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)