Random Ramblings of a Reluctant Blogger

 Margazhi, a month many poets have waxed lyrical about, stays in a special memory box in my brain. Especially Margazhi and Thiruppavai. 

But before you think that I am a trained singer about to break into songs, I should warn you early. I do not remember margazhi because I sang, but because I couldn’t?

Frankly it was that month that made me realise that if there were to be a competition of bathroom singers, I would not  qualify even  for it.

But then, sing I did. It was all thanks to the effort of our neighbourhood aunty.

Every colony has one such aunty who takes it upon herself to teach the kids about their culture and tradition. And good for them too. But when you are a kid, as I was then, you do not realise the importance of it. Thankfully such aunties aren’t bothered about what the kids think. 

Being in Delhi, the aunty, worried we kids would stray away, made it a point to gather us ‘Madrasi’ kids (lest the politically correct people object to this term; it was what was much prevalent then) to drill culture into us.

So a month before Margazhi we had to assemble at her house in the evening and spend an hour learning the nuances of light carnatic music, especially bhajans. My mother insisted that my sister and I attended it without fail. Letting your kids do what they wanted wasn’t a concept even at its inception stage then. 

What, however, I  found irritating was that it coincided with my evening play time. To be fair an hour off my regular play time wasn’t much given that I had far too much play time than study time. 

Anyway, with no escape, my sister and I, along with a dozen other kids, attended those classes.

It was here I discovered my talent for singing was amongst the skillset I did not possess. But there I was  crooning amongst some good singers and the not so good ones. I made it a point to sit farthest away and most of the time I just mimed the lyrics. 

All this month-long effort was in preparation for the Margazhi season when we ‘balladeers’ were required to go to each house every morning throughout the cold month of December.

Now the biting cold in Delhi is quite unlike the faux winters of Chennai, Mumbai or any coastal town. So getting away from the cold comfort of the razai as early as five in the morning was an Himalayan effort. And then to follow it up with a bath! Mom would have by then made sure the water was hot lest we use it as an excuse to crawl back into the bed.

And there we were early morning, every day, throughout the month, unleashing our talents in the houses of those who welcomed us.

And it was here we found our   just desserts. Even as we sang our hearts out, the aroma of a hot ghee, that drenched the Pongal (both ven pongal and sakkarai pongal) being prepared by our hosts, would waft in and satiate our hearts. The singing, then, was farthest from my mind. Contrast to the cold outside, the warmth of the house and the wafting aroma compensated for all the troubles. Singing done, all we had left to do was to devour the hot servings. 

The piping hot dishes on a freezing winter morning were my incentive and my raison d’etre for the margazhi.  Little doubt the memory lingers as fresh.  

Nirvana, come to think of it, isn’t too hard.