My Life... Chapter 7 (Towards Godliness)

Chapter 7, My Life..., Towards Godliness

Bhajan, group singing of God, has been an integral part of village life. All the 18 or 19 villages surrounding Palghat town-proper had their own groups. Nurani Appu’s group was head and shoulders above the rest. Each lead singer in Palghat aspired at one time of the other that his renderings too were as melodious, soulful, and enthralling as Appu’s. His group was always in demand, having performed in Bombay, Delhi, Madras, and other major cities. A slightly distant second was Thondikulam Hari. For some inexplicable reason, my father liked Hari better and invited his group home occasionally for an enchanting evening.

The Vadakkantharai Bhajana group was led by Kittanna. To hail his voice enchanting or haunting would be a misnomer. His normal tone matched the high pitch of T.M. Soundararajan, the then leading Tamil playback singer who himself sang at a high volume. So mike for Kittanna was not redundant but out of question. But a Bhajanai is supposed to be a mood elevator, and from that perspective Kittanna’s voice filled the bill best. Vadakkanthara group got a half-hour or one-hour slot on a couple of occasions in Calicut Radio Station.

        

At least on two annual festivals Vadakkantharai thrilled its villagers with caparisoned towering elephant/s going around in procession. The Nadaswaram troupe and Chendai troupe took turns to lead the procession.  A little behind them would be the learned pandits chanting Vedas in singular intonation and unison, but all reduced to a whisper by the domineering blare of Chendai and Tavil. Then the central attraction – the bejeweled majestic elephant/s with the boys of the village on top, the one holding the replica of the village deity in front, the next hoisting a silk ornamental umbrella, and yet another standing up at regular intervals to swivel what they call Venchamaram to add to the overall delight. (It had always been my innate desire to mount an elephant. But my father never allowed it. On top, he never went on any duty travel so that I could have stolen an opportunity.) Close behind the elephant/s would be the Bhajana group accompanied by harmonium, mridangam and kanjira and of course cymbals. I am not sure if this was a deliberate ploy to be at the fag end of the line so that their renderings didn’t get drowned totally in the high-decibel of Chendai Vaadyam.

Ramanathapuram presented a contrasting scenario. The group’s activities of were confined to Bhajanai on Ekadasis and the early morning ones throughout the month of Markazhi (mid-Oct to mid-Nov). Their accompaniments were bare minimum – cymbals and Kanjira. There was not much to write home about their quality of singing. Nor did they ever get any invitation to perform outside Ramanathapuram. On one occasion they invited the Vadakkantharai group for a Bhajan hoping to get invited as well, but it never happened. 

For the Ekadasi Bhajani there was hardly any sponsor for prasadam. But at the same time the tradition should not come to a standstill. So there was an unwritten understanding that on the days there was no sponsor, Venkacham mama, owner of a petty shop in bazaar, would part with six bananas when he closed his shop for the day. The group in turn would wait for his arrival; and he would be the lead singer for a minimum number of songs. It was a given that we would exchange no side-glances for his tonal lapses nor for taal going awry.

The programme would begin with around eight or nine members present. But the tacit understanding of the core group was that the Bhajanai would continue in full tempo till such time the number got reduced to six. Thus there was no need to split the bananas; each could have one whole banana. This went on Eakadasi after Ekadasi.

The School Master uncle normally went to bed at 8 pm and rose at 4 am. But he delayed his bedtime by two hours on Ekadasi days to attend the Bhajan in the pious hope that at least twice a month a banana the previous night might give respite for his constipation the next morning. Thus it turned out that by sheer persistence he was always the seventh. And the moment he left the Bhajana Mandapam the group would sing Mangalam on fast track and have one full banana each. On one occasion, he left the premises and, as usual, the Aarathi was performed and prasadam distributed. Unfortunately he had stepped out only to ease himself. So when he saw the swift succession of events leading up to our being half way through the bananas, all in such a short span, he flared up at our deliberate and cheap act and swore to expose us to the Village President.

The early morning Markazi Bhajanai was month long. It would be chill and windy in the morning at that time of the year. So it was arranged that by turn one person would get up a little earlier and wake up the rest. Then when ready the group would sing Bhajan and cover the entire village in slow motion. On three or four occasions in the entire month, some benevolent householder would sponsor outside his house a ten-minute break for hot coffee.

All the group members slept in their front yard (Thinnai) to be woken up early. One day it was the turn of Rajai. He came to wake up my uncle Ramachandran. Two or three initial calls, followed by shakes mild to wild, did not elicit any response but just some protesting sounds. Rajai upgraded the level and started tickling and caressing him, when he suddenly felt a tuft. He had seen my uncle only the previous night and definitely there was no way a tuft would grow in leaps and bounds overnight. So he viewed more minutely, darkness despite, and realized the faux pas. It was my grandfather. Later he came to know that Ramachandran had very bad cold and cough and Thatha woke up at midnight and asked him to go inside and sleep, and exchanged place with him. Rajai never came face to face with Thatha for the next ten days.

During the entire Markazi month, they prepared Chakkara Pongal for Neivedyam in the Perumal temple.  A new priest from Coimbatore had just been appointed. The previous Vadhyar was a cinema addict and went regularly for late-night shows. But he never faltered in his duties. On one occasion he however overslept and opened the temple only at 6.30 am – one hour late, that is. And that cost him his job, and he left the village. He was pro-children and used to distribute most of the prasadam to us and kept very little for himself. The new Vadhyar was just the reverse. And we just could not put up with this sudden turn of events. So the four of us devised a plan. After offering to the principal deity, he would go around the temple and offer to the other installations also. Three would accompany him, while the fourth would stay back quietly near the temple kitchen and take a big chunk out of it to be shared later among the four. A couple of days later when it was my turn for kitchen duty, he hastened back to the kitchen half way through saying he had forgotten something – a deliberate police job. I was caught in the act of transferring. But I sped away, and ran into the first house (Babu’s), rushed to the backyard, climbed the boundary wall, and two more, and coasted home. He had seen me enter the first house. So he barged in and complained to the lady of what her son had done. She reasoned out with him that Babu had gone to the pond for a bath. But he persisted. The lady spotted Babu returning from the pond. Gesturing to him, she asked the priest if he was the one who did it. He said, “No, the other; your other son.”  “But I have no other, just this son only,” she retorted. The priest murmured and left in a huff.

Being in a village, I could not escape for long. He spotted me a day or two later and complained to my grandfather. Normally grandfather dispensed with justice on a cash-and-carry basis – on the spot, and with whatever he had readily at hand. But at that time he was sweeping the backyard with a broomstick, and saw me already having taken bath. So he delivered a pro tem justice with a verbal dressing down with a concluding remark, “We also prepare Payasam in our house on all the 30 days of Markazi. Aren’t you happy eating that?” He then shouted for my grandmother from the backyard and ordered her, more meant for me, “From today onwards give your favourite (intending sarcasm) grandson two extra ladles of Payasam, so that he doesn’t steal from the Lord’s house.”

To be continued.

Phoenix

21 May 2012