I got shushed in India; here's how!
On Tuesday night, I think it was Tuesday anyway, Miss Karen and I attended a concert at the Mysore Palace. We rode with Raj, Miss Karen's personal rickshaw driver. During the festival, many rickshaw drivers refused to get too near the Palace because of the traffic and commotion, I suppose. Fortunately, so long as Miss Karen overpays Raj, with my contribution as well, he seems willing to take us anywhere.
So, to the Palace we putted and swerved. The concert featured the greatest flute player in India. He's known to be the flute player whose music is heard along the Ganges. I don't know what that means nor can I remember his name, but I was told this, and I pass it along in the spirit of increasing our cultural conversation. When we arrived, we hurried through the elephant droppings, swishing saris and pushy vendors to find seats. Music was already playing, but it sounded scratchy and ancient on the amplication system. When we reached the stage, we understood that the music was live, that these musicians were producing it, and that it was pretty good. The tabla player had a head of hair on him that seemed to keep its own time. The featured musician was a singer, sitting cross-legged in white and gold, moving his head from side to side as his voice climbed and descended on one breath that lasted forever. As the vocalist gurgled and chortled up and down a much more intricate range of notes, the tabla player and his big hair smiled and responded to every trick.
We moved some plastic seats toward the front, because it seemed that we should follow the movements of the Indians around us. The rows of chairs were no longer; instead, people sat in clumps and semi-circles close on top of each other. I learned this might prevent the peanut kids from standing in my face with a dirty burlap sack of nuts in their dirty hands hollering, "hello, hello, hello, you want? peanut? you want? hello? peanut?" I sat close to Miss Karen, and we scooted close to some others, but then they scooted away to move closer to the stage. We were left vulnerable, but we had space. It was a decent trade-off.
When the music stopped, and the tabla player's hair finally calmed, the lights went down and everyone grew silent. What had been a drone of voices turned into anxious, excited whispers. In a quick second, the lights on the Palace all came on, and the crowd collectively gasped. The thousands and thousands of lights illuminated our faces and the marching camels we discovered just behind us! Two at a time, the camels bobbed through a tight passage beside the audience, dressed in red and gold scarves. Behind the camels, a line of elephants patiently awaited their cue. Ears, nose and head all painted in bright chalk, the elephants had two riders apiece, one driving, and one holding a perfectly circular umbrella with tassles. We gushed and gawked and congratulated ourselves for scooting our chairs so close to the action. The camels and elephants all disappeared into the Palace, where we presumed they might be served tea, and the flute player emerged with much less fanfare.
He had a head of luscious, white hair and a long bamboo flute. His tabla player was bald and round and jolly. Later, I would see that he too enjoyed the lilting musical conversation with his featured musician, but I witnessed this on the tv in the dry living room of my family's house, where I hoped they had not seen me being shushed.
Here's where I justify myself. The flute player started and the crowd continued to talk. Miss Karen and I did as well, but maybe my voice is a little high, or a little different, or maybe just loud. He had been playing, unaccompanied, just three or four minutes. The rotund, drum-like drum player sat beside him, holding his hands. As we waited for the tabla to pick it up, we were in deep conversation about ridiculous men. Miss Karen and I both laughed hard and the next thing I knew, the face of a man was not six inches from my face. "You are disturbing everyone." Whoopshere.
I'm sure I blushed. And I apologized. And then I apologized again. And then again. And it started to rain. So we left, to the relief of everyone I disturbed, I'm sure. I could feel the curious stares of the crowd on my obnoxious American back as I stumbled through the morass of plastic chairs. Ah well, it is an achievement to disturb anyone in a country where no vendor will accept no for an answer, where peanut boys almost sit on your lap to reduce the weight of their peanut sacks, where rickshaws, motorbikes and cars honk at every object, from rock to sign to person sharing their road. I regretted the rain, because I worried that anyone I disturbed would really, really have it in for me if the whole concert was cancelled. Luckily, it stopped within 30 minutes, and the concert proceeded.
I was very careful to be refined and reserved at the Parade, which I will tell you about tomorrow. I did not cause any problems at this event, you will be relieved to know.
So, to the Palace we putted and swerved. The concert featured the greatest flute player in India. He's known to be the flute player whose music is heard along the Ganges. I don't know what that means nor can I remember his name, but I was told this, and I pass it along in the spirit of increasing our cultural conversation. When we arrived, we hurried through the elephant droppings, swishing saris and pushy vendors to find seats. Music was already playing, but it sounded scratchy and ancient on the amplication system. When we reached the stage, we understood that the music was live, that these musicians were producing it, and that it was pretty good. The tabla player had a head of hair on him that seemed to keep its own time. The featured musician was a singer, sitting cross-legged in white and gold, moving his head from side to side as his voice climbed and descended on one breath that lasted forever. As the vocalist gurgled and chortled up and down a much more intricate range of notes, the tabla player and his big hair smiled and responded to every trick.
We moved some plastic seats toward the front, because it seemed that we should follow the movements of the Indians around us. The rows of chairs were no longer; instead, people sat in clumps and semi-circles close on top of each other. I learned this might prevent the peanut kids from standing in my face with a dirty burlap sack of nuts in their dirty hands hollering, "hello, hello, hello, you want? peanut? you want? hello? peanut?" I sat close to Miss Karen, and we scooted close to some others, but then they scooted away to move closer to the stage. We were left vulnerable, but we had space. It was a decent trade-off.
When the music stopped, and the tabla player's hair finally calmed, the lights went down and everyone grew silent. What had been a drone of voices turned into anxious, excited whispers. In a quick second, the lights on the Palace all came on, and the crowd collectively gasped. The thousands and thousands of lights illuminated our faces and the marching camels we discovered just behind us! Two at a time, the camels bobbed through a tight passage beside the audience, dressed in red and gold scarves. Behind the camels, a line of elephants patiently awaited their cue. Ears, nose and head all painted in bright chalk, the elephants had two riders apiece, one driving, and one holding a perfectly circular umbrella with tassles. We gushed and gawked and congratulated ourselves for scooting our chairs so close to the action. The camels and elephants all disappeared into the Palace, where we presumed they might be served tea, and the flute player emerged with much less fanfare.
He had a head of luscious, white hair and a long bamboo flute. His tabla player was bald and round and jolly. Later, I would see that he too enjoyed the lilting musical conversation with his featured musician, but I witnessed this on the tv in the dry living room of my family's house, where I hoped they had not seen me being shushed.
Here's where I justify myself. The flute player started and the crowd continued to talk. Miss Karen and I did as well, but maybe my voice is a little high, or a little different, or maybe just loud. He had been playing, unaccompanied, just three or four minutes. The rotund, drum-like drum player sat beside him, holding his hands. As we waited for the tabla to pick it up, we were in deep conversation about ridiculous men. Miss Karen and I both laughed hard and the next thing I knew, the face of a man was not six inches from my face. "You are disturbing everyone." Whoopshere.
I'm sure I blushed. And I apologized. And then I apologized again. And then again. And it started to rain. So we left, to the relief of everyone I disturbed, I'm sure. I could feel the curious stares of the crowd on my obnoxious American back as I stumbled through the morass of plastic chairs. Ah well, it is an achievement to disturb anyone in a country where no vendor will accept no for an answer, where peanut boys almost sit on your lap to reduce the weight of their peanut sacks, where rickshaws, motorbikes and cars honk at every object, from rock to sign to person sharing their road. I regretted the rain, because I worried that anyone I disturbed would really, really have it in for me if the whole concert was cancelled. Luckily, it stopped within 30 minutes, and the concert proceeded.
I was very careful to be refined and reserved at the Parade, which I will tell you about tomorrow. I did not cause any problems at this event, you will be relieved to know.
posted by your friend at Friday, October 14, 2005
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