… these indians are all cowboys
A few gaps, still catching up, no pix yet a I’m running from dodgy cafe to dodgy cafe putting up words, and I don’t think a picture even begins to capture new years eve in Chennai. One day there will be such a thing as mayhem vision that will capture the jangled mash of sensations necessary to feel what it’s like on the beachfront. It would have to work by randomly resplicing your synapses with 10 different web cams and a white noise generator, but in such a way that when you were far enough away, you could watch it happening to yourself, and it would be quite pleasant and peaceful.
(Edit: a couple of months later, in Adyar, I’ve found an image that captures the title of this entry, if not the intention. I think it really shows that if you say something about India, it will do it’s best to fullfill your words. I am currently trying to imagine an india where people don’t crap on the seashore or the sides of the street, though this may be overarchingly optimistic …)
But why would you do that when you could just come here. Pure brilliant madness and chaos! A shining deadly and beautiful slice of passion. All the dance parties you have ever been to jammed into a single moment. 10 km of shoreline jam packed with people throbbing and pulsing shouting at the tops of their voices and driving as fast as they could on motorbikes, auto scooters, cars and bikes. Admittedly, it is a very boyish vibe but there are parts of the beach with family groups, and couples, ice cream stands, air rifle shoot outs and the low budget hand spun ferris wheels that abound here. Screaming a shattered auld lang syne on the clarinet till a few guys popped over and had a chat stuffed me full of bad brandy and hot indian potato (rice?) crisps.
Walked into a small block party, thinking it was a throughpass back home. The vibe got a bit uncertain for a few moments … I think some folk here find westerners difficult … not heavy dangerous, just insular. But bopped there for a few minutes anyway to punjabi tunes and bollywood hits.
The beach is the peak experience of new years eve here, but this furious energy is in all the streets.
Next morning, new years day, from the ridiculous to the sublime. The Lalgudi Jayaraman violin duo, Lalgudi Krishnan and Lalgudi Vijayalakshnmi. A stunning concert at the Mylapore Fine Arts club. I’ll talk more of this later when I give a wrapup on the festival, but suffice it to say that this is the creme de la creme of classical music in the southern style. Intricate emotional fiery passionate and at it’s core utterly still and serene. 9am in the morning just as well I didn’t take a few of the whackier opportunities of the previous night. Still got lost on the way ended up 45 minutes late, but it was a 4 hour uninterrupted gig and the 3 that I saw was almost enough for my senses.
After this the Arts club had a feast. About 75Rs, by far the most expensive meal I’ve had so far, and undoubtedly the best indian meal I’ve ever had. Exquisite. Messy. I’m still getting the hang of the South Indian cutlery-free eating style, but I’m turning down the offers of spoons. It’s definitely how the food tastes best. The Mylapore club is quite middle class, and there is much more openness with westerners, particularly those that share a fondness for the traditional arts.
Just about to turn into my hotel, and I was invited in to a small shrine on the street for a pooja with the local crew. Utterly welcomed, and enjoying the chanting. Here everybody is taking turns leading the singing, and the songs are for everyone to sing not complex by the mornings standards but enticing to my ears, and undoubtedly one of the roots of the classical tradition. This led into another feast. This time I thing my manners were a bit better. I hung in on their ritual for a good 3 hours, and I think they appreciated that. The feelings afterwards were ecstatic I was bathed in sweat and hoarse with sore hands from clapping. But happy and well come.
Strangely, it all fits together in one picture: the insanity, the refinement, the devotional spirituality. Three faces of India somehow inextricably linked.
