Culture Club
It’s blowing a gale at the South end of Marine Drive. The cars inch forward and let out the brave souls who have ventured forth to watch an evening of Indian classical dance in the newly refurbished opera house. Umbrellas are blown inside out as we round the corner into the theatre complex. A striking young woman in high heels and a tiny tiny mini skirt draws the attention she is looking for. Long legs wet, hair flying, she enters the hallowed foyer and the temperature inside rises a couple of degrees. The culturerati flaunting their best Kancheevarams and Khadi cottons do their best to ignore her presence. Silver tribal jewellary and mismatched blouses, gajras of jasmine and large bindis make all kinds of statements. I abandon plans to sample the famous cold coffee and delectable chicken and celery sandwiches after seeing the length of the queue. Anyway, the Big Ben tone of the warning bell sounds and I wander away in search of my seat.
I’m loving the vibe of this crowd, very different from the usual western classical music stalwarts, they of the gara sarees and dated suits, the off shoulder dresses and hushed cut glass accents that die down as soon as the house lights dim. Today is all about bright colours and kurtas, shimmering silk and stiff cotton, an audience that whispers even after the concert begins, rustles and sways and keeps time audibly with the wonderful rhythms.
The doyennes of kathak and bharatnatyam, odissi and mohiniattam, thang-ta and manipuri are performing tonight. These are dancers I first watched many years ago, performing in our Madras college auditorium for free as part of the Spic-Macay concert series. They were young and vibrant then, they are older and far more assured now. Some are grey, others are plump, but all are elegant and graceful. This stage, which too often sees sedately dressed orchestras in black and white, is incandescent tonight with the powerful performances of these men and women.
It is a wonderful concert. The mridangam and gattam players are superb, the Naga dancers athletic, the kathakali costumes bring back memories of nightmarish times in standard one, enrolled in a dance class in our early days in Ernakulam when I still only spoke Gujarati and a smattering of Hindi. My mother withdrew me only after I became temporarily catatonic in one particularly frightening and incomprehensible episode involving much rolling of the eyes and waggling of the eyebrows by the stern teacher.
As we leave the concert, it is still raining. An elderly couple slowly makes its way down the side ramp. Elderly is an understatement. They are easily in their nineties. The lady is in a wheelchair, the gentleman, still spry in a starched white kurta churidar, wrestles with an enormous umbrella. Their driver, no spring chicken himself, parks them next to me and sets off to bring around the car. An amusing interlude then follows in a local language. Stop fiddling with the umbrella, snaps the lady. The gentleman ignores her and continues struggling with it. We don’t need it, _________ will bring the car right up to us, she is querulous now. The man sighs, rolls his eyes and catches mine. He smiles sheepishly but obeys her. Then comes the clincher: Bah, younger brothers! she announces in ringing tones, he’s 92 and still disobeys his elder sister. She uses the word didi to describe herself and an image flashes in my mind of a young girl, plaits flying, dimples flashing, chasing a rascally younger brother around the courtyard.
I look away to hide the grin, the car pulls up right alongside (elder sisters are always right), they are helped in and driven away. The rain is slowing down, and I step out into the damp cool night to head home.