The book we made at home

First published in The Bengal Post

“I have fixed 11th December as the date for the book release by the Prime Minster.” My wife’s cousin Cheenu was smiling confidently as he dropped this bombshell. “What book?” I asked, nonplussed by this casual remark Shrinivasan, son of Radha Viswanathan and grandson of T Sadasivam and MS Subbulakshmi, made in mid-October a couple of years ago.

My wife Gowri confessed that in the midst of a debilitating illness in July of the same year, she had agreed to write a book about the special relationship between her grandaunt MS and her daughter-disciple Radha. Bedridden for months, she had forgotten all about it.

Cheenu then cheerfully entrusted me the task of finding a publisher for the proposed book! I explained to him that no publisher on earth would even accept or reject the proposal in that time. I tried to persuade him to postpone the release by a few months, but he assured me that that was an impossibility.

Gowri and I came up with a compromise formula. She had written an article on Radha for Sruti magazine in 1983 and several on Subbulakshmi over the years, for The Hindu and Frontline, among others. She had also to her credit a childhood biography of six artists, including MS. I collected all the relative files stored at various locations on the Internet and our own home computer, and suggested Gowri compile it all into some 10,000 words, to be supplemented by several superb photographs from Cheenu’s collection. And we would publish the book ourselves, looking for a good distributor to promote it. This was the best we could do in time for the December deadline.

The task of scanning thousands of photographs and selecting the best through several iterations of parleys between Gowri, me and Cheenu, now back in his hometown of Bangalore, was a mammoth one. Our team at this stage consisted of Gowri, my assistant Ravikumar and me. We emailed the images to Bangalore for Cheenu to approve and mail back. We had to try a variety of methods of handling the enormous files.
Once Gowri started writing, the book possessed her, and her 10,000 words grew and grew until they reached a very respectable 65,000. She was still in some pain from her ailment but just about able to type on her computer all day long, sometimes late into the night. She had replaced Radha as the late MS’s vocal accompanist back in the 1980s when Radha fell seriously ill and could not continue her sterling onstage contributions to MS’s Carnatic music concerts, which she had started as a young girl in pigtails. Memories of the years she had watched Radha accompany MS and help her on and off stage, her own unforgettable years playing the same roles, the tragedy of the meningitis that felled Radha in the prime of her life and Radha’s indefatigable spirit came to Gowri in a torrent of emotion. She was in tears most of the time as she stuck to her labour of love.

Soon we set up a smooth daily routine. Gowri emailed me her day’s output—we worked in different rooms—I did one round of editing and proofreading, though the spontaneous outpourings were almost print-perfect most of the time; I then emailed my copy to my daughter Akhila in the US (she too was in tears, most of the time, she tells me); she sent it back within hours; I then emailed the file to Abhirami Sriram, our efficient and empathetic Chennai-based editorial associate; and Gowri gave the copy she returned a final once-over. The whole process took about 24 hours.
Ashok Rajagoplan, the friend who designed the book, stayed some 20 km away and hated commuting, so he too was a long-distance resource. We realised rather late in the day that he did his work in Coreldraw, hardly the best book publishing solution in the world—at least back in 2008. Throughout the period he must have visited our home-cum-office two or three times. We also met a few times at a coffee shop in neutral territory, carrying laptops, CDs and USB devices containing the files relating to the book.

The book was beautifully designed and I was sure it would look gorgeous. But would it be ready in time? No, not by a long margin, I realised just a week before the scheduled date of release. That is when another friend Arun Ganesh stepped in, converting the files to Indesign and getting the whole book print ready within 24 hours.

The printer would need at least ten days to give us a sufficient number of copies for the two release functions planned, the one at Chennai two days after the Delhi event. Our Plan B was to make some fifty copies via digital printing to take to Delhi. Parliament was in session and the PM decided on a semiprivate function at his official residence, so we could not sell the books during the function. It was a blessing in disguise as the guest list was small and 50 copies would be just right.

The last straw was when the digital printing equipment crashed and we were able to carry exactly seven copies to Delhi. Alls’ well that ends well, and the book launch went off without further troubles, with Pandit Ravi Shankar graciously receiving the first copy from Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. (MS and Radha by Gowri Ramnarayan can be bought online at www.sruti.com).

Nagaswaram music: an endangered species

(First published in The Bengal Post)

It has been a brilliant lecture demonstration by Dr. Kanniks Kannikeswaran at the Music Academy on the great Muttuswami Dikshitar, one of the revered Trinity of Carnatic music composers of the 18th century and dhrupad. (The scholars present question the validity of his claim that Dikshitar was influenced by dhrupad in his compositions, as TM Krishna points out in his comment below).

I then enter the academy’s main hall, where Vyasarpadi Kodandaraman is drowning a sparse audience in vintage nagaswaram music.

According to a Wikipedia definition, the nagaswaram is the world's loudest non-brass acoustic instrument. “It is a wind instrument similar to the shehnai but larger, with a hardwood body and a large flaring bell made of wood or metal.”

To me, like millions of other south Indians, no ceremony or festival is off to an auspicious start without a nagaswaram preamble. Historically, the nagaswaram accompanied by the tavil for percussion has always preceded the temple idol taken out in procession. It is therefore naturally an open air instrument, which explains the need for its loudness.

The great practitioners of the art of nagaswaram playing have belonged to families steeped in it, several of them in different parts of Tamil Nadu, most famously in the rice belt of Tanjavur on the banks of the Kaveri, the legacy being handed down from generation to generation through the centuries.

There is a close link between the nagaswaram tradition and hereditary barbers. Hardly 40-50 years ago, when it was still common for the family barber to come home to do the honours, he also greeted you first thing in the morning on Deepavali day with a few choice samples of nagaswaram music. My childhood was made traumatic by Ekambaram who not only gave me dreadful haircuts, but also managed never to play a tuneful note. He was invariably a rich man on festive mronings because every household tipped him generously to keep it short.

Some of the greatest artists in Carnatic music have been nagaswara vidwans, most notably Tiruvavaduthurai Rajaratnam Pillai who has had arguably the most seminal influence on most of the finest exponents of south Indian classical music, especially the major vocalists of the 20th century, and even some of today’s stars. One of the most charismatic singers of yesteryear, GN Balasubramanian, whose centenary celebrations conclude in January 2011, was much influenced by the nagaswara bani, especially the lightning fast brigas—a kind of modulation—of Rajaratnam that lesser mortals consider impossible of achievement by the human voice.

The so-called pitamaha of Carnatic music, the late Semmangudi Srinivasier, the epitome of orthodox brahminhood, who had great reverence for nagaswaram music, was fond of telling the story of how he often crossed the Kaveri to listen to the incomparable music of a stalwart nagaswara vidwan, though past his best and under the influence of alcohol most of the time. Semmangudi’s eyes invariably misted over as he remembered the days of his youth, unmindful of his audience or any embarrassment at a public show of his emotions.

Unlike the great shehnai maestros of the north, south India’s nagaswaram wizards are hardly known outside the region. In addition to Rajaratnam Pillai, there have been many other magnificent exponents of the art—Karukurichi Arunachalam, Shaikh Chinna Moulana Sahib, the Tiruveezhimizhalai Brothers, the Semponnarkoil Brothers, and Namagirpettai Krishnan to name but a few. It is along with tavil playing perhaps the only branch of Carnatic music dominated by non-brahmin musicians, one that also features Muslim practitioners.

Nagaswaram and tavil are endangered species. Many of the best traditions of the art are rapidly changing and lack of glamour is driving many young inheritors of the legacy to seek other professions. Temples in the state have been invaded by light music, with hardly any classical music concerts being hosted there, and the grand mallari to herald the lord’s procession getting diluted over time.

The ubiquitous electronic sruti box has virtually replaced the old-fashioned ottu, the smallish nagaswaram look-alike that acted in the past as a drone to maintain the pitch. The compulsion to enter the concert hall from the temple grounds of the past to earn a livelihood as musicians has forced artists to adapt several aspects of their music to suit the changed environment. Unfortunately, many of them insist on artificial amplification to be on a par with other musicians, something they really do not need, something that detracts from the rich sounds of their instruments. Audiences no longer flock to nagaswaram concerts, with the decibellage as a result of microphone usage perhaps one of the discouraging factors. Despite efforts by the leading music organisations including the Music Academy honouring the best of them with awards, the public response to this supreme wind instrument continues to be lukewarm.

Still, sensitive and dedicated nagaswara vidwans like Vyasarpadi Kodandaraman and the glamorous Injikudi Subramaniam have remained true to their invaluable inheritance and play the purest kind of nagaswaram music despite pressures from the changing milieu. The wonderful Kambhoji raga suite that Kodandaraman unfurled before the privileged few who had assembled at the Music Academy hall a few days ago will linger in their hearts and minds for a long time.

SAMEER

Sameer Athreya (born 12 December 1999) is a child
prodigy who gave his first public concert at age 7
and won the hearts of music lovers with his amazing
display of Hindustani classical music. He sings
khayal, thumri, taranas, bhajans, as well as
devotional songs(Sanskrit, Hindi, Kannada,
Marathi, Gujarati) with the panache of a veteran .He
also plays on harmonium. He has been featured on
All India Radio and television channels (including
TV 9 and Kasturi channel's Swaramadhurya
programme which has been telecast repeatedly). He
has received rave reviews in The Hindu, The Asian
Age, Deccan Chronicle, Udayavani and Taranga
(Kannada) publications. He excels in complicated ragas
and intricate talas

For the past two years he has been training under
Dr.Sakuntala Narasimhan of the Rampur-Sahaswan
gharana.

He has also set to tune some Dasa Vani
(devotional Kannada songs). Like any child of
his age, he also loves watching cartoons, skating,
Karate and working at the computer. His cartoon
strip creation on Saving Mother Earth won
him an award in February 2010.

Some memorable concerts:

20.01.2007. First full length public recital aged
7, at Veenapani Centre for Arts, Bangalore,
accompanying himself on the Harmonium,
Received electronic swarmandal in appreciation
of his genius.

27.05.2007. Concert for Swarohan Cultural
Organisation, Bangalore , honoured with
prestigious gift of a tanpura.

11.11.2007. Annual Celebration programme of
Ghethak Tabla Vidyalaya Bangalore

5.12.2007. Concert at Dattajayanti annual
music festival, Harihar.

2006-08. Television appearances and recitals
on channels ETV, Kasturi and TV 9.

12.01.2009. All India Radio interview with
recital.

12.04.2009. Concert at Raga Sangama,
Sahakaranagar.

25.04.2009. Participated in Dignity Foundation
concert at Indian Institute of World Culture,
Bangalore.

4.05.2009. Concert at Sirsi

14.08.2009. Concert at Poornapragna Vidya
peeta, on the occasion of Krishna Janmastami

13.11.2009. Harihar Datta Jayanti music
festival, jointly with Dr. Sakuntala Narasimhan

Some press comments:

His profound grasp of the advanced aspects and
subtle nuances of Hindustani music leave you
with that sense of incredulity and wonder that
happens when you confront child prodigies.....
His sense of shruthi is amazingly perfect....The
sweet and sonorous voice is definitely that of a
child but the mastery of melody and rhythm are
that of an accomplished musician� -The Hindu
27.4.2007

7 year old Sameer.S.Athreya's recent Hindustani
music concert in Bangalore included a repertoire
worth taking note of; a tarana in Desh raga,
Punjabi thumri and a Haridasa Krithi in Kannada��
-The Asian Age,11.2.2007.

Sameer who turned 7 last month could easily
qualify for Ustad status judging by his astounding
knowledge of, and command over, Hindustani
Classical music.....It hasto be seen to be
believed....This youngster had the audience
smiling and crying alternately, with joy.
Charmingly interacting with audience Sameer
stole their hearts that evening. Such prodigies are
rare to come by....� Radel Newsletter Jan-March
2007

He can tune songs in multiple Ragas, Can
play Harmonium and Piano easily, Can read
and write in 7 languages , all at the tender age
of 6,This kid can easily be called a Prodigy.

Taranga, feature article for children's day
Nov 2006

Contact :
Parents: Satish K & Vidya K R.
Address:- T-157, 14th main, 35th cross,
4 th T Block , Jayanagar,Bangalore- 41
Ph no :-080-22459223
Mobile :-98450-63458
Email :-vidyakr@yahoo.com

Guru

Sameer is being trained by Dr.Sakuntala
Narasimhan of the Rampur- Sahaswan gharana.
Dr Sakuntala Narasimhan is
the only vocalist in the country to have sung in
the National Programme of Music of
nationwide TV, in both the Hindustani and
Carnatic styles.

Carnatic Carnival

(Adapted from something I wrote for The Hindu Folio on 29 November 1998).

For all the controversy that surrounded it, the recent Commonwealth Games was a grand spectacle, a mammoth task of organization. It must have been a nightmare of logisitics, like all mega events of the kind.

If the organizers of the Games had consulted that uniquely south Indian body of men, the ubiquitous sabha secretaries of Chennai, they would have gained valuable insights into how to run a multidimensional show of even greater complexity. These miracle makers manage year after year to conduct hundreds of Carnatic music concerts packed into a month of frenzied programming, featuring formidable teams, at dozens of far flung theatres of war. Yes, these are the modern versions of the Carnatic War fought not by the British and the French, but by these little cultural oligarchies. In a marvel of logistics, time and resource management, they detonate an explosion of rhythm and raga razzmatazz that leaves whole suburban populations stunned. Their weaponry? Antiquated amplification systems whose noise levels create world records on the Richter scale.

The early morning lec-dems investigate in minute detail such compellingly seminal topics as "The Influence of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche on the Development of the Mela Karta Scheme" or "Rap, Raga and Rachmaninov: Is Fusion The Way to Go?". That is where demure damsels, fiery feminists, voluble vocalists, and intimidatory instrumentalists vie for top honours with obstreperous octogenarians and superannuated scholars.

These are followed by the virgin volleys of child prodigies and teenage tyros, unleashed at an unsuspecting public straying idly in after a hearty repast at the cafeteria. (The last IMRB survey reportedly revealed that, for every critically ill concertgoer, there were at least three committed canteengoers. Their unfaltering support has over the decades raised what started as a modest sideshow into a spectacular main attraction during the music season. In fact, in some circles it has been suggested that the Chennai December season be renamed the Food n' Frolic Fest.
Some of these postprandial somnambulists settle down into deep slumber even as the next batch of curious onlookers fights its way towards the rare empty seat. By now they are hampered by the growing crowd, and overzealous ushers who learnt their job by correspondence and never got beyond lesson two, to borrow a simile from "English literature's performing flea", P.G. Wodehouse. This is the high point of the unfolding drama, the last chance before the next season comes round to pass judgment on the stars of tomorrow without paying for admission.

To borrow yet another intriguing piece of imagery by yet another eminent Englishman, Bertrand Russell, a Martian visitor who happens to land his flying saucer at the Music Academy one December afternoon, will go away with the impression that earthlings who have strayed from the path of virtue are packed into uncomfortable seats and tortured by sophisticated acoustics; those guilty of the more heinous crimes are banished to the balcony.

Suitably stirred by the vigour of the vocal gymnastics on display during the next two hours, these devout worshippers of the divine music of our ancestors, spring into action even as the last strains of the mangalam begin to fill the auditorium. To make a quick dash for the door, and head straight for the canteen is for them as effortless as drowning the vocalist's feeble attempts at being heard is for violinists and percussionists. After reviving themselves with a stiff coffee or two, they then cleverly take a detour around the ticket window towards the exit, to rest and recuperate before they hit the roads on the morrow. For this is the hour that produces the man - the supreme optimist at the ticket counter who hopes against hope, that this season's share of the uninitiated will pay to listen to the senior vidwan featured here, and not gravitate towards a free cutcheri elsewhere.

What infinite variety this indefatigable band of music lovers present! An endangered species is the doughty old warriors whose first season coincided with the debut of Ariyakudi Ramanuja Ayyangar, the trailblazer whom critics have charged with inventing the modern cutcheri format. These are the most admirable segment of the audience, for they have braved the rigours of classical music in the severe Chennai winter for over half a century, sweater-and muffler-clad, and remaining stolidly critical of succeeding generations of vidwans. Anno Domini is catching up and alas, this species will soon be extinct, replaced entirely by more thick skinned listeners whom the December cold leaves untouched.

Mylapore mamis too are fast becoming a vanishing feature of the season. The swirling silks and glittering diamonds which were an integral part of the scene earlier are becoming less conspicuous every year. One school of thought however has it that the mamis still continue to throng the sabhas, only they are disguised as lesser mortals. This deduction is based on a recent research finding that the number of patrons in the front rows who talk through concerts has actually increased in the last decade. (A similar finding is that the number of men who sing along is also on the upswing, with a significant growth in percentage of apaswaram. At last count too, an incredible 22 per cent of the audience were found guilty of wrong tala accompaniment during tani avartanam).

To earn the applause of a Chennai audience is not easy, unless you happen to be a Hindustani instrumentalist with long hair, purple kurta and an American accent with which you announce that you will treat them to the exotic delight of raag Hamsadhwani. The Carnatic musician may occasionally mesmerise audiences abroad. But his manodharma is scarcely equal to the irresistible lure of the 8.35 bus home. Every percussionist from Palghat Mani Iyer down to Vikku Vinayakram has lost out to the fatal attraction of the aroma of coffee wafting in from the canteen at tani avartanam time.

Increasingly, devotees from the wicked West descend on staid old Chennai during the December season. Some of them look more Indian than Indians, veshti-jibba, sari-pigtails, jolna bags and all, but what really distinguishes these seekers of nirvana through raga and gamaka is their glazed expression. And they, like their Indian counterparts, keep coming back for more, such is the addictive power of the season for all seasons.

The Chennai Season

First published im The Bengal Post

The veteran violinist on stage is a picture of composure. He coaxes the most transcendental sounds out of his ancient violin. His opening salvo stirs the soul as only a great raga at the hands of a great master can. The concert is not all about total surrender in the best bhakti mode. It offers joy and playfulness as well, when the artist moves from worshipping at the altar of an omnipresent, compassionate god to marvel at the pranks of the little blue god, playing the perennial favourite, Krishna nee begane baro. As the concert progresses, you seen realise it is a master class for aspiring musicians.

The reverie is unfortunately broken by a cellphone going off in the second row. Soon a middle-aged man is engaged in loud conversation on his cellphone. You try to give him a dirty look and shame him, but he closes his eyes and continues his conversation. Another cellphone rings two rows from you. A couple have an equally loud conversation about the concert, with the man getting a free lesson in raga-identification.

At another venue, the same evening, a young woman is playing the flute with the mastery of someone years senior to her. Ten minutes into the concert, a young man walks in and occupies a seat in the front row. Seasoned listeners can identify him as the husband of the flautist on stage. Now what does he do to encourage his wife? He stretches his legs, leans back and spreads out the afternoon issue of Kutcheri Buzz--the tabloid avidly consumed by the hordes of music lovers who throng the auditoria during the famed Chennai music season, now covering almost all of November and December.

People constantly walk in and walk out. Videographers and photographers occupy vantage positions, unmindful of the people whose views they are blocking. Children wail. Mothers run out in panic.

The Chennai Season has arrived. People, who never so much as peep into an auditorium during the rest of the year, now invade all the well known halls of Chennai. Banners and hoardings mar the aesthetics of the concerts as much as the loud and often erratic amplification. When the musicians are not asking the mikemen to increase the volume of the “feedback”–invariably taken to be a signal to raise the decibellage of the speakers aimed at the audience—the senior citizens in the front rows shout “Not audible” in a chorus.

This is the time local Carnatic music buffs as well as the NRIs who descend on Chennai every winter go from concert hall to concert hall to take in one or more of the thousands of “cutcheris” organised in a marvel of logistics and time management. Various sabhas, a ubiquitous, uniquely Tamil Nadu institution, vie with one another to bring the best of Carnatic music to the city’s audiences in a frenzy of programming. Lecture demonstrations and concerts are held throughout the day, starting as early as 7.30 a.m. and ending around 10 p.m. for two weeks. Because each sabha starts its festival on a different date, the whole frenetic schedule nowadays stretches to a couple of months.

Kitchens are closed at countless homes, as there’s no time to cook and clean or even stop over between concerts. Delicious ‘tiffin’ and aromatic ‘full meals’ in the temporary eateries specially put up for the season draw rasikas from all parts of the city, but those who are there for the food alone and not the music far outnumber the music-lovers.

The unique atmosphere of the season has to be seen to be believed. All the great and aspiring artists of Carnatic music perform at different venues. Many of them overdo it, accepting literally every invitation to perform for fear of offending the sabha secretaries, their lifeline to a successful career in music. This season, some of the stars have decided to limit their appearances in order to preserve their voices (or instruments) and retain the freshness of their music. (One hugely popular star has gone on record saying she is really taking it easy, she is only doing 15 concerts during the season)!

Every newspaper brings out special supplements on the season. Some TV channels even conduct their own festivals. Critics damn or praise the musicians, but today’s musicians are often well educated and extremely tech-savvy, perfectly capable of striking back at the pen pushers.

“Carnatic music is alive and well”, seems to be the verdict of most critics, but old timers predictably lament the inability of today’s practitioners to equal the class of the stalwarts of the past.

Among the musicians themselves, opinions vary as to the state of Carnatic music today. Some say, ‘Those were the days when the rasika-s were really serious about attending season concerts and it was not just a fad. Today, we miss the serious rasika.’

Others say, “The audience is more demanding now. It inspires us through the year to do well, give of our best.”

Everyone who has ever been a part of the Chennai Season will however agree on one thing: There is nothing in the national music calendar to beat it for sheer excitement.

Sriram Parasuram

Had he just focussed on the violin, he might already have gone down as one of the great solo and accompanying Carnatic violinists of all time, fit to rank with giants like Lalgudi G Jayaraman and TN Krishnan. As it is, he is certainly rated as one of the top accompanists of today, with a sound as sweet as the best the instrument can offer.

The trouble with—or rather the value of—Sriram Parasuram is that his accomplishments in music are wider than most musicians can only dream of, even if they have the breadth of vision to look beyond their own area of specialisation. Both heredity and environment must have played equal parts in the evolution of this multifaceted artist who straddles the musical universe with expertise in several genres—both vocal and violin, Carnatic and Hindustani—and more than passable skill in western classical, jazz, sufi, folk and film music.

With an MBA from IIM-C—following his mechanical engineering degree from Bombay University—and a PhD in world music from the Wesleyan University, Connecticut, USA, Sriram built a superstructure of amazing variety on his upbringing in a typically academically inclined Tamil household in Mumbai also steeped in south Indian classical music.

Many have been the deeply satisfying concerts in which Sriram’s empathetic, bhava-soaked bowing has enhanced the music of lead musicians such as his guru, flautist Tanjavur Viswanathan, contemporary instrumentalist Chitravina Ravikiran or veteran vocalists like RK Srikantan and Nedunuri Krishnamurti. On such occasions, you are transported to another, exalted zone, by a man you are convinced was born to play the violin, and wish he would go deeper still into the realm of Carnatic music with his instrument. But then you listen to a lecture-demonstration by him—along with Hindustani vocalist Suhas Vyas—on south Indian ragas in Hindustani music; a musical tribute to the genius of Subbarama Dikshitar who codified a sizable treasury of Carnatic compositions in his Sangita Sampradaya Pradarsini of 1904; his presentation of Kabir’s poetry with folk singer Prahlad Singh Tippanya; or his popular TV programme Ellame Sangeetam Taan (It’s All Music), partnered by his wife and well known film singer Anuradha Sriram, in which he switches effortlessly in his role of vocalist from Carnatic alapana and compositions to Hindustani music, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan songs, ghazals and Hindi film songs, and you know that it is impossible to tie such a versatile talent down to one form or branch of music.

Like such famous south Indians before him as A Kanan and N Rajam (Hindustani classical), today's stars Hariharan and Shankar Mahadevan (Hindi film and popular music), and a few others, Sriram Parasuram has mastered an idiom outside his own natural legacy. Learning Hindustani vocal music from the late Pt. CR Vyas, he has reached the level of accomplishment of a ‘native’ practitioner. The difference is that Sriram is of concert level proficiency in both systems. Perhaps the only parallel to this feat of equal mastery in Carnatic and Hindustani music is the case of violinist MS Gopalakrishnan of the celebrated Parur school.

Sriram has collaborated with musicians from different cultures. Javanese Gamelan, West African drumming, and Japanese Koto are some examples of exotica he has played or sung along with. Born in a musically gifted family he partnered his brothers Viswanath and Narayan (Three Brothers and a Violin) and composed the music for an award winning Hindi pop album "Savariya". With his wife, he directed the music for the Tamil film Five Star and produced a Tamil pop album Chennai Girl. He has been awarded the President’s gold medal for Carnatic and Hindustani music.

What impresses you most about Sriram and Anuradha, even more than their versatility—she too is proficient in numerous styles of music including classical—is their firm belief that ellame sangeetam taan. Sriram can render a perfect alap and bandish, follow it without an interval with a complex ragam-tanam-pallavi and finish with a romantic film song, all in one afternoon, with not a trace of one form in another. There are no obvious prejudices, no condescension towards any music of the world, be it classical, folk or film music, bhakti or secular, vocal or instrumental.

Extremely comfortable with technology, Sriram is in touch with the latest trends in world music and appreciates the beauty of Indian film music with its absorption of the best from a variety of sources, its use of orchestration to embellish Indian melodies, its ability to draw the bhava of the music most effectively. For one so contemporary in his attitude to music, Sriram is also a traditionalist when it comes to the core values of classical music. His respect for his own gurus and the past masters of Indian classical music borders on the reverential, and this lends a poignant touch to his lecture demonstrations. His assertion that all Indian music is based on ragas—even if manifest as rap or hip-hop in film and pop music—is a reflection of his deep commitment to his priceless inheritance.

Blessed by Hanuman

The Natyarangam award could not have gone to a more worthy artist. For decades during the unforgettable Rukmini Devi era, Balagopalan was one of the star performers at the annual Kalakshetra art festival. From his teen years to age sixty, when he retired, he remained the enthusiastic, completely devoted dancer, springing with the sprightly vigour that made him an early favourite of the grande dame of that pathbreaking institution.

Looking at the septuagenarian today, his back straight, and his expressive face still bright with the intensity of devotion to his art, the mind travels back to a time when he electrified the Kalakshetra stage with his dynamic presence.
One particular episode will always remain in the memories of those who watched a poignant scene unfold before them—for once the drama was as much on stage as off it.

It is a dramatic moment in the Ramayana. A forlorn Sita is sitting under a tree and bemoaning her fate when a sprightly Hanuman jumps down from a tree and surprises her into open-mouthed wonder.

Even as the audience waits with bated breath, for it knows what power and artistry the dancer playing the monkey-god is capable of, the curtains have to be brought down hurriedly, as he has evidently twisted his ankle rather nastily.
It is, indeed, a bad injury and the foot swells like a balloon. A doctor in the audience happens to have just the right medical supplies in hand, and soon Balagopalan is administered an injection that numbs the injured area, and he is able to resume dancing as if nothing has happened.

What followed this little drama two decades ago was a memorable performance by the veteran dancer-teacher.

Playing Hanuman was a matter of devotion and surrender. Balagopalan simply left the matter in the hands of that indefatigable soldier. He believes that Lord Anjaneya's benediction saw him through not only that evening, but his whole life.
"Every year during the art festival, I would lead the most ascetic life, eating sparsely, doing puja and generally denying myself the creature comforts. That particular year, I had been a bit lax and I'm convinced that was the reason why I met with that accident," Balan Anna, as he is known to everyone in Kalakshetra, said.

“My fortunes changed dramatically when I started playing Hanuman,” he acknowledges. “It was no doubt Anjaneya’s grace that led to so many people generously helping me with my retirement and plans to start my own dance school.”
To those who have seen the Kalakshetra ‘Ramayana', Balagopalan is synonymous with Anjaneya. “I don't know how Athai saw a giant in me,” the diminutive Balagopal says recalling the inspired decision to first cast him as Hanuman, “but each time I took the viswarupam, I found a current coursing through my whole being. I didn't see my fellow artist, I saw Lord Rama. When I conveyed Rama's message to the imprisoned Sita, my frenzy of rage and grief was no drama, but reality.”

Balan Anna is more than a brilliant impersonator of Hanuman. His Lakshmana in the early years to Dhananjayan's Rama is still talked about in awed whispers. His Bharata to Janardhanan's Rama is equally famous. His interpretation of the devout younger brother in "Paduka Pattabhishekam" has never been bettered on stage or screen. (Balan is still hankering after a photograph hanging in Janardhanan’s house—of Rama and Bharata hugging each other. “What expressions we have on our faces! What filial love!” he marvels).

Comedy, villainy, pathos, bhakti—nothing escaped his attention, as his brilliant performances as Ravana, or in a comic role in "Sakuntalam" or as Kannappar in "Kannappar Kuravanji", testify. And what role has Balagopalan not played to perfection? His portrayal of Krishna in "Rukmini Kalyanam" would make you forget his short stature and even push back the years and accept him totally as the youthful, mischievous cowherd of Brindavan. He was equally convincing as the wily Sakuni in "Mahabharata". For not only was he adept at the footwork necessary for Bharatanatyam and honed by his Kathakali training, but he was also acclaimed for his mobile and appropriate facial expressions.

The result of rigorous training as a student of Kalakshetra where he arrived in 1953 as a 13-year old, these attributes make him the most versatile actor among dancers. An early star cast had Kunhiraman as Viswamitra, Chandu Panikkar as Vasishta, Dhananjayan as Rama and Balagopalan as Lakshmana, and the honest self-critic that he is, Balagopalan admits his inability to equal Kunhiraman’s standout Viswamitra in later years.

Dhananjayan and Balagopalan were inseparable friends as kids. They enjoyed the good times together and mourned the so-called bad times—when slights real or imagined at the hands of their peers and elders had them embrace each others in tears. Balan regrets his lack of attention to studies, though he recalls his football exploits at school with pride.

Balagopalan remembers his former colleagues with great affection and admiration. “What a brilliant dancer Janardhanan was. Can there ever be another Krishnaveni? None of us thought of lead or side roles. We just did what Athai wanted, though there was always healthy competition between us.”
His mother died in Kerala while young Balan was away performing dance dramas in New Delhi. He recalls emotionally, “Rukmini Devi died with her head on my lap. She said she must have been my child in a previous birth, or I hers, for me to nurse her so devotedly now.”

Balagopalan retired from Kalakshetra at 60, ten years ago. In Rukmini Devi's time, his career might have just begun, for that indefatigable collector of great masters made sure Kalakshetra benefited from the wisdom and experience of the best music and dance composers and teachers.

Armed with his monthly pension of Rs. 265 and a fund of goodwill from many former students, fans and patrons of Kalakshetra, Balagopal quietly embarked on his new life as teacher at his home, where students come to him for lessons.

Heart disease and surgery have made Balagopalan wistful for the good old days when he could crouch like a tiger, spring like a lion. “Nowadays, I become breathless even while demonstrating to my students”, now reduced to twenty-odd from about sixty in healthier days. He needs daughter-dancer Prithvija’s help to conduct his classes, but his spirit is undaunted as can be seen from his superb expressiveness in abhinaya. The lion in winter has much to offer still—for those willing to benefit from his accumulated wisdom, the product of his unparalleled experience.

From the Sruti archives 1

Issue 2 November 1983

A Dancer And Her Quest For Peace

Usha Narayanan is an unusual dancer. Her dance is inspired and informed by Arayar Sevai, a unique type of ritualistic worship in some vaishnavite temples. She didn’t start out this way. In fact, although she showed talent in dancing and singing even as a child, she never nursed ambitions of becoming a serious performer. There was much music in her mother’s family, and interest in music and dance, and coaching in both, continued for Usha through school, but she rarely went to recitals, as she lived mostly in cantonments and military quarters, far from the city, a consequence of her father’s job in Defence Accounts.

Usha married at the young age of seventeen and her lessons in dance and music continued. “Because I enjoyed dance and music I took my lessons seriously as I had earlier, but no thoughts of a career in dance crossed my mind. I learnt music from Sri L.T. Raghavachari who was a very sincere teacher.”

Great misfortune befell Usha who lost two of her three children under tragic circumstances. Shock and grief overrwhelmed her and she was filled with a deep need to obtain answers to basic questions pertaining to life and death. Self-realisation and a need ta come to terms with life became imperative. “But I was still in a state of shock and didn’t know what to do,” she told us. “That is when my husband advised me to take up dancing seriosly. After all dance is a kind of yoga or therapy.”
Usha then learnt bharatanatyam from Nana Kasar, a disciple of Parvati Kumar whose guru was Chockalingam Pillai. She received a scholarship (to learn bharatanatyam) and, after five years of rigorous training, became a performing artiste. “But all the time I used to tell my guru that I was in search of answers to my questions,” she told us. “That quest made me read all the books available on our dance.”

Usha wanted to discover whether dance was the means to an end or an end in itself. She learnt that, according to the sastras, devotion to the supreme is the final goal and dance is a means to achieve this final goal, although one can also dance for one’s own pleasure and one’s own satisfaction; but when one does that, it amounts to going inward rather than opening out.

Usha then tried to depict the emotion of bhakti in the traditional bharatanatyam mode and was yet deeply unsatisfied. To her it seemed everything—karma, the cycle of birth and rebirth, sin—was portrayed as dukkha or unhappiness. There was something missing. “How do you show antaryamitvam (God’s omnipresence)?” Bharatanatyam did not provide the answer. “I found I was doing injustice to dancing. I was not satisfied. A page from the Natyasastra seemed to be missing”.

Once again Mr. Narayanan showed the way. He suggested that Usha make a study of the ritual of Divya Prabandham sung in temples. She took his advice and what followed made all the difference. Watching the Arayars was, a mystical experience; she watched them dance and it cleared so many of her doubts. Divya prabandham was the answer, the dance in the temple was the answer She was filled with peace: She said to herself: “Now my life is complete. Today if I have to leave this place, I have no attachment to anything material!”

When we asked Usha what was the difference between bharatanatyam and Arayar Sevai, she explained it by illustrating it with one of her own experiences. “At the Indian Council of Cultural Relations, I was asked to do both bhartanatyam and Arayar Sevai. I entered the stage and first performed Arayar Sevai, the truly devotional part of my dance, I concentrated hard and the audience watched in rapt attention. Then I followed it with bharatanatyam which I did effortlessly. I slipped from the higher worship to the lower, secular dance. But in another programme I did the reverse, performing bharatanatyam first. When I tried to follow with Sevai, I suffocated. I couldn’t reach that higher plane. I realised Arayar Sevai is a direct communion with God; you forget your surroundings.”

Usha has made a keen study of the tradition of Arayar Sevai and she is continuing it. The Arayars usually do not easily part with their knowledge but have shared much with Usha because of her great devotion and piety. In the opinion of some, she has brought out into light an unknown form of ritualistic worship and is developing it into an art form. She has collected enough material to write a research paper, which she has in fact done, but she has not submitted it to any university. Once Sangeet Natak Akademi offered her a fellowship to carry out documentation work in this area but Usha lost interest when she was asked to obtain certification from the Arayars themselves that she was taught the art by them.

Will she teach anyone who is willing to learn Arayar Sevai from her? Usha’s reply to this question underscores her philosophy, her whole approach to dance. “I will, if the student comes to me in the true spirit of devotion and wants to learn this dance for the same reasons as I did. Not to make a career of it, but for reasons of bhakti. I will be only too happy to pass on my knowledge to anybody who has the same atitude as I have.”

V. Ramnarayan with
S. Muthumeenakshi

Taking music to the young

First published in The Bengal Post

“I’m coming back from a long walk. I went to the temple after years. You know me, I rarely do,” the leading Carnatic vocalist said. He had left a concert halfway to do that. He had gone to pray for the future of Carnatic music, he said, appalled by the vocal atrocities perpetrated by the gifted young performer of the evening. “What shocked me was that people who should know better, musicians and rasikas alike, were obviously enjoying this insult to classical music,” he explained.

In his jeans and tee shirt, slim, youthful TM Krishna hardly looked the part, but he is among the strongest champions of tradition in his art. And he is outspoken about it, sometimes needlessly so, his well wishers feel. In matters concerning music, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, though he is also a cerebral musician with a penchant for research into the history and grammar of Carnatic music. For someone still in his thirties, Krishna is quite a veteran on the concert stage, a star, to go by his constantly growing fan following.

Krishna has used his star status to propagate the core values he believes in, for example, refusing to heed requests from audiences overseas for lighter pieces even if those were made popular by the stalwarts of yesteryear. Yet, within the confines of tradition, he does every now and then shock his audience by charting some unorthodox paths in concert rendition. And woe betide the critic who dare fault his approach, for Krishna can demolish such criticism quoting chapter and verse.

For someone with such strong views on the undesirability of tinkering with tradition, Krishna is acutely conscious of the need to take Carnatic music far and wide, to build a future constituency of listeners. Along with another stellar exponent of south Indian classical music, Bombay Jayashri (40), he has forged an unusual but effective team that has achieved remarkable progress in this objective.

Jayashri is a top ranking classical vocalist, with an unusual past—she started as a participant in college culturals and a singer of advertising jingles in Bombay—which explains the prefix to her name, an old Carnatic music convention. She kept honing her classical music skills alongside, until she moved to Chennai, came under the tutelage of violin maestro Lalgudi Jayaraman, and eventually made it big with her reverberant voice. Like Krishna, she too has a mind of her own, and treads an independent path, deliberately restricting her appearances in the Chennai concert circuit, for instance. Her interviews with the media can spring some unexpected gems. Example, her confession that she listens to Mehdi Hasan, Asha Bhonsle or Mohammad Rafi more often than the old masters of Carnatic music, or that her bhakti is to her music rather than the god she sings of.

One of the ventures in which the two have come together, Svanubhava, is in its third year, and growing every year. It is a three-day annual extravaganza of concerts, lec-dems, quizzes and workshops for students, conducted at a number of venues, including schools and colleges, where the participation has been extremely encouraging, and the level of discourse of a high order. The programme also attempts to bring practitioners of different performing arts on to a common platform. This year folk, theatre and cinema artists joined classical musicians and dancers.

Remarkably, Krishna and Jayashri have both attracted listeners from outside the usual Carnatic music circles, both in India and abroad. While Jayashri has occasionally taken part in experiments with Hindustani musicians, Krishna has stuck to the medium he knows best, insisting that the audience must accept his music in its authentic form. With Margazhi Ragam, a full-length movie of a Carnatic music concert released last year, they helped director Jayendra create a new art form, achieving a quality of acoustics and stage aesthetics hitherto unattained in the field.

Given their relative youth, they both seem headed for greatness in the decades to come.

Renaissance man

First published in The Bengal Post

Of the Marathi author VS Khandekar, it was said that he was better known in Tamil Nadu than in his home state, especially in the 1950s, thanks to the excellent translations of his works by the likes of Ka Sri Sri or KS Srinivasacharya. What the Tamil Khandekar—as CN Annadurai once described him—did for Marathi literature, TN Kumaraswamy and (to a lesser extent his brother TN Senapati) did for Bengali literature. Many of us growing up in the 1950s and 60s owed much of our acquaintance with Bengali literature to Kumaraswamy or Ta Naa Ku, who amazingly enough, learnt Bengali in Madras.

What prompted him to set himself the task of bringing Bengali literary classics to Tamil readers is not clearly known, but he fell in love with Tagore’s writings even as a schoolboy. His son Aswini Kumar—the key person behind his centenary celebrations in 2007—recalls a story Ta Naa Ku often told of how the fiery Tamil poet Subramania Bharati sang aloud his own translation of a Rabindranath Tagore poem, but ecstatic as he was to come face to face with Tagore, was blocked by a sea of admirers who had surrounded him at the Madras Central Railway station in 1919.

Though Kumaraswamy translated Bankim Chandra, Sarat Chandra, Tagore and Tara Sankar Banerjee among others, Sarat Chandra was his favourite. He once said, “When I prepared myself to read prominent writers of modern Bengal, I discovered Saratchandra to be of a different quality of mind. Unlike Bankimchandra, he never intruded himself upon the readers. His aim was not to tell a story to entertain or touch our hearts but to force us to think and understand the deep and hidden significance of the problems of life. He was not of the type of novelist who took liberties to exaggerate, to create a world more beautiful, more consoling than ours.”.

Kumaraswamy took the idea of introducing Sarat Chandra to Tamil magazine readers to Kalki, the editor of Ananda Vikatan, in the late 1930s, when a rather insular mood prevailed in the field. “I read to him (Kalki) select passages from Saratchandra’s various novels and explained to him that the Tamil public would surely relish them, and that it would open a new vista to the future novelists of Tamil Nadu.” Tamil readers soon became familiar with such works as Bindur Chele, Swami and Dena Paona, thanks to the labours of Kumaraswamy. He also wrote on Sarat Chandra’s life and works in the Tamil digest Manjari, and condensed novels like Parineeta, Biraj Bau and Palli-Samaj.

An author himself, Kumaraswamy wrote short stories and novels of unusual sophistication and deep humanism. A keen follower of classical music, he learnt to play the nagaswaram, on which he played both Carnatic and Hindustani melodies. His reading was as diverse as his library was vast, its collection both both Indian and western. He was an earlier translator of Sangam verse into English than AK Ramanujan. A great admirer of Aldous Huxley and Ananda Coomaraswamy, he translated Coomaraswamy’s Gautama Buddha into Tamil.

A Gandhian to the core, Kumaraswamy once gifted an acre of his own land to Adi Dravidars who had lost everything in a caste war. The author of the commentary for AK Chettiar’s well known documentary on Mahatma Gandhi, he was part of a team involved in translating Gandhi’s works into Tamil, a project he quit over a matter of principle. And for all his devotion to Gandhi, he was an ardent admirer of Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose as well, translating two of his works into Tamil!

Kumaraswamy loved to read, write and translate, but he was equally fond of discussing books and literature. Many a young writer came under his benevolent gaze and profited from his tendency to talk books for hours on end.

Kumaraswamy was a true renaissance man, of whom it can be said without fear of contradiction: ‘They don’t make them like that any more.”

Queen of Song

First published in The Bengal Post

Thursday was MS Subbulakshmi’s 94th birth anniversary. She has been gone for nearly six years now, leaving a huge void in the lives of thousands of worshippers of her grand music and her near divine aura. Yet, she is ever present in those lives, to go by the number of families for whom the day starts with her Sri Venkatesa Suprabhatam broadcast every morning by All India Radio.

The sheer magic of her voice followed me as I walked through the streets of one of the humbler settlements of Chennai the other day, with home after home waking to the reverberant cadences of her chants. It was but a logical epilogue to a life whose funeral was attended by a remarkable number of mourners from the poorest sections of society, as quietly dignified in their grief as the elite and the cognoscenti among the varied assemblage at her earthly abode.

My earliest memories of MS Subbulaksmi are of concerts at Mylapore, Chennai, back in the late 1950s, when I, Carnatic music ignoramus though I was, could not help being mesmerised by her glorious voice, especially her tremendous reach in the higher registers. She was relatively young, and her voice was still evolving into the majestic form it achieved in her mature years.

The first time I saw her at close quarters was some ten years later at Vasant Vihar, the Greenways Road home of the Krishnamurti Foundation. It was at a mellow, meditative concert for the benefit of Jiddu Krishnamurti, and the fortunate few who had gathered there were able to catch a glimpse of greatness up close.

My next memory of MS is from a cutcheri at the Madras University Centenary auditorium in 1969. I was seated next to her grandniece who was to become my wife soon afterwards—though neither of us knew it then.

By sheer fluke, I guessed the name of a raga right—it was a close shave, because I debated between two choices, and mentally tossed a coin before stumbling on the right answer—and that must have impressed my companion.

Marriage brought me into the privileged circle of those fortunate enough to know MS on a personal level. Amazingly, during home visits or at weddings, she would happily sing alone or lead a chorus with no concern for the level of accomplishment of her accompanists.

One unforgettable experience was listening to MS at a simple family ceremony in 1993, when she sang sitting on the rough floor of a house still under construction. She was in magnificent voice and the whole room was surcharged with emotion as her sonorous tones filled the place with an aura of sheer devotion.

My thoughts were full of my father who had passed away months earlier, and it was a rare moment of sublimation such as I had never experienced before.

Like everyone who has come into contact with MS, I was struck by her simplicity. Her essential goodness is foremost in the memories of most who knew her—as much as the sublimity of her music.

Thousands of ambitious parents must have paraded their offspring’s musical talent before her. Not only did she patiently listen to everyone of these amateur outpourings, she never hurt the feelings of the most cacophonic of their authors.
The harshest criticism was a smiling, “You must work very hard.”

She was a simple human being all right, self effacing, shy, anxious to make a good impression, even nervous about her English. But she always rose to the occasion. After practising her lines with Eliza Dolittle-like diligence (“How kind of you to come!” and so on), when Sonia Gandhi came to condole her husband’s death, she melted everyone’s heart by holding the visitor’s hands and spontaneously saying, “What is my grief before yours?”

It was the kind of grace that made her the magnificent icon she was..

Champions of Carnatic music

First published in The Bengal Post

“There are good listeners,” the late Gangubai Hangal said to Shrinkhla Sahai, a young journalist, during the course of one of her last interviews, “but where are the performers?” She was speaking of the dearth of young musicians she believed existed in present day Hindustani music. In Carnatic music of the South, quite the reverse scenario exists. Plenty of young talent is visible on stages big and small, in cities and small towns, in India and abroad, but drawing young audiences is increasingly challenging, with the plethora of choices before a tech-savvy younger generation.

Happily for Carnatic music, its young practitioners have been proactive about sustaining their listener-base and building a future constituency of followers. True, without the tremendous support they have been enjoying for nearly two decades now from the subcontinental diaspora—and that includes a prominent proportion of Sri Lankan Tamils—the purveyors of south Indian classical music and dance would have been reduced to relatively small numbers, but their own efforts to take their art far and wide have been commendable.

Some of the leading musicians of today—a revealingly youthful brigade of under fifties—came together 25 years ago in a brilliant instance of intuition and foresight to form the Youth Association for Classical Music, “for the purpose of promoting Carnatic music amongst the youth, and providing a platform for talented youngsters.“ Over the years, YACM has conducted a successful slew of activities towards ensuring the continuance of the tradition and practice of Carnatic music. Its silver jubilee celebrations this month have been an unqualified success.
Other initiatives include Svanubhava—a big annual draw with young music students at the school and college levels involving concerts, lec-dems, quizzes and discourses by senior as well as current artists—and Sampradaya, an archival institution that has been organising monthly public interactions—which it calls Samvada—between old masters and young musicians, at once keeping the oral tradition alive and documenting these valuable exchanges for researchers and the general public.

One of the architects of such efforts has been the articulate and urbane vocalist TM Krishna, whose interests are wide and varied (he recently wrote a provocative article on the death penalty and did a spot of bungee jumping in New Zealand). The charismatic Bombay Jayashri Ramnath has been another. With her appeal to young listeners enhanced by a superb voice, complete absorption in her music and occasional forays into genres other than the purely classical as in film songs, jugalbandi and musicals, she has been a successful champion of Carnatic music among both the public and corporate audiences.

Chitravina Ravikiran has been a veritable global ambassador of Carnatic music and his fretless veena, creating a cerebral following not only among NRIs but also discerning westerners in the US, Europe and Australia. Festivals to commemorate the famed Trinity of Carnatic music, Tyagaraja, Muttuswami Dikshitar and Syama Sastri are now celebrated in all the continents.

Naturally, such widespread interest has created lucrative career paths in south Indian music and dance, but an even more exciting development has been the growing number of artists born and brought up outside India. It is not uncommon for youngsters who speak English with genuine American or Australian accents and very little Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Malayalam, or indeed any Indian language, to master the enunciation of lyrics steeped in bhakti and complex metaphysics, in all these languages—and Sanskrit to boot. The total dedication of these youngsters and their parents may be a measure of their western upbringing but their reverence for the old masters and their guru bhakti can put the most devout traditionalist to shame.

Perhaps Gangubai Hangal’s lament over the current state of Hinustani music was overly pessimistic, but at its best, Hindustani music may struggle to match its southern counterpart in continuing to attract young professionals into its fold. The continuous fertilisation of the mainstream by a healthy inter-migration of people and ideas across continents has been responsible for this happy state of affairs.

The one downside of such churning has been the inevitable burgeoning of a variety of half-baked efforts at fusion. Here too, some of the leading musicians of today play a vital role in maintaining aesthetic values—by insisting on constantly offering the most authentic fare in their concerts and weaning young audiences away from cheap substitutes. The future of south Indian classical arts seems to be secure.

Vyjayantimala

“I really hope you don’t enter the concert arena. We singers will have to look for a new profession if you do,” said senior Carnatic vocalist Neyveli Santhanagopalan to the veteran dancer. He was among a handful of music and dance practitioners, rasikas, and critics assembled at an after-dinner ‘thinnai’ session—the rough southern equivalent of an adda—at the sleepy temple town of Tennangur in Tamil Nadu.

The year was 2008 and the lady, already in her seventies, was a key resource person in an annual dance workshop convened by Chennai-based Natyarangam. After wowing her audiences during the day with her unflagging energy and exquisite aesthetics, she was now entertaining us to the unexpected delights of her deep-felt and nuanced singing of rare gems from the oeuvre of the Tanjore Quartet of 19th century fame. She rendered for us her first public song, one that she recorded for All India Radio when barely six, film songs she had enacted, a song she had learnt from the late Carnatic music doyenne DK Pattammal, and best of all, some brilliant samples of the Dhanammal school of music to which learning dance from Kittappa Pillai had exposed her. By the time she finished, it was past midnight, and Santhanagopalan revised his original request. “You must perform as a vocalist soon,” he said. The delighted star of the evening almost blushed. “What happens to my dance, then?” she asked, with the innocence of a schoolgirl.

Vyjayantimala Bali turned 76 yesterday, Friday, 13 August, but her passion for her art is undimmed. Just the other day, she firmly declined a request to sing or dance at the function to be held later this month to award her the prestigious E Krishna Iyer medal, “because I am already practising for two performances and I cannot do justice to one more.” This uncompromising attitude marked her distinguished career in films as well as bharata natyam. Even as a young actress still finding her way around the industry, she demonstrated the courage of her conviction by turning down a Filmfare award for best supporting actress in the Bimal Roy version of Devdas, in which she co-starred with Dilip Kumar and Suchitra Sen. “My part as Chandramukhi was a joint lead role along with that of Paro in the movie. It was no supporting role,” she recalls, bristling with principled outrage decades later.
One of the two men she recalls with great affection and respect is still with us—Dilip Kumar who not only inspired her with his perfect, almost effortless acting, but also put her completely at ease on the sets in the numerous films they did together. Of her other favourite film person, she says, “Bimal Da had total confidence in me and encouraged me to give of my best as Chandramukhi, a role that demanded great histrionic skills, when all around us doubted my acting ability. After all, I was known only for my dancing talent and light-hearted roles in films. The results were there for all to see when the film was released.”

It has always been fashionable for film stars with classical dance training to refer to that art as their first love, as though acting in cinema were somehow an inferior calling. In Vyjayantimala’s case, not only was she a top dancer before she entered films, she refused to dilute her art in the classical dance sequences in films, though she was not averse to performing folk or exotic numbers—as in “Dhayyare dhayyare” in Madhumati, or “Kya karun Ram mujhe budhdha mil gaya” in Sangam. Never could anyone expect her to inject anything light or film-based into her classical dance performances either.

Vyjayantimala’s life can be divided into three phases. In the first, she was a child prodigy—shaped into a fine dancing talent by her beloved grandmother Yadugiri and mother Vasundhara—and an all round athlete in the making. The second phase was her sensational film career during which she was paired with some of the biggest heroes of Tamil and Hindi cinema. Marriage to Dr. Chaman Lal Bali brought her true happiness and a fulfilling second innings as a bharata natyam artist away from the world of celluloid. This was also the period when she took to golf and won amateur titles at the national level, and took up causes she believed in as a parliamentarian.

Today, she is the perfect picture of a consummate artist who has aged gracefully, one who has so much to pass on from her rich artistic past, a role model for young aspirants in every aspect of her art. She is an outspoken champion of tradition at a time when it is under siege from several powerful forces. Her attitude to new-fangled ideas can be summed up by her comment on Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Devdas: “It is a distortion of Sarat Chandra’s classic.”

Come August

(First published in the Bengal Post, 7 August 2010)

The December ‘season’ of Madras has been a unique event in the city’s cultural calendar for decades starting from 1927, when it debuted as an adjunct to the Indian National Congress’s annual meet. Exclusively focused on Carnatic or south Indian classical music, it grew from a festival of sorts into a major annual conference featuring not only concerts but also lecture-demonstrations of great quality and variety. It heralded the birth of the Madras Music Academy, now in existence for over 80 years and considered the Mecca of Carnatic music. Its annual award, the Sangita Kalanidhi, is a coveted honour, something every musician will die for—in fact, some greats have died before the august body could honour them. The magnificent bharatanatyam exponent T Balasaraswati has been the only artist other than a musician or musicologist to receive the award, but after some tentative attempts to feature dance alongside music in its annual conference, the Academy has in recent years added a separate dance festival to its schedule, held in January every year. Dance is celebrated annually by such major institutions as Kalakshetra—founded by Rukmini Devi Arundale—and Sri Krishna Gana Sabha, with the latter’s Nritya Chudamani regarded as probably the highest award in dance.

Neither music nor dance is any more the preserve of any of these institutions. Hundreds of sabhas—institutions supported by membership and sponsorship and headed by their sometimes all-powerful secretaries, the Tamil Nadu version of the impresario of the west—have sprung up everywhere. These conduct music, dance and theatre festivals galore during the annual ‘season’ often described as the Margazhi (the Tamil month from mid-December to mid-January) festival, but now expanded both forward and backward to include November and end-January.

Modern Tamil theatre peaked in the 1940s and 1950s, but gradually lost out to cinema and eventually to television, only comedies of the lightest variety that frequently offer no more than strings of jokes surviving the onslaught. Recent efforts to revive serious Tamil theatre seem to be succeeding, though it is still early days. Unfortunately, not many serious plays are being written in Tamil because of lack of performance opportunities and vice versa.

English theatre, in contrast, is alive and kicking. The Madras Players, among India’s oldest amateur English theatre groups, have been in existence for over 50 years, and have constantly reinvented themselves to stay relevant. It is the arrival less than a decade ago of Evam, a young team of theatre professionals, that galvanised the English theatre scenario in Chennai. Though their plays may not always belong to the highest class, the group have marketed themselves expertly and brought young audiences back to the stage. Amateur groups like Masquerade, JustUs Repertory, Theatre Nisha, The Boardwalkers, Perch, Stagefright, and ASAP have managed to transform a hitherto somnolent theatre space into a happening, exciting movement, even if not always producing high quality fare. The more than 100-years-old Museum Theatre, once an acoustic marvel and still a fine theatre despite the depredations of progress is no longer an oasis of excellence, with new facilities in the city like the Sivagami Pethachi auditorium and the Chinmaya Heritage hall offering excellent choices to theatre addicts.

Though there is year-round activity, the serious theatre action in Chennai nowadays starts in August with the Hindu Metroplus Theatre Festival. In its sixth year now, the festival has been a roaring success in the city, drawing sizable audiences who pay very respectable sums of money for their tickets. The festival has in the past two or three years assumed an international complexion, with participation from the US, Europe, Korea and Singapore. This year the festival is being staged at one of the finest theatre spaces anywhere, the Mutha Venkata Subba Rao auditorium inside the Lady Andal School premises. Seating a little over a thousand people, the hall is beautifully appointed and boasts excellent acoustics. It is state-of-the-art in every respect and makes theatregoing an enjoyable experience. It is the place to be seen at for young and old theatre enthusiasts.

The Hindu has also added a new dimension to the music scene of Chennai with its Friday Review November Fest, in which it showcases classical and folk music from all over the subcontinent as well as the west. Drawing an eclectic crowd, the festival carefully avoids treading on the toes of those occupying the traditional space in music and dance, thereby offering entertainment that is very different from ‘season’ fare.

August is also the month when Madras Week—increasingly threatening to turn into Madras Month—is celebrated with several city experts producing interesting programmes on a variety of aspects of the city’s life since its founding more than four hundred years ago. Add the New Festival—earlier the Other Festival—an alternative package of music and dance from all over the whole world, a host of arts and crafts exhibitions, film festivals of a dizzying number of nationalities, and that hardy perennial The Madras Book Fair in January, and the once month-long Madras season has well and truly entrenched itself as a 6-month long celebration of the best Chennai has to offer.

A retrospective

“When do we start rehearsals?” was the crisp reply from Sundar (Dhritiman to the world) Chaterji to my wife Gowri Ramnarayan’s email to him attaching the first draft of what was to become her first play, Dark Horse, Walking Down Arun Kolatkar’s Lane.

The protagonist of the play, the reclusive, iconoclastic Mumbai-based poet, had died a few days earlier, and Gowri, who had literally hunted him down a decade earlier for a newspaper interview, had been moved by the power of his poetry to write a script that included a number of his verses to be enacted on stage.

One thing led to another and soon was born JustUs Repertory, the theatre group that was the brainchild of Dhritiman Chaterji and a few other theatre fiends, the late Bhagirathi Narayanan the most prominent of them. Nearly six years, six plays and some fifty performances letter, incredible as it may seem, the Madras Players, arguably the oldest English theatre group in India, recently collaborated with JustUs to produce a Gowri Ramnarayan Retrospective of three plays at Chennai. The shows on 2, 3 and 4 July this year were sell-outs, suggesting that the fledgling of 2005 has come some way from its tentative beginnings. And when we look back with nostalgia and some pardonable pride, we cannot help feeling that the journey would not have even begun without Dhritiman’s inspired recognition of the potential of the Dark Horse script.

Like most Indians of our vintage, my wife and I had been blown away by Dhritiman’s standout performance in Satyajit Ray’s Pratidwandi, back in the early 1970s. South Madras was hardly the place we would have expected to run into him years later. It was with incredulity therefore that I caught sight of this look-alike of his at a cigarette shop in the neighbourhood I used to frequent. I ran into him frequently, but it took me months to gather the courage to walk up to him one evening and ask him if he was Dhritiman Chaterji, the celebrated actor, fully expecting to be told he was very sorry to disappoint me, but he was Somasundaram or Mahalingam or Ramaswamy!

To my delight, it was indeed Dhritiman, who had moved here from Calcutta with his wife Ammu and son Pablo in the 1980s. Soon we became friends, and realised not only that he had no starry airs about him, but also that we shared common interests in the arts (and sport). We often ran into one another at literary events and the theatre, and even watched one memorable ODI together, when rain forced us to repair to the Madras Cricket Club bar after the game was abandoned. Watching his own films with him, ones directed by Ray in particular, with Dhritiman furnishing background information and sidelights, was a highly rewarding experience, as was listening to recordings of his conversations with the great master. Gowri and he memorably discussed Ray films for film buffs at the British Council once, and the seeds for artistic collaboration were sown.

It was thanks to Dhritiman’s initiative that we brought Dark Horse and a subsequent play by Gowri, Water Lilies, to Kolkata. With his iconic and powerful performances as Arun Kolatkar in the former and a Serbo-Hungarian author in the latter, Dada, as they all called him with great affection, was a huge influence on the younger members of the troupe. Not only did he set a great example with his no-nonsense, disciplined work ethic, always on time for rehearsals and always focussed on his role, he loosened up enough after the plays, to show the boys and girls the sights and sounds of the city, not averse to shaking a stylish leg in their company. Of course, they felt comfortable enough with him despite his star status to enjoy pulling his leg, claiming that his roles as writers in the two plays allowed him to carry the script hidden inside books on stage. They even go a step further to relate the apocryphal tale of how he once read from the wrong page of the script!

Today, JustUs Repertory has earned a reputation for serious theatre—strong scripts, well-rehearsed performances, good production values, and a striving for excellence—with its consistent showing in several cities in India, but the memory of our first foray outside Chennai, at the Birla Sabhagarh at Gariahat in the Hutch Festival of 2005 is inerasable, for more reasons than one. Dada had fallen ill close to the date of the show, and there had been some suspense about his making the trip, and we were understandably nervous about our Kolkata debut. Dada and the rest of the cast won the hearts of a an appreciative, even indulgent audience, and the live music of the play—composed by Gowri and sung by Savita Narasimhan—stole the show. We had arrived!

A road by any other name

(First appeared in The Bengal Post, Kolkata)

The first time I set foot on Shakespeare Sarani—in 1968 on my first visit to Kolkata—I was struck by how strange that sounded. What was the antiquity of the name, I wondered; was it the whim of some legislator who fancied the bard’s works? Where did the impulse to rename Theatre Road—back in 1964 to commemorate the great playwright’s 400th birth anniversary, I have since learnt—spring from? Where today is that wonderful spirit that could celebrate a writer from another continent, unsullied by parochial considerations?

Here is my favourite story about a road name from the same city of Kolkata—where else could it happen? Harrington Street, on which was situated the American Consulate, was renamed Ho Chi Minh Sarani during the Viet Nam War. What a delicious piece of (no doubt deliberate) irony! Politically motivated the move might have been, but it was at least prompted by considerations beyond the need to accommodate narrow sectarian or local interests. Ideology rather than chauvinism was perhaps the driving force behind it.

The grand sweep of an extra-national vision appears to be lacking in the recent flurry of name changes for Kolkata streets, roads and avenues, with history taking the back seat and making way for populism. The only problem with such attempts to glorify personalities through road names is that they seldom work. Can you imagine the most devout worshipper of the venerable saint referring to Park Street as Mother Teresa Sarani or the most ardent Congressman calling Red Road Indira Gandhi Sarani, the new names given to these famous locations? How does anyone expect the average Kolkatan to call Ballygunge Circular Road by any other name?

In Chennai, decades after the state government renamed Mount Road—the arterial road that connects the city to St. Thomas Mount—Anna Salai, people still call it Mount Road. Many other such ‘reforms’ have met with a similar fate.

The city has a long history of street names receiving the wrath of its politicians and politickers, but of organic changes too, with often hilarious results. Hamilton Bridge during British times became Ambattan Varavadi, an adaptation of the name by the local populace, and eventually came to be known as Barber’s Bridge—a reverse translation of the word ambattan now considered derogatory but a perfectly acceptable Tamil word for barber back then. More recent examples of mutilation include the four Seaward Roads of Valmiki Nagar, a south Chennai suburb, by the corporation to read ‘C’ Ward Roads. D’Monte in D’Monte Colony has been variously misspelt as D Mandi or D Mondy, and Turnbulls Avenue becomes Turn Bull Avenue.

The drive launched a few decades ago to eliminate caste from the city’s street names overlooked the minor detail that the revised versions were not the real names of the persons commemorated. Official abbreviations like Krishnama for Krishnamachari proved quite ludicrous, while Nair Road and Chari Street posed serious challenges to the painters of the roadsigns: removing the caste left them with no name. At the same time, powerful lobbies seemed to be at work—or was it sheer ignorance?—in the retention of names like Muthuramalinga Thevar Salai.

The latest attempt to rewrite the history of the city’s streets is the announcement by the Mayor that 52 Chennai streets will have new names to pay homage to Tamil scholars acknowledged by the state government. While this will be the first mega swoop of its kind, British street names have been systematically replaced with Indian names for many years now as in other parts of India. Many old streets retain their British names despite these periodic attempts.

Though renaming streets has rarely worked, the names of political and other leaders given to new suburbs have naturally always stuck. No problem whatever with Indira Nagar, Nehru Nagar, Kamaraj Nagar, Gandhi Nagar, Kasturba Nagar and so on, but Rajiv Gandhi Salai for Old Mahabalipuram Road, Kalki Krishnamurti Road for Lattice Bridge Road, or Uttamar Gandhi Road for Nungambakkam High Road? No way. (‘Uttamar’ was an absurd attempt to Tamilise ‘Mahatma’ by someone in power who apparently knew neither Tamil nor Sanskrit. Elsewhere in the city are numerous Mahatma Gandhi Roads, each of which is of course known as MG Road, as in every other Indian city).

In his final decade, the late Semmangudi Srinivasier, doyen of Carnatic music and a great raconteur, was fond of regaling his friends with the story of how Yama, the god of death, took away his neighbour instead of him, misled by the old number-new number confusion that followed the renumbering campaign the corporation launched then. A decade later, the chaos continues, with Chennaivasis still unsure of addresses. They await the 52 new street names with bated breath, sure that they will add to their woes of missed letters and conducted tours by the city’s famed autorickshaws.

The author is Editor-in-chief, SRUTI magazine, author, translator, cricket columnist, teacher and former first class cricketer.

Gowri Ramnarayan Retrospective on 2, 3, 4 July

RURAL PHANTASY

Play, Direction, Design: Gowri Ramnarayan

What passions blaze in the hearts of young men in a sleepy village in Tanjavur zillah when a beautiful firebrand, a Calcutta-returned Pudumai Penn (New Woman) brimful of reformist ardour, enters their lives? In a rollicking musical comedy based on a short story by Kalki Krishnamurti and recalling the height of the Indian independence struggle, Rural Phantasy, Gowri Ramnarayan reimagines the nationalist era in 1940s Tamilnadu through drama, music, dance, and visuals inspired by popular posters and period “talkies”.

Sutradhar V Balakrishnan
Nati/Shakuntalai Akhila Ramnarayan
Calcutta Ranganatham PC Ramakrishna
Village Men Nand Menon, Venkatesh Aadhithya, Vignesh Balaji, Azar, Siddhant Venkatesh, Vijay Ram
Village Women Anjana Anand, Sunandha Ragunathan, Radhika
Vairavelan, Sunitta Menghanaani, Gaayathriy Satchithanandar, Alicia Stephen, Soumiya Balasubramanian, Anusha Venkatraman,
Maithreye Murali
Shyamanand Chaterji Varun Aiyer
Vocals TM Krishna & Sangeetha Sivakumar
Violin Amritha Murali
Mridangam Arun Prakash
Music Direction Gowri Ramnarayan
Dance Direction Anjana Anand
Lights TV Sridharan
Sets Michael Muthu
Production Manager Shruthi P Atmaram
Props Shruthi
Backstage Venkat S, Neha Balthazar, Sunitta, Shruthi
FLAME OF THE FOREST

Play, Direction, Design: Gowri Ramnarayan

“Is there a civilised way to wage war?” broods Mahendra Pallava, the playwright and philosopher-king whose realm is terrorised by a vast Chalukya army. Inspired by Kalki’s novel Sivakamiyin Sapatham, and the sculptural marvels of Mamallapuram, Flame of the Forest front-stages Mahendra’s quandary and the tragic romance of Mamalla, the Pallava prince and the court dancer Sivakami through dialogue, music, and dance. The play raises vital questions about the role of religion, politics and art in a war-torn world that resonate with greater force today.

Mahendra Pallava V Balakrishnan
Paranjoti Senior PC Ramakrishna
Paranjoti Varun Aiyer
Sivakami Senior Priyadarsini Govind
Sivakami Anjana Anand
Pulikesi Vidyuth Srinivasan
Jaina Monk/Mamalla Siddanth Venkatesh
Buddhist Monk/Courtier Nand Menon
Kapalika/Courtier Sunandha Ragunathan
Kapalika/Courtier Venkatesh Aadhithya
Bharavi/Kapalika Yogi Sheejith Krishna
Kamakshi Akhila Ramnarayan
Shatrughnan /Courtier Vignesh Balaji
Courtier Alicia Stephen
Temple Dancer Maithreye Murali
Chinnappan Vijay Ram

Music Gowri Ramnarayan
Vocals TM Krishna & Sangeetha Sivakumar
Violin Amritha Murali
Mridangam Arun Prakash
Veena Sriram R
Dance Choreography Manjari, Priyadarsini Govind, Sheejith Krishna
(Jati in Sivakami’s court performance by Bhagavatulu Seetarama Sarma)
Lights TV Sridharan
Sets Michael Muthu
Production Manager Shruthi P Atmaram
Props Sunitta Menghnaani
Backstage Venkat S, Neha Balthazar, Sunitta, Shruthi
ONE DAY IN ASHADHA
Direction, Design: Gowri Ramnarayan
Can fame corrupt the soul? Dismissed as a wastrel, Kalidasa, a young cowherd in a remote village, finds his only support in young Mallika, who persuades Kalidasa to accept a royal appointment as Poet Laureate in Ujjaini. Years later, a destitute Mallika sees a drenched, dishevelled Kalidasa stumbling into her home again. Can they make a new beginning?
Six scenes from Kalidasa classics (Sakuntalam, Kumarasambhavam, Meghasandesam) interlace this production of One Day in Ashadha, written by the modern Hindi playwright Mohan Rakesh and translated by V Ramnarayan.

Sutradhar/Anuswar Siddanth Venkatesh
Nati /Sangini Shruthi P Atmaram
Mallika Akhila Ramnarayan
Ambika Sreelatha Vinod
Kalidasa V Balakrishnan
Dantul Nand Menon
Matul PC Ramakrishna
Nikshep Vidyuth Srinivasan
Vilom Varun Aiyer
Rangini Sunitta Menghnaani, Alicia Stephen
Anunasik Vignesh Balaji
Priyangumanjari Sunandha Ragunathan
Kalidasa’s Characters (Dancers) G Narendra, Anjana Anand
Music Gowri Ramnarayan
Vocals TM Krishna & Sangeetha Sivakumar
Violin Amritha Murali
Mridangam Arun Prakash
Dance Choreography G Narendra, Sheejith Krishna
Lights TV Sridharan
Sound Harish Swaminathan
Costumes Lakshmi Srinath
Sets Michael Muthu
Production Manager Shruthi P Atmaram
Props Maithreye Murali
Backstage Venkat S, Neha Balthazar, Maithreye, Sunitta, Shruthi

DIRECTOR’S NOTE

The three plays in this retrospective each belong to the ancient, medieval and modern world.

But my protagonists, whether firebrand nationalist Sakuntalai (1940), philosopher king Mahendra Pallava (7th century) or the poet Kalidasa (circa 4th century), face the same questions. They grapple with unexpected violence, wondering if faith in ideals, hope for lasting harmony and peace, and trust in the healing power of art, have any meaning in the midst of oppression.

We too wonder. Can violence be resisted at all? How do we deal with loss and loneliness? Is there any solace for pain? Are beauty and compassion as real as terror and suffering? Can serenity be reached in a blasts-riddled world?

In this retrospective, the actors, musicians and dancers explore these perennial issues, resonating with a chilling urgency in our modern world.

Gowri Ramnarayan

ABOUT THE DIRECTOR

Playwright-director Dr Gowri Ramnarayan is Deputy Editor with the national English daily The Hindu. The author of five plays, she has served as vocal accompanist to Carnatic musician MS Subbulakshmi, authored books, translated two plays of Vijay Tendulkar, and been a member of the Fipresci Jury of critics at international film festivals in London, Venice, Valladolid, Oslo and Mumbai. Her first play Dark Horse won two national awards (Mahindra Excellence in Theatre Awards, 2007, Best Innovative Music and Special Commendation, Best Play).

ABOUT THE MADRAS PLAYERS

The oldest English theatre group in India, The Madras Players celebrated its golden jubilee in 2005. Having produced over 250 plays, the focus of the group today is to celebrate Indian writing and Indian playwrights.
This is the first time The Madras Players present a three-play retrospective of a contemporary playwright.

ABOUT JUSTUS

JustUs Repertory was launched in 2005 to produce new work blending music, dance and drama, to explore the staggering weight of historical, political and literary pasts which theatre must engage in, to represent the complexities of contemporary existence.

A Brahmin Art

Is Carnatic music a brahmin art for the consumption of brahmin audiences promoted by brahmin institutions? There are no simple answers to the question. True, there have been and there still are, great non-brahmin practitioners of the art. Many of them are instrumentalists, and in the case of the nagaswaram and the tavil it is unlikely that any brahmin has ever been a performer.

Is the brahmin domination of the art the result of discrimination, an overt conspiracy of exclusion practised by a league of musicians, patrons and the media, or is it a more subtle form of apartheid? Is it just a case of brahmins showing the greatest aptitude for and interest in classical music? Is it merely an accident of history that a number of great non-brahmin musicians do not have non-brahmin disciples to carry their tradition forward? Is the relative scarcity of non-brahmin vocalists a reflection of their inability or refusal to enunciate lyrics in brahmin accents? Are they more at home in the lyrics devoted to the Tamil god Murugan rather than paeans to Rama or Krishna?

Whatever happened to the Tamil Isai movement after the first fine rapture decades ago? Is the south’s relative insulation from war and conflict the reason why the music has remained more tradition-bound, more orthodox, more rooted in grammar than say Hindustani music, which has seen far greater migrations and hence a much wider ethnic range of musicians? Has the emphasis on kalpita or composed music with a preponderance of bhakti been an inhibitor of Carnatic music’s reach beyond a small community? Does western classical music offer a parallel history for study and comparison? How do you democratise an art and yet retain its purity and rigour?

A recent nagaswaram concert succeeded in bringing to the audience “an experience of pristine Carnatic music”—as advertised by the organisers. A magnificent Kambhoji raga alapana followed by a grand O Ranga sayi—and in fact all the ragas and compositions of the evening which were founded on the creations of the great vaggeyakaras and pathantaras of the past—reinforced the belief brahmin musicians of the past were inspired by nagaswaram, but also suggested an equal possibility of reverse osmosis. The music sounded no less ‘brahmin’ than the best vocal music of our time.

Colloquium: Viswanathan Anand & KR Venkatraman

http://chennaionline.com/video/index.aspx?vid=1259&src=hp#

http://chennaionline.com/video/index.aspx?vid=1260&title=Vishy+Anand+%26+K+R+Venkataraman+%3a+A+Unique+Discussion+-+Part+II

http://chennaionline.com/video/index.aspx?vid=1261&title=Vishy+Anand+%26+K+R+Venkataraman+%3a+A+Unique+Discussion+-+Part+III

My name is Vidya

The autobiography of a transgender
Living Smile Vidya
Translated by V Ramnarayan
Price Rs. 100
Buy at www.nhm.in

Chapter 2
Appa

When I was born the first time, my parents named me Saravanan. I was their sixth child, born after years of prayers for a boy child. In fact, their first had been a boy, unfortunately still born. Four girls followed, two of them succumbing to unknown diseases. In the circumstances, I realised pretty early in life what joy my arrival must have brought my parents.

My family wasn’t exactly well off. My father Ramaswami was known as Nattamai or chieftain in Puttur, next to Tiruchi. The title must have been somebody’s idea of a joke, for my father was hardly any kind of chief, certainly not the kind immortalised by Tamil cinema. He was a municipal worker of the lowest rung, a sweeper. He married my mother Veeramma in 1973. They started life together in a small hut they built on an unoccupied piece of land on Attumanthai (flock of sheep) Street.

My mother was someone special. Her name meant a brave woman, and she was every bit that. Brave and hard working, sweet tempered. She was also a typical Indian wife, who submitted to her husband’s tyrannical ways. She died in an accident when I was eleven.

The pain and awareness of their oppression on the basis of their caste haunted my parents all their lives. Their intense yearning for a son must have sprung from their desperate hope that he would change the course of their abject lives.
Appa, my father, was at first in the business of milk supply. I remember that he had job opportunities in the police and Southern Railway. He was not too keen on such careers; he perhaps believed he must do his own business, however small. Making both ends was never easy. His relatives were determined he must find employment. They repeatedly counselled him, persuading him to join the Tiruchi Refugee Camp as a sweeper.

My father’s life was one of frustration. Frustration that his lack of formal education beyond Class 8 had landed him in a lowly sweeper’s job, for all that it was a government job. He constantly dreamt of his son growing up to be a district collector, surely the top job in India! His dreams, desires, ambitions all centred on his son of the future.

When these dreams were shattered, and his first child to survive turned out to be a daughter, Appa accepted her cheerfully.

Appa adored MG Ramachandran, the famous film star popularly known as MGR. Who wasn’t an MGR fan those days? Appa named his first daughter Radha after the leading lady in an MGR movie. Manju, his second daughter too, was named after a co-star of MGR.
My father was hoping the next baby would be a boy to make up for the loss of his first born and the next two being girls, but that was not to be. The next two were girls, Vembu and Vellachi, and both succumbed to mystery ailments. This was a turning point in Appa’s life which had plumbed the depths of despair.
For long years he had practised his own vague brand of atheism, but now he made an about turn and visited temple after temple. Landing finally at the Vayalur Murugan temple in Tiruchi, he vowed to name his next child after Murugan, the presiding deity there, if he was a boy. He would also shave his head in pious offering of his locks to the lord.

I was born on 25 March 1982. My parents named me Saravanan in fulfilment of my father’s contract with Murugan. Saravanan is one of Murugan’s many names.
My parents had been married in 1973 and I was born nearly ten years later. What challenges they encountered during the period! Their surroundings had undergone considerable change. Vacant land belonging to the government is known as poramboke land. Squatters often occupy such land and eventually occupy it permanently. The poramboke land on Attumanthai Street, where Appa and others had built their huts was now a full-fledged neighbourhood, Bhupesh Gupta Nagar, in memory of a revolutionary of that name. My father, the nattamai, was responsible for the name change.
The street had grown. So had our town. The whole city had been transformed in that decade. Only we were poor as ever. My father continued to be a municipal conservation worker, a sweeper. He was eternally running from pillar post to apply for an electricity connection for our street. At home, my mother and my sisters took care of me, spoiled me. By the time I was ready to go to school, my father had made preparations on a war footing.

I was a privileged member of the household. Of the three children, I was the one person who didn’t have to do any work at home. That was the unwritten law. I enjoyed every kind of concession.

“The only work we want you to do is study,” Appa said. “Remember, it’s your job to study.” He was quite the dictator when it came to my education, allowing no discussion.

“If any of you dares to give him work that interferes with his studies, I’ll kill you,” he warned us.

My two sisters, ten-year-old Radha and six-year-old Manju were so terrified of Appa’s threat that they never let me do any household work. I was the male heir of the family and that was reason enough to exempt me from work of any kind! My doting mother carried me around until I was five years old. When he came back from work in the evening, Appa usually brought us sweets and snacks, and you could bet he slipped in something extra for me every time.

I don’t remember my sisters ever being jealous of me. They showered me with love. From the time she was born, Radha had grown up amidst my parents’ constant prayers for a male child. From a tender age, I remember her as a second mother to me. When Amma died, Radha took over altogether as my mother.

Radha was a goddess to all of us. She took charge of the house as soon as my parents went to work everyday. She could cook when she was barely ten. Sweeping and swabbing the house, washing the dishes and our clothes, storing water—she took care of it all. We should in all fairness have treasured her, treated her like royalty. We did not. I became the sole beneficiary of all the love and affection at home by virtue of my being a boy.

Amazingly, not once did I hear my sisters criticise this overt partiality. Neither Radha nor Manju did that. I think they came to believe in time that looking after me was the very purpose of their existence.

On my part, I studied well, to Appa’s great joy. My academic excellence in contrast with my sisters’ unschooled ways gave him immense pride. I was ranked first in my class in the first grade. When Appa came home and heard the news, he carried me on his shoulders and went round and round Bhupesh Gupta Nagar, broadcasting the news to the world. “My son got the first rank,” he announced again and again.
I remember the day so clearly. Appa loved me but he had never carried me or fondled me before. His public demonstration of his love for me that day was the best reward I could have asked for. My stock in the neighbourhood shot up. I was the boy who was ranked first in his class.

My academic feats complicated life for my sisters. When Amma left for work at five o’clock in the morning, it was Radha’s duty to wake me up to make me study. She had no escape from that responsibility. If I did not study, Radha or Manju would be spanked even more than I.

Up at that early hour, I studied for an hour. Manju went out at six o c’lock to buy tea and porai biscuits. Radha swept the house and started cooking by then, while Manju cleaned the vessels. I had to continue studying until 7.30, when Appa woke up. The girls then had to ensure I bathed, ate my breakfast, got ready and dashed off to school.

Appa gave Radha our daily allowance of one rupee every morning. My share was 40 paise while my sisters each got 30. They could not go to their classrooms without depositing me at mine. As soon as I came home, I had to do my homework. After that started Appa’s lessons for me.

Appa made me do third grade exercises when I was still in the first grade. He made me do the multiplication tables—from one to 20—ten times everyday. “Do you know Abraham Lincoln studied under the street light and became president of America?” he repeated constantly. He made me believe that studying hard in the light of a hurricane lamp would one day make me the district collector.

I had a natural aptitude for studies, and I was an eager student. I was doing quite well at school, but as time progressed, I began to resent Appa’s constant harassment, both mental and physical. I knew he was only doing what was good for me, but my loss of the simple joys and freedom other children of my age enjoyed was an irritant. Was a childhood without games worth living? Home was a virtual prison. Even the love of my mother and sisters could not make up for that.

My father never allowed me to play with boys and girls. I could not understand this blanket ban. I didn’t know if it was because the kids in our neighbourhood were poor students. Our neighbours did not give education a great deal of importance. My father was very different in this aspect from all of them.

It was my sisters’ responsibility to prevent me from giving Appa the slip and going out to play. Radha and Manju kept a constant vigil over my movements, fearful of what Appa might do if I did get away. Sometimes they scolded me and even slapped me playfully if I tried to step out of line. They were so fond of me that they never let me down by carrying tales to Appa, though.

When I came home form a school exam, Appa conducted the same test at home all over again. I was not allowed to go out to play even during vacations. Preparations for the next examination started right then and there.

This was all on top of the demands of my school teachers who made me answer all the question papers at home without omitting a single question even in multiple choice papers. I had to do five question papers in a single day. Invariably, just when I breathed a sigh of relief at completing them, Appa’s home lessons started. If I slowed down my home work to avoid Appa’s exercises, he thrashed me. My body would be bruised black and blue with belt marks all over. If Amma or my sisters tried to stop him, they got belted too. “Weren’t you expected to ensure he did his home work?’ he
screamed at them. I regularly wetted my shorts in fear and shock.

It was around this time that my mother died in a road accident. I was eleven. My grief was immeasurable, indescribable. I had been my mother’s little boy, always at home, always protected by her. It was hard to come to terms with her absence all of a sudden.

Appa made matters worse by remarrying. Lata aka Thangammal, who was younger than Radha, was our new stepmother.

I was too young then to know if what Appa had done was right or wrong. Luckily, Chithi was a good person. She treated me with love. And my sisters were a great consolation, too. The wounds of losing Amma slowly healed. Gradually things changed for the better. Except for Appa’s watching over me. As his dreams for me grew, his oppressive ways too kept increasing in intensity, even though I continued to do well at school. God knows what fears and anxieties troubled him, but he never allowed me a normal childhood.

I remember this incident. I came second in my class in the sixth grade exams. I was scared beyond description that evening. I didn’t sleep a wink that night, afraid of the consequences of showing my report card to my father next morning. When I finally drifted into sleep, I dreamt of Appa belting me. I wetted my bed that night.
As the day dawned, I had no choice but to show Appa my report card, trembling with fear. I received the cruellest punishment of my life that morning.

Remember how Appa carried me around Bhupesh Gupta Nagar the day I was ranked first the first time? Today, unable to bear what he saw as the first crumbling of his dreams, he lifted me much the same way again. Only, this time he dropped me forcefully from a height. He then kicked me in my stomach. I was terror stricken.

He picked me up and thrashed me wildly. My chithi and sisters who tried to protect me got thrashed too. Our pain and tears and screams made no impression on him.
Second rank! Something he had never imagined I would get. It made no sense to me. How could I explain to my father that not much divided the first and second ranks?
He would never understand. He did not. He smashed me around until he got his fury out of his system.

I was a complete mess, beaten black and blue. With no strength left in me, I sought refuge in my sister’s lap. Why didn’t I have a loving father like other children? The question comes back to haunt me even today, every time I see loving men.