Margazhi Maha Utsavam: Nataraja, Nataraja, narthana sundara Nataraja
As the bell rang for the morning assembly, we gathered forming lines radial to the pivotal circle in which the school headmaster stood, his bald head bathing in the slats of golden sunlight. His two deputies stood a few steps behind. On his right stood Sulochana miss, the music teacher, a reedy thin lady, with her singing duo, Meenakshi and Kamakshi, nicknamed the cuckoo sisters. The songs were from a select repertoire of six, containing eight saranams, out of several approved by the school management.
At a signal given by the HM, the music teacher began in her booming voice, the cuckoo sisters giving the teacher a head start and merging with her voice. Soon, the whole assembly joined, a high-decibel chorus coming from different sound boxes, some bass, some screechy, some squeaky. But the totality of the vocal drill indicated a cohesive oneness, if the assault on the cochlear is overlooked with humorous indulgence. Birds, mostly crows, congregating on the overhead branches, used to fly away, may be afraid they will be asked to join the group by the HM, if he looked up at them. He did look up now and then but apprehensively, to make sure one of them would not deign to ‘bomb’ him from the top, on his shiny top, or his two piece grey suit. Nevertheless, a lover of music, Carnatic and reportedly Western as well, the HM took the bass during the chorus, that sounded like the humming of a bee. It was rumoured the HM could play a violin and harmonium, but desisted from doing so, under orders from his wife. He may wear a full suit to the school, but his wife wore the pants at ho
Once my classmate Subbu shared with me his noteworthy observation. If the HM stared at the ground for a while, clasping his hands before him, it would be the song in praise of our Mother earth. It he looked pointedly at the trees above ( of course, when there was no sign of a crow above), it will be in praise of Mother Nature and her kaleidoscopic bounty. If he simply closed his eyes, his lips telegraphing a prayer, it would be in praise of the Almighty God. These signals were read by the music teacher. ‘Singular! This is indeed remote control!’ Subbu said with the air of a Sherlock Holmes.
After the yearly visit of the Tanjorean District Education Officer ( DEO ), who heard the prayer with a pained expression, wincing now and then, a change came over in its mass rendition. We saw the appearance of a wooden ruler in the hand of the music teacher. This was intriguing, since she, a benign lady, was habituated only to raise her voice in the music class, should the rendition so demanded, but not a wooden ruler, cane, or even a hand to hit any one.
Surprisingly, the music teacher stood turning her back to the headmaster and faced the students, the boys lined up on her right and the girls on her left. The cuckoo sisters began the prayer, as the commanding ruler descended with a jerk in their direction. Thereafter, as she waved it towards the girls or the boys, her left hand gesticulating in tandem, they began in turns and lustily joined. And abruptly stopped when the baton did order to. The saranams were divided between the boys and the girls. Symphony gave place to cacophony in degrees.
‘What is happening?’ Guru, standing by my side restlessly, asked me, on day No.1 when the music teacher began to wield the baton. ‘She is using the ruler as a baton,’ I whispered to him. ‘A baton?’ he asked. ‘Yes, a baton, a small stick, used by the music conductor of an orchestra for an instrument to play, a person to sing, to stop, raise the pitch, or slow down and such, for a harmonious chorus.’
Guru swallowed. ‘But… but… how will I know when to start or stop?’
I squeezed his palm in mine. ‘Don’t you worry, Guru. I will relay it to you. He nodded, his unseeing eyes, seeing me without seeing.
(The author is a bilingual humour writer)
