Sun and music

I had an incredible day yesterday. I spent the morning reading and studying in my sunny bedroom...



And at night, my roommates and I attended a three-hour Indian classical music concert. It was held outdoors on the gigantic cricket pitch of the Law College campus (where my street, Law College Road, gets its name). We snagged seats relatively near the stage, and had the pleasure of sitting among a group of my roommate M's fellow ayurveda students. Even their revered teacher, Dr. L, showed up in a dapper cap and round gold-rimmed glasses. As the sun went down and the concert began, we saw a flock of bats fly across the cricket pitch. Jupiter and Venus shone bright, looking down on us from the eastern sky. I sat between my roommate S and my (wonderful, adorable) astrologer, R.

Here's a photo of G and M, my two roomies and the resident uncle-ji and auntie-ji of our flat. They're here for M's ayurveda studies, and to attend some "sits" in Vipasana meditation, which they both practice regularly -- especially G, who meditates for two hours every morning (from 4:30-6:30!) and every afternoon. Back in the west, they split their time between taking care of their sustainable farm in Fairfield, Iowa, and doing pro-bono sustainable development work in southern Mexico. From them I've learned the value of almonds, soaked and peeled, that it's okay to treat yourself to lunch someplace ritzy and expat-y every now and then, and that cinnamon sticks boiled in water make excellent tea.

And here's one of me and my other roommate, S, who just graduated from NYU and plans to go into the music business once she's finished with ayurveda treatment in India this year. (My other roommates, the three tall German ladies, are at a wedding in Rajasthan right now.)

The concert was beautiful: the group consisted of two Muslims and three Hindus, happily jamming together on the tabla, the mandolin, the voice, a simple drum played with one hand, and a more complicated standing drum set. They started off with two classical songs, then broke off into incredible (and incredibly long-winded) solo improvisations. First was the mandolin, followed by the drum set man. This drum set man. His work on the drums was great, but halfway through his performance he started speaking into the microphone. "The breath," he said, "the breath is the rhythm we all have." (Great, I thought, he's getting all kooky and romantic on us.) Then he took his hands off the drums and started to breathe into the microphone. First simple, then in ONE-two-three, faster and faster, then far more complicated, six or eight mini-beats per round, and all of a sudden his breath was as if whirling through the air, flying in circles at top speed.

And then -- oh, then! -- he started beatboxing. (This is just about the last thing I expected at an Indian classical music concert.) Now, I'm not really one for beatboxing in general, but this man was something else. He was, if I can say this, beatboxing classical Indian music. His mouth made the sounds of an entire tabla set. When his beat had become sufficiently complex, he winded down and said: "A conversation between me and an airport official in America." And then (imagine this!) he actually beatboxed the conversation, hand gestures and all. You could completely tell what was going on in the scene; he perfectly communicated this hilarious few minutes of his life...in beatbox. It was as if he was speaking a language--a language that everyone could understand. The audience was in stitches.

Then the other players came back on, and they finished up with some more improvisations (this time on voice, drum, and tabla) as well as some set songs. The last one they sang was called -- in the spirit of the gathering -- "Ishwar - Allah". Very beautiful. So there you have it...just another Saturday night in Pune.