For concerts, eats and much, much more in Chennai

Some people turn up for concerts during the season with the agenda that might  exclude listening to music, as I observed during my trips to several sabhas. At Mylapore Fine Arts, a couple of  well bred and fed men trooped in and sat by my side. The younger one in jeans and T shirt with the legend YALE on it had the kind of sheen that an American climate and style of living laminate as gratis. His companion, past sixty looked an authentic Mylaporean and cheerfully avuncular.

As the violinist invoked the musical devatas with his sa-pa-sa drones, Mr Nephew looked every which way in the auditorium like an alert black cat commando at the side of a Z category VVIP. Mr Uncle inclined his shiny dome towards the young man. “That one the tall girl in the third row on the left in turquoise  green sari, with a jasmine chaplet  adoring her hair. She is Ranjani, your doting mother has shortlisted for you. Have a good look,  sunny.”

Sonny  didn’t require any further goading as he began directing his unencumbered line of vision towards the green sari, unmindful of the musician beginning to sing a varnam with verve. “It is Ranjani,”   declared the mama  in a voice that would carry to my ears. “Yep, you told me that. Her name is Ranjani.”  

“I meant the raga of the varnam,”  mama shot back, ticking him off. The young man shrugged his shoulder. “Gawd!  do they name ragas after the girls?”

More info about the Ranjani,  the girl followed. I rose from my seat and  moved towards Narada Gana Sabha, my next port of call.

The canteen was packed like salt biscuits in an economy  pack with 10 per cent extra. Ashoka halwa, their piece de resistance nestling in paper cups, was before many patrons,  glistening in all its ghee anointed glory, ready to slide effortlessly down the votaries throats. The young man at the adjacent table spooned a sample into his mouth, tilted his head backwards and critically evaluated it like  a wine  expert. His companion a middle aged lady watching him  closely, smiled nosing the scent of approval from him. Soon, crisp piping hot Javvarisi vadai followed which the two shared at one per head. “Good, Amma,” the young man gave his stamp of approval. “Don’t be in a hurry,  Vasu,” the mother said. “Let us try other sabha canteens as well before we come to a decision. The wedding is six months away, anyway.”

As they were waiting for their onion rava, a red kurtha and cream trousers hailed them from a distance.  When Vasu waved his hand, he came close.  “We are doing sabha hopping,” said the lady, “rather sabha canteen hopping to sample the caterers’ products. You know Vasu’s father. My God! He has the sharpest Thanjavur tongue this side of Kaveri. We are on our mission to recommend to our sambandhi the best caterer to do the honours at Vasu’s wedding in May.”

I joined the queue at the donor’s entrance at the Music Academy nodding at the regulars. Two ladies giving an impression that a French perfumery was not far away were standing ahead of me. The senior, obviously the elder’s sister,  looked very much married, the younger one in a dream of red silk churidar perhaps not. “You missed Sudha’s concert the other day. Her sari was a vision,” said he senior, and gave a graphic account of the colour, border, palav  combination and the effect of stage lights on the silken sheen. “I think I can locate that one for you at Nalli,  Sundari or Pothys. You can earmark it for the reception if you fancy it. For a second choice, you can see what Sudha will be wearing in today’s concert and her sparkling jewelry, the choker, rings and kudai jimikki.”

The bride-to-be smiled, wondering what was in store when the curtain in the auditorium went up to  reveal the singer in all her bedecked glory. “But d’you think I will be able to have a good look sitting rows away from the dais?” she asked.

The elder sister grinned. “I thought of that. Look here,” she said, producing from her handbag a sleek pair of powerful binoculars.
— J. S. Raghavan is a bilingual humour writer