Sneaking out of sabha concerts

The  repetitive feature    of  the annual  music season will be    the near emptiness of the auditoria  for many concerts, yet significantly,  bursting-at-the-seams attendance for  the top drawer. Moulded plastic chairs will be placed along side plush seats on the aisle, for the overflow, though they  would have paid heavily for entry. You cannot walk in for those musical extravaganza,  if you want  the  best seats, without joining a queue. Oddly, the long-winding   line would seem to   be there  however much earlier  you had started.
 
Time was when forming or joining a queue was  deemed deeply infra dig to many especially the  cognoscenti, who would prefer  to breeze in without even  a supercilious  side-glance at the  usher. However, the current code of social conduct and norm  is to join the queue grudgingly, never mind you have  to squirm   behind  the  one  ahead and inch forward or pause replicating his/her movement, without lunging forward.

You may be privy to  slices of  conversation annotated  here, at the foyer of the holy of holies, the creme le creme,  The Music Academy, The Ultimate!
 
“Mami, is this, the queue for Sudha? ( Aruna or Nityashree or Sanjay as the case may be)     My god, I thought I had started well in advance but look at the queue,” asks a swishing   Kanchipuram, with feigned surprise,  in her hyper-resonant voice.
 
The maroon Mysore silk nods her head. “Aamam, mami,  It is. The afternoon concert is yet to get over. Then the cleaning brigade will take over.  We have to stand for nearly half an hour.”

“I am a member for 30  years.  Pity even I have to queue up. No wonder, the Academy has thoughtfully  provided convenient  chairs  near the wall  to cool the heels.   But when the gate opens, there will be a mad scramble, bedlam,  a rugby of the patrons, mostly  senior citizens, holding the season tickets aloft, over their heads.   In the melee, you will be shocked to find people who were not there when you came here,  bunching near the entrance looking pointedly away. Atrocious.”

“Yes, I know. Mami, have you attended flute Mali’s concerts?”

“ H’m? You ask that of a Mylaporean? I have.  His concerts  would be suspense-packed. One would go to the hall and wait wondering whether the maverick vidwan will show up or not.  His rasikas  will purchase the ticket only after they spot his car. But, it will be worth waiting. That genius would mesmerize you with his  flute, not made of bamboo, but sugar cane!  Unless of course, he doesn’t abort  his concert half way, irked by one of his pet peeves.”

“Ah! Finally,  the gate is open. See you mami.”

Though enough seats will be available in the auditorium at that time, the rush will be  to claim the corner seats abutting the aisle, so one could sneak out at will  without trampling over  the shoes, sandals, high heels, platforms  or  sneakers. Umbrellas, hankies, water bottles, programme books, mufflers--any  handy object  may be used to reserve the adjacent seat for your companion  who had come; but had, under the pretext of going to the rest room,  had gone for good coffee.    

The reservation may be even  for one who might not have left office at Velachery, Siriseri or beyond. In all probability it may end up as   ‘no show’,  to borrow airline lingo.

Sudha ( or her ilk ) had begun  the   varnam at jet speed and having had a trial run of the vocal  cords  switched  over to yet another  quickie  for the instrumentalists  to interface and  coalesce.

Before long, the blue Kanchipuram,  will  ponderously get  up, convinced her presence has been noticed at such a  star concert,   collecting her bag from the adjacent seat, that was unpardonably denied to a few late comers.  While shuffling  towards the exit,  she will  pause near maroon Mysore silk.  “Going off. My daughter is flying to Amsterdam  tonight  with my peran. I will have to see them off. Will you come for Sanjay ( or Ranjini and Gayatri ) tomorrow?”

“Who will miss?  Will be  here by 3.15, well in advance. I will also push off after the next item. Have an appointment with my orthodontist.   Mami,  was the last piece  in  ahir bhairavi or chakravakom?”

“Chakravakom. But tell me, Is she  wearing a necklace or a choker? I left my glasses in the car.”

“It is a Kundan choker. Varattuma?”

(The author is a bilingual humour writer)