” He was doing me an invaluable favor by accepting me as a disciple. I wasn’t sure why he gave me this speech: was I supposed to feel immeasurably grateful that he had condescended to bestow his attention on me, or just disgusted at myself for being a woman? Probably both.