Composer Ramesh Narayan, who makes Hindustani music sound like a grotesque spectacle of mimicry, showed the other day how egos soar higher than high Cs and humility is as rare as a perfectly pitched note.
At the launch of the MT’s Manorathangal trailer, he orchestrated his own symphony of self-importance, which unfortunately jarred like a tuba in a string quartet.
Draped in the finest silk, Narayan sauntered onto the stage with an air that would make even the most seasoned divas blush. His aura, akin to a Bollywood villain, exuded a blend of arrogance and a self-proclaimed mastery of musical mimicry.
With each word that rolled off his tongue, he attempted a poor imitation of Hindustani music, whose performers are known to have been great humble human beings. Rameshji Narayanji’s performance oscillated between a misplaced thumri and a failed attempt at khayal.
The audience watched in a curious blend of amusement and disbelief. Could this be the same Ramesh Narayan who can compose symphonies that could rival Mozart’s dreams? Or had he transcended into a parody of himself, a caricature of musical talent masked by an over-inflated sense of self-worth?
As he gestured dramatically, as if conducting an invisible orchestra of his own ego, Narayan’s antics reached a crescendo. Behind the scenes, however, whispers circulated like a breeze through the corridors of the concert hall. “Did you hear his attempt at raag Yaman? It sounded like a cat being strangled,” remarked one bewildered tabla player.
“And that poor Tanpura player – I’ve never seen someone grimace so beautifully while trying to keep up with his erratic tempo shifts!”
Yet, amidst the cacophony of criticism and awkward silences punctuating his ‘performance’,
Ramesh Narayan remained blissfully unaware, basking in the imaginary applause of his mind’s adoring fans. For in his world, where humility was but a forgotten note in the symphony of his self-aggrandizement, every off-key warble was a masterpiece, every awkward gesture a stroke of genius.
The Manorathangal event, however, had a winner in Asif Ali, who emerged as a beacon of humility amidst Ramesh Narayan’s grandiose theatrics. While Narayan’s gestures and exaggerated claims echoed through the halls, Asif Ali stood in stark contrast, embodying a humility rarely seen under the glare of fame.
As the composer clumsily attempted to showcase his musical prowess, Asif Ali’s response was a masterclass in grace and composure.
Instead of taking offence or feeding into the spectacle, Asif Ali simply smiled, his eyes twinkling with a gentle amusement. He understood the nuances of the situation – the delicate interplay between artistic expression and personal humility.
With a nod and a quiet word of appreciation for Narayan’s efforts, Asif Ali redirected the focus back to the essence of the anthology, MT Vasudevan’s profound stories.
Asif Ali’s demeanour shone like a polished gem. His humility served as a counterbalance to the composer’s bombast, reminding everyone present that true greatness lies not in the volume of one’s voice but in the sincerity of one’s actions.
In the aftermath, while Narayan continued to extol his own virtues to anyone who would listen, Asif Ali quietly returned to his craft, grounded in the knowledge that true success stems from genuine connection and authentic expression, certainly not the mimicry of grotesque variety. The composer fumbled even in his so-called apology.
