Panorama of an audience : The Young India

Ranjana Dave

A concert hall is home to an audience that is as varied as chalk and cheese. In a Kafkaesque moment, one can imagine a supermarket alley with all types of people waving from their shelves.

Let’s look at some of the audience species.

I-shall-look-arty-and-get-away-with-murder: Dressing outlandishly is their signature style. They are sometimes found hoarding Colaba Causeway’s entire stock of phlegm-shaped beads. Other specimens are draped in saris tailor-made for their marriage ceremonies. They simper and tell you that the seat next to them is taken; usually for someone who always fails to turn up. Alas, we never realise that until the end, do we? They may also need lessons in switching off mobile phones or using the silent mode. But what truly makes one abandon all hope of reforming this section and resign oneself to the classic forehead-in-hand pose is: Trring! “I am in a programme…hello, hello, yes, I am in a programme, yes, yes, programme, I will call you after I get back home…it will take some time, don’t worry, I will call for sure.” Note that the decibel level of the conversation rises and falls with all the delicacy of a Mozart concerto. Unfortunately, at the wrong time, in the wrong place…

My-head-is-empty-so-it-makes-more-noise-when-moved: They nod with a startlingly high frequency capable of baffling owls. This is accompanied by a look that suggests ‘I have attained nirvana by watching you float on stage’. One often begins to wonder whether their necks possess a special spring mechanism. One also speculates the quantity of Moov they use up every night. If there are head braces that help rectify such a menace, one shall be pleased to donate some to the needy.

I-was-born-at-Picasso-Nagar: They are the ones who interject with untimely and innumerable ‘wah-kya-baat-hains’ when the singer enters a pivotal part of his alap or when the dancer even begins an exciting tihai. Their compatriots are also to be found at less exalted events like Bollywood concerts, rock shows and so on. Members of this cult hoot and scream with a dazed look on their faces, as if they have been hypnotised into ruining their vocal cords. The sounds are generally made when the singer touches a high note and goes out of tune or decides to abandon all pretence of singing and begins to scream.

Exalted-but-often-bewildered: Such people have attained great fame and are at the top of their game. When they enter a concert hall, it can often set fanatical organisers on fire. Without a sliver of regard to the happenings on stage, the front rows are torpedoed into a circus. Flashbulbs pop, but they are not aimed at the stage. People are rushing to a point away from the stage. One often wishes to delve into the minds of the artists on stage during these trying moments and analyse their thoughts. To give credit where it is due, the exalted individual in question rarely wishes that his arrival be turned into a tempestuous welcome.

The alien minion: The category that is underdressed, and hence, underestimated. Without a striking persona to get them past zealous guards of the reserved rows, they languish at the back, squinting hard in order to soak in details of Radha’s undying love for Krishna. They may be the ones who really connect with the art, but their simplicity alienates them from the milieu. Sadly, they are perceived as the ghatis.

It’s been centuries since Shakespeare proclaimed, “What’s in a name?” But some have always been duds at arithmetic and can’t extrapolate.

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