Looking in the rear-view mirror. Longingly.

The ‘good old times’ – all times when old are good. Lord Byron

Nostalgia. Those who wallow in it are almost certainly, and let us not mince words, long in the tooth. They are defined by the length of their teeth. I freely admit that I belong to this category. As I write this piece, armed appropriately with my rose-tinted glasses, a flood of memories comes rushing by. If you belong to a generation that was born post 1990, much of what follows is likely to be yawningly boring. That has never stopped those from an earlier vintage holding forth ad infinitum, ad nauseum on any subject that harks back to events that took place over forty or fifty years ago. We revel in it. It is an article of faith. The warning signal is any sentence starting with the words, ‘You know, I remember it as if it happened yesterday…’   At which point you can look at your mobile, which you pretend was on silent mode, and exclaim, ‘Sorry guys, I have to take this.’ You rush out, never to return. The younger generation has described us varyingly as insufferably boring, cynical, curmudgeonly, cantankerous, intolerant (and intolerable) but we have our faults too.

Those of you who are Wodehouse fans will readily recall his rib-tickling golf stories and the central character, the Oldest Member, who sits in the clubhouse and button-holes one of the unsuspecting, hapless young members to reel off his interminably long tales of golf and romance. All this over a gin and tonic or some other health-giving libation. By the time the young golfer tries to dodge the ancient sage, it is invariably too late. This is how the story usually unravels, as I hand you over to the Master.

‘…It is curious that you should have brought up this subject, [said the Oldest Member] for only a moment before you came in I was thinking…but perhaps I’d better tell you the whole story from the beginning.’

The young man shifted uneasily in his chair.

You get the drift, methinks. Allow me to get back to my narrative. Here is a typical snippet of a conversation between two senior citizens for whom the game of cricket has ceased to hold any interest once the rapid-fire limited overs variant of this once pristine game, came into being.

‘I say Mehta, do you recall that Test match when M.L. Jaisimha batted on every single day over two innings? Across five days. It still stands as some kind of record. The details escape me, but you can easily look it up. Whether he saved the game for us or not is neither here nor there. It is one of those obscure landmarks we cricket aficionados, with long teeth, hold dear.’

‘My dear Venky, of course I recall that innings by Jai, the victorious lion as veteran commentator of yesteryear Vizzy, Maharajkumar of Vijayanagaram dubbed him. Transliterated his name. ‘Jai’ for victory and ‘simha’ for lion. Quite clever. Speaking of arcane cricketing records, few that I can recall could have been more dubious than Sunny Gavaskar’s ignominious 36 not out in 174 balls, in a losing cause, over an entire 60-over innings at the inaugural World Cup against England at Lord’s in 1975. Somebody forgot to tell Sunny it was not a Test match.’

‘Your ironic observation is well taken, Mehta Saheb, but let us not dwell too harshly on the little master. He went on to redeem himself many times over with his record- breaking feats, becoming an icon of the game.’

‘Touché. Speaking of little masters, Sunny’s alter-ego, little Viswanath, later to become his brother-in-law, played alongside him throughout their distinguished careers. Gavaskar scored tons of runs, but the crowds loved Vishy for his delectable 30s and 40s and the odd hundred. His wristy flicks and cuts square of the wicket had fans on their feet, drooling for more. All this without a protective helmet, though Sunny fashioned a skull cap for himself later on. We were fortunate to have both these greats playing contemporaneously. Meaning at the same time,’ added Mehta gratuitously.

‘Yes yes, I know what contretemp-whatever-it was means. No need to spell it out.’ Venky was clearly miffed at this perceived slight to his vocabulary.

The evening inexorably wears on but the two raconteurs keep the conversation going till they realize it is well past their dinner time and they could face the wrath of their better halves if they do not step on the gas, homeward bound.

I shall close this reflection on the boredom of nostalgic reflections with some thoughts on how the sexagenarians and beyond look back on the music they loved in years gone by, as opposed to the stuff that is dished out ‘nowadays.’ I will cite contrastingly different streams of music that I have grown up with, starting with Carnatic music. Once again, we are overhearing two geriatrics, enjoying a tumbler of coffee at the Chennai Music Academy’s canteen while the December music season is in full swing.

‘Okay Bhaskaran, I agree with you that the girl performing right now in the main hall shows much promise. Flexible voice capable of reaching the upper and lower registers with ease, but too much speed. No soul. Remember MS or DKP? So meditative and melodious.’

‘I agree Ramky, but contrastingly GNB and MLV exhibited a real burst of speed and they were hugely popular as well. Their renditions were not entirely soulless, either. Even Ariyakkudi, Semmangudi, Madurai Mani, Maharajapuram, TNS and TVS were confirmed votaries of the madhyama kala style. Some of today’s stars swear by this school of music. Let us not be so biased.’

‘I can also counter you, Bhasky, by citing MDR and Brinda & Muktha who took the slow train to stardom. But yes, I must concede they were worshipped more post their demise than when they were actively performing. It is one of the great ironies. Incidentally, bias is the lifeblood of Carnatic music rasikas like us. It is embedded in our DNA.’

This debate has no ending. It is stream-of-consciousness running on an endless loop. You will observe that the performers are often referred to acronymically. MS, GNB, MLV and so on, or by their village names like Ariyakkudi and Semmangudi – terms of endearment triggered by intense familiarity. Decades from now, the then elderly ‘experts’ at the Academy’s canteen will be saying pretty much the same thing about Sudha, Sanjay, Bombay Jayashri, Sowmya, Ranjani & Gayatri, TM Krishna and others who rule the roost today. No village prefixes to their names as today’s urbanite musicians don’t live in villages any more.

It is no different in the case of western or Indian popular music when it comes to the ‘boring’ generation. The Beatles and Bob Dylan will take the honours against Ed Sheeran and Taylor Swift. Mohammad Rafi, Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar will be the overwhelming favourites against Alka Yagnik, Kumar Sanu and Sonu Nigam, while T.M. Soundararajan, SPB and P. Susheela will clearly have the edge over Hip Hop Tamizha Adhi, Shreya Ghosal and Chinmayi.

Nostalgia is a continuum. Our children can gently mock us today. Till they come face to face with it tomorrow, when they will wake up and smell the coffee.

Extracted from an article published in the Deccan Chronicle dt 26/8/24.