Farewell (for now) to Aranmula

Karnatic vocal classes and beginning karnatic violin!

In the office building of VKV sits an enormous and exquisite stringed instrument, a South Indian sort of sitar, known as a veena. Never touched apart from an occasional dusting. Every time I enter the office, this instrument—soundlessly—calls out to me. I came to India with the goal of learning how to play the sitar, but after arriving in Kerala and discovering that hardly anyone around here plays the sitar, I set my sights on the veena—I set my sights on the thing every day. But alas, apparently the only people who play and teach veena around here live 3 hours away in the Kochi or Trivandrum. O.K., I’d be happy settling for any Indian stringed instrument. But even though the VKV cultural school has an impressive list of over 15 traditional Indian art forms for students to explore, alas, there are no stringed instruments on the impressive list.

The longing to learn some sort of Indian stringed instrument, the once-in-a-lifetime occasion of being here, and the office veena always enticing me, compelled me to act against my nature and persistently pester the VKV staff about whether it would be possible to for me study sitar, veena, violin—any instrument with strings—while I’m here. (Several other current and past students have studied subjects absent from the impressive list. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked). I even decided at one point—once I was finished with my painted of Ganesh and was ready to switch subjects—to show my determination and to develop an ear for the kind of music I’d be learning on a stringed instrument by taking a couple weeks of karnatic vocal music.

My study of Karnatic music (traditional Hindu devotional music, South India style) began with the basics: singing scales. Well, here scales are known ragam. And there are 72 of them, these ragam or keys, each with notes arranged in different ascending and descending orders, each having at least 15 offshoot ragam. And instead of Western music’s “A B C D E F G“ ascending scale, but more along the lines of “Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do!,” the notes of most karnatic ragam are “Sa Ri Ga Ma Pa Da Ni Sa.”

I spent about two weeks becoming acquainted with a dozen or so different ragam and little songs called “geetham” using each, while simultaneously becoming acquainted with Rabindranath, VKV’s vocal music teacher: a friendly if spacey elderly man who would occasionally stand up during class, walk over to the window to spit out a wad of red paan juice (paan is a popular stimulant around these parts comprised of a concoction of betel leaf, tobacco, and lime (powder) wrapped in a betel leaf. Red spots from spitting paan stains the roadsides of India).

And finally, my persistent pestering paid off: they had found a karnatic violin teacher for me, the same man I had seen play on my first day in Kerala. Initially, I was told that Sridat, who has over 50 additional karnatic violin students in the area (along with frequent performances that last late into the night), could only come in as often as twice a week to teach me.

After my first lesson, and after Sridat saw that I actually have some idea what I’m doing on the instrument, however, he changed his mind. I had progressed further during 2 hours worth of violin class than a typical vocal music student progresses in a week’s worth of 2-hour classes. After that first lesson, as I carefully tied the two strings preventing the case of my loaner violin from falling apart, Rajesh (VKV’s head administrator, whose office is just next to the music room) entered and launched into an excited exchange with Sridat in Malayalam. I couldn’t follow what was being said, but the two men looked pleased and I was told afterwards that Sridat would gladly clear his schedule to come in and teach me every day. And perhaps even by the end of my stay (at that point about 6 weeks away), I could put on a performance. I’m not so sure about a performance, but I’m immensely enjoying my karnatic violin lessons and apparently Sridat is enjoying teaching them.

Since that first lesson and impression, I’ve been daily carefully carrying the falling-apart case containing my slightly further-from-falling-apart violin to the office for karnatic violin classes. Sridat and I sit on the floor—the sole fan in the room always aimed directly at him—with our instruments rested along our right Achilles’ tendons. Thus situated, we play karnatic keerthanam (concert songs), ragam (scales), and varnam (pieces played to introduce a karnatic concert) to the background tone of a harmonium (a little electronic box that—as long as we’re not in the midst of a power cut—keeps a constant Sa and Pa chord for us to tune to). Now learning at least 2 keerthanam a week, Sridat and the staff seem impressed with my progress: vocal music students rarely make it past the ragam and maybe geetham (simple songs). Thus they keep asking me, “So, when’s the concert?”

Apart from the posture (which I think is somehow messing up my legs: after two hours of playing in the morning, my right leg and both feet feel numb for the rest of the day), there some other significant differences between violin as played in a Western classical style versus karnatic style. Though the actual instruments are exactly the same (except for minus a chin and shoulder rest on the karnatic model), the music that emanates from the same instrument played in the different styles can certainly sound like different instruments. Whereas in a Western classical repertoire, a violinist might run across a sliding note, or gliss, under a dozen times in over 100 pieces, karnatic violin playing employs some sliding movements with practically every other note. This (and the numbness in my legs) has been the toughest thing to get used in trying to develop a karnatic style of playing separate from my Western classical training and the folk fiddling that evolved from it.

As I am seeing, 2 months is too short a time to tune into the complexities of karnatic music. But what little I am able to learn, whether about the music style or the techniques used to play it, I will bring back to U.S. and bring to life in my music. So I will be a mediocre Western classically-trained / Celtic fiddling-style / karnatic violinist.


Visit to Aranmula’s Astrologer:

There was silence in the room for over 15 minutes as the jodi-shi (astrologer) poured over several volumes of Indian astrological knowledge. And Jodi (a woman from Australia) and I waited in apprehension to hear the insights these books and this ancient knowledge held for us and our lives.

Prior to this stretch of silence, the jodi-shi asked Jodi and me these questions three: “Date of birth? Place of birth? Time of birth?” (I had to call home beforehand and ask precisely what time is listed on my birth certificate). Based on our answers, this pleasant middle-aged man crouched behind his desk piled high with stacks of books compiled a chart of the planetary alignment surrounding our birth. And based on the arrangement of the different planets in the 12 astrological houses, this man told us what effects—auspicious or otherwise—the cosmos could play on our lives.

So what did the jodi-shi have to say about my future? One of his first comments came as quite a surprise: because the auspicious alignment of a certain planet in a certain ascending house, my future will supposedly be filled with financial success. For a person who doesn’t grasp the first thing about investments or savings or economics in general, this came as a pleasant surprise. He also said that the planetary influences on my character make me well suited for a career as an academician. This was not so pleasant a surprise (no offence to all of you outstanding educators and researchers out there, but this line of work doesn’t exactly appeal to me). And certainly these two life-lines—fiscal success and a career in the academia—do not tend to intersect.

Ayurvedic Massage:

On a wooden table whose surface had been polished smooth by hundreds of other oily bodies before mine, I lay completely clothes-less. While the rough hands of matronly Indian woman forcefully rubbed what probably amounted to a liter of near-boiling oil into my hair and bare skin. After two months of staying at the center, I finally found time to schedule my complimentary ayurvedic massage. This was my first massage, ayurvedic or otherwise, and the first time (to my knowledge, at least) that I’ve ever been completely exposed in front of another person. But the comfortable and caring ambiance emanating from Rema massaged away the initial discomfort along with the ever-present knots in my shoulders.

Kerala , from what I’ve heard, is the birthplace of ayurvedic medicine. The unique wisdom of the ayurveda tradition, which in the past half-decade since the fall of the British raj has been regaining a foothold among mainstream medical practice here in Kerala, is a big draw for many of the foreign tourists visiting the state. In touristy towns like Varkala and Kumily, there’s at least one ayurvedic massage center on every block. Frequently full of foreigners. And for many among this type of tourists, ayurveda becomes an obsession, constant topic of conversation. While I find it interesting and moderately intriguing, the continuous stream of ayurvedic chitchat around VKV (which oftentimes sounds like gibberish to me)-- “oh, because my dosha contains to much vatah, having this ice cream is going to be bad for my flow of bile…” etc., is beginning to get a little old. But that didn’t turn me against the appeal of a free ayurvedic massage.

So, after about two months of being too busy to think about my complimentary massage, I scheduled the massage for a relatively free Saturday just after my appointment with the astrologer. Rema, the VKV masseuse regarding whom I’ve heard only rave reviews, led me into through a low doorway into a low ceiling-ed room in the school building that, until now, I had no idea existed. The stone-floored room saturated with the aroma of herbed and perfumed oil. I climbed onto the smooth surface of the wooden slab table and Rema began to rub the exquisite-smelling oil, which was being heated near to a boil in a bowl beside the table, all over my skin and through hair. With the oil acting as a lubricant, the already-smooth table top turned slick and I felt like a fish on a greased up Slip n’ Slide.

This happened to be the day of a several-dozen-kilometer procession: as the pilgrim-full flurry during 41-day festival at Sabarimala Temple ended that day (Jan. 14), the sacred ornaments of Lord Ayappa were being transported from the legendary palace at Pandalam (where Ayappa was said to have grown up) to the temple at Sabaraimala. Sometime along its many-hour 100 km course stopping shortly in Aranmula. I, of course, wanted to watch this procession, and hoped I’d be done with the massage in time.

Suddenly, as I lay there on the wooden Slip n’ Slide, I heard a furious flurry of earsplitting explosions being set off right outside the school building, accompanied by an uproar of what sounded like an angry crowd. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder soon mingled with the scent of the oil. “This is probably just part of the passing procession,” I told myself. But it sounded rather destructive. And I was in a rather vulnerable position.

After what might have been a couple minutes (but seemed much longer) of explosions echoing and the sound of the enthusiastic mob reverberating all around—in the meantime, I took comfort in the fact that Rema looked unfazed—, the outburst of explosions stopped. “Sri Ayappa coming!” she then explained, now that it was possible to hear her voice. A few firecrackers still going off at random intervals, Rema washed off what she could of the oil with a bucket of heavenly hot water—the first hot water I’ve felt for the past 2 months—and a not-so-heavenly scratchy scrub brush. I quickly donned my clothes and headed out—hair still coated with aromatic oil—to watch the procession.

Kalaripayattu Presentation:

Every time I’ve seen a martial arts demonstration in the U.S., it always appears to me as if the sparring sections—particularly the ones involving weapons—are precisely scripted and practiced. The kalaripayattu (a type of martial art that originated in Kerala and is considered to be the oldest known martial art form and the basis for all other martial art offspring) presentation that I was able to see one weekend at VKV operated on a different approach. A different concept of personal safety. And perhaps a lack of fear of liability lawsuits.

For roughly an hour, a group of Indian guys from a kalari (an easier to pronounce appellation of kalaripayattu) studio in Kochi displayed their combat talents developed over years of rigorous training using their impressively flexible bodies (I’ve never seen guys—or anyone for that matter—do such high kicks and effortless splits) and roughly a dozen different weapons ranging from swords and spears to maces and heavy wooden clubs modeled after elephant tusks. With these weapons (and they were the real deal, mind you: the maces dislodged chunks from cement-like dirt floor), the guys were really going at it. The furious swings of their swords and maces taking chunks out of the floor—and several times coming close to taking chunks out of each other. In the course of the demo, 3 of the weapons broke—a thick metal sword shattered (it’s tip almost impaling someone), one wooden elephant tusk splintered, and a spear snapped in half.

It was impressive to see how far a student of kalari can come in a lifetime. Kalaripayattu is one of the optional complimentary subjects that students at VKV can try during their stay and, knowing nothing about it at the time, I was gung ho to give it a try. After 4 trial days, I was bored, (the first two hour-long classes, I was told to walk back and forth across the studio swinging my legs up as high as I could with each step: after I graduated from having to do a full-length session of high kicks, I was able to move on to half an hour high kicks, half an hour squat steps), in pain (my knee pain from years of gymnastics came back with a vengeance), and decided I’d had enough.

But, obviously, these guys had more perseverance when it came to kalari than I, and it for sure showed. The vigor and strength with which they swung their weapons was tempered by the precision acquired over 10 years + of daily training. “How cool would that be if we got to use some of those tight swords and spears and stuff?!?” a couple of newcomers to the school (from the U.S., in case you couldn’t tell by the “tight” vocab), eager to try kalari come Monday, were excitedly discussing. Thomas, a guy from the Virginia and a serious student of kalari, burst their bubble. “That would be tight, but things don’t exactly work that way with the Indian method of education. I’ve heard you have to take at least 4 years of kalari lessons before even being able to practice with a stick.”

Kathakali Makeup Classes:

Just below my room in Tharayil House, there is a mysterious room. From within there occasionally emanates a mysterious musty smell. From this room, I would see the VKV’s 2 kathakali teachers sometimes coming and going, and around these times the musty stench would invade the entire house. But for several weeks early on in my stay, I had no idea what went on in this room. Until I became acquainted VKV’s two kathakali teachers—after being invited to watch a rehearsal costume and makeup session for an upcoming performance and asked to take some press release photos for them—I never realized that there was a wealth of kathakali props and costumes stored just below my bed.

After the rush to finish my watercolor of Ganesh and his giant red rat in time for the exhibition, I then had to decide: do I spend another 6-7 weeks consumed with creating another painting (which would mean another stint of endless hours of monotonous dots)? Or do I try another subject? After becoming more familiar with the mustery room and 2 kathakali actors/teachers that occasionally spent time in it, I made up my mind to try—just for a week—some kathakali makeup classes.

I’ve had a bit of experience doing this kind of face painting thing before. After having spearheaded many a face painting fundraiser effort back home (which entailed hours of attempting to paint the faces of antsy preschoolers to look like Pikachu and Spongebob and Spiderman. Ad nauseum), I though painting my own face—which I could be sure would stay still—would be relatively simple. For my first kathakali makeup class, after presenting my new teacher Praveen with dakshina (a traditional symbolic—of what I’m not sure—gift which is presented by a student to a new guru, consisting of a betel leaf, an aracanut, and a rupee coin), half of my face was painted while I had to recreate the same symmetrical style on the other half. My sense of symmetry, I found after several wipings away of mistakes, was a little off. The fact that the makeup is applied with little pointy sticks didn’t make the process much easier. But I was able to—with many corrections by Praveen—end up with some semi-symmetrical Kathakali faces. And some fun photos to prove it.

Happy Aranmula Krishna Temple Holiday! A week’s worth of non-stop noise…

“Warning: we are extending this word of caution and our apologies in advance. For those of you staying at VKV during the week of January __ - __, be prepared for non-stop noise. This is the week of the Aranmula Krishna Temple’s 10-day festival. The music from the temple is played loudly late into the night and begins again early in the morning. While there will be an extensive schedule of events—including karnatic music concerts, Kathakali plays, and several other performing arts presentations—in conjunction with festival, these will be held every night past midnight. We recommend that you pack earplugs and/or sleep aid medication.”

This was the gist of an e-mail I received from VKV over a month before I left for India. I wasn’t sure if this was a joke or an exaggeration. I wasn’t flustered by this forewarning. I didn’t pack earplugs. Instead I was considering packing pep instead so I could stay awake to see as many performances as possible. And even without the help of pep pills, I made it a priority to watch at least one performance at the temple for every day of the festival.

It was virtually impossible to sleep as it was due to the virtually non-stop music blaring from loudspeakers tethered to coconut trees all throughout town (but strangely no music when it is a reasonable time of day to play loud music for everyone in a 10-kilometer radius to listen to—at noon there is typically no music but it kicks in at 5 PM, goes until 4 in the morning, and begins again around 4:30 AM). So why not spend these sleepless hours enjoying some fine Kerala Hindu style entertainment? Some of the performances I saw…

3 elephant processions, during which the 3 temple elephants—crazy one included—are paraded around the temple complex before being brought to a halt in front of the temple doors were they stand in all there splendour flapping their ears, eating palm fronds, and pooping (as I was passing by the temple doors one of these evenings, a present from above plopped down less than a meter a way, after which I felt some sort of foul-smelling liquid splatter on my face) for the next 2 hours or so being serenaded by a percussion troupe and a group of guys on instruments that sound and look like the horn of a snake charmer.

A classical dance performance given by a famous Malayalam movie actress, whose name, fame, and face (and not her dancing skills, according to my friend Danya, the dance instructor here at VKV: “If any ordinary woman did a performance like that,” Danya told me, “she would be laughed at.”) drew a crowd of at least 2000 that crammed into the walled enclosure of the Aranmula—not built to hold such a crowd, and indeed, the VKV staff said that this 11 PM to 1:30 AM performance was cause for the largest crowd in the Temple’ history.

An excellent karnatic music concert the following evening, the performers not as famous but among two of my favourite people at VKV: Jayanth the Sanskrit professor as vocalist and Sridat, my violin teacher (on his violin). I found slightly depressing to compare the reverse ratios between the talent of this troupe of performers and that of the actress doubling as a mediocre Bharatnatiyam (South Indian dance) artist, the 30 people in the audience for the karnatic vocal concert and the 2000 + that turned up to see the dancer. But, alas, here as in the U.S., a classical music concert doesn’t draw the same kind of turnout that Brittney Spears does.

An authentic all-night Kathakali performance telling one of the most significant stories from the Mahabharata (widely known as the greatest Hindu epic) and supposedly performed by some of the most significant Kathakali actors in Kerela (which, I guess, would make these guys some of the top Kathakali actors in India, the world, and the entire universe). It was an amazing and magical experience and in the wake of it I feel a sense of accomplishment for pulling off an all-nighter in the temple (considering the volume of the music all over town, I concluded that I’d rather spend a sleepless night watching fine art in the temple than attempting to sleep in my own bed with a pair of earplugs stuffed in my ears) and simultaneously more than a little sleepy (well, TGIF).

Thought a bit taxing, this has been an incredible once-in-a-lifetime kind of week (for me at least—the Aranmulites and from what I’ve heard the residents of every other city or village in Kerala experiences something along these lines at least once a year). And in the midst of all of this, I’m realizing that, sadly, my stay here is soon coming to an end. On the one hand it feels like I’ve been here virtually an eternity. On the other hand, I keep thinking, “Is it time to leave this earthly paradise already?” But I have a whole new slough of great adventures to look forward to.

I initially thought I would have the following week to recoop from the temple festival induced lack of sleep—I was a good Hindu girl and went to the temple at least once a day throughout the whole 10-day duration of the festival. With great concerts and performances and processions every evening, how could I stay away? But I then found out that the Chengannur Shiva Temple fest—with another outstanding-looking schedule of events, is going on the next two weeks.

I organized a trip last night to see a concert whose explanation on the English translation of the schedule of events intrigued me greatly: called a “Fusion Concert,” this concert looked like it would be my only chance—this trip at least—to see a veena (South Indian stringed instrument similar to sitar) in concert. The performance was a mixture of karnatic classics, new Hindu devotional hits, and film music played by a troupe of very talented musicians, most from Tamil Nadu, which included a violinist, an outstandingly-good tabla player, two other impressive percussionists (one on the khaddam—clay pot—and the other on maddalam—long sideways drum), a keyboard artist (who, unfortunately, gave the otherwise wonderful concert a slightly tacky sound), and a jaw harp player (when time came for each of the musicians to do their solos, this guy had his solo too. He sat up on stage twanging away while the other musicians and audience members clapped away), and the veena player. But this was no ordinary veena. It was an electric veena. I had no idea such a thing would exist. Veronica (a newer resident of VKV, a girl from Florida who’s staying here studying kathakali as part of Boston University’s theatre program) and I returned around 1 AM, but the lost chance to catch up on lost sleep was certainly well worth it.

Last week, and what an amazing albeit sleep-deprived week it was, (I did get used to the loudspeaker tethered near my room, but I was oftentimes busy watching whatever performance was being broadcast over those loudspeakers until the wee hours of the night / following morning) culminated in a grand elephant procession. The convoy of elephants and musicians (over a dozen percussionists and horn players) and spectators made its way around the temple, through the streets of Aranmula, and down to the Pampa River.

In front of each house the elephants passed, the convoy would stop and receive an offering of grain and rice and bananas and flowers from every family outside their home. Revathi House, one of the VKV houses, was along the route, and Annie the French painter (who has become the matron of Revathi) had her own offering prepared: a spread consisting of several small barrels of grain, puffed rice, and oats, along with a bunch of mini bananas was laid out over a mat of banana leaves and surrounded by a circle of tall brass oil lamps. The grainstuffs were packed up in sacks while the elephants snacked on the nanners and later the banana leaves—almost tipping over the oil lamps as they stretched out their trunks. I walked with the 3 + hour-long procession the entire way down to the river, most of the time right next to one of the elephants.

This was amazing. As I walked along next to these immense creatures, I realized how big they actually are and thus how much damage they could potentially do yet how amazingly docile they are. Several times, I swear one of the temple elephants was looking me straight in the eye from a mere few feet away.


More later about…


New Year’s Festivities

A Taste of Keralan Cooking

Kochi

Homestay in Palakkad!

Last week in Aranmula

Ani Chechi and Family

Visit to Anchu’s Home

After nearly 3 months of studying the traditional culture of Kerala, finally—during my last week in Aranmula—am I blessed with several opportunities to get a glimpse of real Kerala culture.

Alas, taking advantage of these opportunities leads to a couple of pre-departure crises.
Off to Delhi!