We started walking towrds the Asiatic Library at half past six, feeling smug at the thought of arriving early at the Sivamani concert, and finding great seats for ourselves. Early, did I say? And great seats too? We reached at twenty to seven (when the concert was scheduled to begin) and found the steps to Asiatic Library packed. Tightly packed, with people still squeezing themselves through the seated bodies, now stamping an unwary hand, now getting pushed away by the early birds. Grrr. Husband and I looked high and hard, and were about to go join the standees when we looked low for a change and found seats on the lowest step. Found seats is being a bit generous with fact - with our sharp scientific minds, we found that space for two large bodies could just be created by asking those already occupying the space around the desired spot to move and squeeze their elastic bodies just a bit more. Which they did quite cheerfully, bless them.
Seated comfortably, camera all set on tripod which I for once remembered to carry, we waited for the show to begin. The sound of drums being set in place, instruments tuned and strange strong voices humming into the mike. All but the actual show. What was the Mani man? And while we are waiting, will the security guys please ask that solitary man standing by the barriers to move away please so we the seated ones (who went there early, remember?) could watch the show in the peace that we deserve.
And so we waited and waited. And watched in total horror as all empty space in front us - the space separating us from the stage, essentially - kept filling up with those who had timed themselves better for that vantage position from which to watch the show. And what security guys? Those who were busy escorting the VIPs (who were they anyway?) to the white plastic chairs in front? We sat and stared at the heads in front of us and gnashed our teeth loudly. The noise of course, got drowned in the sudden roar that erupted in the crowd. The Mani man was here! Finally.
White silk kurta gleaming in the yellow streaming lights, Sivamani walked on stage to a grand welcome. Hands folded in salutation. Rooooooar. Announcement welcoming the Mani man. Rooooooar. Mention of his association with the other Mani man (Maniratnam). Loudest roooooooar of all. Then Zakir Hussain. Mild roooooar. (Who is he, man? in filmsa?)
Like all good Indian performers, he started with a ganesh vandan. By this time, I had lost all patience with the oily heads in front. Impressive camera in hand, I pushed my way shamelessly to the front, just a couple of photographs please. The nice people there let me go through. And so I duly went click click. Position vantage but not vantage enough. Push my back through the crowd into fresh air. Find another position to the side of the stage, repush way through crowd, one hand firmly clutching camera. And the other hand, clutching extremely embarrassed husband’s hands, dragging him towards the front. Excuse me, the show is about to begin seriously.
Sivamani picked up steam quickly and enthralled the audience, playing on a hundred different instruments, sometimes seemingly all at the same time. Drums of all shapes and sizes all around him, a square steel thingy that looked like a large vegetable grater (ok I never claimed to be knowledgable about these things) hanging in front of him, something else that looked like huge grapes dipped in silver solution around his neck like a rudraksha string gone grunge.
So many instruments that Sivamani looked lost in the middle of them all. Lost physically. Not with respect to his music, let me stress. Drums, veg grater, grapes - his hands flew from one to the other like some magician performing conjuring tricks in front of a dumbfounded audience.
Music that was electrifying and stimulting, sometimes soothing and caressing. Sometimes slightly strange and attention-grabbing. Like the time he rubbed a large piece of stone against the mike for that goosebumpy sound that strangely fitted well into the rest of the music. Or the time he took the mike and huffed and puffed, sounding like the long-distance steam train pulling into VT nearby - a hundred years ago.
That astounding skill is one thing. That magical engagement with the audience is one thing. But what sets Mani apart is that sense of genuine pleasure and enjoyment he gets from his music - from sharing that music with others. He smiled through the hour-long performance, sweating in the mugginess of the February evening and that silk robe and the heat of the strobe lights all around…
He stopped with a flourish exactly an hour after he began, and stood in front of his adoring audience for the appplause that refused to die. Encore. Back to the drums, this time with a clear eye on the gallery. On came bits of hits from everpopular movies like Rangeela and Rang de basanti. Half the piece on drums, and an abrupt stop with one hand raised, an impish smile on his face, eyebrows arched in a question… and the audience completes the music and words for him. By this time, I had wheedled my way to just below the stage, looking as adoringly at the musician magician, but through my camera. I even fancy he looked at me and smiled once but you never know, I do admit that he kept smiling through the hour. I do know that I left with a huge smile on my face, heart still thumping with the music that rocked through the speakers that stood very close to me, and feet still keeping time to the drum beat of the drummer who had vanished from stage into a sea of admirers.
Howzatt!
