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The train was on platform 2 waiting to depart to Chennai. Painful farewells, family vacations, hope, concern, anxiety - It was a cross-section of human life and its vicissitudes. From the far side, a little away from the Higginbotham Book Stores, were seen two dhoti-clad figures. Narayanaswami Iyer and his chela Varadarangan were limbering up the stairs. Rangan carrying his teacher's tambura and their luggage, struggled to keep pace with the tufted silver-haired septuagenarian.

Narayanaswami Iyer had a glow in his face, triumphant that he was able to ward off the rich but painfully ignorant secretary of the music sabha right at the entrance. He always grumbled that all he got was a new shawl and a new title every time he sang in their organization but this time after his concert they had been generous enough to double his remuneration.

Rangan did not seem to partake of the old man’s exuberance. His face contorted into a scowl, after his eyes made sure his teacher was not looking. Generous remuneration or not, Iyer would never be made to part with the money to pay a porter. Even if Rangan had attempted to engage one, he was wary of the endless bargaining that would ensue. The old man’s awareness of the cost of living was as anachronistic as his musical values. And now, Rangan had to carry the baggage all by himself. A child blissfully seated in the arms of his mother was determined to find out what the curious object that Rangan was carrying and tugged at the Tambura. Irritably warding it off, he ran after his teacher, who was glaring at him impatiently.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a huge crowd swelling on one side of the platform. He observed that his sharp guru had also figured out who the center of that commotion was. Iyer was certainly not pleased by what he saw. The moment he set his eyes on the fellow-musician, ( It would be blasphemous to his guru’s ears to even call him a fellow musician) he turned around facing his shishya and chided him for making a delay and asked him to hurry up. By sheer shoving and pushing, they managed to get past the crowd and into the ravines of the air-conditioned compartment. Rangan settled down in his seat and looked towards Iyer to make sure he was comfortable and his box of betel nut leaves was accessible to him. He could hear him mumbling something about the advantages of anonymity.

Rangan was now engrossed in exchanging furtive glances at a bevy of young girls. Much to his chagrin, an old lady interrupted it and came close to where they sat. She wanted to find out if it was indeed the veritable Narayanagaula Narayanaswami Iyer she saw. She could not believe her luck at meeting a celebrity face to face and started singing his eulogies and reminiscing of the concert that Iyer gave in 1965 in the Kalpatti Vishvanathar Temple accompanied by Kuttalam Krishna Iyengar. Iyer’s face lit up and he nodded his head beaming from side to side. Just as he was basking in that miniscule moment of the glory of recognition the old lady's son came by and whisked her away to their compartment and profusely apologized to Rangan and Iyer for his mother’s senility.

Irritated that his one moment of recognition too was snatched away, and not wanting to look outside, Iyer now pretended to close his eyes. Varadarangan ventured to look out of the window boldly. There was the dignified Shanta kumar the greatest playback singer in South India. Frenzied hands were seeking his autographs and his secretary had to intervene and ask the singer to board the train. With earnest entreaties and folded hands, Shanta kumar was taking leave of his fans. Iyer opened his eyes and he started humming snatches of sahana. His razor sharp eyes caught Rangan gazing steadily at Shanta Kumar. He immediately started mumbling about the futility of being a Sangita Kalanidhi and looked at Rangan and snidely remarked that he needed to learn the ways of the world. Iyer again closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

Shanta Kumar was now inside the compartment. As he walked in, his eyes rested on the great man. For one weak moment he felt like he wanted to rush in and fall at the feet of the great master. But his instinct and ego knew better than to feed the paparazzi. He also noticed that the old master was sleeping. He slid by quietly and occupied his seat, which was a few rows away. The signal turned green and all the faces in the windows faded away. The ticket collector came and went. Time ticked by. In the reigning silence two minds ticked silently.

Shanta Kumar's head was a cauldron. Life had offered him fame and fortune yet he sought something else, something that Iyer alone had. He tried to go back to sleep but the jarring voice of the Mylapore connoisseur kept ringing in his years, " Saar, Anyone with a good voice can sing in 300 movies. These playback singers are mere performing monkeys in the hands of music directors. Now Look at our Narayanaswami Iyer. He is the direct descendant of Tyagaraja. Can anyone sing the raga Narayanagaula like him with not even an iota of Kedaragaula sneaking in? Our music lives because of musicians like Iyer"!

The crowds that thronged his concerts paled into insignificance when variations on this theme resurfaced every now and then. He yearned to be part of the very circles that eluded him while the masses were at his feet. A tiny voice in the back of his head tried to convince him that he was being irrational and that these trivialities should not bother him. But they did and he could do nothing but mope around and wish that pedigree and class would be his in his next lifetime.

A few seats away another train of thought chugged along in the tracks of Iyer’s head. Here he was – A complete financial failure at 73. His son had recognized this early in life and preferred to stay as far away from music. A successful steady employment as a bank manager and Iyer made sure he stayed away from music. Even his grandson laughed at his old diesel-guzzling white ambassador car. He felt a sharp stab of pain as he nostalgically remembered being filled with pride when he could finally afford a great car. That car had ferried so many musical greats and could write a best-selling musical memoir. Even Shanta Kumar’s dog would refuse to sit in – Iyer ruminated vehemently. All this was due to the rigid principles and discipline that his father bequeathed him. All he could remember of his childhood was how he would be woken up at dawn, forced to run to the banks of the Kaveri river and expected to start practicing his music.

He recalled bitterly how he was flogged for singing charukeshi raga mixing it with a little shades of the latest movie song. Arguing with his father that many other reigning carnatic musicians sang in films did not help his case. Hardened by this rigidity and sternness he made it into a lifestyle and had realized that he could never aspire to be the suave marketing machine that he had wanted to be. A lifetime of discipline, plodding and inflexibility - It earned him nothing except the attachment of a raga prefix to his name. His father had narrated to him the legendary tale of Todi Sitaramayya who pawned the raga for money. Gone were those days and he remembered that tale being the butt of his banker son’s jokes. All he could take with him to the grave were a few mouthfuls of praises from Mylapore connoisseur and the old lady whom he met today. But they too were belittled as anachronisms and senilities in today’s world. Today, whenever he got some press, he cautioned young aspiring classical musician against singing for films. That was his revenge. He thought to himself, “If at all I should be born again, God, Grant me a life like Shanta Kumar – A life of fame, fortune success”.

All this while, Rangan was looking intently at his teacher who was tossing and turning. His eyes immediately looked at the other side. Shanta Kumar was perched on his berth with a book and pocket light and was gazing emptily at the ceiling. Rangan smiled wryly.

The train had picked up some speed. Concrete structures had given way to thatched roofs and fields. The grass indeed looked greener from a distance. He looked out of the window and saw a huge pool of water. Twilight had enveloped the greenness of the grass and the murkiness of the water. Where did the field end and where did the water begin? It was difficult to tell. He did not realize how long he was sitting thus staring outside. Suddenly the train slowed down. They were approaching a major junction. Both Iyer and Shanta Kumar were deep in slumber. And Rangan was still trying hard to go to sleep.

Photo Credit: http://www.jwlb.com

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