“Well, may I go now?” asked Thangarasu.
“All right …”
“What will you do about dinner?”
“I’ve brought bread and biscuits. If you could just have some milk sent to me …”
“On a daily basis?”
“Let’s see. Let me settle down first.”
“I could bring ayya dinner,” said Velli. “But he is a Brahmin, so he won’t eat meat curry.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage,” Kalyanaraman assured her, handing her three rupees as promised.
Thangarasu was horrified. “Three rupees? Don’t spoil her like this!” he protested.
“Che, she has carried the suitcase such a long distance, Thangarasu. Please come tomorrow morning. I need to meet some people from the village who are familiar with music.”
“I will bring them, ayya. So I will see you tomorrow.”
“I will also leave now, ayya,” said Velli.
Kalyanaraman watched as the two of them walked away. Velli had a spring to her step, and the tinkling sound of her anklets lingered in the air awhile.
Kalyanaraman sank back onto the bench, feeling somewhat overwhelmed. “My God! I’ve left civilisation far behind and landed up here, virtually a prisoner, in a zamindar’s mansion. Now everything is unfamiliar … new faces, new environment. I’ve overcome quite a few obstacles to follow my passion for folk music … its lyrics, its musical structure. How many days will I have to spend here?”
Kalyanaraman was unlike other young men. He was an introvert who spent most of his time immersed in his own thoughts. When other young men were taking up college courses in engineering, medicine or law, he had opted for a degree in English literature. When others were writing entrance exams to enter the IAS or to land a plum job at a bank, Kalyanaraman was studying music. When others got married and posed for the photographer’s flashbulb, he was studying Tamil literature. He took lessons in Western music from an Anglo-Indian teacher and applied himself to the intricacies of semiquavers and major and minor scales.
He encountered a folk song quite by chance on the Chennai station platform. It was late at night. A woman from Sivagiri who had migrated to Chennai hoping to make her livelihood in that city was singing to her little daughter. The child lay facedown on the platform while the mother patted her back and sang a lullaby:
My king, my dear one, my lord,
Where have you been all this while?
I was hidden during the month of Maasi,
I was swathed in dense rain clouds;
After the month was over
I arrived to visit Mother!
Kalyanaraman stood mesmerized as he listened to the woman’s song. Its sentiment, lyrics and elegance; its universality and popular appeal; its simplicity, its captivating melody …
That was the day Kalyanaraman’s folk music odyssey began.
He went to the Tamil Research Centre in Adyar where a professor was collecting folk songs as part of a research grant project. As it happened, the professor needed an assistant. The timing was just right, and Kalyanaraman had found his niche. So here he was on his first research trip.
He opened his suitcase. Cassettes; a tape recorder; shaving items; several strips of tablets of various kinds to cover all health issues that could possibly arise; books to devour; toothpaste; a photo of his late sister; a few pots and pans (he had planned to buy a stove and do some cooking); a small coffee filter; coffee packets; chocolate bars … uh … oh … he could have given Velli some chocolate. He felt a stab of longing in the pit of his stomach.
Click. When she had turned at his call he had clicked a photo. Her glance at that moment was of one who is confident in her own beauty. Oh, the curve of those breasts! They swayed gently with her gait because she wore no inner garment. Who the hell was that wretched Marudamuthu!
When I handed her those three rupees, I could have at least touched her hand …
Such thoughts were visiting Kalyanaraman’s mind now after a very long time.
“Che, stop it!” he reprimanded himself. “I’m here on a different mission.”
He picked up the guitar, tightened its G string and plucked it. “Daang”, it sang in Velli’s voice. He dusted off the bench, sat down and played a couple of chords on the guitar. G, A7, G, A7 … the notes resonated in the room. He raised his eyes … and received a jolt. A head had appeared in the window! The moment he realised he had been spotted, the little boy who had been peeping in took to his heels. Kalyanaraman laughed to himself in relief.
He left the room and came out into the hall. A few ancient green chairs stood around. A marble slab bore a kolam shaped like a swastika. On a wall hung a framed citation: “This is a citation of welcome to Maha Sri Papparapatti, Mempatti, Vempatti Zamindar in the poetic format of aruseergazhi nediladi aasiriya viruttam …” It was a paean of praise from a long-departed poet to a long-departed zamindar.
Kalyanaraman approached the staircase. A strong odour of bat droppings assailed him. Dust everywhere. He climbed slowly, arriving at a balcony. More steps led upwards. Another floor. And from the head of those, a flight of wooden steps welcomed him. They led up even higher to the topmost domed courtyard. Why not try those too …
“Creech … creech …” the wooden steps creaked and even swayed slightly. He arrived safely at the top near the small mandapam. A stiff breeze blew across. In the distance a goods train chugged along. The whole of Mempatti was on view from up here. The pond, the temple. In the far distance, near the banyan tree where he had met Thangarasu, a puff of dust announced the passage of a tractor.
Kalyanaraman decided to explore the mandapam. Built in the shape of a pentagon, it had seating accommodation and floor tiles decorated with kolams. But wait … what were these on the floor? A few cigarette butts! The filter lengths on them were unfamiliar to him. What brand could they be? He picked up one of the butts and looked closely. State Express! Who could be smoking these? In a village like this, inside the decrepit house of a zamindar, and that too right on the top floor, someone smoked State Express cigarettes! It was a mystery!
Now the tractor appeared to be heading straight towards him. He went downstairs and out of the house. Nature’s preparations for sunset were visible on the western horizon. Presently, with a noise like a huge metal bird flapping its wings, the tractor came bouncing along. As it came closer, it became clear that there were two people inside. In the bucket seat was a young man; seated on the mudguard of the rear tyre, and clutching the young man firmly was Velli! Kalyanaraman’s heart sang.
Excerpted with permission from A Mystery Set to Music, Sujatha, translated from the Tamil by Malini Seshadri, Bloomsbury India.
