Nauka Charitram in Paris And the Moody Mikemen of Madras

           IN 2003, not only were we invited to  stage  Tyagaraja’s opera on Krishna , “Nauka charitram ‘’ in France but got to learn how the French viewed  matters like mikes. At the  Charles de gaulle airport   we were pleasantly surprised to see the mini-van  which was arranged for us,  bearing the words’’NAUKA CHARITRAM’’ on its side. Tyagaraja had prophesied just this in his song ‘’dasarathi’’ in Thodi-- “’Rama you are the greatest rasika of mine who makes my music go to far-off lands”. It was thrilling to say the least. The planning by Mr and Mrs Ledoux of the Theatre- de la Ville was impeccable and had been done two years in advance.They hosted our group of ten in service apartments and took us shopping –no  not for French perfume , but for rice, dhal and vegetables. So concerned were they that we should eat our own food.  When we bought twenty five  kilos of rice  without batting eyelids, they raised their eyebrows in surprise. We augmented this with bottles of ‘paruppu podi’’(dhal powder) and mango pickles. They sure knew that the way to a musician’s heart is through his gastronomy.

As team leader , I had already scored the background music and put together the whole  opera- a tale of the young boy Krishna  and the enamoured Gopis- and their fateful boat(nauka) ride on the Yamuna river.    The  professional attitude towards stage management  in  Paris  at this prestigious theatre  was an eye and ear-opener. Having arrived in Paris with all its serene beauty and having settled down in    in the quaint old  district of Montmartre, I was  informed by Mr Ledoux (our impresario) that we would have breakfast, walk to the  theatre,(a few miles away) do sound checks for some hours, partake of food and rest in the theatre basement rooms , and then perform in the evening.  Quite different from India where we check the mikes only  after the concert starts and where the audience comes only after the third song--- to allow the mikes to settle down – one way or the other.    I gently broke the news to everyone. Being true professionals , whether in Paris or Palani,  we  were used to listening to the organizer, whoever he was.  So we set off ,pulling our small suitcases  behind us , like some gaggly group,   and adjusting our sweaters and scarves. The accompanists were a bit upset  as they had to also drag along their instruments.

   But soon, the winding , busy streets and sights of Montmartre cheered us up no end. There was a clothing shop called TATI  which drew us  all like a magnet. Outside the shop were  several  bins full of sale merchandise,  with lace and satin trim.  We five women in the troupe, made a full stop at  TATI. The bins yielded cheap and lovely items. After forty-five minutes of engrossed searching , we looked up and found the five men missing. As leader,they were  my responsibility and for a moment I was aghast. Tales of lost men and lost passports flitted through my fast, tense  brain. What was the French word for ‘police’- was it ‘polizio’---no-- that sounded  Italian ? Then someone pointed out , trying at the same time to stifle giggles-THE  same  five men were rummaging bins of shirts in the  shop  opposite us . I heaved a sigh of relief and we resumed our walk, all the time praising  Mr Ledoux for having made us walk through a busy shopping area  before a   major concert .  What  a free concept-  coming just after the French Revolution , I guess.  French style is French- style .  Easy does it. No’kutcheri’ tension in Paris.

            The theatre  was beautiful, with  gleaming old wood and rich curtains. A very young  and handsome team of technicians took over and  we were putty in their hands.  Who wouldn’t listen to these young Gods.  If they said high we went high -low- we went low- we were ready to obey these techies who were unlike our sad, ill-informed moody mikemen.  Yes, they were very cheerful and did not make the mikes squeal like our  Madras- mike-wallahs - renowned for their quirks and know-it-all attitude .  So we co-operated  --four vocalists with different types of voices,  violin, veena, flute, mridangam and   ghatam  were balanced , recorded and rebalanced.The five men in the team were not as happy as  us five women.Well- cant please everyone , right?

The  dancer was given the appropriate spotlight when she made her entry- or was it ‘entrée’ in French.  In Madras, if there was a lone dancer in an opera, chances were that the light-man -(cousin of the mike-man) would just not switch on the spot- at the crucial moment –as he would have gone to get a quick cuppa.  Stage monitors were extremely audible , not like Madras where usually we had  to shout and strain due to the lack of feedback. (  And  in Madras   we dare not complain – as that would ruin our career for at least 25 long years-- in exile.) Our places were marked and we were told to retain the  same positions during the evening’s show. Reluctantly  bidding –au revoir’ to the techies we went down stairs . A huge round table was laden  with superb French croissants,  yellow pats of real butter,  jams and jellies, honey jars,  sandwiches, butter-cookies, Belgian chocolates,  fruits, juices, dried fruits  and nuts and elegant coffee services with sweet-smelling milk  in  white porcelain  jugs on the side.

We were stunned . Even in America where we have been many a time, this type of repast was not arranged. There of course, our hosts always ensured that we had  our favourite ‘tiffin’ before the concert and our favourite ‘palagaram’’ after the concert.  Even if we wanted Western food they would not give it to us- why go Western when’ desi’ food was prepared from scratch ? they would ask.  And  eggs and  animal fats are added  in the reataurants , they would warn us with grave faces.  

In America, the land of plenty ,we got to eat at many houses serving ‘potluck’ dinners- and believe me the ladies there are expert gourmet food- preparors. At the end of an American tour we musicians always look plump and well fed, hardly fitting into the clothes we take with us. As badams are plenty there ,we always get’badam kheer’-or  badham halwa . Here in Madras the last time I had it was a’ fake’ one at a wedding- where the  astute cooks  usually grind peanuts to make badamkheer.  When we were kids we used to pronounce it as ‘badhangeer’-for some quaint reason.   Now- -I have digressed enough.  So , in Paris - we ate and ate and even stocked the fruits and chocolates  to eat at night .Then into the lovely posh green rooms to dress up and put on some make-up. These green rooms were surely designed for royalty? Not for us lowly madras musicians who are used to – well- rickety green rooms – painted pink  . I immediately tried out the new French lipstick and it looked great. I was transformed, I thought. And smiled more than usual .

   The concert  was wonderful and the sound-balancing was excellent-not too loud  and not too soft.   The  huge  French audience  appreciated with shouts of’bravo, bravo’ and gave us repeated curtain calls. They loved the sweet voice of my daughter Shubasree and asked for her’encore’.

Post the concert,  odious comparisons started-- with all of us rueing the  state of ‘sound’ in Madras. How is it done in  Madras/?Well,  barring some places ,  mikes are owned by somebody who lets it out to somebody. A third somebody- who is just passing by or visiting, is instructed to turn knobs and sit with bowed head near the  ‘mike- set;’ as it is called- reminding one of ‘set-dosas’ or whatever.  After  a few disastrous  wailing concerts this chap or man  starts understanding that right- turn of the knob is increase and left- decrease.  So, while vidwans clench teeth( real or false) in anger, the chap  twiddles and twaddles for three hours.  His main aim is to turn right  whenever the  appropriate vidwan nods at him slyly. So, when violin nods- he turns, then mridangam , then vocal glares and he goes out to drink energising tea to  face these  free-flowing  fast  instructions. He looks more like a puppet on  strings  when he turns knobs continuously. Wise listeners in Madras  search for the correct spot- which is far from the black menacing speaker and right under a 1940’s  antique  ceiling   fan . Their ’gnanam’  has to be appreciated two-fold. Mylapore   mama   maminna chummavaa?

Then audience participation starts.  A somber lady  with heavily oiled hair,  rust coloured saree  and diamond    besari (nosering)  gets up, adjusts her’jolna  khadi’’ bag  and shouts’—‘’ please reduce mikes or we will all exit”’-  The CHAP is bemused- this is all Greek and Latin to him . he twiddles more and more and there is a huge bursting sound.  Now main Vidwan stops and puts his   palm to his head  and sits quietly- having lost all patience, first with the mike-volume- demanding  sidemen (pakka vadyam )  and then the thumb- twiddling  mikeman.  The assistant secretary  rushes up from the outside gate (his usual outpost) and conducts an one- man enquiry (the usual method for all things in India  be it helicopter  scams or  seat reservations ). Someone else takes over and the concert resumes- though the oily- head lady really exits- eager to go home and eat her ‘ tiffin’ in peace. She also ruminates about bygone concerts of 50 years’  antiquity-also the common practice of elderly music lovers. They never accept the present but always praise the past- saying’’old is  gold’’.In the corridors they talk about old concerts of 1940’s or so and  only then leave for their homes.

\           In concusion  I would say-       Mike-men are  a seperate breed.  They  are all depressed - that’s why they sit with bowed heads. Though they don’t know much , they  feel that its below their dignity to listen to  the musicians or public or the sabha people. They are  , just like the auto wallahs of madras, sticking to their own ideas and generally above the law. One thing they think is that the loudest instrument -   the mridangam- should have the loudest volume.  Then the second is given to the second- loudest – the violin.  Only the third volume is granted to the poor vocalist- and if it’s a woman- only fourth volume- as mikemen have  a gender bias too. See, there are no mike- women? Why cant educated young women take up this profession .?maybe in Manu shastra  the almighty  Manu has banned women from handling mikes .  I remember one line had an unclear meaning-   Maybe this message is hidden in the text- God  or Manu  knows.My research on this  topic will continue and maybe earn me a pHd. Miracles do happen.