Indian Talent, Global Content
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Indian Talent, Global Content |
January 2009: What's in the breeze |
The Veena Finds its Voice Again
“Your car is almost ready sir! Just another 10 minutes.” said the mechanic. I knew it wouldn’t be less than half an hour. “Why not sit inside the car?” suggested my friend Shivanand. “How about eating chocolate fudge instead?” I replied to which he readily agreed. We went to a nearby shop called Choupaty On our way back, suddenly Shivanand grabbed my shoulder and said excitedly, “Look. Veena Doreswamy Iyengar is seated there.” I knew he was staying somewhere on 4th Main, Malleshwaram but I wasn’t sure exactly where. Now this was it. “Oh! Would you like to meet him? Come.” I opened the main gate. “You mean to say you know him? Oh! How I wish I had my autograph book with me now” was his response. But even as we were entering the compound there was a fear lurking in the back of my mind that the celebrity may have forgotten me. It was not so much because of his old age as the fact more than 3 years had passed by since we had met one another last. But No! The moment he saw me he said, “Vango Sir…Vango. (Come sir, come) I wanted to show you something but I have misplaced your phone number that’s why I couldn’t contact you.” Saying this he seated us and briskly entered a room. This once again left me wondering whether he had mistaken me for someone else. He reappeared within a minute with a brand new veena in hand. “Is it a new veena?” I inquired. “No sir. It is not new. It is the same old instrument.” was the answer. My mind failed to register whatever he said thereafter because it raced back to an incident that had occurred more than 3 years ago. I was on my way to Madras on some official work. Brindavan Express scheduled to reach Madras at around 8 p.m. reached there at midnight instead because it had been held up at Katpadi Junction, where Jayalalitha’s supporters were squatted on the rail-lines protesting against Karnataka’s stand on the Cauvery dispute. For hours we were stuck at Katpadi. I was wandering from one end of the train to the other at leisure. While tension and anxiety were writ large on everyone’s face for some it was a question of life and death. A pregnant lady had suddenly developed labour pains. A family from Bangalore had to catch an International Flight at Madras Airport. A group of three or four boys had to catch the Howrah Mail for their onward journey to Calcutta for an interview. It was clear that the majority of the stranded passengers had much more serious business on hand than mere sightseeing. Lost in these thoughts, I was curiously looking at the hundreds and hundreds of faces of those stranded listlessly moving around on the railway platform, when suddenly I saw a very familiar face, one I had seen on TV several times, that of Veena Doreswamy Iyengar! I introduced myself as the nephew of the late Chidanand Nagarkar, being aware of the fact he was his childhood friend. Thus we got off to a good start. As was to be expected, the main concern felt by every passenger was “what to do for conveyance upon reaching Madras”, which we knew, would be well past midnight. When the Veena Maestro expressed his concern like-wise, I asked him where he intended to stop. When he said Hotel Madras Woodlands I assured him he had nothing to worry. Because I was also planning to stop at Madras Woodlands and therefore he wouldn’t be alone on his way to the hotel. When we did reach Madras it was exactly midnight. The auto-driver demanded Rs. 100 to take use to the Woodlands and he knew we had no choice. Reluctantly we agreed to the sum demanded. Once seated Iyengar made sure that I held my end of his veena securely, and requested me to be extra careful - lest the instrument hit any part of the vehicle in the event of the driver applying the brakes abruptly. Once the safety of the veena was thus ensured, we started conversing, partly to keep ourselves awake. We discussed the weather, the increasing traffic in Bangalore and so on while the auto moved at top speed in the direction of Woodlands. The maestro was describing the tragic incident in which he had lost his son-in-law in an air-crash at Bangalore airport a little earlier, and I was deeply engrossed in listening to this heart-rending account when, suddenly, I had a glimpse of something huge coming in our direction. What it was exactly - a bus, lorry or a truck - I wasn’t too sure, nor was there time enough for it to register in my mind. What happened thereafter was all within a split second. There was a tremendous thud, and we were shoved to our right. The impact was so severe that we didn’t know where we were going. Suddenly the vehicle had hit a raised platform. The jerks we had been subjected to were indeed breathtaking. There was no way we could get to know the ‘why and how’ of it unless we got out of the shattered auto we were seated in. Meanwhile the flap that constituted the auto’s roof had collapsed and blocked our frontal view. The front portion of the auto together with the driver was nowhere to be seen. Several auto drivers from a nearby corner rushed towards us. While everyone had seen the vehicle that had hit us, no one had unfortunately taken note of its registration number. Doreswamy Iyengar was a shattered man. Settling down on the footpath he broke down and started weeping like a child. That he was hurt somewhere was obvious by reason of bloodstains that were visible on his arms, knees and parts of the dhothi he was wearing etc. Angst ridden I asked, ‘enna sir? enge adi vizhundhurku? (What Sir? Where are you hurt?)” But the answer was indeed surprising. “veene poyiduthe sir. (The veena is gone Sir)” On reflection, however, I felt it somewhat silly on his part to feel so much for an instrument because my heart at that moment was full of thanks for the merciful providence for having saved us by the skin of our teeth. Therefore with an idea of pepping him up I said, “Neengale poyittu iruppale sir. veene dhane pudhussu vangina pochi. (You may have died Sir. It’s only the veena, you can get a new one.)” This reply from me instead of consoling him seemed to aggravate his feelings and with a heaving chest he continued to weep and gesticulate with his hands. Seated as I was on the right side of the vehicle, I had escaped unscathed except for a minor cut on my ring finger. If I too had been hurt or incapacitated in some manner it would have been pretty hard on the old man because there was considerable running around to do before first aid could be arranged for him. Meanwhile the auto-drivers who were waiting by our side begged us to report the incident to the nearby police station. The crying need of the moment was to arrange first aid for the old man and looking for some reason to avoid this avoidable visit to that Police Station I said, “What is the point in filing a complaint? We don’t even know what hit us.” “adhu voru water-truck-unga” they replied in a chorus. (That was a water truck.) “yaaraavadhu number note ponneerkeela? illiye. naan ennanu poyi ezhudhi kudukkurdhu?” I shot back. (What’s the use? No one noted down the number. What shall I tell them if I go there?) “number illadhe ponaalun parava illaingo. insurance lendhu edhavadhu kedaikyara chance irukku. neengo ezhudhi kudukkalainaa adhuvun illaingyo.” (It’s OK even if you don’t have the number. They may be able to find it through insurance records. This will happen only if you register a complaint. The police station was the last place I wanted to visit at that late hour but then the Maestro intervened saying, “Let’s go the police station.” “But Sir, your first-aid?” “That can wait.” he said coolly. It’s only under extremely trying circumstances such as these that the real person in an individual comes out. That very instant the idea crossed my mind ‘Here is one who as a human being is much greater than all his achievement behind him!’ Such were the thoughts crossing my mind while the auto we were seated in was racing its way to a nearby police station. The sub-inspector on duty was dozing. When I told him about the accident on Peter’s Road he insisted that I should give a complaint in writing although he was unable to provide either pen or paper. I was worried about the old man outside who was in need of first aid and therefore made to leave without filing a complaint but the SI on duty on duty wouldn’t let go. “Ille neengo ezhudhi kuduthu aagunun.” (You must complain in writing.) Meanwhile the radio on his table squawked. Obviously some superior of his was flashing instructions. Suddenly I seized the opportunity saying, “Look gentleman, I do not know whom I am talking to. What I know is Veena Doreswamy Iyengar the noted Veena Maestro and myself were involved in an accident on Peter’s Road a while ago. The old man is badly in need of first aid and as a stranger to the city I don’t even know where to take him. With all good intentions we came here wanting to file a complaint. Your man here is neither able to provide a paper or pen but insists we should give a written complaint…” Suddenly the voice at the other end took over. “Selvam avare vuttudupaa. avaru periya vidwanupaa.. yen chumma vambu.” (Selvam, let them go. He is a great Maestro. Why trouble them?) It took another 2 hours before the much-needed first aid could be arranged for this great man and it was well past 3 am before we reached our Hotel. When his hosts in Madras heard about this accident, they rushed to our hotel. “Sir! What is this you have done? Couldn’t you have informed us that you were coming by Brindavan Express? We would have only been too glad to receive you at the station. Do you need to be reminded that you are a celebrity Sir?” T.T. Vasu of Music Academy wanted to know. “After all we would be reaching Madras by 8 PM in any case. Any number of auto-rickshaws are available at that hour. So why trouble anybody, I thought”, he commented after all of them had left. All the major newspapers of Madras carried news about this accident and the program as is to be expected was cancelled. Back to the present this great man was still standing before me child-like with his old instrument fully restored to his absolute satisfaction by someone who had obviously gone about it with a missionary zeal. Obviously his happiness at having his old instrument was of the highest order perhaps comparable to what he must have experienced while receiving the Padmashree award at the hands of the President of India, if not more! Chillibreeze's disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author(s) and do not reflect the views of Chillibreeze as a company. Chillibreeze has a strict anti-plagiarism policy. Please contact us to report any copyright issues related to this article.
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