That night I spoke on the phone to my father, who knows a great deal about Indian classical music. On the phone to my father, who knows about Indian classical music and specifically Carnatic classical music, the music of South India. Speaking with my father, who knows all about Indian classical music and in particular South Indian Classical music, I tell him I would like to speak about Indian classical music at a conference to which I have been invited.
It is August; I am stranded at a station in Yorkshire; I have phoned up my father, just as I had phoned him a few months before when I was stranded at an airport in Cardiff. This time, unlike the time before, I tell him of my invitation, and ask him what he thinks. I know I know much less than he about Indian classical music, but I wonder whether he might help me. I ask him for this, his help. They don’ t expect me to be an expert on Indian classical music, I tell him, but it would be interesting, I think, for me to say a little about Indian classical music. And perhaps you can help me, I suggest to him, thinking to myself: today, in the early evening, stranded in this station in Yorkshire, I’ve had a bright idea.
I thought: this will be nice for dad as it will be nice for me; I can learn more about Indian classical music, and specifically the music of South India, from him, and he will enjoy the fact that my interest is not casual, and I want to do more than occasionally attend Indian classical music concerts with him. We used to attend for a few weeks in a row. Concerts on the South Bank, at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, and then sometimes concerts in a private house, concerts in a living room. Sometimes North Indian classical music, sometimes South Indian classical music. One or the other, and sometimes, if there were several performers, South Indian and North Indian classical music in one concert.
North Indian classical music strives for effects, I said to him once. It’s too romantic, I said to him once, too expressive. I prefer South Indian classical music, I said, because it is less about self-expression. It’s more austere, I said, and every raga is not made to come to a swooning climax, I said. I prefer South Indian classical music, I said, because there’s more of an idea, when it comes to a concert, of a programme of music. With North Indian classical music, I said, every raga has got to be pleasing; the audience cry out, that is expected, but in the end it is too romantic, too expressive, I said. With South Indian classical music, I said, there is more austerity.
Late Beethoven compared to early Beethoven. Bach compared to Mozart. More austerity, I said, less self-expression. And more of a sense of an entire programme – with a starter, a main course and a pudding, I said, and he agreed, my dad, although it was he who would hum along to the music and would sway his head to the music. Although he was the one who would be carried away by the music, surprising for a man who appeared so self-controlled. He agreed – it was quite true, he thought – but he was the one carried away by music and who would weep as he listened. How was it that he who never wept would weep when he heard music? He wept – and he would speak of himself weeping. Later, he would say – it moves me to tears, emphasis on tears. He was surprised as I was – why was he – of all people – moved to tears. But there he was, moved to tears. By South Indian classical music, but also by North Indian classical music.
South India, North India – did I know the difference? Once, on the way to the South Bank, coming over the pedestrian walkway from Waterloo, I had said, they’re South Indian, referring to a group of men and women walking ahead of us. Can you tell because of the way they tie their saris?, dad asked. But that wasn’t why I could tell. I had just said it: they’re South Indian, without knowing why. Oh those South Indian girls, said dad on another occasion, who never said things of that kind.
A station in Yorkshire, early evening. A few hours until the connection. Cross the railway bridge in search of food, cross the bridge in search of something to drink. But I am soon back at the station. And I call up home. Dad answers, his accent heavier and more noticeable on the phone. And I tell him to ring me back. And dad, always slow, rings me back. We speak, I tell him of my invitation and he tells me he’ll send me some documents about Indian classical music. Lately, he’s been teaching himself, he tells me. Just lately, he’s been learning about Western notation and comparing it with Indian notation, South and North. He’ll send me some documents, he says. He’ll prepare them for me.
My father expresses his reservations about Western audiences. They always like the tabla, he says. They always want tabla duels, he says, and disapproves. The audience I’m going to speak to aren’t like that, I tell him. Some of them are trained North Indian classical musicians, I tell him. But he says what he always says, Western audiences always want percussion, and tabla duels. Then he tells me about recent medical research, which shows the beneficial effects of hearing certain ragas. It’s just like it was claimed in the Vedas, he says, and the earliest myths about music.
We speak of the notation of Indian classical music, and different instrumentation. Of course, from the first, Indian classical music was a vocal tradition. First of all, the voice – only later was it adapted for instruments. They started playing on violin in the nineteenth century, he said. And I remember when he spoke of U. Srinivas, the mandolin prodigy. On electric mandolin!, said dad. Of course, Srinivas was from Madras, like dad. From the old city by the sea, in the old South, where they play Carnatic music. Purer, said dad, without Islamic influence. North and South Indian classical music diverged in the fifteenth century, he said, and because of the Islamic influence. Until then, there was one tradition.
One tradition, uniting all of India. One tradition, for all of India. He used to keep a Sanskrit copy of the Bhagavad Gita by his bed. A copy, in Sanskrit, of the Bhagavad Gita, so small you could keep it in your hand. The Bhagavad Gita, which was likewise read across India. The Bhagavad Gita, which I learnt about first of all in the graphic novels dad used to buy for me. Amar Chitka Katha – comics which retold puranas, myths. And in amongst these bloody retellings, where Indra struck the arms of a demon and then struck off his head, or Shiva, in rage set a torrent of demons on his prospective father-in-law, leading to his beheading, before Shiva revived him now with the head of a goat, there were stories of teachers like Sankara (our family guru) who died at 31, Sankara (8th century C.E.) and had foregone the life of a householder to become, at an early age, a wandering sanyasin – and even a one edition retelling of the Bhagavad Gita itself.
How marvellous, I thought, when I first read the Gita! So that’s who Krishna was! That’s who was all along, mischevous, blue-skinned Krishna! That’s who he was, the scourge of the wicked and the husband of a hundred wives! There he was, Krishna, his vast blue body above the surprised Arjuna in the middle of the battlefield. Later, dad would complain about Peter Brook’s production of the Mahabharata: I can’t understand what they’re saying. Beeshma, in the production, was an African, very black and slim, and Krishna, a white man, I’m not sure from where – and the accents were too thick for my dad. I can’t understand them, he said. And the Bhagavad Gita was beside his bed. The Bhagavad Gita, which was but one part of the vast Mahabharata.
He always wanted to die in India, in Madras, that’s what he told my sister, a few weeks earlier. He wanted his remnants scattered in the Ganges, that’s what he told me before his first bypass operation many years ago. And hadn’t he told his friends he wanted to die back there, in Madras? That was where he died. That’s where he died, although he went there not expecting to die. He died in Madras, while not expecting to die there. But it’s where he died, in Madras, all in one go, dying all at once, in Madras. That’s where he died, back in Madras, after a few days with his brothers, all in one go, at single stroke. Death at one stroke in Madras, just before he was to begin a course of treatment. At one stroke, with minimal suffering.
So did a life end. So he died, among his brothers, whom he had left behind to come to the UK. Among them, his brothers, to whom he spoke almost daily through the internet. Whom he saw almost daily on his webcam, his brothers. He died amongst them, his brothers, and his remains were scattered in the Bay of Bengal the next day. Madras, December; just before the concert season. Madras, December, as the concert season was about to begin.
Tomorrow I am to speak at the conference. Tomorrow I will speak as I told my dad I would speak. I have his notes here, ‘Music Notes for Lars I’, and ‘Music Notes for Lars II’; I have his notes, and tomorrow I’m speaking. Not so long ago, just before he was to fly the next morning, I told him I’ve been working too hard to research South Indian classical music as I had intended. The night before he flew, I rang him, and he sounded happy and excited – he was off to India! Back to Madras! And for non-invasive surgery, a remarkable procedure, which he’d read about in The Hindu. To Madras, to his brothers! He asked me when my new book was coming out. I said I’d send it to him when it arrived. I’d send him a few copies, I promised. It should be better than the first book, I said.
Then, not long after, I tried to prepare an obituary. What words should I use? What should I say? He came to the UK in 1956, I write. He worked in Newport, Gwent, I write. He went to study in Birmingham, I write. He moved to London, I write, as a Chartered Electonic Engineer. He had a great love of music, I write. Yes, that’s right – a love of music. He had a great love of music, I write. He was a music lover, I write.
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