First published in The Bengal Post
“I have fixed 11th December as the date for the book release by the Prime Minster.” My wife’s cousin Cheenu was smiling confidently as he dropped this bombshell. “What book?” I asked, nonplussed by this casual remark Shrinivasan, son of Radha Viswanathan and grandson of T Sadasivam and MS Subbulakshmi, made in mid-October a couple of years ago.
My wife Gowri confessed that in the midst of a debilitating illness in July of the same year, she had agreed to write a book about the special relationship between her grandaunt MS and her daughter-disciple Radha. Bedridden for months, she had forgotten all about it.
Cheenu then cheerfully entrusted me the task of finding a publisher for the proposed book! I explained to him that no publisher on earth would even accept or reject the proposal in that time. I tried to persuade him to postpone the release by a few months, but he assured me that that was an impossibility.
Gowri and I came up with a compromise formula. She had written an article on Radha for Sruti magazine in 1983 and several on Subbulakshmi over the years, for The Hindu and Frontline, among others. She had also to her credit a childhood biography of six artists, including MS. I collected all the relative files stored at various locations on the Internet and our own home computer, and suggested Gowri compile it all into some 10,000 words, to be supplemented by several superb photographs from Cheenu’s collection. And we would publish the book ourselves, looking for a good distributor to promote it. This was the best we could do in time for the December deadline.
The task of scanning thousands of photographs and selecting the best through several iterations of parleys between Gowri, me and Cheenu, now back in his hometown of Bangalore, was a mammoth one. Our team at this stage consisted of Gowri, my assistant Ravikumar and me. We emailed the images to Bangalore for Cheenu to approve and mail back. We had to try a variety of methods of handling the enormous files.
Once Gowri started writing, the book possessed her, and her 10,000 words grew and grew until they reached a very respectable 65,000. She was still in some pain from her ailment but just about able to type on her computer all day long, sometimes late into the night. She had replaced Radha as the late MS’s vocal accompanist back in the 1980s when Radha fell seriously ill and could not continue her sterling onstage contributions to MS’s Carnatic music concerts, which she had started as a young girl in pigtails. Memories of the years she had watched Radha accompany MS and help her on and off stage, her own unforgettable years playing the same roles, the tragedy of the meningitis that felled Radha in the prime of her life and Radha’s indefatigable spirit came to Gowri in a torrent of emotion. She was in tears most of the time as she stuck to her labour of love.
Soon we set up a smooth daily routine. Gowri emailed me her day’s output—we worked in different rooms—I did one round of editing and proofreading, though the spontaneous outpourings were almost print-perfect most of the time; I then emailed my copy to my daughter Akhila in the US (she too was in tears, most of the time, she tells me); she sent it back within hours; I then emailed the file to Abhirami Sriram, our efficient and empathetic Chennai-based editorial associate; and Gowri gave the copy she returned a final once-over. The whole process took about 24 hours.
Ashok Rajagoplan, the friend who designed the book, stayed some 20 km away and hated commuting, so he too was a long-distance resource. We realised rather late in the day that he did his work in Coreldraw, hardly the best book publishing solution in the world—at least back in 2008. Throughout the period he must have visited our home-cum-office two or three times. We also met a few times at a coffee shop in neutral territory, carrying laptops, CDs and USB devices containing the files relating to the book.
The book was beautifully designed and I was sure it would look gorgeous. But would it be ready in time? No, not by a long margin, I realised just a week before the scheduled date of release. That is when another friend Arun Ganesh stepped in, converting the files to Indesign and getting the whole book print ready within 24 hours.
The printer would need at least ten days to give us a sufficient number of copies for the two release functions planned, the one at Chennai two days after the Delhi event. Our Plan B was to make some fifty copies via digital printing to take to Delhi. Parliament was in session and the PM decided on a semiprivate function at his official residence, so we could not sell the books during the function. It was a blessing in disguise as the guest list was small and 50 copies would be just right.
The last straw was when the digital printing equipment crashed and we were able to carry exactly seven copies to Delhi. Alls’ well that ends well, and the book launch went off without further troubles, with Pandit Ravi Shankar graciously receiving the first copy from Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. (MS and Radha by Gowri Ramnarayan can be bought online at www.sruti.com).
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Nagaswaram music: an endangered species
(First published in The Bengal Post)
It has been a brilliant lecture demonstration by Dr. Kanniks Kannikeswaran at the Music Academy on the great Muttuswami Dikshitar, one of the revered Trinity of Carnatic music composers of the 18th century and dhrupad. (The scholars present question the validity of his claim that Dikshitar was influenced by dhrupad in his compositions, as TM Krishna points out in his comment below).
I then enter the academy’s main hall, where Vyasarpadi Kodandaraman is drowning a sparse audience in vintage nagaswaram music.
According to a Wikipedia definition, the nagaswaram is the world's loudest non-brass acoustic instrument. “It is a wind instrument similar to the shehnai but larger, with a hardwood body and a large flaring bell made of wood or metal.”
To me, like millions of other south Indians, no ceremony or festival is off to an auspicious start without a nagaswaram preamble. Historically, the nagaswaram accompanied by the tavil for percussion has always preceded the temple idol taken out in procession. It is therefore naturally an open air instrument, which explains the need for its loudness.
The great practitioners of the art of nagaswaram playing have belonged to families steeped in it, several of them in different parts of Tamil Nadu, most famously in the rice belt of Tanjavur on the banks of the Kaveri, the legacy being handed down from generation to generation through the centuries.
There is a close link between the nagaswaram tradition and hereditary barbers. Hardly 40-50 years ago, when it was still common for the family barber to come home to do the honours, he also greeted you first thing in the morning on Deepavali day with a few choice samples of nagaswaram music. My childhood was made traumatic by Ekambaram who not only gave me dreadful haircuts, but also managed never to play a tuneful note. He was invariably a rich man on festive mronings because every household tipped him generously to keep it short.
Some of the greatest artists in Carnatic music have been nagaswara vidwans, most notably Tiruvavaduthurai Rajaratnam Pillai who has had arguably the most seminal influence on most of the finest exponents of south Indian classical music, especially the major vocalists of the 20th century, and even some of today’s stars. One of the most charismatic singers of yesteryear, GN Balasubramanian, whose centenary celebrations conclude in January 2011, was much influenced by the nagaswara bani, especially the lightning fast brigas—a kind of modulation—of Rajaratnam that lesser mortals consider impossible of achievement by the human voice.
The so-called pitamaha of Carnatic music, the late Semmangudi Srinivasier, the epitome of orthodox brahminhood, who had great reverence for nagaswaram music, was fond of telling the story of how he often crossed the Kaveri to listen to the incomparable music of a stalwart nagaswara vidwan, though past his best and under the influence of alcohol most of the time. Semmangudi’s eyes invariably misted over as he remembered the days of his youth, unmindful of his audience or any embarrassment at a public show of his emotions.
Unlike the great shehnai maestros of the north, south India’s nagaswaram wizards are hardly known outside the region. In addition to Rajaratnam Pillai, there have been many other magnificent exponents of the art—Karukurichi Arunachalam, Shaikh Chinna Moulana Sahib, the Tiruveezhimizhalai Brothers, the Semponnarkoil Brothers, and Namagirpettai Krishnan to name but a few. It is along with tavil playing perhaps the only branch of Carnatic music dominated by non-brahmin musicians, one that also features Muslim practitioners.
Nagaswaram and tavil are endangered species. Many of the best traditions of the art are rapidly changing and lack of glamour is driving many young inheritors of the legacy to seek other professions. Temples in the state have been invaded by light music, with hardly any classical music concerts being hosted there, and the grand mallari to herald the lord’s procession getting diluted over time.
The ubiquitous electronic sruti box has virtually replaced the old-fashioned ottu, the smallish nagaswaram look-alike that acted in the past as a drone to maintain the pitch. The compulsion to enter the concert hall from the temple grounds of the past to earn a livelihood as musicians has forced artists to adapt several aspects of their music to suit the changed environment. Unfortunately, many of them insist on artificial amplification to be on a par with other musicians, something they really do not need, something that detracts from the rich sounds of their instruments. Audiences no longer flock to nagaswaram concerts, with the decibellage as a result of microphone usage perhaps one of the discouraging factors. Despite efforts by the leading music organisations including the Music Academy honouring the best of them with awards, the public response to this supreme wind instrument continues to be lukewarm.
Still, sensitive and dedicated nagaswara vidwans like Vyasarpadi Kodandaraman and the glamorous Injikudi Subramaniam have remained true to their invaluable inheritance and play the purest kind of nagaswaram music despite pressures from the changing milieu. The wonderful Kambhoji raga suite that Kodandaraman unfurled before the privileged few who had assembled at the Music Academy hall a few days ago will linger in their hearts and minds for a long time.
It has been a brilliant lecture demonstration by Dr. Kanniks Kannikeswaran at the Music Academy on the great Muttuswami Dikshitar, one of the revered Trinity of Carnatic music composers of the 18th century and dhrupad. (The scholars present question the validity of his claim that Dikshitar was influenced by dhrupad in his compositions, as TM Krishna points out in his comment below).
I then enter the academy’s main hall, where Vyasarpadi Kodandaraman is drowning a sparse audience in vintage nagaswaram music.
According to a Wikipedia definition, the nagaswaram is the world's loudest non-brass acoustic instrument. “It is a wind instrument similar to the shehnai but larger, with a hardwood body and a large flaring bell made of wood or metal.”
To me, like millions of other south Indians, no ceremony or festival is off to an auspicious start without a nagaswaram preamble. Historically, the nagaswaram accompanied by the tavil for percussion has always preceded the temple idol taken out in procession. It is therefore naturally an open air instrument, which explains the need for its loudness.
The great practitioners of the art of nagaswaram playing have belonged to families steeped in it, several of them in different parts of Tamil Nadu, most famously in the rice belt of Tanjavur on the banks of the Kaveri, the legacy being handed down from generation to generation through the centuries.
There is a close link between the nagaswaram tradition and hereditary barbers. Hardly 40-50 years ago, when it was still common for the family barber to come home to do the honours, he also greeted you first thing in the morning on Deepavali day with a few choice samples of nagaswaram music. My childhood was made traumatic by Ekambaram who not only gave me dreadful haircuts, but also managed never to play a tuneful note. He was invariably a rich man on festive mronings because every household tipped him generously to keep it short.
Some of the greatest artists in Carnatic music have been nagaswara vidwans, most notably Tiruvavaduthurai Rajaratnam Pillai who has had arguably the most seminal influence on most of the finest exponents of south Indian classical music, especially the major vocalists of the 20th century, and even some of today’s stars. One of the most charismatic singers of yesteryear, GN Balasubramanian, whose centenary celebrations conclude in January 2011, was much influenced by the nagaswara bani, especially the lightning fast brigas—a kind of modulation—of Rajaratnam that lesser mortals consider impossible of achievement by the human voice.
The so-called pitamaha of Carnatic music, the late Semmangudi Srinivasier, the epitome of orthodox brahminhood, who had great reverence for nagaswaram music, was fond of telling the story of how he often crossed the Kaveri to listen to the incomparable music of a stalwart nagaswara vidwan, though past his best and under the influence of alcohol most of the time. Semmangudi’s eyes invariably misted over as he remembered the days of his youth, unmindful of his audience or any embarrassment at a public show of his emotions.
Unlike the great shehnai maestros of the north, south India’s nagaswaram wizards are hardly known outside the region. In addition to Rajaratnam Pillai, there have been many other magnificent exponents of the art—Karukurichi Arunachalam, Shaikh Chinna Moulana Sahib, the Tiruveezhimizhalai Brothers, the Semponnarkoil Brothers, and Namagirpettai Krishnan to name but a few. It is along with tavil playing perhaps the only branch of Carnatic music dominated by non-brahmin musicians, one that also features Muslim practitioners.
Nagaswaram and tavil are endangered species. Many of the best traditions of the art are rapidly changing and lack of glamour is driving many young inheritors of the legacy to seek other professions. Temples in the state have been invaded by light music, with hardly any classical music concerts being hosted there, and the grand mallari to herald the lord’s procession getting diluted over time.
The ubiquitous electronic sruti box has virtually replaced the old-fashioned ottu, the smallish nagaswaram look-alike that acted in the past as a drone to maintain the pitch. The compulsion to enter the concert hall from the temple grounds of the past to earn a livelihood as musicians has forced artists to adapt several aspects of their music to suit the changed environment. Unfortunately, many of them insist on artificial amplification to be on a par with other musicians, something they really do not need, something that detracts from the rich sounds of their instruments. Audiences no longer flock to nagaswaram concerts, with the decibellage as a result of microphone usage perhaps one of the discouraging factors. Despite efforts by the leading music organisations including the Music Academy honouring the best of them with awards, the public response to this supreme wind instrument continues to be lukewarm.
Still, sensitive and dedicated nagaswara vidwans like Vyasarpadi Kodandaraman and the glamorous Injikudi Subramaniam have remained true to their invaluable inheritance and play the purest kind of nagaswaram music despite pressures from the changing milieu. The wonderful Kambhoji raga suite that Kodandaraman unfurled before the privileged few who had assembled at the Music Academy hall a few days ago will linger in their hearts and minds for a long time.
Monday, December 13, 2010
SAMEER
Sameer Athreya (born 12 December 1999) is a child
prodigy who gave his first public concert at age 7
and won the hearts of music lovers with his amazing
display of Hindustani classical music. He sings
khayal, thumri, taranas, bhajans, as well as
devotional songs(Sanskrit, Hindi, Kannada,
Marathi, Gujarati) with the panache of a veteran .He
also plays on harmonium. He has been featured on
All India Radio and television channels (including
TV 9 and Kasturi channel's Swaramadhurya
programme which has been telecast repeatedly). He
has received rave reviews in The Hindu, The Asian
Age, Deccan Chronicle, Udayavani and Taranga
(Kannada) publications. He excels in complicated ragas
and intricate talas
For the past two years he has been training under
Dr.Sakuntala Narasimhan of the Rampur-Sahaswan
gharana.
He has also set to tune some Dasa Vani
(devotional Kannada songs). Like any child of
his age, he also loves watching cartoons, skating,
Karate and working at the computer. His cartoon
strip creation on Saving Mother Earth won
him an award in February 2010.
Some memorable concerts:
20.01.2007. First full length public recital aged
7, at Veenapani Centre for Arts, Bangalore,
accompanying himself on the Harmonium,
Received electronic swarmandal in appreciation
of his genius.
27.05.2007. Concert for Swarohan Cultural
Organisation, Bangalore , honoured with
prestigious gift of a tanpura.
11.11.2007. Annual Celebration programme of
Ghethak Tabla Vidyalaya Bangalore
5.12.2007. Concert at Dattajayanti annual
music festival, Harihar.
2006-08. Television appearances and recitals
on channels ETV, Kasturi and TV 9.
12.01.2009. All India Radio interview with
recital.
12.04.2009. Concert at Raga Sangama,
Sahakaranagar.
25.04.2009. Participated in Dignity Foundation
concert at Indian Institute of World Culture,
Bangalore.
4.05.2009. Concert at Sirsi
14.08.2009. Concert at Poornapragna Vidya
peeta, on the occasion of Krishna Janmastami
13.11.2009. Harihar Datta Jayanti music
festival, jointly with Dr. Sakuntala Narasimhan
Some press comments:
His profound grasp of the advanced aspects and
subtle nuances of Hindustani music leave you
with that sense of incredulity and wonder that
happens when you confront child prodigies.....
His sense of shruthi is amazingly perfect....The
sweet and sonorous voice is definitely that of a
child but the mastery of melody and rhythm are
that of an accomplished musician� -The Hindu
27.4.2007
7 year old Sameer.S.Athreya's recent Hindustani
music concert in Bangalore included a repertoire
worth taking note of; a tarana in Desh raga,
Punjabi thumri and a Haridasa Krithi in Kannada��
-The Asian Age,11.2.2007.
Sameer who turned 7 last month could easily
qualify for Ustad status judging by his astounding
knowledge of, and command over, Hindustani
Classical music.....It hasto be seen to be
believed....This youngster had the audience
smiling and crying alternately, with joy.
Charmingly interacting with audience Sameer
stole their hearts that evening. Such prodigies are
rare to come by....� Radel Newsletter Jan-March
2007
He can tune songs in multiple Ragas, Can
play Harmonium and Piano easily, Can read
and write in 7 languages , all at the tender age
of 6,This kid can easily be called a Prodigy.
Taranga, feature article for children's day
Nov 2006
Contact :
Parents: Satish K & Vidya K R.
Address:- T-157, 14th main, 35th cross,
4 th T Block , Jayanagar,Bangalore- 41
Ph no :-080-22459223
Mobile :-98450-63458
Email :-vidyakr@yahoo.com
Guru
Sameer is being trained by Dr.Sakuntala
Narasimhan of the Rampur- Sahaswan gharana.
Dr Sakuntala Narasimhan is
the only vocalist in the country to have sung in
the National Programme of Music of
nationwide TV, in both the Hindustani and
Carnatic styles.
prodigy who gave his first public concert at age 7
and won the hearts of music lovers with his amazing
display of Hindustani classical music. He sings
khayal, thumri, taranas, bhajans, as well as
devotional songs(Sanskrit, Hindi, Kannada,
Marathi, Gujarati) with the panache of a veteran .He
also plays on harmonium. He has been featured on
All India Radio and television channels (including
TV 9 and Kasturi channel's Swaramadhurya
programme which has been telecast repeatedly). He
has received rave reviews in The Hindu, The Asian
Age, Deccan Chronicle, Udayavani and Taranga
(Kannada) publications. He excels in complicated ragas
and intricate talas
For the past two years he has been training under
Dr.Sakuntala Narasimhan of the Rampur-Sahaswan
gharana.
He has also set to tune some Dasa Vani
(devotional Kannada songs). Like any child of
his age, he also loves watching cartoons, skating,
Karate and working at the computer. His cartoon
strip creation on Saving Mother Earth won
him an award in February 2010.
Some memorable concerts:
20.01.2007. First full length public recital aged
7, at Veenapani Centre for Arts, Bangalore,
accompanying himself on the Harmonium,
Received electronic swarmandal in appreciation
of his genius.
27.05.2007. Concert for Swarohan Cultural
Organisation, Bangalore , honoured with
prestigious gift of a tanpura.
11.11.2007. Annual Celebration programme of
Ghethak Tabla Vidyalaya Bangalore
5.12.2007. Concert at Dattajayanti annual
music festival, Harihar.
2006-08. Television appearances and recitals
on channels ETV, Kasturi and TV 9.
12.01.2009. All India Radio interview with
recital.
12.04.2009. Concert at Raga Sangama,
Sahakaranagar.
25.04.2009. Participated in Dignity Foundation
concert at Indian Institute of World Culture,
Bangalore.
4.05.2009. Concert at Sirsi
14.08.2009. Concert at Poornapragna Vidya
peeta, on the occasion of Krishna Janmastami
13.11.2009. Harihar Datta Jayanti music
festival, jointly with Dr. Sakuntala Narasimhan
Some press comments:
His profound grasp of the advanced aspects and
subtle nuances of Hindustani music leave you
with that sense of incredulity and wonder that
happens when you confront child prodigies.....
His sense of shruthi is amazingly perfect....The
sweet and sonorous voice is definitely that of a
child but the mastery of melody and rhythm are
that of an accomplished musician� -The Hindu
27.4.2007
7 year old Sameer.S.Athreya's recent Hindustani
music concert in Bangalore included a repertoire
worth taking note of; a tarana in Desh raga,
Punjabi thumri and a Haridasa Krithi in Kannada��
-The Asian Age,11.2.2007.
Sameer who turned 7 last month could easily
qualify for Ustad status judging by his astounding
knowledge of, and command over, Hindustani
Classical music.....It hasto be seen to be
believed....This youngster had the audience
smiling and crying alternately, with joy.
Charmingly interacting with audience Sameer
stole their hearts that evening. Such prodigies are
rare to come by....� Radel Newsletter Jan-March
2007
He can tune songs in multiple Ragas, Can
play Harmonium and Piano easily, Can read
and write in 7 languages , all at the tender age
of 6,This kid can easily be called a Prodigy.
Taranga, feature article for children's day
Nov 2006
Contact :
Parents: Satish K & Vidya K R.
Address:- T-157, 14th main, 35th cross,
4 th T Block , Jayanagar,Bangalore- 41
Ph no :-080-22459223
Mobile :-98450-63458
Email :-vidyakr@yahoo.com
Guru
Sameer is being trained by Dr.Sakuntala
Narasimhan of the Rampur- Sahaswan gharana.
Dr Sakuntala Narasimhan is
the only vocalist in the country to have sung in
the National Programme of Music of
nationwide TV, in both the Hindustani and
Carnatic styles.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Carnatic Carnival
(Adapted from something I wrote for The Hindu Folio on 29 November 1998).
For all the controversy that surrounded it, the recent Commonwealth Games was a grand spectacle, a mammoth task of organization. It must have been a nightmare of logisitics, like all mega events of the kind.
If the organizers of the Games had consulted that uniquely south Indian body of men, the ubiquitous sabha secretaries of Chennai, they would have gained valuable insights into how to run a multidimensional show of even greater complexity. These miracle makers manage year after year to conduct hundreds of Carnatic music concerts packed into a month of frenzied programming, featuring formidable teams, at dozens of far flung theatres of war. Yes, these are the modern versions of the Carnatic War fought not by the British and the French, but by these little cultural oligarchies. In a marvel of logistics, time and resource management, they detonate an explosion of rhythm and raga razzmatazz that leaves whole suburban populations stunned. Their weaponry? Antiquated amplification systems whose noise levels create world records on the Richter scale.
The early morning lec-dems investigate in minute detail such compellingly seminal topics as "The Influence of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche on the Development of the Mela Karta Scheme" or "Rap, Raga and Rachmaninov: Is Fusion The Way to Go?". That is where demure damsels, fiery feminists, voluble vocalists, and intimidatory instrumentalists vie for top honours with obstreperous octogenarians and superannuated scholars.
These are followed by the virgin volleys of child prodigies and teenage tyros, unleashed at an unsuspecting public straying idly in after a hearty repast at the cafeteria. (The last IMRB survey reportedly revealed that, for every critically ill concertgoer, there were at least three committed canteengoers. Their unfaltering support has over the decades raised what started as a modest sideshow into a spectacular main attraction during the music season. In fact, in some circles it has been suggested that the Chennai December season be renamed the Food n' Frolic Fest.
Some of these postprandial somnambulists settle down into deep slumber even as the next batch of curious onlookers fights its way towards the rare empty seat. By now they are hampered by the growing crowd, and overzealous ushers who learnt their job by correspondence and never got beyond lesson two, to borrow a simile from "English literature's performing flea", P.G. Wodehouse. This is the high point of the unfolding drama, the last chance before the next season comes round to pass judgment on the stars of tomorrow without paying for admission.
To borrow yet another intriguing piece of imagery by yet another eminent Englishman, Bertrand Russell, a Martian visitor who happens to land his flying saucer at the Music Academy one December afternoon, will go away with the impression that earthlings who have strayed from the path of virtue are packed into uncomfortable seats and tortured by sophisticated acoustics; those guilty of the more heinous crimes are banished to the balcony.
Suitably stirred by the vigour of the vocal gymnastics on display during the next two hours, these devout worshippers of the divine music of our ancestors, spring into action even as the last strains of the mangalam begin to fill the auditorium. To make a quick dash for the door, and head straight for the canteen is for them as effortless as drowning the vocalist's feeble attempts at being heard is for violinists and percussionists. After reviving themselves with a stiff coffee or two, they then cleverly take a detour around the ticket window towards the exit, to rest and recuperate before they hit the roads on the morrow. For this is the hour that produces the man - the supreme optimist at the ticket counter who hopes against hope, that this season's share of the uninitiated will pay to listen to the senior vidwan featured here, and not gravitate towards a free cutcheri elsewhere.
What infinite variety this indefatigable band of music lovers present! An endangered species is the doughty old warriors whose first season coincided with the debut of Ariyakudi Ramanuja Ayyangar, the trailblazer whom critics have charged with inventing the modern cutcheri format. These are the most admirable segment of the audience, for they have braved the rigours of classical music in the severe Chennai winter for over half a century, sweater-and muffler-clad, and remaining stolidly critical of succeeding generations of vidwans. Anno Domini is catching up and alas, this species will soon be extinct, replaced entirely by more thick skinned listeners whom the December cold leaves untouched.
Mylapore mamis too are fast becoming a vanishing feature of the season. The swirling silks and glittering diamonds which were an integral part of the scene earlier are becoming less conspicuous every year. One school of thought however has it that the mamis still continue to throng the sabhas, only they are disguised as lesser mortals. This deduction is based on a recent research finding that the number of patrons in the front rows who talk through concerts has actually increased in the last decade. (A similar finding is that the number of men who sing along is also on the upswing, with a significant growth in percentage of apaswaram. At last count too, an incredible 22 per cent of the audience were found guilty of wrong tala accompaniment during tani avartanam).
To earn the applause of a Chennai audience is not easy, unless you happen to be a Hindustani instrumentalist with long hair, purple kurta and an American accent with which you announce that you will treat them to the exotic delight of raag Hamsadhwani. The Carnatic musician may occasionally mesmerise audiences abroad. But his manodharma is scarcely equal to the irresistible lure of the 8.35 bus home. Every percussionist from Palghat Mani Iyer down to Vikku Vinayakram has lost out to the fatal attraction of the aroma of coffee wafting in from the canteen at tani avartanam time.
Increasingly, devotees from the wicked West descend on staid old Chennai during the December season. Some of them look more Indian than Indians, veshti-jibba, sari-pigtails, jolna bags and all, but what really distinguishes these seekers of nirvana through raga and gamaka is their glazed expression. And they, like their Indian counterparts, keep coming back for more, such is the addictive power of the season for all seasons.
For all the controversy that surrounded it, the recent Commonwealth Games was a grand spectacle, a mammoth task of organization. It must have been a nightmare of logisitics, like all mega events of the kind.
If the organizers of the Games had consulted that uniquely south Indian body of men, the ubiquitous sabha secretaries of Chennai, they would have gained valuable insights into how to run a multidimensional show of even greater complexity. These miracle makers manage year after year to conduct hundreds of Carnatic music concerts packed into a month of frenzied programming, featuring formidable teams, at dozens of far flung theatres of war. Yes, these are the modern versions of the Carnatic War fought not by the British and the French, but by these little cultural oligarchies. In a marvel of logistics, time and resource management, they detonate an explosion of rhythm and raga razzmatazz that leaves whole suburban populations stunned. Their weaponry? Antiquated amplification systems whose noise levels create world records on the Richter scale.
The early morning lec-dems investigate in minute detail such compellingly seminal topics as "The Influence of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche on the Development of the Mela Karta Scheme" or "Rap, Raga and Rachmaninov: Is Fusion The Way to Go?". That is where demure damsels, fiery feminists, voluble vocalists, and intimidatory instrumentalists vie for top honours with obstreperous octogenarians and superannuated scholars.
These are followed by the virgin volleys of child prodigies and teenage tyros, unleashed at an unsuspecting public straying idly in after a hearty repast at the cafeteria. (The last IMRB survey reportedly revealed that, for every critically ill concertgoer, there were at least three committed canteengoers. Their unfaltering support has over the decades raised what started as a modest sideshow into a spectacular main attraction during the music season. In fact, in some circles it has been suggested that the Chennai December season be renamed the Food n' Frolic Fest.
Some of these postprandial somnambulists settle down into deep slumber even as the next batch of curious onlookers fights its way towards the rare empty seat. By now they are hampered by the growing crowd, and overzealous ushers who learnt their job by correspondence and never got beyond lesson two, to borrow a simile from "English literature's performing flea", P.G. Wodehouse. This is the high point of the unfolding drama, the last chance before the next season comes round to pass judgment on the stars of tomorrow without paying for admission.
To borrow yet another intriguing piece of imagery by yet another eminent Englishman, Bertrand Russell, a Martian visitor who happens to land his flying saucer at the Music Academy one December afternoon, will go away with the impression that earthlings who have strayed from the path of virtue are packed into uncomfortable seats and tortured by sophisticated acoustics; those guilty of the more heinous crimes are banished to the balcony.
Suitably stirred by the vigour of the vocal gymnastics on display during the next two hours, these devout worshippers of the divine music of our ancestors, spring into action even as the last strains of the mangalam begin to fill the auditorium. To make a quick dash for the door, and head straight for the canteen is for them as effortless as drowning the vocalist's feeble attempts at being heard is for violinists and percussionists. After reviving themselves with a stiff coffee or two, they then cleverly take a detour around the ticket window towards the exit, to rest and recuperate before they hit the roads on the morrow. For this is the hour that produces the man - the supreme optimist at the ticket counter who hopes against hope, that this season's share of the uninitiated will pay to listen to the senior vidwan featured here, and not gravitate towards a free cutcheri elsewhere.
What infinite variety this indefatigable band of music lovers present! An endangered species is the doughty old warriors whose first season coincided with the debut of Ariyakudi Ramanuja Ayyangar, the trailblazer whom critics have charged with inventing the modern cutcheri format. These are the most admirable segment of the audience, for they have braved the rigours of classical music in the severe Chennai winter for over half a century, sweater-and muffler-clad, and remaining stolidly critical of succeeding generations of vidwans. Anno Domini is catching up and alas, this species will soon be extinct, replaced entirely by more thick skinned listeners whom the December cold leaves untouched.
Mylapore mamis too are fast becoming a vanishing feature of the season. The swirling silks and glittering diamonds which were an integral part of the scene earlier are becoming less conspicuous every year. One school of thought however has it that the mamis still continue to throng the sabhas, only they are disguised as lesser mortals. This deduction is based on a recent research finding that the number of patrons in the front rows who talk through concerts has actually increased in the last decade. (A similar finding is that the number of men who sing along is also on the upswing, with a significant growth in percentage of apaswaram. At last count too, an incredible 22 per cent of the audience were found guilty of wrong tala accompaniment during tani avartanam).
To earn the applause of a Chennai audience is not easy, unless you happen to be a Hindustani instrumentalist with long hair, purple kurta and an American accent with which you announce that you will treat them to the exotic delight of raag Hamsadhwani. The Carnatic musician may occasionally mesmerise audiences abroad. But his manodharma is scarcely equal to the irresistible lure of the 8.35 bus home. Every percussionist from Palghat Mani Iyer down to Vikku Vinayakram has lost out to the fatal attraction of the aroma of coffee wafting in from the canteen at tani avartanam time.
Increasingly, devotees from the wicked West descend on staid old Chennai during the December season. Some of them look more Indian than Indians, veshti-jibba, sari-pigtails, jolna bags and all, but what really distinguishes these seekers of nirvana through raga and gamaka is their glazed expression. And they, like their Indian counterparts, keep coming back for more, such is the addictive power of the season for all seasons.
The Chennai Season
First published im The Bengal Post
The veteran violinist on stage is a picture of composure. He coaxes the most transcendental sounds out of his ancient violin. His opening salvo stirs the soul as only a great raga at the hands of a great master can. The concert is not all about total surrender in the best bhakti mode. It offers joy and playfulness as well, when the artist moves from worshipping at the altar of an omnipresent, compassionate god to marvel at the pranks of the little blue god, playing the perennial favourite, Krishna nee begane baro. As the concert progresses, you seen realise it is a master class for aspiring musicians.
The reverie is unfortunately broken by a cellphone going off in the second row. Soon a middle-aged man is engaged in loud conversation on his cellphone. You try to give him a dirty look and shame him, but he closes his eyes and continues his conversation. Another cellphone rings two rows from you. A couple have an equally loud conversation about the concert, with the man getting a free lesson in raga-identification.
At another venue, the same evening, a young woman is playing the flute with the mastery of someone years senior to her. Ten minutes into the concert, a young man walks in and occupies a seat in the front row. Seasoned listeners can identify him as the husband of the flautist on stage. Now what does he do to encourage his wife? He stretches his legs, leans back and spreads out the afternoon issue of Kutcheri Buzz--the tabloid avidly consumed by the hordes of music lovers who throng the auditoria during the famed Chennai music season, now covering almost all of November and December.
People constantly walk in and walk out. Videographers and photographers occupy vantage positions, unmindful of the people whose views they are blocking. Children wail. Mothers run out in panic.
The Chennai Season has arrived. People, who never so much as peep into an auditorium during the rest of the year, now invade all the well known halls of Chennai. Banners and hoardings mar the aesthetics of the concerts as much as the loud and often erratic amplification. When the musicians are not asking the mikemen to increase the volume of the “feedback”–invariably taken to be a signal to raise the decibellage of the speakers aimed at the audience—the senior citizens in the front rows shout “Not audible” in a chorus.
This is the time local Carnatic music buffs as well as the NRIs who descend on Chennai every winter go from concert hall to concert hall to take in one or more of the thousands of “cutcheris” organised in a marvel of logistics and time management. Various sabhas, a ubiquitous, uniquely Tamil Nadu institution, vie with one another to bring the best of Carnatic music to the city’s audiences in a frenzy of programming. Lecture demonstrations and concerts are held throughout the day, starting as early as 7.30 a.m. and ending around 10 p.m. for two weeks. Because each sabha starts its festival on a different date, the whole frenetic schedule nowadays stretches to a couple of months.
Kitchens are closed at countless homes, as there’s no time to cook and clean or even stop over between concerts. Delicious ‘tiffin’ and aromatic ‘full meals’ in the temporary eateries specially put up for the season draw rasikas from all parts of the city, but those who are there for the food alone and not the music far outnumber the music-lovers.
The unique atmosphere of the season has to be seen to be believed. All the great and aspiring artists of Carnatic music perform at different venues. Many of them overdo it, accepting literally every invitation to perform for fear of offending the sabha secretaries, their lifeline to a successful career in music. This season, some of the stars have decided to limit their appearances in order to preserve their voices (or instruments) and retain the freshness of their music. (One hugely popular star has gone on record saying she is really taking it easy, she is only doing 15 concerts during the season)!
Every newspaper brings out special supplements on the season. Some TV channels even conduct their own festivals. Critics damn or praise the musicians, but today’s musicians are often well educated and extremely tech-savvy, perfectly capable of striking back at the pen pushers.
“Carnatic music is alive and well”, seems to be the verdict of most critics, but old timers predictably lament the inability of today’s practitioners to equal the class of the stalwarts of the past.
Among the musicians themselves, opinions vary as to the state of Carnatic music today. Some say, ‘Those were the days when the rasika-s were really serious about attending season concerts and it was not just a fad. Today, we miss the serious rasika.’
Others say, “The audience is more demanding now. It inspires us through the year to do well, give of our best.”
Everyone who has ever been a part of the Chennai Season will however agree on one thing: There is nothing in the national music calendar to beat it for sheer excitement.
The veteran violinist on stage is a picture of composure. He coaxes the most transcendental sounds out of his ancient violin. His opening salvo stirs the soul as only a great raga at the hands of a great master can. The concert is not all about total surrender in the best bhakti mode. It offers joy and playfulness as well, when the artist moves from worshipping at the altar of an omnipresent, compassionate god to marvel at the pranks of the little blue god, playing the perennial favourite, Krishna nee begane baro. As the concert progresses, you seen realise it is a master class for aspiring musicians.
The reverie is unfortunately broken by a cellphone going off in the second row. Soon a middle-aged man is engaged in loud conversation on his cellphone. You try to give him a dirty look and shame him, but he closes his eyes and continues his conversation. Another cellphone rings two rows from you. A couple have an equally loud conversation about the concert, with the man getting a free lesson in raga-identification.
At another venue, the same evening, a young woman is playing the flute with the mastery of someone years senior to her. Ten minutes into the concert, a young man walks in and occupies a seat in the front row. Seasoned listeners can identify him as the husband of the flautist on stage. Now what does he do to encourage his wife? He stretches his legs, leans back and spreads out the afternoon issue of Kutcheri Buzz--the tabloid avidly consumed by the hordes of music lovers who throng the auditoria during the famed Chennai music season, now covering almost all of November and December.
People constantly walk in and walk out. Videographers and photographers occupy vantage positions, unmindful of the people whose views they are blocking. Children wail. Mothers run out in panic.
The Chennai Season has arrived. People, who never so much as peep into an auditorium during the rest of the year, now invade all the well known halls of Chennai. Banners and hoardings mar the aesthetics of the concerts as much as the loud and often erratic amplification. When the musicians are not asking the mikemen to increase the volume of the “feedback”–invariably taken to be a signal to raise the decibellage of the speakers aimed at the audience—the senior citizens in the front rows shout “Not audible” in a chorus.
This is the time local Carnatic music buffs as well as the NRIs who descend on Chennai every winter go from concert hall to concert hall to take in one or more of the thousands of “cutcheris” organised in a marvel of logistics and time management. Various sabhas, a ubiquitous, uniquely Tamil Nadu institution, vie with one another to bring the best of Carnatic music to the city’s audiences in a frenzy of programming. Lecture demonstrations and concerts are held throughout the day, starting as early as 7.30 a.m. and ending around 10 p.m. for two weeks. Because each sabha starts its festival on a different date, the whole frenetic schedule nowadays stretches to a couple of months.
Kitchens are closed at countless homes, as there’s no time to cook and clean or even stop over between concerts. Delicious ‘tiffin’ and aromatic ‘full meals’ in the temporary eateries specially put up for the season draw rasikas from all parts of the city, but those who are there for the food alone and not the music far outnumber the music-lovers.
The unique atmosphere of the season has to be seen to be believed. All the great and aspiring artists of Carnatic music perform at different venues. Many of them overdo it, accepting literally every invitation to perform for fear of offending the sabha secretaries, their lifeline to a successful career in music. This season, some of the stars have decided to limit their appearances in order to preserve their voices (or instruments) and retain the freshness of their music. (One hugely popular star has gone on record saying she is really taking it easy, she is only doing 15 concerts during the season)!
Every newspaper brings out special supplements on the season. Some TV channels even conduct their own festivals. Critics damn or praise the musicians, but today’s musicians are often well educated and extremely tech-savvy, perfectly capable of striking back at the pen pushers.
“Carnatic music is alive and well”, seems to be the verdict of most critics, but old timers predictably lament the inability of today’s practitioners to equal the class of the stalwarts of the past.
Among the musicians themselves, opinions vary as to the state of Carnatic music today. Some say, ‘Those were the days when the rasika-s were really serious about attending season concerts and it was not just a fad. Today, we miss the serious rasika.’
Others say, “The audience is more demanding now. It inspires us through the year to do well, give of our best.”
Everyone who has ever been a part of the Chennai Season will however agree on one thing: There is nothing in the national music calendar to beat it for sheer excitement.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Sriram Parasuram
Had he just focussed on the violin, he might already have gone down as one of the great solo and accompanying Carnatic violinists of all time, fit to rank with giants like Lalgudi G Jayaraman and TN Krishnan. As it is, he is certainly rated as one of the top accompanists of today, with a sound as sweet as the best the instrument can offer.
The trouble with—or rather the value of—Sriram Parasuram is that his accomplishments in music are wider than most musicians can only dream of, even if they have the breadth of vision to look beyond their own area of specialisation. Both heredity and environment must have played equal parts in the evolution of this multifaceted artist who straddles the musical universe with expertise in several genres—both vocal and violin, Carnatic and Hindustani—and more than passable skill in western classical, jazz, sufi, folk and film music.
With an MBA from IIM-C—following his mechanical engineering degree from Bombay University—and a PhD in world music from the Wesleyan University, Connecticut, USA, Sriram built a superstructure of amazing variety on his upbringing in a typically academically inclined Tamil household in Mumbai also steeped in south Indian classical music.
Many have been the deeply satisfying concerts in which Sriram’s empathetic, bhava-soaked bowing has enhanced the music of lead musicians such as his guru, flautist Tanjavur Viswanathan, contemporary instrumentalist Chitravina Ravikiran or veteran vocalists like RK Srikantan and Nedunuri Krishnamurti. On such occasions, you are transported to another, exalted zone, by a man you are convinced was born to play the violin, and wish he would go deeper still into the realm of Carnatic music with his instrument. But then you listen to a lecture-demonstration by him—along with Hindustani vocalist Suhas Vyas—on south Indian ragas in Hindustani music; a musical tribute to the genius of Subbarama Dikshitar who codified a sizable treasury of Carnatic compositions in his Sangita Sampradaya Pradarsini of 1904; his presentation of Kabir’s poetry with folk singer Prahlad Singh Tippanya; or his popular TV programme Ellame Sangeetam Taan (It’s All Music), partnered by his wife and well known film singer Anuradha Sriram, in which he switches effortlessly in his role of vocalist from Carnatic alapana and compositions to Hindustani music, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan songs, ghazals and Hindi film songs, and you know that it is impossible to tie such a versatile talent down to one form or branch of music.
Like such famous south Indians before him as A Kanan and N Rajam (Hindustani classical), today's stars Hariharan and Shankar Mahadevan (Hindi film and popular music), and a few others, Sriram Parasuram has mastered an idiom outside his own natural legacy. Learning Hindustani vocal music from the late Pt. CR Vyas, he has reached the level of accomplishment of a ‘native’ practitioner. The difference is that Sriram is of concert level proficiency in both systems. Perhaps the only parallel to this feat of equal mastery in Carnatic and Hindustani music is the case of violinist MS Gopalakrishnan of the celebrated Parur school.
Sriram has collaborated with musicians from different cultures. Javanese Gamelan, West African drumming, and Japanese Koto are some examples of exotica he has played or sung along with. Born in a musically gifted family he partnered his brothers Viswanath and Narayan (Three Brothers and a Violin) and composed the music for an award winning Hindi pop album "Savariya". With his wife, he directed the music for the Tamil film Five Star and produced a Tamil pop album Chennai Girl. He has been awarded the President’s gold medal for Carnatic and Hindustani music.
What impresses you most about Sriram and Anuradha, even more than their versatility—she too is proficient in numerous styles of music including classical—is their firm belief that ellame sangeetam taan. Sriram can render a perfect alap and bandish, follow it without an interval with a complex ragam-tanam-pallavi and finish with a romantic film song, all in one afternoon, with not a trace of one form in another. There are no obvious prejudices, no condescension towards any music of the world, be it classical, folk or film music, bhakti or secular, vocal or instrumental.
Extremely comfortable with technology, Sriram is in touch with the latest trends in world music and appreciates the beauty of Indian film music with its absorption of the best from a variety of sources, its use of orchestration to embellish Indian melodies, its ability to draw the bhava of the music most effectively. For one so contemporary in his attitude to music, Sriram is also a traditionalist when it comes to the core values of classical music. His respect for his own gurus and the past masters of Indian classical music borders on the reverential, and this lends a poignant touch to his lecture demonstrations. His assertion that all Indian music is based on ragas—even if manifest as rap or hip-hop in film and pop music—is a reflection of his deep commitment to his priceless inheritance.
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.
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.
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