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"Is she the girl who sang the prayer yesterday?" asked a wizened old man, pointing to the young vocalist on stage. "Don't be silly, that girl was so pretty," was the instant malicious response of the man seated next to him. He was not merely a member of the audience but the owner of the premises of the sabha and an impresario of sorts, who prided himself on discovering and promoting young talent. Ironically, the singer was quite beautiful, with sharp features and an upright stage presence - the old man must have been biased against her by her dark complexion - but more important was her immaculate performance on stage, her strong unwavering voice, perfectly aligned to pitch, and her excellent rendition of the various dimensions of Carnatic music.
Fortunately for me, one of the two old men got up soon to attend to some earthshaking errand, and I breathed a sigh of relief. But my relief was short-lived, for soon a couple of not-so-ancient non-paying customers in the row behind me started chattering in loud voices. In my youth, I would have silenced them with a scathing comment, but I no longer have the energy for such confrontations. So, I took the easy way out and shifted to another part of the auditorium. Here I ran into further trouble in the form of two ladies in silk saris, who began to discuss their shopping expedition of the recent past animatedly. I tried to murder them with my eyes, but they dismissed me with contemptuous looks and carried on their conversation in loud tones. I then moved to the last row, which was actually a seat built in cement concrete all along the rear wall, and there I was joined by my wife, who too had retreated in defeat from another part of the hall. For all fifteen minutes, we enjoyed the lovely music undisturbed, but the sabha secretary decided it was time to make a beeline for my wife. He sat next to her and gave her a complete rundown on the wonderful work his sabha was doing and what she could do as a journalist to project its achievements. Both of us tried in vain to silence him by giving him withering looks and by telling him not so subtly that we preferred listening to the singer's voice rather than his. Finally, we did the only thing left for us to do. We got up and left the auditorium. I am sure there is nothing novel about this experience, nothing that readers have not encountered before. I only related it here to stress my conviction that we have no right to describe Chennai or Tamil Nadu as the cultural capital of India as we often do. V Ramnarayan
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