Last night was quite thrilling. And I almost missed it. The event was billed as Wild Women: A Jugalbandi in Verse. Featuring Alarmel Valli and Arundhati Subramaniam. Much as I love both artists individually and collectively, I was fearful of an extremely avant garde event that would have Valli demonstrating abhinaya or doing adavus to English poetry. Since I had not seen Valli forever and was reconciled to turning up even if she was in track pants talking about Bharatnatyam, I decided to risk it. This was actually, clever misdirection by the duo. The event was broadly based on Wild Women, a book by Arundhati about sacred poetry by and about women.
There were a total of four pieces. The first an invocation to the Goddess with verses from the Devi Mahatmyaham, Mahalakshmi Ashtakam, Subramanya Bharathi's Vellai tamarai and the Abhirami Andaadi. Now, one has heard Vellai Taamarai so many times.. and mangled so often by enthusiastic school children that I have personally become immune to it's beauty. But yesterday with Valli, I discovered the original sentiment once again. Saraswathi is not some Goddess in an ivory tower, remote and unapproachable. She is everywhere even in the most common place. In the vellai taamarai( white lotus) and the veenai naadam and so on. Almost all of it sung by Prema Ramamurthy.
The second piece was called Ecchal( Spit) by Senkottai Avudai Akkal. Akkal was born in the very early 1800s and was widowed while still a child. Her Guru was supposed to be Sri Sridhara Venkatesa Ayavaal, a contemporary of Sadasiva Brahmendra. A jivan mukta , she is believed to have composed over 200 songs in various formats. These songs in turn inspired legends like Subramanya Bharathi and even Ramana Maharishi, whose mother apparently would sing these compositions. Akkal , it is believed went up the mountains near Kutrallam and disappeared without leaving any trace of her body!!
The third piece was from Tallapaka Annamacharya, the 15th century musician, writing not as a devotee of Venkatesa but in the voice of his consort, Alamelu Manga. It was amazing how Valli transformed herself in this piece. From her first steps on the stage for this number, she became somebody else.. playful and capricious. It was in everything, her gait, her hand movements. I have seen demos where an ageing Kalanidhi Narayanan transmuted right in front of my eyes to a coy blushing nayika. And everything about her physical body was forgotten in that moment. Valli as Alarmelu Manga was something like that.
The last was a thillana in Nalinakanti with the sahithya portion by Neelambike the wife of the 12th century philosopher Basavanna. Long after I left the theatre and I was having my Mongolian Rice in the nearby Earth Cafe, I was humming the first line S G R,,, M,, P, N,,,S,,
A little bit about the structure. I am reasonably sure that this will go on the road at least to cities with a large Indian diaspora. The compositions are all pre recorded with Prema on the locals. The backdrop and the lighting is all minimalistic.. no HD screens , no multicolor lighting arrangements.. just some marigolds in the background. So very apt. Nothing but powerful verses, music and dance. If I could be allowed to quibble , I would have preferred a marginal reduction in the sound volume and the percussion sound while mixing. What will also help(when they take this show abroad) is a small pamphlet with the lyrics and translations of the four pieces.
I will now end with my favourite poem of Arundhati's. Especially relevant today on Holi when my household staff is all absent and I have to wash dishes and cook meals. I have long been a fan of hers and am both mesmerised and energised by her words. So much of it can only be described as some sort of preternatural dejavu since I am left bewildered wondering whether she is articulating her experience or mine. So here goes.
Give me a home
that isn't mine,
where I can slip in and out of rooms
without a trace,
never worrying
about the plumbing,
the colour of the curtains
the cacophony of books by the bedside.
A home that I can wear lightly,
where the rooms aren't clogged
with yesterday's conversations,
where the self doesn't bloat
to fill in the crevices.
A home, like this body,
so alien when I try to belong,
so hospitable
when I decide I'm just visiting.
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