The concert is about to begin! The musicians walk up to the stage, greeted by a thunderous applause. They take their positions — the vocalist at the centre, the violinist on one side, the mridangam player on the other, and a tambura person at the back.
You are all agog with excitement, sitting at the edge of your seat. You wonder what is going to be the first piece. Hamsadhvani raga may be? Perhaps, a brisk Bhairavi varnam? The vocalist makes eye contact with the audience and smiles. He rolls up his sleeves and adjusts his anga-vastra. The mood is just right for a soulful start.
Not quite! The tambura shruti is not perfect, he discerns. He takes the instrument from the back. He tightens up the strings, closing his eyes for eons. It takes multiple corrections, till he is finally satisfied and hands it over. You wait with bated breath.
The vocalist clears his throat, followed by a few stifled coughs, with his mouth held outside the arc of the microphone. He reaches out for the flask. He takes his own time raising a cup of steaming coffee to his lips.
The vocalist closes his eyes, intones just the note saa — a deep, elongated hum, with enough baritone, to fill the entire auditorium. At this opportune moment, the microphone protests and lets out a squeal! The vocalist’s tapas is broken, and he looks around helplessly. All eyes are on the microphone attendant. He gets overly busy strutting up and down the stage, as he exchanges the faulty microphone with a new one.
The violinist gets into action now. One swish of the bow and he finds something amiss.
“More volume. More bass!” he signals to the microphone attendant. No amount of increase in volume can satisfy the violinist. “If you increase the volume anymore, we will all need earplugs!” you want to warn.
Not to be left out, the mridangam player, strokes his percussion instrument. He is not finicky about the microphone. But clearly, something bothers him. He takes a stone in hand and hammers each side of the drum. After some more pounding and thumping, to align the pitch of his drum, an element of composure returns to his being. Someone runs up to the stage. He hands over a paper-bit to the vocalist. The vocalist looks at the chit, smiles, and puts it away.
The concert is about to begin. The vocalist is disturbed by the light. It is too bright, and he cannot see the audience. The light is gradually dimmed. Now, the AC comes into focus. The cold temperature alters the tambura’s pitch and needs re-tuning. As if this is not enough, the vocalist complains, “I cannot hear myself- there is no feedback from the microphone!” “Saar! Only if you sing, you will hear, isn’t it?” you want to respond.
The vocalist now reaches out for a box deep inside his kurta pocket, and pops in some fresh mints. Patience runs out. You want to shout, “Just sing ya! How long are you going to wait for all the planets to get aligned? I don’t care if it is Hamsadhvani raga or roga! Just sing something, even ‘happy birthday’ is just fine!”
You glance at your watch. It shows 7.50 p.m. When is the concert going to begin and when is it going to end? Something snaps. You shuffle your way through the aisle and head home, in a huff.
At least, you can have dinner in time.
“How was the concert,” wife asks. It is a tricky question. With the mouth filled with curd-rice, you make some incoherent sounds, like a drunkard’s drawl, that could be construed as anything: the concert was good, bad, ugly, or simply non-existent!
The next day, the event is reviewed in the newspaper: “Scintillating concert! Maestro regales packed audience!”
“Yes, I was lucky to be there! It was truly a magnificent concert, right from the “saa” with which he started! What voice! And what alignment to shruti!” you converse with your friends, over lunch!
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