If I were to run for Republic Party nominee

So here is me imagining what I would need to run for the nomination of the GOP - if I were American that is ...ok just indulge me..

I am thinking of running for Republican Party nominee. A tad late I know. But -that's not why people tell me I will fail. They say no sharp elbows, wisecracking sarcasm or flair for insults live or on Twitter. No hubris. No creative ideas to deal with terrorism and immigration wth entry bans and border walls! No courage to be politically incorrect and call vast sections of the population inferior imbeciles whose moods are ordered by their monthly cycles or defective genes. No grand ideas to stimulate the economy by simply cancelling trade agreements and becoming protectionist.
Reflecting I must say I simply don't qualify now because I am not yet ready! But why? Have I ever had the courage to shout curse words into large crowds or to tweet out pictures of my opponents partner calling them names ? Or to verbally assault people calling them "stupid, crooked, corrupt, loser, weak, pathetic, total disaster, low energy, ineffective, miserable, incompetent and hypocrite" at least a few hundred times. No not really. Then how would anyone sustain interest enough to stay on my case and stay awake?!

So what's my cache? That I love my nation and care enough to want to solve its problems and that I have some competence managing money, negotiating deals and applying the law? Well I have it all wrong, I realize. These are simply not the qualities that will get the attention of the masses.

So what do I need? I need a story and even more importantly, sound bytes. Not necessarily the kind that I flashed on twitter or that I had bulimia and alcohol problems, but that I filed for bankruptcy a few times, floated a University that went the way of the dodo bird, that I made my fortunes by taking jobs abroad and that I stand by the mantra "everything is negotiable"". That I thrive on false promises and narcissism and have an entire army to help me craft my messages and stroke my ego a million ways." Of course I would not have to mean anything I say. I would just have to say anything that will get me to win. Who cares about right or wrong, being consistent or keeping one's word?! No one. Thankfully talk is cheap and does not have to actually mean anything. Even better, we have a population which is willfully blind to the "how" of bogus promises because they are mentally tired making ends meet and staying afloat. "Just tell me what I want to hear" they say, "and I will vote for you. Then keep saying or doing something scandalous and I will give you my undivided attention as I would a car wreck happening before my eyes. Do not try to reason with me or give me logical explanations of what you will do for me. It will do you no good - for I don't have the bandwidth for it"!

Given this, I will need preparation time leading up to my nomination - a proper make-over. I would need to cultivate a spontaneous propensity for putting my foot in my mouth, shooting from my hip, overruling democratically made decisions and using stock phrases like "my opponent is an unbelievable disaster" and "I can make America great again". I have to work on sanitizing myself of fuzzy words like "collaborative", "inclusive", "consultative" or "anti-oppressive". I had better start now. Refashioning my image, rehearsing the choice jargon, sharpening my elbows and getting in and out of embarrassing and disastrous situations does not come easy to those who lack the natural talent for it. I need the time before the next elections to rehabilitate myself and to build the right kind of brand equity. Oh yes, I will hire Donald Trump as my coach!

Violence against women in India

The recent gruesome murder of Swathi Santhanagopalakrishnan, a 24 year old engineer, in Chennai, India, at the hands of her stalker raises so many issues about the increased risk of violence against women especially with the rise of social media and the utter lack of political will to protect women.

That fateful morning of June 24, 2016, at 6:30 a.m., Swathi was waiting for the train that would take her to work. Within minutes, she was hacked to death with a sickle in plain view of the public in a bustling train station of a large metropolis where thousands of women risk taking public transit to work, at all hours of the day and night. Her assailant, who had stalked her on social media before confronting her in person with his proposal, may have been enraged over Swathi’s refusal to reciprocate his feelings but had his wits completely about him regarding the consequences of his actions. He cannot plead “not guilty by reason of insanity” because he was fully competent while committing the cold blooded act in a calculated and well- rehearsed manner, following months of planning. However, Swathi’s murder is by no means just an isolated incident. It is just one that caught the public’s attention due to its gruesome nature and visibility.

How can we say we have progressed as a nation, if our women cannot take public transit to work safely? How is it possible that a woman was hacked to death by her stalker in broad daylight on a busy railway platform and no one could do anything to stop it from happening? Why do our women not trust police enough to escalate these matters at the first sign of danger, rather than trying to deal with them and live in constant fear? Why do women fear the social reproach that could result from reporting, when they have done nothing wrong?

Two days after this incident, a young woman in the same city took her own life because a man had photo-shopped and posted her face attached to a nude figure all over social media, after she had rebuffed his advances. When her parents had approached the police to plead with them to have the images expunged the latter had refused. The young woman killed herself. A maid in Bihar was raped in a public square when she had attacked her employer’s son with a razor blade following his attempt to rape her a second time! The police made no attempt to protect her here either because the perpetrator's father was a feudal landlord, very well connected and influential.

Every day young woman are raped and several killed and their bodies maimed, decapitated and rendered unidentifiable. The perpetrators get away in most instances. It was only delayed public furore over the death of Swathi and intense media scrutiny that resulted in her murderer being apprehended.

So why is it a woman’s responsibility and fault that she is violently abused and killed? Why do we not ask instead, what is so wrong with our society that our women have to die like this? What’s with our social systems that perpetuate violent patriarchy and fail to protect against it? What is it in our psyche that we tolerate all forms of oppression, not just gendered and only express outrage when the matter is in our face, depriving us of a good night’s sleep?

Yes empowerment does come from financial independence. But we still objectify women, consider biology as their destiny and treat them as goddesses or whores depending on our arbitrary moral code relating to how they should dress, act and behave. Financial independence gives her little leverage against deeply entrenched views on her place in society, mostly as a chattel for someone's use, who is incapable of making sound decisions. You only have to read the various paternalistic blog posts that give advice to young women: Here's a sampling

"- Girls married or unmarried should be selective in accepting friends’ request on Facebook and other social networking sites.

- Avoid posting photos in different attires, if interested, share such photos only in your relatives group.

- Don’t entertain boys whom they found suspicious on the first acquaintance.

- Don’t be vigorous in posting your views in groups which often entertain unwanted chats in any social media.

- Don’t trust anyone because he is professionally as qualified as you are.

- Avoid people who have inherent hatred towards working and high earning people.

- It is highly advisable to limit their friend circle with close friends, colleagues, and relatives.

- And the most important thing is, limit the use of social media and don’t get addicted.

- Please don’t decide on your life partner without your parents' consent or consensus

- Don’t fall in love suddenly"

The issues are by no means simple, clouded as they are by class, caste, race and various other factors that criss cross identities. Thus, for example, a lower caste man will be treated far worse than one from a higher caste and class for a similarly gruesome crime. Or abuse of a woman who is from a higher caste or class will invoke greater outrage than one who is not. In any event, there is an urgency to create societies where women feel safe enough to reach out for timely help without shame or fear of retribution.

No gas - going the extra mile!

We all have those days. I got out of bed and should have gone right back! Instead I donned a new jacket and strutted out to work. Did not notice the gas dial. Intensely preoccupied by the events of this week, and the imminent changes to life as I have known it to be, I drove back home in the evening, again not stopping for gas. I noticed the dial this time at E for empty, but was reluctant to stop. When I do get out again, that will be the first thing I do I promised myself. I was winded, had bad cramps and a not so clear head. Well a hot shower later I felt more like myself and left the house on a jaunty ride. I had pushed my gas dial and luck a tad too hard I realized, when smack in the middle of the highway, I felt the full weight of the four wheel drive as it began coming to a grinding halt. Providentially, I was close to an exit ramp and kept a cool head long enough to steer myself on to a shoulder and out of harm's way! I could not believe it - I had run out of gas!! I hit panic mode as the cars whizzed past me and I could not find my CAA card. Then a vague recollection floated into my head - the husband had cancelled it. I called CAA anyway and they confirmed - yep suspended for non- renewal since last November, could the primary card holder call? The primary card holder was far away in India I said. I expected an "aww shucks". But the person on the other line was very concerned for my safety. He asked me where I was and said he would get someone to bring gas over to me. " You may have to pay for it he said but I am going to give it priority. Call and renew your membership after. I will do this for you anyway". While I was waiting, I called the husband who reminded me I could call my dealership for this service - the reason he cancelled CAA. He expressed little sympathy for my plight and was even mildly amused presumably over the mental vision of me sitting there biting my nails as I nervously waited to be rescued. Men! A few minutes later, he sent me a text - get your membership if you want! So I called the membership department and a young girl answered. She was appalled that I might be in harm's way and wanted to tend to my safety before all else, especially when she could not find the SOS for me registered on my account in her system. There had to be a mistake I said- I had called in to roadside assistance and they had said help was on its way. By now I was calm and even enjoying the adventure. I knew I was in good hands. For the next 25 minutes while still having me on hold, she checked with her colleague, got hold of the driver kept coming on the line to reassure me and waited till rescue in the form of a CAA truck got to me, driven by a brawny young man carrying a can of gas. And all this for someone who was not even a member! And I did not have to pay for the gas! Her colleague had called in for help but given my inactive account had not registered it in the system! I told this girl I wanted to buy her dinner! Alas she lived in a small town hundreds of miles away. I said "you are amazing." She was. Empathetic, patient and bright. Of course I called and secured my membership. I am a member for life! I learnt the lesson of making a difference going the extra mile - on no gas! An hour later a text from the husband - hopefully all resolved. Really?!

The "M" Word

The “M” word

We women do not have it great and for many reasons all of which start with the letter "M". Menstrual cramps and menopause are two that punctuate our timelines and order our lives – oh believe me they do. But the most dreaded is another one. It is shocking to me that it is legal, given its barbaric nature. I speak of the Mammogram. I cannot think of another experience that makes one feel more vulnerable, exposed and under attack.

After much delaying, I finally capitulated, as a result of all round pressure. I could not stand the reproach in the eyes of my doctor, mom, even daughter. “ You are over fifty, don’t you want to be safe rather than sorry? Would you not want to know early if anything was going on? It’s not just about you, you know? “ And so on. So, guilt ridden and petrified of what I would find out I drove over to the clinic. Called the Women’s Health Clinic it was cloyingly feminine and testosterone proof! No man had ever stepped into this zone, I was certain. And luckily for them no man needed to!

I had wanted to make a fulsome experience of it and had combined it with an ultrasound of the pelvis – “let’s find out everything that is going on in my feminine parts in one swell swoop”, was my thinking. I could not handle piecemeal findings. So I walked in with an overfull bladder sure I would embarrass myself right there on that ultrasound table. The poker faced technician tried to ease my urgency by making small talk – which was not helping. I was ready to scream. She remained calm and with deft hands completed the test pointing to the washroom so I could relieve myself and get ready for the next big ordeal – the much feared M. I was given a gown to don and asked to wait. A big African woman greeted me with a wide smile and seeing the terror in my eyes after one look at the machine inspired by the guillotine (same principle), she said “oh its not as bad as women make it out to be, you’ll see”. The left one was first placed on this icy cold surface ready to be smashed into a tortilla by the sledge hammer that would be slammed into it. I was trusting of her reassurance and steeling myself offered myself up. Done and done. I was so proud of myself. I skipped out, a spring in my step. This had not been so bad.

The next morning, I received that dreaded call. “The radiologist wants more pictures, can you come in?” Whoa, where had that come from? Me – “I was not expecting this, do you know if it is bad?” The clinical reply from the other end “she did not say”. Ok, I could not live with the tension of not knowing, so even though it was in the middle of my work day I said “I can come now”. I had set something in motion, I thought. Where was it going to end? This time it was only the right one that would be subject to some extra special treatment. Not 4 pictures like the time before but six. At least I knew the drill. This technician was ramrod straight and poker faced. She was a severe middle aged white woman whose life’s activities were run to clockwork precision. A robot with bad breath. She gave precise instructions, made no small talk and jammed the machine into me 6 times without minimising the experience. This time I felt like a torture victim, vulnerable and helpless. The sound of the x-ray only enhanced the experience. I had a sense of permanent damage to some vital parts. Efficient but cold and apparently uncaring. I knew then it was about the technician.

The story has a happy ending. A day passed. I convinced myself, if they needed to probe so deep it was not so visible maybe and so early days, perhaps? I was prepared for the worst. I finally got a call from the doctor’s office. All clean, come in to talk about your ultrasound – but absolutely no rush. Phew! Till the next time.

Travel diary 2 - In Barcelona, April 4 - 6, 2016

On Monday morning I left for Baracelona. My initial plan was to take public transit. However I got a tad overzealous making a salad and wraps for U to tide her over at least for a couple of days and did not want to take a chance. The taxi ride set me back £48 at least 60% more than the train ride. One of the truths about London is that public transit is the more reliable to get you anywhere on time. There is just no accounting for London traffic. Also I had to live with the guilt of travelling unsustainably given that I could have easily taken the overground to Islington and Higbury, the subway to Victoria and boarded the Gatwick express to get me there in better time. (Lesson 1 – In London, public transit is the better not just the cheaper option). My sensible light bags would have allowed for this. After a few tense moments stuck in traffic gridlock, we made it out on the highway to the airport free and clear. I caught Vueling Air, a budget airline from Spain and began my immersion in Spanish right from the moment I boarded my flight.

During the next 5 days I experienced the joys of operating without any knowledge of primary language and vigorously employed the art of using props and hand gestures to make myself understood. It's a good thing I needed no emergency services. I would have gone into panic mode. (Lesson 2 - Always carry a phrase book (better yet an App) that will help ask and answer simple questions in the destination country's language aka never assume people will understand English everywhere you go).

The flight was uneventful and I read my book of short stories “Bombay Meri Jaan”. I love Bombay but could not help compare it's living conditions to those in these smaller European cities which though not ostentatious were so clean and civilized with all necessary public amenities. The airline seats were bare polyurethane but there was sufficient leg room to allow for a decent flight. I landed in Barcelona around 5:40 pm, and without bothering to enquire after trains that would take me to my hotel, hailed a cab. The cabbie dropped me off at the square unable to identify my hotel from the few there were around the square. On my bidding he did call the hotel to receive no response. I felt abandoned and made my way to a hotel lobby in sight and she pointed me in the direction of my hotel quickly identifying the name on the sheet I held out to her. There it was above the Central train station. ( Lesson 3 – In Europe, always research public transit options for trip from destination airport to accommodation. It is generally available and definitely the cheaper alternative to cab, also giving one a perspective on the city's connectivity from the get go).

My travel buddy was waiting for me in the lobby. Delighted to see a friendly, familiar face I hugged her, travel odours notwithstanding. We met our other friend in the hotel room where I quickly partook of the a amazing rain shower (few hotels allow you to waste water like that these days) (Lesson 4 - when the shower architecture does not allow for water to remain inside the bathing space and there is a spray that causes the rest of the washroom to get wet, be considerate to other users and make do with the hand shower!).

We were in beautiful Barcelona and all was well with the world, except for eating places. There were few within walking distance and none with a suitably cosmopolitan menu. We finally arrived at an Italian restaurant hoping it would accommodate our vegetarian palates. We were greeted with a welcome drink of sparkling wine (Prosecco) served in champagne glasses ( nice touch!). We ordered a bottle of rose for the table. The menus were in Spanish and as we struggled to pick out items without meat or seafood or eggplant and convey our dietary preferences to our waiter, I noticed that his skin tone was darker than the average Spaniard and ventured "are you from India?" Turned out he was from Pakistan and spoke Urdu and Spanish but no English! - so the rest of the ordering was a breeze with us conversing with him in Hindi ( close enough to Urdu) except he was not the brightest light and lacked attention to detail. So he did manage to screw up my order and brought it with eggplant. I had to send it back. However, they were nice enough to bring me a thin crust pizza (Lesson 5 – South Asians are ubiquitous and so you may get by with knowledge of a language from that region, even if you don’t know language of destination country!). We stayed till they were ready to close around midnight chatting as we enjoyed the rose, the catch up and laughs.

The next morning we woke up around 9, showered and changed to head for coffee at one of the Station Cafes (Cafe Estacia). We picked up the Barcelona map and armed with a 10 ride pack on the metro headed to the station that would allow us to meander through this alluring city, with its architectural master pieces so audaciously lining the streets where the general public lived life out in the open. Its stunning grandeur was evident even its residential buildings, its boulevards, its wide roads, elegant cafes and stores. The cold (12 degrees) and rain did not deter us. On our list was the statue of Christopher Columbus(Spain's illustrious son) and the harbour front, La Boqueria (Barcelona’s world renowned Central Market), the Gaudi buildings, and Park Guell which boasted numerous examples of Gaudi's genius and vision in architecture and tile art. The market was teaming with commerce and activity. We ate some ice cream and drank juice. We did not enter the two Gaudi buildings in the city since it would have meant waiting in line for over an hour at least. We decided to take the metro and climb up to Park Guell instead. Wise move, since the weather had cleared. We had already done an impressive 6 hours of walking by the time we got to the park. We then tackled a steep trek up to it, partly by escalator but mostly by stairs and ramps to catch a breathtaking and panoramic view of this stunning city from that great height. It was totally worth the effort. At the park itself, we explored the early century porter houses, the tile art, porcelain installations and gardens, all of which were breathtaking. We took several pictures stunned by the boldness and uniqueness of the art. On our way back we were hungry and wanted to find a decent place to have a sit down meal - but to no avail. Finally we each decided to do our own thing with me settling for 2 empanadas (one with hummus and another with spinach) from the Station Cafe and a small fries from the McD at the station, all of which I ate accompanied by white wine, in the room. (Lesson 6 - Drinking water off the tap is scarce in Europe; your wine consumption is bound to increase, since it is a better deal than bottled water!).

Spain is not known for its vegetarian food options, though fruits, nuts, yoghurt, sweet sticky pastries, cheese bread and a savoury potato dish, are in abundance and very fresh and tasty. (Lesson 7 - in countries where you cannot find the right kind of foods to nourish you it may be a better and a much cheaper option to go into an Airbnb space where you can make simple meals - the trade-off is no room service).

The next day we did not have time for any serious sightseeing. We slept in, ate breakfast at McD and picked up fruit salad and yoghurt to have on the train. We boarded the train to Valencia at 2 pm. I promised myself I would be back soon.

Travel Diary 1 - London weekend April 1 - April 3, 2016

Arrived on Friday am. U ordered a cab which got me home by 12:30. It was a gorgeous day and I could have taken public transit given the weather and given I was travelling light for once. However, the cab traversed west to east London and I got a preview of this great city with its double decker buses, gorgeous landmarks, parks, it's rich, gentrified and poor neighbourhoods. The overwhelming impression was of much life happening out in the open with folks scurrying around in the broad sidewalks, or pedalling their bikes, riding transit or braving traffic in those narrow roads in tiny cars - mostly European and stick shift. The ride took an hour and cost £40. The Somali driver, who spoke fluent Dutch, told me in halting English that he had moved here from the Netherlands for love but 12 years later could not afford to buy a house for his growing family of 6. He did not think he could afford anymore than 4 kids. Certainly not the 15 his parents had. It was a pleasant chat on topics ranging from the weather to politics to the economy. I finally reached U's 4th floor walk up where she was waiting for me, having decided to work from home. I showered and left her to her devices taking off to the open market close by. Cheery, colourful and rich in cultural, ethnic, racial and linguistic diversity it was warm and welcoming. I bought some fresh vegetables eager to cook for U. I also settled on parathas from the Guyanese vendor formulating a menu in my head of a vegetable masala with roti and quinoa. The meal hit a spot combined with delicious pickle and yoghurt. Satiated we watched TV, got caught up, argued over silly things and then decided to diffuse the tension with a walk through the park that leads to Islington. A small tub of Haagen Das was just what we needed after what had been a long and tiring day for both of us.

We set out early on Saturday morning to the nearby coffee shop. Home grown and very civilized with gunny sacks of coffee and wood blocks at the entrance for effect, it was a welcoming place, the smell of coffee rich, flavourful and a quick draw. We ordered a mixed plate of avocados, tomatoes, artisanal bread and a boiled egg to share over cups of flat white coffee. U had hers with soya milk. The place was teaming with young yuppie couples with babies out for their Saturday morning treat. We came back home showered and changed to enjoy a glorious day in the sun. It was a balmy 15, the sky was blue and spring had sprung. I packed some fruit and we headed out to Hampstead Heath taking the overground and then changing over to a subway. We disembarked refuelled with delicious coffee at an upscale deli and coffee shop also picking up little packets of caramel and chocolate covered popcorn for a sugar fix after the long trek. We followed the undulating path and then climbed up to its highest point to catch a glimpse of the skyline. Clear and unhindered by smog, there it was. There were young families picnicking everywhere. It was a lovely sight. We made our way back to Hampstead subway walking past cafes and restaurants not particularly inspired to partake of lunch there. We set our sights on Soho for Chinese or Malaysian food. Alas the subway line which would take us there was closed for maintenance so we settled for Bank Street grabbed a wrap and some Sushi and headed to the National Portrait Gallery by a double decker bus. As the bus lurched I swilled coffee from my half full cup on a young woman across from the seat I was about to occupy. After profuse apologies and a few embarrassing moments we alighted from the bus leaving behind the impression of a naive tourists still learning the intricacies of riding public transit in this City. The National Potraits Gallery had Vogue and Churchill retrospectives which we did not get to see. We settled for the regular fare and were delighted to explore 500 years of Potraits of royals, nobles and famous figures. We were struck by the repetitive theme of the catastrophic and dreadful ends that most of them met as a result of disease, decapitation, depravity or depression. At 6:00, we jostled through crowded Soho in the light drizzle and took a long bus ride home riding on the top floor of the double decker, occupying the front row. Back in U's cozy apartment I cooked a nice South Indian meal which we enjoyed watching the last season of The House of Cards.

The next day was as gorgeous as the one before. U's friend and cleaning help Irina was home and so we left her to her devices as she cheerily did some deep cleaning, laundry and ironing. We decided to walk down to the Geffrye's Homes and Gardens museum which had homes of the merchant class recreated from the 1500s to the present day. I loved the narrations of daily activities from personal dairies retrieved from those times. I also liked how under the theme "swept under the rug" they talked about the mistreatment of the household help, including ayahs brought over from India. There were distinct variations in theme to the home gardens of these families over the centuries. We picnicked on the grounds. I had brought along Halloumi, tomato and avocado wraps and fruit. We then made our way to the flower market. It was packed as the vendors were packing up and giving away plants at bargain prices. There were so many young men and women, alone or in pairs. This was Shoreditch where the yuppie culture is alive and well and people were spontaneously gathering to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon in the watering holes and coffee shops around the corner from the market. It was so good to be young and alive in this place at this time, I thought!

We returned home and took a nice long nap. Famished I woke up, had dinner and went out for another long walk to make the most of the balmy night. It was after 10 when we found ourselves in the middle of a deserted park. We picked up our pace till we got to the well lit street and got home. U assured me she never walked or rode her bike through the city parks alone at night.

I left the next morning for Spain.

Carnatic Cola - written 2002

I do sadly mourn the demise of the unmatched genius that was U.Srinivas ..


As carnatic music aficionados, we rarely miss a good concert in the city. Especially not one of Mandolin U. Srinivas’ calibre. We are undeterred by ticket cost or its occurrence in a crowded downtown suburb where parking spots are premium. And, last evening’s concert, part of the Small World Music series marking its celebration of the South Asian Heritage Month, which included a repertoire of world class artists Trichy Sankaran on mridangam and Delhi Sundarajan on violin, on all counts presented great promise. Why then did it disappoint?

Carnatic music concerts substantially focus on an artists’ ability to improvise. To test the limits of knowledge and skill; to dig deep within for those abstract emotions that lend themselves for expression in music more than in language; to establish a communion with the listener in another space time paradigm. A concert that is set to the clock and rudely interrupted with an intermission flies in the face of such a musical genre. That was strike one against this concert.

The concert was exactly two hours long. The only two elaborate pieces were a krithi in Hindolam and the Raagam Thaanam Pallavi (“RTP”) in Simhendramadhyamam and even these were disappointingly short. With four krithis pre intermission and the RTP and 4 thukkadas after, the concert was formulaic and strictly a compromise aimed at pleasing a “western” audience. However, it is unknown how far even this was achieved. When an artist plays to cater to what their perception of the audience’s preference is – they cease to be spontaneous and curb the enthusiasm of their co-performers. U. Srinivas was more a director than a performer yesterday, holding the concert in tight rein and rarely letting go except to indulge the mridangists. Delhi Sundarajan’s playing was forced, tentative and somewhat strained. He was not very present in the RTP and in most of the renditions was “allowed” to play it seemed, as an after thought. I yearned for the memorable sparring, born out of mutual respect, as I have heard between vintage U. Srinivas and violinist Kanyakumari. Sundarajan could have delighted given half a chance but, there was none of that. That was strike two.

U. Rajesh on mandolin took up a lot of sound bytes and he is a fine artist who did not disappoint. But what he brought out was the difference between a good musician and a great one. It was clear that despite U. Rajesh’s technical prowess and ability to hold his own, he lacked his brother’s ability to touch, to tease the accompanists, to produce the unexpected, to look up in wonderment at the sounds that were emanating from his instrument as though they had been created just for that moment, even unintentionally and unknown to him. The mark of a genius is the ability to take risks and create on the spot, to challenge and be challenged, but do all that with such ease that the audience does not see the “work” that goes on but delights in the sheer experience of what is served up. U. Rajesh shared the stage with U. Srinivas, which meant less of the latter. That was strike three.

Carnatic music is to this day still substantially non-commercial. For the most part musicians manage their careers, are not haloed celebrities but accessible people who are equally at ease performing a free concert at a local Chennai temple, as they are at Music Academy or the Royal Albert Hall. Last year I met M.S. Subbulakshmi, one of Carnatic music’s finest, at her modest abode in Chennai and she said to me “Naan mathram paadalaye..ellarum paadra..ellarum paadanum” (I am not the only one who sings, everyone sings, everyone must sing) with touching humility and grace. I was moved by her message that we are but instruments and that the music is more important than the person who renders it.

My conclusion then is that yesterday’s concert was packaged Carnatic Cola with fizz but little of its true substance and soul. Granted Carnatic artists should be paid better and given recognition that is commensurate with their skill and talent. However, we as Carnatic music lovers have a responsibility to take it back to its roots and to educate western audiences on what a true concert should be rather than have it fit a different mold.