The repetitive feature of the annual music season will be the near emptiness of the auditoria for many concerts, yet significantly, bursting-at-the-seams attendance for the top drawer. Moulded plastic chairs will be placed along side plush seats on the aisle, for the overflow, though they would have paid heavily for entry. You cannot walk in for those musical extravaganza, if you want the best seats, without joining a queue. Oddly, the long-winding line would seem to be there however much earlier you had started.
Time was when forming or joining a queue was deemed deeply infra dig to many especially the cognoscenti, who would prefer to breeze in without even a supercilious side-glance at the usher. However, the current code of social conduct and norm is to join the queue grudgingly, never mind you have to squirm behind the one ahead and inch forward or pause replicating his/her movement, without lunging forward.
You may be privy to slices of conversation annotated here, at the foyer of the holy of holies, the creme le creme, The Music Academy, The Ultimate!
“Mami, is this, the queue for Sudha? ( Aruna or Nityashree or Sanjay as the case may be) My god, I thought I had started well in advance but look at the queue,” asks a swishing Kanchipuram, with feigned surprise, in her hyper-resonant voice.
The maroon Mysore silk nods her head. “Aamam, mami, It is. The afternoon concert is yet to get over. Then the cleaning brigade will take over. We have to stand for nearly half an hour.”
“I am a member for 30 years. Pity even I have to queue up. No wonder, the Academy has thoughtfully provided convenient chairs near the wall to cool the heels. But when the gate opens, there will be a mad scramble, bedlam, a rugby of the patrons, mostly senior citizens, holding the season tickets aloft, over their heads. In the melee, you will be shocked to find people who were not there when you came here, bunching near the entrance looking pointedly away. Atrocious.”
“Yes, I know. Mami, have you attended flute Mali’s concerts?”
“ H’m? You ask that of a Mylaporean? I have. His concerts would be suspense-packed. One would go to the hall and wait wondering whether the maverick vidwan will show up or not. His rasikas will purchase the ticket only after they spot his car. But, it will be worth waiting. That genius would mesmerize you with his flute, not made of bamboo, but sugar cane! Unless of course, he doesn’t abort his concert half way, irked by one of his pet peeves.”
“Ah! Finally, the gate is open. See you mami.”
Though enough seats will be available in the auditorium at that time, the rush will be to claim the corner seats abutting the aisle, so one could sneak out at will without trampling over the shoes, sandals, high heels, platforms or sneakers. Umbrellas, hankies, water bottles, programme books, mufflers--any handy object may be used to reserve the adjacent seat for your companion who had come; but had, under the pretext of going to the rest room, had gone for good coffee.
The reservation may be even for one who might not have left office at Velachery, Siriseri or beyond. In all probability it may end up as ‘no show’, to borrow airline lingo.
Sudha ( or her ilk ) had begun the varnam at jet speed and having had a trial run of the vocal cords switched over to yet another quickie for the instrumentalists to interface and coalesce.
Before long, the blue Kanchipuram, will ponderously get up, convinced her presence has been noticed at such a star concert, collecting her bag from the adjacent seat, that was unpardonably denied to a few late comers. While shuffling towards the exit, she will pause near maroon Mysore silk. “Going off. My daughter is flying to Amsterdam tonight with my peran. I will have to see them off. Will you come for Sanjay ( or Ranjini and Gayatri ) tomorrow?”
“Who will miss? Will be here by 3.15, well in advance. I will also push off after the next item. Have an appointment with my orthodontist. Mami, was the last piece in ahir bhairavi or chakravakom?”
“Chakravakom. But tell me, Is she wearing a necklace or a choker? I left my glasses in the car.”
“It is a Kundan choker. Varattuma?”
(The author is a bilingual humour writer)
