A crispy, onion-flecked Maddur Vada with curls of steam rising from its belly as I broke it in half, my Dad’s filter coffee frothing as he poured it between the glass and the cup while softly whistling the musical flourishes of Todi raga, my Mom opening up a square of Badam Halwa, packed in a piece of butter paper, while snapping her fingers to the beats of Roopaka thala – these are just some of the images that come to mind when I think of the Ramanavami Concert season in Bangalore. We would head out to the kutcheris ahead of time, to grab a bite to eat in any of the eateries that were popular in the listeners’ circles, from Janatha Hotel or Central Tiffin Room in the Malleswaram-Seshadripuram area, to Vidyarthi Bhavan and MTR around Chamarajpet and Basavanagudi.
This wave of nostalgia extends to the sensory experience brought on by the onset of summer interspersed with rain, and with it, the symphony of prominent voices, including M.S. Subbulakshmi, and Amjad Ali Khan, showcasing their classical repertoire of favourite compositions. There was a hum in the air as we reached the venues, rattling through the narrow lanes in autorickshaws, leaving behind a trail of dust clouds. The rustling of silks against Pond’s cold-creamed skins and the scent of jasmine from the braids of aunties, the unmistakable vibhuti-smeared foreheads and Kurta-dhoti-clad uncles, and an overall thrill in finding a good spot to be seated — made all the difference and was the key to hours of sublime melodies.
The festive atmosphere in the temple courtyards, shamiana-canopied sabhas and halls, the orange and green striped jamkhana mats carpeting the rugged terrain, the flowers and vines in the Rangoli motifs adorning the entrance or foyer to the central area, all contributed to the uniqueness of the mise en scène. The devotion of the attendees would be palpable even to the untrained eye, as they clapped and teared up after the vocalist had reached the tail end of a Thyagaraja kriti, and the percussionist, having complemented the performance through abhipraayam, would take over to square up the rendition with the finesse of the tani avartanam.
“I recall attending the Ramanavami Music festival in Chamarajapet in the early 1980s with my mother, where I got to listen to the stalwarts of the Carnatic music pantheon expounding on an array of ragas. I especially enjoyed Jon Higgins performing the Devagandhari in his signature style,” says Murli Nagasundaram, a retired Professor.
This time around, as I elbowed my way through the bustling evening crowds around Fort High School, the scene unfolding in front of me was at once familiar and relatable: the same kaleidoscope of colours and Kanjeevarams from my childhood. What truly stood out is the addition of a new catering partner to the month-long event: a well-known local chain, Paakashala, serving their trademark crispy masala dosas, spicy bajjis, and gravied chaats, along with the beverage that the city runs on: filter kaapi.
This seemed like a stark contrast to the relative simplicity of the food scene around these venues back in the day. Modest food stalls dotted the periphery of the grounds now and then, but the diverse options we’re now witnessing were largely absent. Back in the 90s, if you felt a pang of hunger during the intermissions, your options were limited to whatever your mother’s handbag could hold: a few Parle G biscuits or a fruit.
Nagasundaram shares a similar memory: “No Bengaluruvasi would attend a kutcheri if there weren’t opportunities nearby to consume delicacies, particularly since the concerts ended late. There were places on the way to the concert or nearby where one could tuck in idli-vada, bisibelebhath and other such standards of South Indian cuisine. Sometimes, my mother would pack some pakodas or botis in a newspaper wrap, and there would always be a thermos flask and tumblers ready for the obligatory coffee.”
While Chennai’s Margazhi season boasts of a smorgasbord of cafeteria delicacies, Bengaluru hasn’t had the charm of a big canteen with a multifarious menu. There’s still something to be said of digging into masala puri with fellow patrons, discussing the nuances of a beloved performance, which makes the whole affair communal and intimate. Like a Ragamalika balancing the silence of the empty measures between breaths as Sandeep Narayan makes a slow shift from Nattakurinji to Dhanyasi, catching a quiver as he glides into the lower notes of Mukhari, and rising to the slick cadence of Saveri. We too, with one hand holding onto the pleats of our finery and the other, blaring iPhone screens announcing the arrival of our Ubers, lean into our own mixed emotions as we amble out into the star-speckled evening, with the music still waltzing between our ears.
