Old City & Hariprasad Chaurasia

Yesterday I ventured into Old City, after quite some time, a year at least. The Charminar area of Hyderabad along with its adjoining Mulsim dominated Afzalgunj and Nampally together form the areas collectively referred to as Old City. My destination was the Times of India Hyderabad Festival being held at Chowhalla Palace where Padma Vibhushan Sri Hariprasad Chaurasia and Padma Vibhushan Sonal Man Singh were scheduled to perform their Art.

Stepping into Old City lends one a romantic and subtlely unnerving feeling of being transferred to another world order. Especially under the seige of the lights and sounds of the evening waning into the night. Little scooters and other assortment of two wheelers scurry hurriedly amidst fissures existing within heavy traffic, the wrong way in narrow one way bylanes. Vision is granted by yellow bulbs put up by hawkers. Their wares too would put shopping malls in the most affluent localities to shame. After all where in these times would you find a pile of scarves for sale, with an image of Twinkle Khanna in the centre surrounded by loud embroidery. Most passing autorickshaws carried green flags and crude graphiti of AIMIM - All India Majlis-e-Ittehadul Muslimeen - the local party headed by Asaduddin Owaisi. Everyone makes it known to whom it is that they belong. No matter if you run a small pan shop or the brightest textile store in the neighbourhood. In Old City you still gotta serve somebody. Also I noted Cycle rickshaws on some streets. I had never seen cycle rickshaws outside Calcutta till date. These were not exactly the same though. Their passenger carriers were lower and closer to the ground below, and the wheels have a smaller diameter than the ones back home.

My friend and I reached Chowhalla Palace in time for the concert. We didn't have passes though. That however didn't seem to be a problem as most of the invitees seemed to have an excess of passes. Two such passing families provided us with our invitations. I must say I was a little apprehensive entering the Palace. Most guests had arrived in exquisite suits and sarees and in Mercs and Hondas. We on the other hand had walked 2 kms from the nearest bus-stop in dirty shirts, jeans and slippers. We were still allowed in without any fuss.
Pandit Chaurasia's performance turned out to be mindblowing. I had never experienced Indian Classical music before and even the atmosphere in the lawn surrounding the stage, where the audience were seated, was that of an utter ease and relaxation that I had never experienced earlier. Completely different from all live acts I've seen. You could see elderly couples shaking their heads vigorously to the taal and hold hands, and groove - if I may say so - to the music. The tightness of the performers on stage too was that of a different league. I was most impressed by the Pandit's tabla accompanist. He was like a raging demon, bellowing a throbbing and ebbing beat of chaos swirling around the stage, controlled by what seemed like a string composed of sound from Panditji's flute situated at its focal point. At its heart. Such sweetness juggling what seemed like an uncontrollable yet measured barrage of beats. I found it oddly disturbing yet exhilarating.
Pandit Chaurasia also seemed to have a keen sense of humour when he expressed his wariness about eating into the time allotted to the fiesty danceuse whose performanec was to follow his, upon him being requested an encore. "She' from Delhi....Maaan Singh (arms raised in animation)...thats why I'm scared you see". He finally relented to the audience's request saying "I'll play you a little peice of...uh umm...anything", then promptly proceeding to pick up his flute and sway away one last time. Stud.

I also sat through a bit of Sonal Man Singh's performance. She must've been really graceful, but I have never been visually very aesthetic. Her accompanying Sarod player was brilliant though. He also made me realise an uncanny similarity between Indian Classical musicians and Blues artists in the stringed instruments division. They both love to hear the notes bend. Literally. One of the most apt images of contentment in my mind is that of the expression on a musician's face instinctively and spontaneously appreciating a note played well. You should've seen the Sarod Master's face after every note he stretched to his instinctive satisfaction.
I also realised that dances are used to tell stories. Atleast can be. I had never witnessed a Classical Dance performance before, nor have I ever felt that I could actually 'understand' it. But on observing carefully, the first dance the maestro performed, seemed to me like an invocation of the different incarnations of the Goddess Parvati. The first one was Durga slaying the demon Mahishashur - this was easy, the accompanying vocalist repeated sholkas mentioning both Durga and Mahishashur - I could further make out other similar emulations of the Goddesses Kali, Bhabani, and Devi Bhubaneshwari.
However I soon got bored and left at the commencement of the second dance.

I also ate dinner at Shadab Hotel in Old City. If anyone has been to Hyderabad and not eaten at Shadab then they have lived a little less than those who have. There are very few things in life that I can say the same of.