Antakshari

Pop Quiz, hotshot: You’re in a bus. Long journey ahead, and all the picnickers are bored. What do you DO?
Or… You’re at a beach resort. It’s pouring outside, and the old relatives are getting restless. What DO you do?
Or… It’s

your cousin’s wedding and an icebreaker is desperately needed or you’ll never be able to chat up that cute thing in the red ghagra-choli. WHAT DO YOU DO????
Simple. Le lo Prabhu ka naam, and kick some butt.
It’s Antakshari time, folks! May the wordiest man win.

It’s almost funny. The way we gaze awestruck at the “tuneless wonders” who rattle off an entire 50’s song that everybody else barely remembers. Or shake our heads in disgust at someone who does the introductory “aalap” to perfection, and then is stuck because she can’t remember the exact words.
But this article isn’t about my lifelong hatred for Antakshari at all. That discussion is a one-way street- all it does is end up with me defending myself helplessly against the rest of the world. I’m over that.

No, this one’s for all those people who’ve been on the performing side of the stage. Strictly speaking, that includes just about everyone who’s had a Ganeshotsav mandal or Independence Day Celebration in his locality or school. But you know what I mean.
School. That brings back memories. Of always being included in the school play. Or being selected for the school choir - to call it a “choir” is a sacrilege, what we attempted to do was bawl out the School Anthem as loudly as possible without causing the amps to feed back. “Pr-aaaa-ooodly we you salute/ Our patron St. Thom-aaaaas….” And it wasn’t because I was the one with the devastating stage-presence or the angelic singing voice that I was invariably a part of these annual rituals. Oh, no!
I was the star because my teachers liked me. I was the school topper and getting into “extra-currix” was a piece of cake. I’d have made Head Boy too but Mom thought that’d swell my head way out of proportion, so that was out. She taught at my school too, my Mom, and the idea of anybody accusing her of nepotism was repugnant to her. That’s why I always got 49/50 in Geography even when I deserved to get full marks. Well, try as she did, Mom couldn’t keep me out of cultural activities- the other teachers adored me too much to allow that. So all I had to do was clear my throat when Mrs. Perreira requested for volunteers, and I was in.
Except In Sports, but that was because my P.T. Master hated the sight of me and called me “jaadya” to my face (somehow the teachers in my school regarded psychological scarring for life as a useful educational tool- and when I see what spoiled crybabies kids these days are turning into, I tend to agree with them). If he’d been on my side- who knows- I might have had a Volleyball certificate or two to complement my Drawing / Craft/ Drama/ Music/ Elocution ones.)

But I digress. The point is: we’re always encouraged to put our best feet forward and go ahead and do what we’re doing in front of “others”. Never mind that we suck, nobody cares. We go up there, we stick it out despite the boos and the helpless laughter, we finish our little act, take our little bows and hurry off to glowingly radiant parents waiting backstage, don’t we?
And this can lead to a whole lot of fun.

I remember this guy at a college festival who sang an entire song in the key of G while his guitar gently wept in C major. Halfway through, an expression of doubt and/or dismay crossed his face, but he was too far gone and any change at that point would have sounded awfully abrupt. The judges (it was a contest) didn’t mind too much and were gracious enough to declare him the winner. He was a friend of sorts, and at least had the decency to look ashamed when I confronted him with it.
Another time when we were rehearsing for a college “day” (you know, one of those boring affairs where they light a lamp, and some lady sings in Sanskrit and the Principal rants for an hour about what a great place this is, and then each division presents a skit or a song or something?), this guy came up with a duet he had “composed” (essentially, making sure every alternate set of lines rhyme). Well, anyway, it sounded pretty decent, but the female half of the duet was sounding a tad screechy. So Mr. Composer had this bright idea. Why don’t you, he suggested eagerly -I was lending musical support on the guitar- play in a high key for me, and then shift to a lower key for her.

I could have walked out right then, but didn’t. Instead, I asked in a very level voice what would happen when they did the “duet” part.
Oh, that’s simple, replied the great man. Stop playing and tap the wood. Dhick daak dhick daak. All good bands do it!
And so I did. Oh--- and we won!