Manna from Heaven

April 2010
Bangalore is an exasperating city to travel within and I have hitched a ride, run a fair distance, taken an auto and then run again to the gates of the Chowdiah Memorial Hall in breathless anticipation. I am in luck; there are tickets available. I buy one for five hundred rupees and rush up the steps. It is ten past seven in the evening when I flop into my seat, exhausted.

The musicians, a small handful of them, are assembled on stage, waiting for the Master. I have never seen him before in flesh and blood, yet have long been besotted with his voice, its elegance and versatility, its range, depth and pitch. My earliest memory of music at home, circa 1970, is listening to a record on a new record player, playing his lively, almost hyperactive, song from a now-forgotten film, Bhoot Bungla; it is a song that I grew up with, a part of my treasure trove of memories from childhood far far away.

My reverie is cut short; the Master shuffles onto the stage, as the audience rises to a standing ovation. It is a motley group of people here, largely middle aged and elderly and I (though officially middle aged) feel out of place. He makes his way to the middle, barely acknowledging the crowd, to where his harmonium has been kept and takes his seat deliberately, as the applause dies down and the crowd waits in anticipation.

In the silence that follows, the harmonium begins to play, guided by a practised, magical touch and, as the Voice begins to sing ‘Aey Malik tere bande hum’, I feel a lump in my throat, for the years have dropped away and it seems much like the original recording a half-century ago.
Manna Dey is now 91.

In the ensuing couple of hours, plagued by a bad throat and an indifferent back, the old man struggles to keep his composure and his famed temper. Yet, with every song that he begins, the trials of the World fade away as the eyes behind those large, benign spectacles focus on the distance, on a World that he once commanded as only he could. On a different World, when the best music directors requested him to sing songs that all others couldn’t. The magic continues on this day as well: when a song’s pitch reaches a crescendo, he holds his own, and the fans gasp in bewilderment. People who live to his age find it hard to speak; Manna Dey sings, and how!

The moments in between his singing are punctuated by good earthy humour, supplied in ample measure by the compere, Khurana Sahib, whose fluent Hindi, immersed in Urdu, is of Sixties vintage. Together, they make an odd couple, a legendary singer and his compere, in the evening of their life, holding their own in India’s most contemporary urban space. The audience demand an encore, but he is too tired to oblige. The Master stands up, does a Namaste and shuffles off the stage as every person in Chowdiah Memorial Hall applaudes with admiration, respect and awe.

At the end of a magical evening, I walk away knowing that this legend will always live. It’s a nice feeling.

Ad Wise

This is a story of advice and friendship.

We have been good friends with a couple, for many years. About four years ago, the husband called me and asked if he could talk over an issue that he was going through, to get a second opinion, another point of view. I agreed readily, since I liked him very much.

Vibhu, as I shall call him, is a suave chap, very prim and proper, educated in an olde world British school. After an MBA, he built a career in a large organisation in the sales function. I will mention here that the industry he was working in, is Mumbai-centric – most companies have their Head Offices there and branches in the large metros. Well, Vibhu’s performance at work was excellent and he rose to a level which was about the peak for the organisation’s office in Bangalore – if he needed to climb the ladder any more, he’d have to move to Mumbai, something that no self-respecting Bangalorean will consider, if he has his senses about him. Shortly after his promotion in this company, he quit and joined a competitor at a slightly higher level, reporting to the Branch Head. The salary and responsibilities were higher, though there would still be the inevitable Mumbai-move sometime in the future.

It was a bad decision. Vibhu’s gut (and a couple of colleagues) had warned him against the culture of the competitor, one that encouraged snake-oil salesmen and rewarded short term thinking. To top his discomfort, he had a particularly bad boss, who was as insecure as he was rude and who often alluded to Vibhu’s previous organisation with derision, something that got him particularly incensed.

As we sat down to talk, beer in hand, Vibhu told me that he wanted to quit this company immediately. He had no idea of what he wished to do, yet the stress of working here was taking his toll. His boss in the earlier organisation, on knowing of his discomfort, had sent feelers to him, asking him to come back to the same job he had held earlier, yet……..

“Why don’t you go back?” I asked.

The answer was long-winded. I sensed that he had set high standards of growth for himself and this would reek of failure. He was, in addition, concerned about how others in the old organisation would see him. This was where I had a point or two. “Vibhu, I have done just this. I left CDC in the late ‘90s to join a software product company as a domain specialist, realised that it wasn’t what I wanted and approached my boss in CDC within a month, before he had recruited a replacement. I felt the same way as you do now, but for a few days. My colleagues went out of their way to welcome me back. Don’t worry – our fears are in our heads.” I concluded.

“What about my growth?” he queried.

There was little to offer here, of course. He could choose to continue in the new organisation (“No, no, not a chance”), join his old organisation back (“Not sure of this, Gopa”) or just sit at home and hope for a job (which was most unlikely to come by).

“Here’s what I suggest, Vibhu,” I added, “There are often times when you have to go back to move forward. Go back to your old organisation, bide your time and look to change the industry you work in, moving to one where senior management positions exist in Bangalore.” I went back to my story. “Vibhu, quitting a job at this stage of your career without a Plan B, is not advised. I can tell you with confidence that, if you left a company with mutual goodwill, they’d be happy to have you back. Besides, your old Boss has sent the feeler first, hasn’t he? But don’t stay at home, its very depressing to be doing nothing.” Perhaps, in retrospect, I was being forceful, when I should have been gentle.

As the conversation progressed, he became quieter. We left after a couple of hours, some beer time included, and shook hands, while I wished him the best for the future.

It can’t be hard for you to guess the decision he took. He quit the new organisation, did not join the old one and, instead, spent a couple of exacting years at home, till a new, average job came his way. The impact on our friendship was rather hard as well; Vibhu stayed away, though his wife kept in touch with us. I have only once met him since that meeting and that was on a sidewalk. He has aged a decade, with his hair now vastly peppered, a cigarette in hand and some excess weight and when I reflect on the person I knew earlier it is cause for some despondency. It has made me wonder on the human tendency to self-destruct and, as you can see, how people see themselves has a big role to play in this process of emaciation.

I trust I learnt some lessons here, the prime among them being to not get passionate about solving other people’s problems.