Along with the first showers of rain and the arrival of the Ginimoothi mango, there’s something else that is inseparable from Bengaluru in April: the Ramanavami music concerts at the Fort High School grounds.
Credit: DH Photo
Along with the first showers of rain and the arrival of the Ginimoothi mango, there’s something else that is inseparable from Bengaluru in April: the Ramanavami music concerts at the Fort High School grounds. The performances go on every evening for a month, bringing some of the best musicians in the country to the city. Catch all of them if you want to, with a season's pass, or go to hear just your favourites, but don’t forget to observe the usual categories of people who make up the audience.
If you’re in the 200-rupee section with the not-so-sturdy chairs, you’re bound to feel, sometime during the concert, a mild tremor that could bring to your mind the Richter Scale. Startled, you look around to check if you have to evacuate, but it’s just the rasika next to you in the throes of ecstasy, competing with the mridangam player by using his seat like a bongo. He’s one of the Movers and Shakers, causing the whole row to vibrate, and no amount of looking at him meaningfully can make him stop.
The 'Identifiers' are easy to spot and not at all annoying. They just want to be the first to recognise a raga before their neighbour gets it. The vocalist has barely finished clearing her throat and sung the first introductory phrase when you hear exclamations of “Ah! Nattakurinji!” or “Oho! Desh!” from gleeful Identifiers.
The Thani Avartanam phase, when the percussion artists take over to show their mastery, is when a section of the audience peels off for a quiet coffee break. But not the TalaMathicians. Eyes closed, they keep count with their fingers. After a particularly lengthy cycle, the ghatam player ends with a flourish, and the TalaMathician endorses with a catching motion in the air. Yes, the math is right!
Of course, not everyone is there because of the music. Some of them are the Ubers, who’ve come because a friend or spouse needs a ride after the concert. They’re happy to spend time texting surreptitiously or just looking around to count the audience every now and then. As each song ends, they slide hopefully to the edge of the seat, preparing to leave, only to sink back in disappointment when the musicians get ready again.
Then there are the Checkoffs, who’re mindful of all the artists they haven’t seen yet and choose their concerts based on that list.
“I didn’t see you for Sikkil yesterday,” observes a fellow regular.
“Nah! I already caught him last year.”
Seated right in the front are the Bruisers, whose palms go chataar-chataar on their thighs as they keep up with the swaras. Some of them wearing thick Kanjeevaram sarees escape with minor damage, but the ones wearing dhotis have been known to stop by the pharmacy to pick up an ointment on their way home.