SHORT ’N’ SNAPPY

Still to stir, post-cyclone

And so Chief, here we are, shaken but not stirred. The Man from Madras Musings also realises Chief your fundamental wisdom in refusing to move with the times. You have refused to take to cell phones, social media to you is a closed book and for all that MMM knows, you may still be typing out your articles with two fingers pecking on a battered Olivetti. How right you are, Chief, for none of the modern day gadgetry worked when Vardah blew us all cross-eyed.

The cell phone network went first, followed by the Internet and then the electricity went. The first and the last limped back eventually, but as for Internet, it is yet to be restored and MMM for instance has been left feeling like Peri standing disconsolately outside the Garden of Eden. It is also rather ironic, Chief, that a confirmed Luddite like you had your electricity running most of the time, your telephone worked and your Internet was restored just a day later while MMM who prided himself on being so well-connected found himself well and truly disconnected.

But to have survived it all is the most important thing and that MMM is glad that he has done. Now he must focus on the so-called post-cyclone -activity. For instance, MMM’s neighbour, who is forever expanding his existing building, making it now look like an uncontrolled tumour, sawed away at a tree that stood just outside his premises. It had withstood the cyclone quite well, but he was of the view that it would be best to be prepared for the next one, as and when it comes along. Several others, MMM notices, are also of the same view and MMM feels that if 10,000 trees fell during the cyclone, at least double that number are now being removed by way of precautionary measures.

What MMM does not understand is why the trees are being blamed. What is not being looked at is the way we maintained them all along. The Corporation, in a mistaken zeal for greening the city, has chosen to plant all kinds of alien species that cannot withstand the winds in a typical Madras gale. Secondly, the civic body has not pruned a single tree in many decades. This has been avoided chiefly because any attempt at some well-meaning pruning attracts negative publicity. Surely our Corporation officials go to barber shops to have their hair cut? Can the same logic not be extended to trees?

Lastly, you have these cable operators – they have been drawing wires all over the roads, tightly stretching and often looping them over the trees. These cables have caused more damage to our green cover during the cyclone than anything else. But perish the thought in case you imagined that new wisdom would have dawned post-Vardah.
MMM looked out of his window the other day to see what appeared to be an Indian cowboy lassoing a tree. It was a data services provider’s employee. He was looping the cables over a tree and in the absence of any tools for the purpose was resorting to the age-old method of throwing a rope up in the hope of it getting over a branch. These so-called state-of-art companies are that only in name. Their services are based on ancient tools such as the lasso, the wheel and the pulley. No wonder they collapse at the first opportunity. MMM’s service provider, whose name suggest Action, has been inactive ever since Vardah hit.

Moving to Music

In the midst of all this chaos, the Music Season is continuing regardless. The Man from Madras Musings has now morphed into a society maama, hopping from sabha to sabha. And what amazes him is the complete lack of standards as to what constitutes an auditorium. These can vary from the Mecca of music at one end, that stately institution which began the season 90 years ago,  to the humblest of -wedding halls with the most atrocious of acoustics. Music is heard -everywhere and MMM has -attended concerts in almost the entire gamut of venues. -Indeed, one of the best concerts that MMM heard was at a wedding hall. But among the venues that he hopes never to return to is in a college building.

Named after a lady of –quasi-royal lineage, the performances happen in what must be -doubling up as an assembly room of sorts for the students, and, therefore the venue has the perpetual miasma of several hundreds of teenagers having congregated there over the ages. The place also must be a venue for audiovisual projections for it is pitch dark once the doors are shut and in the event of a power failure, your only means of escape is spiritual – you shut your eyes and pray. But that is better than certain other locations where, in the event of a fire, your only hope is that it wont be very hot.

The heat brings MMM back to the venue in question. Arriving at this college to listen to a young and melodious artiste who, though born in the US, is now making waves in our city with our classical music, MMM found neither a crow nor a fly in sight, as the Tamil expression is. Having wandered about like a lonely cloud, he was then directed to a fairly empty premises and then, after having climbed many staircases and walked across huge corridors, came to where the concert was. There were three entrances, all closed firmly and MMM having opened the first found that he was actually entering the stage, where the concert was already in progress. Not wanting to startle the artistes, MMM decided to open the second door where he presumed the seats were. Having done that, MMM proceeded to startle the audience considerably, for he was not prepared for the darkness in which the listeners were shrouded. He was also not prepared for the plastic chairs placed strategically to trip MMM over when he opened the door. Having created a noise that sounded like one of those explosions that slay many, MMM took a seat with as much dignity as he could muster.

He was then blinded by the stage. It was lit by several huge lights, all of them of a wattage that could have competed with the sun. These were also of multiple of hues, and when MMM entered, the purple one was at its brightest, bathing the artistes in a fluorescence that made MMM wonder if he had ingested a psychedelic drug. In the midst of this torture chamber of sorts, the artistes were performing – rather in the manner of Shad-rach, Meshach and Abednego in the divine fire. The instruments were wilting in the heat, but not the artistes. And the music was divine. Truly, Carnatic music is an art where you are tried in the furnace.

Tailpiece

And so another year comes
to an end. The Man from Madras Musings, along with his good lady, also known as She Who Must Be Obeyed, wishes you all the very best for 2017. Keep smiling and remain healthy. And let us hope plenty more nonsense happens in our city to keep this column going.

– MMM

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