Rashid Khan at the Music Academy

Please click here:http://epaper.deccanchronicle.com/articledetailpage.aspx?id=1569218

Uday Bhawalkar's dhrupad concert on 11 December at SPACES

Uday Bhawalkar in  Sruti Pattabhi Raman Memorial Concert

Members of the family of the late Dr N Pattabhi Raman, founder of Sruti magazine, present a grand vocal dhrupad concert by Sri Uday Bhawalkar, accompanied by Sri Pratap Rawat on the pakhawaj, at 7.00 pm on Thursday, 11 December 2014, at SPACES, 1, Elliots Beach Road, Besant Nagar, Chennai 90.

Sri Bhawalkar will also take part in a lecture-demonstration at 9.00 am on 12th December at Raga Sudha Hall near Nageswara Rao Park, Luz, Mylapore, as part of the 3-day Lec-Dem Mela organised jointly by the Karnatik Music Forum and the Sruti Foundation during 12-14 December 2014.

All are welcome.

Gowri's talk for the Soka Gakkai Society

Value Creation for Global Change
Talk by Gowri Ramnarayan
27 November 2014 

This has been a wonderful opportunity to learn about Soka Gakkai, read about the founders of the society, its goals and achievements.

Also, thinking about the subject made me reflect, revisit and re-live some experiences. I remembered our prayers at school, where every morning we chanted:

Buddham saranam gacchami

Dhammam saranam gacchami

Sangam saranam gacchami

My teacher explained, “When we chant these words, we are not thinking of Gautama Buddha alone. We invoke buddham – the light of knowledge, latent within each one of us. We hope that this light will help us recognize dhammam – the power of discrimination, to separate right from wrong; do right, shun wrong. Sangam is crucial to this process of self-awakening, because we must seek and bond with the community of wise people. They inspire us, and charge us with life-long resilience to continue the quest.

I guess my teacher was talking about a quest for values – on the terrestrial as well as the spiritual plane – for world peace, as also peace within the self.

It was with avid interest therefore that I learnt about how, in their pursuit of peace, the founders of Soka Gakkai created, reclaimed, sustained and rejuvenated values -- in times of world war and nuclear holocaust. 

To these threats our times have added a greater evil: global terrorism. Our age of excess has also fostered monstrous greed, and unprecedented ravaging of natural resources. Once destroyed, these resources are gone forever. They cannot be recovered.

Any endeavour to promote peace and prosperity today has to reckon with two sets of questions. 

First,

n      How to overcome fear?

n      How to foster physical courage?

n      How to promote moral strength?

n      How to find inner tranquillity?  

Second,                                          *How to control consumerism?

                                                        * How to prevent climate change?

                                                        *How to save the environment?

                                                         *How not to poison the air, the rivers and oceans?

                                                         *How to stop war? Bomb blasts?

One thing is crystal clear. Both greed and terrorism are not merely physical threats. They are threats to the spiritual life as well.

Reading President Daisaku Ikeda dialoguing with farsighted achievers in diverse fields -- is to join his stimulating, thought-provoking sangam with world leaders and public intellectuals. In these talks Mr Ikeda’s own comments, questions and reactions are marked by a deep understanding of the human condition today, and the possibility of transformation, before tomorrow. It is easy to see that he is motivated by compassion (karuna), for all the people of the world. A quality we associate with true vidya (knowledge) and genuine gnana (wisdom). “ I am particularly struck by how easily he encapsulates the highest truths in the simplest language.

To create a new civilization based on the dignity of life he suggests that: I Quote:

“Instead of being absorbed in the minor self of the ego, each individual must recognize his or her connection with all life in the cosmos. By doing so, we can escape our obsession with greed, advance along a more compassionate path, and bring about mutual happiness for ourselves, and others.” End Quote.

We all know that any hope of change is from the young, and they must be convinced before this change can happen. Young people are not impressed by bombast. They like it crisp and brief, but also honest. Look at the clarity with which Mr Ikeda talks about education – not as a college degree, but as a means of extending the frontiers of the human mind. I QUOTE: “Education at its best is a process of liberation from prejudice, freeing the human heart from violent passions. Those who have learned to trust in themselves, are naturally able to believe in the latent capacity of others.” End quote. 

Can you make a better case for education as empowerment, education as the means of dispelling mistrust -- which is a major obstacle to development? It seems to me that with this kind of approach, education becomes a healing process.

Nor does he confine himself to socio-economic welfare. He sums up a basic Soka Gakkai principle: I QUOTE: Only when its people are actively engaged in spiritual and intellectual struggle can the economic power of a country be utilized to the broad advantage of humankind.” End QUOTE

Today, as an artiste, I ask myself. In this process of creating humanistic values for international peace, global welfare and people’s empowerment, what is the role of the artiste? Does the artiste have a role at all? Any function at all?

Ask anyone, anywhere, to explain just why a doctor, an engineer, a scientist, an architect, an industrialist, a psychiatrist, a teacher -- is vital for the smooth functioning of a society. Or to tell you -- just why a plumber, an electrician, farmer, mason, weaver, potter, fisherman, metalsmith, is indispensable to civilization. Everyone will have an answer. But ask people, “How does an artiste contribute to the sustenance of society?” I doubt if you will get a convincing response.

So I ask myself, I had a role in society as a journalist, which I was for 25 years. But what is my role as an artiste? Am I an empty rattle? Timepass for idlers? Am I a provider of some temporary amusement? Do I fulfil any task in society? Civilisation? World? Do I have any duty, any responsibility towards others?

Then I recall that in the ancient world, poets had a defined role. They were not entertainers though they could mesmerize hearts and minds. The Greeks saw Homer and Sophocles as vates, prophets. Valmiki and Vyasa are revered as seer and sage. Closer to our times, Mirabai and Tulsidas were viewed as saints. Their work showcased the eternal values of humankind. The Ramayana and the Mahabharata were believed to be essential for building robust, resilient, sustainable civil society, and a spiritually-oriented community. Which is the goal of this symposium! These master works of literature provided light (buddham), explained dhammam (right living) and provided the sangam of wise thoughts.

It is often said that art has transformative powers, art transmits values, art generates ideals…  A recent experience made me understand just how art creates this insight.

For thousands of years the lotus image has been represented in Asian art to imply the otherworldly, the ethereal, the celestial. Its beauty and fragrance do not intoxicate, but instil contemplation, meditation.

It was in the Sanchi monument that I saw this familiar flower with completely new eyes. It was a quiet day at the stupa. Very few visitors. I almost had the entire space to myself. Looking at the intricate carvings detailing the crucial incidents in the life of the Buddha, I realized that one important person from his life was missing. Where was Siddhartha’s wife? Yashodhara? Why was she absent?

As I stood by the western entrance pillar wondering, my eyes idly followed the sun’s rays hitting the lower half of the pillar. It spotlit a carved lotus, its stem caught in the jaws of an underwater monster, but twisting itself up through the pool, gasping for breath in the open air, longing for the sun’s life-giving touch.

Then I understood that rooted in earth, rising through water, breathing in the air and blooming in the sun, the lotus partakes of the four elements, only to transcend them, to go beyond, into the realm of light, joy and freedom. The mantra gate, gate paragate, parasangate bodhi swaha… Gone, gone beyond, gone far beyond, what an awakening! acquired a new and practical meaning.

In an obscure segment of a stone pillar, the artiste had embedded an entire life journey, its troubles and traumas, setbacks and suffering, but also the invincible spirit of survival through unceasing, upwardly mobile, effort. The sculptor had made a great value eternally visible.

As I looked at the lotus carved by an unknown artiste of long ago, I thought of Yashodhara.  One fine morning she awoke and found her husband gone, leaving her and their child behind. No reasons, explanations, no promise to return.

Through the long years Yashodhara must have struggled through darkness and despair. Experienced human feelings: anger, jealousy, frustration, fear, misery, doubt and loneliness. But finally when her husband, now a world teacher, returns to Kapilavastu, she has no reproaches. Inspired by the Buddha’s sacrifice, enlightenment and compassion, she too renounces the material world, follows buddham, dhammam, and sangham. She chooses to serve humanity. In so doing -- she finds herself, her mission, her liberation.

It was a wonderful experience for me to trace Yashodhara’s journey in my dance theatre work. And wherever we performed it, in Indian cities or cities of north America, the reaction was the same. People did not talk about how well we performed. They talked about the values the work evoked. They were moved by Yashodhara’s human struggle because they saw it as their own. They rejoiced in her final resolution, because they saw their ideal in it, a movement-of-the-spirit towards ultimate wisdom.

President Ikeda asks, I QUOTE: For what purpose should one cultivate wisdom? The answer must be, for the peace and happiness of humanity.”  End QUOTE

To be an artiste is to accept responsibility and duty towards society, to offer solace for pain, to promote positive energies, invoke joy, and hold up the highest ideals for the terrestrial life and the spiritual life. To do this an artiste must choose -- not the tricks of cleverness, but the path of wisdom.

We know that such wisdom is not some static or passive state of mind. It is an active intellectual and emotive engagement with the positive, the dynamic.

We start with awareness, not only of the good, but also of the evil that we must combat. This is what contemporary poet Arun Kolatkar does, when he retells a story from the Mahabharata in his long poem Sarpa Satra or Snake Sacrifice.  As I turned this revenge cycle of an old myth, spanning several generations, into a play, I realized how it mirrors the horrors of the contemporary world – with its savagery, genocides, ethnic cleansing and terrorism. The description of the burning down of a primeval forest becomes a modern photograph of carnage.

I QUOTE KOLATKAR:

Nothing was left, no trace of the great sanctuary…

Not just the trees, birds, insects, animals

Herds upon herds of elephants, gazelles, antelopes

But people, people as well.

Simple folk, children of the forest who had lived there for generations

Since time began.

They’ve  gone, gone without a trace.

With their language that sounded like the burbling of brooks

Their songs that sounded like the twitterings of birds

And the secret of their shamans who could cure any sickness

By casting spells with their special flute

Made from the hollow wingbones of red crested cranes

Why did they do it? Just for kicks maybe

Maybe just the fact they had all these fantastic weapons went to their heads

And they just couldn’t wait to test their awesome powers

Maybe they just wanted a clear title to the land

Unchallenged by so much as a tiger moth.

The most ironic shaft in the poem is that this genocide is performed by persons hailed as heroes, and gods, and role models. Don’t we know this disturbing delusion persists even today?

Finally the killings end. Much is saved, but what is lost is lost forever. People return to so- called “normalcy”,  go about their daily business. But the poet warns us that evil is merely suppressed, it is not extinguished for all times.  “Do not be deceived” he says.

The fire rages, they say,

in the great forest beyond the Himalayas,

where the great sages tried to dispose of it.

And there, to this day,

They say,

it continues to consume,

rakshasas, rocks, and trees.

The eternal challenge for humankind is : how to prevent that smouldering fire from once again turning into a conflagration? In every age the artiste faces this challenge, along with thinkers and mahatmas.

Mr Ikeda declares: I QUOTE: “The surest way to peace is by fostering people of character, self-motivated, empowered individuals who will confront forces that lead nations to war.” End Quote.

And just what is this peace? Not the absence of war, but a rich state of existence where everyone respects and embraces others. When diversity is not rejected, but respected and rejoiced over. Love and wisdom prevail over intolerance and greed.

I end with the final song in our Yashodhara theatre production, where the princess sees the Buddha as the personification of light and wisdom, a beneficent power which heals her wounds, quells restless fears, fills her with love and peace.

Drishti idhar jo tumne pheree                Huee shaant jignaasa meri

Bhay sanshay ki miti andheree             Is aabhaa ke aan! – Padhaaro, bhav bhav ke bhagwan

Mein thee sandhyaa kaa path here     Aa pahunche tum sahaj savere

Dayaa kapaat khule yeh mere              Doon ab kyaa navdaan (2)– bhav bhav ke bhagwan

Identifying the future Carnatic voice

Sruti editorial

By V Ramnarayan

Mr RT Chari of the TAG group of companies and his family trust Ramu Endowments have been solid supporters of Carnatic music for a couple of decades now, with their donation and installation of listening archives to Chennnai's Music Academy and several other institutions a prominent and thoughtful contribution to the field. When Mr Chari and the Karnatik Music Forum, another champion of music and other worthy causes (led by Dr S Sundar and ably assisted by Mrs Usha Bharadwaj), approached Sruti with a request to join them in a project to identify five emerging Carnatic voices under the age of 25, we considered a number of aspects before agreeing to take part in the initiative.

It has been our expressed view that there are far too many competitions around us for young Carnatic musicians, with a resultant focus on technique and performance skills rather than on depth of understanding. While there is no change in our stand, we saw an opportunity to stress some core values of our vocal music through the programme, whose aim is to identify five promising voices from among the applications we receive from aspirants from India and abroad, not to turn the young participants into some kind of performing machines. It has been titled Five for the Future. (We had to drop the earlier title Voices for Tomorrow as another event carries the same name).

While an independent jury will select the most promising talent, the proper use of the voice, not merely technical proficiency, will be a fundamental criterion in the selection process, and our judges will keep this essential attribute in mind throughout the search for five voices for the future. And we do hope  organisers will take note of our choice and consider these youngsters for performance opportunities.

The talent hunt, proposed as an annual affair,  will be held for the first time from 12^th to 17th January 2015 at TAG Centre, Alwarpet, Chennai. Only vocalists below age 25, male or female, who have not performed for any of the major sabhas of Chennai during the December season are eligible.

The application accompanied by the applicant’s curriculum vitae and audio recording to Mrs. Usha Bharadwaj, Coordinator,  D1/9, Anand Apartments, 50, LB Road, Tiruvanmiyur, Chennai – 41 or electronically to musicforum.chennai@gmail.com on or before 30 November 2014. The recording must contain one classical kriti with raga alapana, niraval and swaras for a maximum duration of 25 minutes, and a light classical song. The total duration should not exceed 30 minutes.

As we said before, proper vocalisation will be an all-important criterion in selecting the top five. Open-mouthed, akaram-oriented singing will be a must.

Out of the applicants, 18 will be selected to perform for an hour each during the January 2015 event. Violin and percussion accompaniment will be provided by us.

During the hour-long performance, the selected applicant is expected to present a mini concert that will include raga alapana, niraval and kalpana swaras.

The top five voices of 2015 to be selected by a panel of experts, will each receive prize money of Rs.5000 and a citation.

Please visit our Facebook pages Sruti Sangeet (www.facebook/srutisangeet) and Srutimag (www.facebook/srutimag) for updates.

Boy wonder all his life

But his best was yet to come

V Ramnarayan

Much loved, much adored Mandolin U Shrinivas, who remained a boy wonder all his life, is no more. He was a frail, shy 14-year-old when he appeared on the cover of Sruti’s inaugural issue in October 1983, along with DK Pattammal, Lakshmi Viswanathan and Sonal Man Singh. Founder-editor N Pattabhi Raman concluded his profile of the child prodigy with the passage: “Meteors are transient; they describe a fiery streak in the sky and then burn themselves out. Stars stay with us, adding sparkle to our life. It is the hope of almost everyone who has been exposed to the luminosity of Srinivas’s music (that is how he spelt his name then) that he will turn out to be a star on the firmament of South Indian classical music.”

 There are those that believe Shrinivas had accomplished so much in his brief sojourn on earth, that  it should not matter that he was snatched away in his prime just as Srinivasa Ramanujan and Subramania Bharati were. It is hard to agree with such a sentiment. At 45, he had many years of glorious creativity ahead of him, his music poised for a greatness beyond what he offered the world over the last three decades.  The way he approached ragas, his delicious new interpretations of them in recent years, suggested that the best of Mandolin Shrinivas was yet to come.

He was all of 14 when we at Sruti first interacted with him. He had already floored the most demanding rasikas of Mylapore and Mambalam, Perambur and Nungambakkam, on their own home turf in concert after concert, with his spectacular raga essays and swara fusillades. He was tiny, tongue-tied, knew very little Tamil and less English. He was respectful, even deferential in his dealings with parents, guru, mentors, sabha secretaries and mediapersons, yet he was comfortable in his skin.  Here was a boy completely free from self doubt, while at the same time totally bereft of airs

The boy Shrinivas was a unique amalgam of modernism (in the electrifying speed and magic of his music), an almost rustic old worldliness (in the way he dressed and behaved), and pure genius (in his astounding mastery of both his instrument and raga music). He came from the West Godavari district of Andhra Pradesh, taught himself to play a mandolin that belonged to his father Uppalapu Sathyanarayana’s light music band, and learnt Carnatic music from a vocalist in his native village of Palakol. The guru, Rudraraju Subbaraju had been a disciple of Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavatar. While he sang his lessons, the boy pupil repeated them on his strings. Shrinivas’s grasp was astonishing, and he soon plunged into classical music and achieved spectacular variations, exploiting to the hilt a tiny instrument that no Carnatic musician before him had ventured to play.

His first concerts in Chennai were probably held in 1980 or 1981. An amazing cutcheris at the Ayodhya Mandapam at West Mambalam is still remembered by listeners on whom he cast a spell that day. It was perhaps a testimonial to Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavatar, his guru’s guru. He really arrived with a bang on 28 December 1982, at a concert at Indian Fine Arts Society. Soon senior artists were gladly agreeing to accompany him, though it was often an uphill task for the violinist to keep pace with his lightning fast phrases and novel turns of improvisation. Violinist Kanyakumari, mridanga vidwan Tanjavur Upendran, and even special tavil exponent Valangaiman Shanmugasundaram were among his willing, doting accompanists. So was Umayalpuram K Sivaraman soon.

The next decade was a sensational whirl of concerts at Madras and all across India, drawing huge, ecstatic crowds. He was probably Carnatic music’s greatest crowd-puller during that period. His repertoire of raga and compositions was considerable by now and his ragam-tanam-pallavi expositions became quite exhilarating. His manodharma was exquisite, but he rarely strayed from the strait and narrow path of classical music.

Shrinivas worked tirelessly at growing as a mandolin exponent while drinking deep of the treasures of Carnatic music, but to him, it was all play. Music was bliss. Whether he was playing the major ragas of Carnatic music, or rare ones, or those with a Hindustani tint, his understanding of their dimensions and nuances was astounding, and he gave expression to them in ways we often did not expect. His music could move you to tears as much as it could make your pulse throb with excitement. The secret was its purity.While he was perfectly capable of etching delicate raga essays or execute the slow songs of grandeur bequeathed to us by Carnatic music’s great composers, speed and virtuosity became his trademark and won him millions of rasikas.  

During an interview in 2008, I suggested to him that it was perhaps time to play what I believed must be music closest to his heart to select audiences in small intimate gatherings. After all, the mandolin was not a loud instrument and he managed to coax the most delicate glides out of it. He told me that he loved large audiences, that he wanted to continue to reach out to the greatest numbers.

Not only did Shrinivas convert an essentially folk music instrument into a mainstream instrument in classical music, he also took it worldwide and collaborated with musicians of several genres. His jugalbandis with Hindustani musicians were exciting crowd-pleasers. His forays into fusion with jazz and western musicians of other forms were huge successes in front of varied audiences. He also continued to please Carnatic music lovers of the Indian diaspora. In all his collaborative performances, he tended to play second fiddle, letting his counterparts bask in the admiration of the audience rather than show off his own superior skills. When asked about this, his typically modest reply was: “No, that is not true. They are all great musicians in their own right. And fusion concerts are not competitions, are they?”

Thirtytwo years  and many conquests in India and abroad after he first appeared in the pages of Sruti, with his ever increasing raga and composition repertoire, after scores of collaborative efforts that left his admirers wonderstruck by his virtuosity, Shrinivas retained the same simple, shy ways and humility unmarred by his supreme confidence in his art. His was not music for those of us who like it slow and soulful. It was fast, dazzling, breathtaking, awe-inspiring, with rarely a long stretch of quietude. Yet, it had soul. It was music that effortlessly bridged south and north, east and west.

Though Pattabhi Raman’s prayer in Sruti’s Issue No.1—almost exactly 31 years ago to the day—came true and Shrinivas did become a star in the firmament of Carnatic music, the end has come too soon. He was a role model among musicians, ever smiling, always modest, genuinely so. He brought thousands of new listeners in India and abroad into the fold of Carnatic music. His music touched both the lay listener and the cognoscenti. He thus played a major role in taking Carnatic music worldwide. There will never be another like him.

He claimed free speech as the right to breathe

Kaapichino

By Gowri Ramnarayan                                                             DNA, 29 AUGUST 2014

We met once in a while as interviewee and journalist, ran into each other at literary seminars, cultural events. Occasionally I consulted him. No, he was not a close friend. Not even the mentor that I longed for him to be, so invigorating were his words whenever, whatever he spoke. And yet, when UR Ananthamurthy (1932-2014) passed away last week, I fearelt a part of me die with him. Is it because he represented with brilliance and panache, those secular, liberal values now getting swiftly replaced by regressive ideologies? Because he claimed free speech as the right to breathe?

A pioneer of the Navya movement in Kannada literature, Padma Bhushan and Jnanpith awardee Ananthamurthy was acclaimed widely for his work, made available through translations in Indian and European languages. He was Vice-Chancellor, Mahatma Gandhi University, Kottayam, and head of the National Book Trust and the Sahitya Akademi. A scathing commentator on socio-political and literary issues, he was a spokesperson for the voiceless, the deprived and the damned. He was involved in wide-ranging protest movements from eco-conservation to the medium of instruction in schools.

However, his writings were not manifestos, but metaphoric expressions of multi-layered realities. Didn’t he say to his British tutor Malcolm Bradbury, “You have to go to a library to create classic or medieval times. (As an Indian living simultaneously in the past and present) I only have to look into myself. A straight line for you is a coil for me.” The physical and the metaphysical melded in Ananthamurthy’s vision. He remained a razor-sharp intellectual with a generous heart.

 “He was not afraid to be unpopular,” said friend GK Govinda Rao. Besides on-and-off spats with his fellows, Ananthamurthy invited hate-mails for declaring ‘I will leave India if Modi becomes Prime Minister’. When reminded that no ideological faction ever acknowledged unreserved kinship with him. Ananthamurthy’s amused reaction was, “Well, I must have done something right!”

I asked him, “Haven’t you been trying all your life to expiate the guilt of being Brahmin born?” He responded with one of his good-humoured, irony-tipped, mischief-spiced chuckles: “It is a love-hate relationship.”

Ananthamurthy’s masterpiece Samskara depicts a village Brahmin community, and the troubled journey of Praneshacharya, perfectly etched by a young Girish Karnad in the award-winning film. Here  “rebel” Brahmin Naranappa spurns his legitimate uppercaste wife who “smells of lentils”, preferring the prostitute Chandri, When I disclosed to the author that I was depressed because I suspected that I too was “tainted” by this vacuous aroma, Ananthamurthy riposted, “My dear, didn’t you guess? So am I!”

When I moderated a conversation between Ananthamurthy and BV Karanth, the writer breezed in. The thespian turned up in a glum mood. Their dialogue had to be heavily trimmed. “I will send the edited version to you before publishing”, I promised Ananthamurthy. “Look, I give you full permission to do whatever you like provided you don’t send it to me!” said he, adding impishly, “Karanth has become dull after he stopped drinking.” 

Once, referring to the upanishad image of two birds perched on branches high and low -- one a dispassionate onlooker, the other blindly engaged in action -- I asked, “Are the birds two wholly separate entities, or are they shifting states of being -- in the same person, but at different times?” He countered gently, “When we write we are simultaneously passionate and contemplative. Are we then both birds in one?” Why not? A writer’s job is to sweep cobwebs, sift contradictions, internalize the eternal, beware of the mirage, connect the finite with the infinite, and yes, discover paradoxical, even bitter truths. As Ananthamurthy strove to do, inexorably.

Gowri Ramnarayan

http://epaper.dnaindia.com/story.aspx?id=70090&boxid=20129&ed_date=2014-08-29&ed_code=820009&ed_page=10

Art as therapy 2

Column

V Ramnarayan

Art as therapy has been a subject of much interest at Sruti, and we have tried to get people qualified in the field to write for us on music and dance in treating medical conditions. Experts tell us that music usually forms a significant, pleasant part of our lives, actually enhancing its quality. This is true as much of the internal music playing in our heads as the external music we hear in a concert, film or recording.

Conversely, we have often wondered about the adverse effect of noise or loud, discordant music on the mental and physical well being of most of us. While continuous exposure to noise or loud music can most obviously cause hearing loss or deficiencies, it is less known that it can lead to other, serious illnesses as well.

What is unbelievable but true is that music, even very good music, can have deleterious effects on some people. In his book, Musicophilia, the eminent neuroscientist Oliver Sacks relates numerous intriguing cases of epileptic seizures brought on by music, ranging from ‘reminiscent’ songs to “well-punctuated rhythm,” which according to one patient “was for her the most dangerous feature in music.” Sacks relates the story (with, I suspect, ill-concealed glee) that the nineteenth century music critic Nikonov, who experienced several seizures starting from one suffered during Giacomo Meyerbeer’s opera, eventually went into convulsions every time he listened to any music, however soft. Developing a “veritable phobia” he was forced to avoid all contact with music. (When asked to comment on a critic, an actor once replied that it was like asking a lamppost what it thought of the dog, and I am sure Nikonov’s fate was “a consummation devoutly to be wished” in the opinion of many a musician).

“Musicophilia” deals extensively with musical imagery. Expectedly, it postulates that professional musicians have remarkable musical imagery. Many composers compose in their minds rather than on instruments, at least in the initial stages. The most spectacular example of this phenomenon was of course that of Beethoven composing some of his best music well after he became totally deaf. Sacks speculates that Beethoven’s musical imagery was enhanced by his deafness, much in the manner of the intensified visual imagery of the blind.

Attempting to shed light on earworms or brainworms, the songs that for no discernible reason enter your mind and refuse to leave, Sacks quotes from Theodor Reik’s book The Haunting Melody: Psychoanalytic Experiences in Life and Music:

“ Melodies which run through your mind…may give the analyst a clue to the secret life of emotions that every one of us lives…In this inward singing, the voice of an unknown self conveys not only passing moods and impulses, but sometimes a disavowed or denied wish, a longing and a drive we do not like to admit to ourselves… Whatever secret message it carries, the incidental music accompanying our conscious thinking is never accidental.” So, beware the next time the spouse goes around humming Kolaveri, kolaveri..

Songs of emotion

Seen, Heard Read

PNV Ram

Many of the recent concerts I attended have been emotionally rewarding. The first was a memorial tribute to a rasika, R Venkateswaran, a regular in the Chennai kutcheri circuit for several decades, who was at some sabha hall almost every evening of that period, taking bus rides, share autos and the like to reach his destination from his West Mambalam residence.

A chemical engineer and materials management expert, he was described by a friend as an asura rasika, meaning a monster of a rasika. The friend of course meant it as a compliment, and there was much to commend in Venkateswaran’s devotion to music and literature (I learnt of his considerable interest in the latter only posthumously, though). S Sivakumar, freelance journalist, and Kulkarni, rasika and founder of the very popular music site rasikas.org were among the speakers on the occasion. 

As warmly and affectionately rendered as the speeches was Sriram Parasuram’s vocal recital, accompanied by Sertalai Ananthakrishnan on the mridangam, KV Gopalakrishnan on the khanjira, and Gurumurti Vaidya on the tabla. Rendering both Carnatic and Hindustani ragas and compositions, Sriram Parasuram was at his evocative best in his Marubihag essay, as well as his twin offering of Sriranjani and Bageshree.

This consummate violinist is a marvel in the seamless manner he can straddle the two Indian classical systems, investing every phrase with the appropriate rasa. His exposition of the ragas and the musical and social milieu of the songs was lucid as ever, and he even stopped midway to share a few thoughts with the audience about the honouree of the evening. Sertalai Anantakrishnan’s  nuanced percussion  was a revelation.

I spoke at a recent community listening event of concert recordings of Madurai Mani Iyer at PS Higher Secondary School, Mylapore, in a long series conducted month after month, year after year, by his diehard fans including Venugopalan and Vishnu Ramprasad, who developed and maintains the portal maduraimani.tripod.org. The devotion with which the audience and organizers together participate in a collective celebration of Mani Iyer’s soul-stirring brand of  music is probably unique in the world of commemorative listening, resembled perhaps only by the following enjoyed by the likes of MD Ramanathan.

During my talk, I wondered aloud if Mani Iyer had cracked the genetic code of raga music, sp full of the essence of Hamsadhwani were every swara and every phrase of the raga was the Vatapi Ganapatim bhaje we heard that evening. “What is it about Mani Iyer’s music that unites so many of us here today,” I asked ? “I have been mulling over this question ever since Sri Venugopal asked me to speak here. And the answer seemed to come to me out of the blue, when I was listening to Anil Srinivasan play some gorgeous western music on the piano at Kalakshetra a few days ago. Among other things, he played Mozart’s Twinkle, twinkle little star, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, some Bach, Chopin, Schubert, preludes, nocturnes and so on. Much of the music was celebratory of nature, tender, even cheerful, but there was no stopping the tears welling up in your eyes. 

Doesn’t the pure voice of Madurai Mani Iyer have the same impact on us, whether he is singing Tiruvadi saranam, or Eppo varuvaro, or Subrahamanyena rakshitoham, Ka va va, or Rangapura vihara, or even the English note. To touch the heart, melt it, you do not necessarily need profound sentiments, words of bhakti, to bolster your singing, though those will obviously move us when rendered in a clear, unsullied, sruti-perfect voice as well.

In the case of a good soul such as Mani Iyer, profound, deeply evocative music emerges not merely from his throat, his lungs or his diaphragm, but from his heart, his whole being. It is an expression of the ananda, the bliss he experiences in music. In Carnatic music, I can only think of one other vocalist who had the same impact on the listener, no matter what the composition or context. And that was MS Subbulakshmi.

Listening to Sanjay Subrahmanyan in concert with S Varadarajan (violin) and Arjun Ganesh (mridangam) for the Vidya Mandir Alumni Association on 17 August at the Music Academy was a similar experience. Sanjay was in excellent voice and mood, probably buoyed by the experience of singing for his alma mater and his old schoolmates. If his Sankarabharanam raga alapana followed by Swara raga sudha was a grand tour de force, the raga in which his handling of the lower reaches revealed a new strengthening of his voice, altogether more sonorous and vibrant than in the past, his variations while emoting the different bhavas of the later songs of the concert like Chinnan chiru kiliye were at once majestic and evocative, without resorting to sentimentality. He was in effect combining the vocal gravitas that Carnatic music demands with the rasanubhava usually more explicit in the popular genres of music than in the classical tradition. The violin and mridangam were a perfect foil to the voice, making it a true concert.

Savithri Satyamurthi: devoted to her music

By Rasika Viswanath

Every once in a while there comes a person whose life and accomplishments touch you very deeply. Savithri Satyamurthy’s life and musical journey touched the hearts of many accomplished musicians, students, music connoisseurs as well as  rasikas across eras and cities.

Born to Meenakshi and Ramanathan, Savithri started learning music in the town of Hosur with violin lessons from Madurai Subramania Iyer. A move to Trichy opened up a whole new world of music for her. She earned her stripes under the strict tutelage of Erode Viswanatha Iyer. Her growing  years involved spending three years as an inmate of the Ariyakudi household, when she also honed her violin technique under guru RajamanickamPillai. Imagine the wealth of musical experience she would have gained in those early years with these stalwarts as her guiding light, RajamIyer, K.V.Narayanaswami, Madurai Krishnan as co-disciples and as a regular accompanist to Dhanammal.

Right from her childhood, Savithri was a meticulous stickler for discipline and punctuality. She learfnt these lessons from her primary school teacher in Trichy and lived by it all through her life. Marriage and a move to Bombay changed the direction of her music career, and the birth of “Teacher Savithri”. Her musical knowledge and urge to keep learning combined with her inherent qualities made her set exacting standards and expect nothing short of perfection from her students.  Her music education continued in Bombay through the visits of stalwarts like Kumbakonam Rajamanikkam Pillai, Madurai Mani Iyer and Ramnad Krishnan, who stayed at her residence in Mumbai. Madurai Mani Iyer was especially fond of Savithri’s special idlis for breakfast.

After seeing her children well settled in life, Savithri came  to Chennai in 1972  and  the move resurrected the concert artist in Savithri.  The musicians she began to accompany in concerts represented the who’s who of the Carnatic music world. M.S.Subbalakshmi, D.K.Pattamal, T.Muktha, Mani Krishnaswami and R.Vedavalli were examples.

The shift also saw her blossoming as a teacher under the guidance of Dr. S. Ramanathan to whom she had also become a regular concert accompanist.  Her students would tremble at the thought of facing her even if they were a minute late to her classes or unprepared from the previous lesson. The quality of her teaching was the same regardless of where when and how she taught. Her students from across generations having learnt from her several decades apart could come together and sing the compositions learnt from her in perfect unison. It was this rigour that produced from among her students a number of concert artists as well as music lovers and connoisseurs. A strict disciplinarian as a teacher, she was a deeply loving person and friend to her students outside of her classes.

Complete devotion to music and her gurus as well as implicit faith in Lord Krishna were facets of her life that really stood out. Her meticulous maintenance of her music notations drew admiration from not only her students but many stalwarts as well. A number of Dr. Ramanathan’s compositions are alive today, thanks to her painstaking notation. She will be fondly remembered by all her students as well as the music fraternity.

(Rasika Viswanath is a granddaughter and disciple of the late Savithri Satyamurthy)

That sixties feeling

By V Ramnarayan

‘Alas the Jam Sahib is fat!” wrote AG Gardiner when Ranji turned forty. Those of us walking wounded of the 1960s who had recently gathered to catch a glimpse of the handsome, fiery young student leader of our generation at Mylapore, Chennai, were relieved to see Tariq Ali had not grown fat, though not any more the dashing, slim figure of the decade of the Beatles and Bob Dylan. The sparkle in his eyes had given way to a thoughtful gaze beneath glasses, a frown made him look almost magisterial, and he fitted in perfectly amidst the collection of grey eminences on stage.

The air of near-anonymity ends the moment Tariq Ali stands before the microphone, his weapon of destruction all those decades ago, when he spewed fire on the capitalists of the world, when he led the occupation of the Sorbonne by over 30,000 students, protesting against the Vietnam War among a host of burning issues of the day. He may not be fiery any more but he does make every word count and grips the listener’s attention from start to finish.

Today, as he addresses students of the Asian College of Journalism and other guests, he speaks in the measured tones of an elder statesman, with every word, every turn of phrase pregnant with meaning and purpose, witty, precise, quietly impassioned. “At Oxford in the 1960s, a distinguished Indian was a couple of years my junior. I haven’t changed since then, nor has Montek Singh Ahluwalia. He remains as deeply conservative as ever,” he took a sly barb at the economist, instantly winning over the young audience.

In a lecture titled ‘The State of Journalism in the 21^st Century: Celebrities, Trivia and Whistleblowers,’ Tariq Ali deplored the assault of the mainstream media by celebrity trivia—which he described as a phenomenon that began at the end of the Cold War—and the rapid subsequent decline in journalistic standards. He had predicted—rightly—at the time of the intense hyperbole over Princess Diana’s death, that in ten years’ time there would be no memorials for Diana, that she would disappear from the memory of the media. In contrast, there had been intrepid, principled correspondents and commentators, he said, who dared to criticise the double standards of the West whenever it went to war against nations like Korea and Vietnam, in total contrast to the capitulation of the western media to their governments at the time of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars.

Describing India’s attitude in the matter of asylum seeker Edward Snowden as supine, he described the likes of Bradley Manning, Julian Assange and Snowden as freedom fighters, and not fugitives as the western press has shown great haste to call them.

It is evident from his writings and utterances that Tariq held and continues to hold the late Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez in the greatest esteem. In his death, he believes the world has lost one of the political giants of the post-communist era. His bluntness and courage drew Tariq Ali to him, as did his thoughtful observations that could at times seem impulsive and “depending on the response, enlarged by spontaneous eruptions on his part.” 

According to him, Chávez lit up the political landscape, at a time when young voters cannot tell the ideological difference between one party and another, with all politicians obsessed with making money. Tariq Ali remembers Chavez “speaking for hours to his people in a warm, sonorous voice, a fiery eloquence” and stunning resonance, his speeches littered with homilies, history, quotes from the 19th-century revolutionary leader Simón Bolívar, pronouncements on the state of the world--and songs, that he sang with great enthusiasm and persuaded his audiences to join in.

A playwright and filmmaker in addition to being a prolific writer of essays, articles and books of non-fiction today, the passionate rebel and intellectual has never been far from the arts, music in particular. Disappointingly for this writer, he prefers the Rolling Stones to the Beatles (“more exciting, more sensual, better to dance to”). The women of his youth, according to him, might have worshipped the Beatles, but the “real men”  followed the Stones. He recalls with something akin to glee how sitar maestro Ravi Shankar dismissed the media hype that his music had any impact on that of the Fab Four.

The first play Tariq Ali saw in England was Joan Littlewood's Oh What a Lovely War, “a moving homage to music hall culture and Brecht.” London was the most exciting place for the theatre enthusiast in the 1960s,with Beckett and Ionescu, Pinter and Peter Brook, all doing or preparing to do monumental work at the Royal Theatre and elsewhere.

His despair of Pakistani politicians—plunderers with no concern for the welfare of the people—is no different from his contempt for its military dictators, just as corrupt and greedy.  Expressing great sadness in an article in The Guardian, soon after Mohammad Amir, Mohammad Asif and Salman Butt were caught cheating in a sting operation, he wrote: “Yes, WG Grace was a cheat on and off the field. Yes, captains of other teams – India and South Africa – have engaged in similar practices. Yes, the betting syndicates are a major part of the problem. So what? Since when has one crime justified another? How many times have I heard apologists for corrupt Pakistani politicians justifying their pillage by arguing that Europe and America also have corrupt politicians. The problem is that in Pakistan that's all we have, with few exceptions – one of whom is Imran Khan, who was also Pakistan's finest and most incorruptible captain.”

The all-round social degeneration has not made Tariq Ali a cynic, or lessened his resolve to try to change the world. At the recent Chennai lecture, he encouraged his young audience to stick to their principles: “It is important for you not to forget the history of journalism and its development.”