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.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 4, 2010
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
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
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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.
“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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
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.”
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.”
Friday, September 17, 2010
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..
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..
Friday, August 27, 2010
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.
“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.
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