This land is your land, this land is my land
From the hills of Kerala to the Himalayas
From the vale of Kashmir to the Almond Islands
This land was made for you and me
I first heard this Indian version of Woody Guthrie’s patriotic verse from my sister, who like thousands of other young Indians, had come under the spell of the charismatic young man who led the idealistic Moral Re-armament or MRA in India in the 1960s. I was to hear several such inspiratio
nal songs that my sister and her friends brought home from MRA meetings, which centrestaged that unlikely icon with a squeaky clean image and a fan following that threatened to rival that of the Beatles.
Tall, handsome Rajmohan Gandhi—the eldest grandson of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi and C Rajagopalachari—of the aquiline nose and aristocratic features and bearing had come under the influence of Frank Buchman, the American who called for 'moral and spiritual re-armament' as the way to build a 'hate-free, fear-free, greed-free world', following World War II.
MRA India came into being on 2 October 1963, when 70 volunteers led by Rajmohan Gandhi marched across India advocating a clean, strong and united nation, covering 4,500 miles in 40 days. It was a programme of moral and spiritual reconstruction to foster change in private and public life based on a change in motivation and character.
Another unlikely hero of the movement was the late West Indies opening batsman Conrad Hunte. Like born again Christians, they had seen the light, but theirs was a message of world peace and moral rectitude that went beyond personal religion; it claimed to be one of transformation of the world that began with the individual.
As a slightly cynical young man, I had been a somewhat amused onlooker of what appeared to me to be a propagandist movement that sought to indoctrinate young people everywhere with grandiose ideas of changing the planet by adopting what Rajmohan Gandhi calls “the moral high ground”. Worse, some of us skeptics suspected ulterior motives, even a CIA plot to wean youth away from Communism, behind the whole movement.
Yet despite my intuitive skepticism, I could not help developing a sneaking admiration for my sister’s idol. When he spoke, he spoke with passion, conviction, a sincere desire to change the corrupt, warring ways of the world.
Soon MRA went out of my world, as my sister grew out of it and moved on to watching cricket and following the fortunes of a certain Nawab of Pataudi. And there, my indirect association with Rajmohan should have ended—but for my discovery of Himmat, the brilliant little weekly magazine he founded in 1964 and edited for the next 17 years. The moral high ground was still the fuel of Rajmohan Gandhi’s spiritual engine, but his splendid prose and the irrepressible courage and optimism of his writings made a huge impact on me and some of my friends. Himmat was a no-frills, monochromatic (literally) magazine which met national and international issues head on. It covered itself with glory during the Emergency declared in June 1975, while most of India’s press “crawled when asked to bend”.
I first met Rajmohan Gandhi many years ago during his mother Lakshmi Devdas Gandhi’s funeral. “Oh, the off spinner,” he said to me when someone introduced us, a flattering acknowledgement that he knew I was a cricketer. When I met him last week, he again talked cricket briefly before we went on to other subjects. “I only know your cricket, not your later incarnations,” he said.
It was a moment for my family to get his latest book A Tale of Two Revolts: India 1857 & the American Civil War autographed, and inform him that our library included his biographies of his two grandfathers, besides many of his other works. “Must be groaning under the weight,” he said.
A visiting professor at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Gandhi was visiting Chennai for a brief lecture session for the benefit of visitors from the Netherlands. At 75, he still looks fit and alert physically and mentally, with no loss of the probing honesty that characterises his writings on his illustrious ancestors.
To my pleasant surprise I learnt from Rajmohan that MRA is still alive and kicking—recovering from the downslide caused by rampant materialism post-globalisation—but rechristened Initiatives of Change International. And its conference and training facility, Asia Plateau, a “verdant 64-acre centre of reconciliation, dialogue and introspection,” in the hills of Panchgani, Maharashtra, is still frequented by people from all over the world.
Rajmohan Gandhi is prominent in a number of initiatives to improve relations between Israel and Palestine, India and Pakistan and the Muslim and non-Muslim worlds. A true inheritor of the moral and intellectual qualities of both Gandhi and Rajaji, he believes, “One step of reconciliation, one step of bridge-building, one honest attempt to restore a divided relationship – and terrorism, extremism, receive a blow.”
And he is convinced that “if we demand rights and equality only for our group and not for all, they are no longer principles but just a political platform.”
Friday, January 21, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A Kathakali maestro turns 80
It was a surreal morning. The venue was the beautiful cottage-like auditorium inside the late dance diva Chandralekha’s residence facing Elliots Beach in south Chennai. Most of those who had gathered to celebrate Kathakali maestro K.P. Kunhiraman’s 80th birthday were either close to or past his age, in spotless white dhotis or saris. The others present were young dancers and students of music and dance, trying to drink in the atmosphere of a bygone age.
Kunhiraman sat inside the cottage with Buddha-like calm, accompanied by his American kathakali dancer wife Katherine—Keki to all—by his side and their daughter going around taking photographs. There was a gentle hush as forgotten memories were rekindled and recalled, as silent tears were shed for a way of life that would never come back—a way of life that one speaker of the morning described as a shining example of simple living and high thinking.
The great actor K. Ambu Panikkar, Kunhiraman’s father, had spent the last eight years of his life at Rukmini Devi Arundale’s Kalakshetra, teaching Kathakali. After his death, Rukmini Devi invited Kunhiraman to come and learn the art in the gurukula system, with his father’s friend and colleague T.K. Chandu Panikkar. Kunhiraman stayed at Kalakshetra for the next thirty years becoming one of its most celebrated and revered dancers, with unforgettable performances in the Ramayana series and other dance drama programmes. He also helped his guru train some of the greatest names among male dancers to perform at Kalakshetra and elsewhere in the decades to come.
Keki and Kunhiraman moved to Berkeley, California in the 1960s, “with one change of clothes and one set of Kathakali purushavesham costume in his suitcase,” as Keki wrote in a recent tribute to her husband. “I had told him we would be ‘missionaries in the jungle’, and at times would find ourselves in the cannibal’s pot,” she continues. “Friends came to meet him, tiptoeing silently into the bedroom to see the hundred-year-old crown hanging in the closet as if it were a new baby.”
Five days later, after his first performance in the US, at the Gala Galactic Festival of Martial, Healing and Performing Arts, Kunhiraman was shocked to see hippies leaping around the park playing music, and bearded yogis standing on their heads in the grass.
Recovering from the eerie experience in time, the Kunhiramans made many friends and settled down to start their school Kalanjali. Over the years, they had a steady stream of students Indian and American, and they kept recharging their batteries by visiting India annually to watch and participate in the Kalakshetra Art Festival and other events.
According to Keki, Kathakali never really caught on in the US: it had too much dancing for theatre people and too much theatre for dancers, “but there were triumphs and adventures with Kathakali that we had never anticipated.”
“We performed at the American Theatre Convention, numerous community events, our own productions, we took Kathakali to New York, Texas, Nebraska, Arizona, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and many other places.”
When Kunhiraman received the first choreography fellowship ever given to an Indian artist from the National Endowment for the Arts, the duo produced Keechaka Vadham, which was to be repeated many times over the years.
Embarrassingly once Kunhiraman mistook his daughter’s Halloween makeup for his green Kathakali makeup, and when he was dancing the role of Keechaka, and sweating profusely, his whole face ran off with the sweat!
The Kunhiramans have graduated from performance through teaching to “looking back.” To start from almost nothing and make a life in the US in Kathakali was a satisfying experience, despite the disappointment at not establishing the art more deeply in that country. “Perhaps if we had been willing to use the tradition as a language to express new ideas, and create new fusion theatre using the robust technique it would have survived in a mutant form, but neither of us wanted that, and in retrospect, we do not regret holding on to our original resolve, “ Keki says.
One of the speakers at the birthday celebration described how helpful the Kunhiramans had been to her when she visited Berkeley in the 1990s, and remembered her shock at being woken up by Kunhiraman in full Kathakali mask and make-up one morning. “I have made nice sambar for you. Please don’t wait for us for lunch as we are going out for the whole day.”
Rukmini Devi Arundale integrated Kathakali seamlessly into the dance drama format that she invented at Kalakshetra. It was a triumph of innovation that gave male dancers a great platform. Kunhiraman was perhaps the greatest exponent of the art form in a long line of distinguished performers the institution spawned.
His 80th birthday celebration, initiated by the renowned husband and wife team of Shanta and VP Dhananjayan, served to bring together several members of the large extended Kalakshetra family in a poignant reunion filled with memories of a glorious past. Keki and Kunhiraman were overwhelmed by the love and warmth of the exchanges among the participants, some of whom had come from as far as the US.
Kunhiraman sat inside the cottage with Buddha-like calm, accompanied by his American kathakali dancer wife Katherine—Keki to all—by his side and their daughter going around taking photographs. There was a gentle hush as forgotten memories were rekindled and recalled, as silent tears were shed for a way of life that would never come back—a way of life that one speaker of the morning described as a shining example of simple living and high thinking.
The great actor K. Ambu Panikkar, Kunhiraman’s father, had spent the last eight years of his life at Rukmini Devi Arundale’s Kalakshetra, teaching Kathakali. After his death, Rukmini Devi invited Kunhiraman to come and learn the art in the gurukula system, with his father’s friend and colleague T.K. Chandu Panikkar. Kunhiraman stayed at Kalakshetra for the next thirty years becoming one of its most celebrated and revered dancers, with unforgettable performances in the Ramayana series and other dance drama programmes. He also helped his guru train some of the greatest names among male dancers to perform at Kalakshetra and elsewhere in the decades to come.
Keki and Kunhiraman moved to Berkeley, California in the 1960s, “with one change of clothes and one set of Kathakali purushavesham costume in his suitcase,” as Keki wrote in a recent tribute to her husband. “I had told him we would be ‘missionaries in the jungle’, and at times would find ourselves in the cannibal’s pot,” she continues. “Friends came to meet him, tiptoeing silently into the bedroom to see the hundred-year-old crown hanging in the closet as if it were a new baby.”
Five days later, after his first performance in the US, at the Gala Galactic Festival of Martial, Healing and Performing Arts, Kunhiraman was shocked to see hippies leaping around the park playing music, and bearded yogis standing on their heads in the grass.
Recovering from the eerie experience in time, the Kunhiramans made many friends and settled down to start their school Kalanjali. Over the years, they had a steady stream of students Indian and American, and they kept recharging their batteries by visiting India annually to watch and participate in the Kalakshetra Art Festival and other events.
According to Keki, Kathakali never really caught on in the US: it had too much dancing for theatre people and too much theatre for dancers, “but there were triumphs and adventures with Kathakali that we had never anticipated.”
“We performed at the American Theatre Convention, numerous community events, our own productions, we took Kathakali to New York, Texas, Nebraska, Arizona, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and many other places.”
When Kunhiraman received the first choreography fellowship ever given to an Indian artist from the National Endowment for the Arts, the duo produced Keechaka Vadham, which was to be repeated many times over the years.
Embarrassingly once Kunhiraman mistook his daughter’s Halloween makeup for his green Kathakali makeup, and when he was dancing the role of Keechaka, and sweating profusely, his whole face ran off with the sweat!
The Kunhiramans have graduated from performance through teaching to “looking back.” To start from almost nothing and make a life in the US in Kathakali was a satisfying experience, despite the disappointment at not establishing the art more deeply in that country. “Perhaps if we had been willing to use the tradition as a language to express new ideas, and create new fusion theatre using the robust technique it would have survived in a mutant form, but neither of us wanted that, and in retrospect, we do not regret holding on to our original resolve, “ Keki says.
One of the speakers at the birthday celebration described how helpful the Kunhiramans had been to her when she visited Berkeley in the 1990s, and remembered her shock at being woken up by Kunhiraman in full Kathakali mask and make-up one morning. “I have made nice sambar for you. Please don’t wait for us for lunch as we are going out for the whole day.”
Rukmini Devi Arundale integrated Kathakali seamlessly into the dance drama format that she invented at Kalakshetra. It was a triumph of innovation that gave male dancers a great platform. Kunhiraman was perhaps the greatest exponent of the art form in a long line of distinguished performers the institution spawned.
His 80th birthday celebration, initiated by the renowned husband and wife team of Shanta and VP Dhananjayan, served to bring together several members of the large extended Kalakshetra family in a poignant reunion filled with memories of a glorious past. Keki and Kunhiraman were overwhelmed by the love and warmth of the exchanges among the participants, some of whom had come from as far as the US.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
A glimpse into Kathak training
The Natya Kala Conference of the Sri Krishna Gana Sabha, a major event of Chennai’s annual music and dance season, has over the years attracted some of the finest exponents of India’s classical dances and other dance forms. The title Nrithya Choodamani was this year awarded to Gopika Varma, a practitioner of Mohiniyattom, a dance genre from Kerala.
One of the highlights of the Conference has been the conduct of lecture sessions in the morning, which have for decades drawn experts ranging from Singhajit Singhji and Astad Deboo to Kalanidhi Narayanan and CV Chandrasekhar to engage in lively discussions of topics crucial to their art, followed by even livelier interactions with the audience. Many of these discussions generate a great deal of debate and audience participation, even if half the time the only heat that results is in the form of hot air.
This year the discussions focused on the abhyasa-sampradaya or the evolution of teaching-training traditions of the five major systems of Bharatanatyam, Kathakali, Kuchipudi, Odissi and Kathak, traditional natya, “culminating in today's repertoire and presentation”. A contemporary acharya of eminence led each deliberation, while both well known performers and students demonstrated the path traversed by the art form to reach its present status. Each day’s deliberations proved to be an eye-opener to those not familiar with the rigour and science behind the training methodology unique to each genre of dance.
The popular vote for the best session went to the last one on Kathak, because it served not only to showcase some of the brilliant techniques and levels of accomplishment attained by today’s practitioners, but also to dispel a few myths about the perceived lack of sophistication of the art form relative to the southern dance forms.
Anchored by Sangeet Natak Akademi secretary Jayant Kastuar, himself a past Nrithya Choodamani, the session was led by senior gurus from the two major gharanas of Kathak—Jaipur and Lucknow—and made eminently watchable by dance demonstrations by three representatives of each school, veterans, current stars and senior students. Jai Kishan Maharaj, past master of the Lucknow gharana, and Rajendra Gangani, pillar of the Jaipur gharana, led their disciples on a thrilling journey from the first exercises they practised as young students to the most complex compositions they perform on stage today.
In addition to the Birju Maharaj clan, which was represented by two of Jai Kishan’s brothers, and three musicians from the Gangani family who assisted Rajendra, there were vocalists, sarangi players and percussionists on stage. Gauri Diwakar did the star turn for the Lucknow gharana while Swati Sinha played her role to perfection from the Jaipur side.
Remarkably, there was perfect coordination between the two different gharanas on display. The camaraderie and chemistry were to be seen to be believed, the Ganganis appreciating and encouraging the Maharajs and vice versa. We learnt how at the Kathak Kendra, New Delhi, where the teaching methods have through the decades been codified and structured to develop a common vocabulary, the two gharanas have gained by observing absorbing each other’s ways. It was most heartwarming to see the two senior gurus working in tandem to make the demonstration meaningful and fruitful for an audience largely untutored in the nuances of Kathak. Two senior students of the Kendra, Dhirendra Tiwari and Quincy Kendell Charles, gave a high quality display of expression and footwork.
The high point of the lec-dem was the impromptu display of footwork by Jayant Kastuar in his south Indian silk veshti—which he had donned in his capacity as anchor for the morning—at the instance of the Ganganis, who even managed to persuade the portly Jai Kishan Maharaj to magically transform himself into the thieving boy Krishna caught with butter all over his face.
To those of us who believed Kathak offered no more than fast-paced footwork and twirls and pirouettes, the variety of expressions and the poetry—even if largely based on the Radha-Krishna theme—the two teams demonstrated that morning were quite a revelation. Accustomed over the years to rivalries and claims of superiority made by the different schools of classical dance, it was refreshing for a south Indian audience to see how well nearly a dozen artists belonging to two different gharanas worked to a common purpose, illuminating the lecture with some outstanding nritta.
That the youngest were students and the oldest over sixty, that they came from different parts of India, and that one of them was a UK-born mathematician turned dancer of African descent made the whole experience even more enjoyable.
Just a day earlier, MS Dhoni’s men, with fifteen years separating the oldest and youngest team members, again from different parts of India, coached by a South African and supported by staff from different parts of the world, had beaten South Africa comprehensively in their own backyard.
Jayant Kastuar, Jai Kishan Maharaj, Rajendra Gangani and their talented artists won over the hearts and minds of a highly demanding Chennai audience. Amidst the general gloom surrounding the future of the Indian classical performing arts, thanks to lack of support from the government and the media, such events give us hope.
One of the highlights of the Conference has been the conduct of lecture sessions in the morning, which have for decades drawn experts ranging from Singhajit Singhji and Astad Deboo to Kalanidhi Narayanan and CV Chandrasekhar to engage in lively discussions of topics crucial to their art, followed by even livelier interactions with the audience. Many of these discussions generate a great deal of debate and audience participation, even if half the time the only heat that results is in the form of hot air.
This year the discussions focused on the abhyasa-sampradaya or the evolution of teaching-training traditions of the five major systems of Bharatanatyam, Kathakali, Kuchipudi, Odissi and Kathak, traditional natya, “culminating in today's repertoire and presentation”. A contemporary acharya of eminence led each deliberation, while both well known performers and students demonstrated the path traversed by the art form to reach its present status. Each day’s deliberations proved to be an eye-opener to those not familiar with the rigour and science behind the training methodology unique to each genre of dance.
The popular vote for the best session went to the last one on Kathak, because it served not only to showcase some of the brilliant techniques and levels of accomplishment attained by today’s practitioners, but also to dispel a few myths about the perceived lack of sophistication of the art form relative to the southern dance forms.
Anchored by Sangeet Natak Akademi secretary Jayant Kastuar, himself a past Nrithya Choodamani, the session was led by senior gurus from the two major gharanas of Kathak—Jaipur and Lucknow—and made eminently watchable by dance demonstrations by three representatives of each school, veterans, current stars and senior students. Jai Kishan Maharaj, past master of the Lucknow gharana, and Rajendra Gangani, pillar of the Jaipur gharana, led their disciples on a thrilling journey from the first exercises they practised as young students to the most complex compositions they perform on stage today.
In addition to the Birju Maharaj clan, which was represented by two of Jai Kishan’s brothers, and three musicians from the Gangani family who assisted Rajendra, there were vocalists, sarangi players and percussionists on stage. Gauri Diwakar did the star turn for the Lucknow gharana while Swati Sinha played her role to perfection from the Jaipur side.
Remarkably, there was perfect coordination between the two different gharanas on display. The camaraderie and chemistry were to be seen to be believed, the Ganganis appreciating and encouraging the Maharajs and vice versa. We learnt how at the Kathak Kendra, New Delhi, where the teaching methods have through the decades been codified and structured to develop a common vocabulary, the two gharanas have gained by observing absorbing each other’s ways. It was most heartwarming to see the two senior gurus working in tandem to make the demonstration meaningful and fruitful for an audience largely untutored in the nuances of Kathak. Two senior students of the Kendra, Dhirendra Tiwari and Quincy Kendell Charles, gave a high quality display of expression and footwork.
The high point of the lec-dem was the impromptu display of footwork by Jayant Kastuar in his south Indian silk veshti—which he had donned in his capacity as anchor for the morning—at the instance of the Ganganis, who even managed to persuade the portly Jai Kishan Maharaj to magically transform himself into the thieving boy Krishna caught with butter all over his face.
To those of us who believed Kathak offered no more than fast-paced footwork and twirls and pirouettes, the variety of expressions and the poetry—even if largely based on the Radha-Krishna theme—the two teams demonstrated that morning were quite a revelation. Accustomed over the years to rivalries and claims of superiority made by the different schools of classical dance, it was refreshing for a south Indian audience to see how well nearly a dozen artists belonging to two different gharanas worked to a common purpose, illuminating the lecture with some outstanding nritta.
That the youngest were students and the oldest over sixty, that they came from different parts of India, and that one of them was a UK-born mathematician turned dancer of African descent made the whole experience even more enjoyable.
Just a day earlier, MS Dhoni’s men, with fifteen years separating the oldest and youngest team members, again from different parts of India, coached by a South African and supported by staff from different parts of the world, had beaten South Africa comprehensively in their own backyard.
Jayant Kastuar, Jai Kishan Maharaj, Rajendra Gangani and their talented artists won over the hearts and minds of a highly demanding Chennai audience. Amidst the general gloom surrounding the future of the Indian classical performing arts, thanks to lack of support from the government and the media, such events give us hope.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The book we made at home
First published in The Bengal Post
“I have fixed 11th December as the date for the book release by the Prime Minster.” My wife’s cousin Cheenu was smiling confidently as he dropped this bombshell. “What book?” I asked, nonplussed by this casual remark Shrinivasan, son of Radha Viswanathan and grandson of T Sadasivam and MS Subbulakshmi, made in mid-October a couple of years ago.
My wife Gowri confessed that in the midst of a debilitating illness in July of the same year, she had agreed to write a book about the special relationship between her grandaunt MS and her daughter-disciple Radha. Bedridden for months, she had forgotten all about it.
Cheenu then cheerfully entrusted me the task of finding a publisher for the proposed book! I explained to him that no publisher on earth would even accept or reject the proposal in that time. I tried to persuade him to postpone the release by a few months, but he assured me that that was an impossibility.
Gowri and I came up with a compromise formula. She had written an article on Radha for Sruti magazine in 1983 and several on Subbulakshmi over the years, for The Hindu and Frontline, among others. She had also to her credit a childhood biography of six artists, including MS. I collected all the relative files stored at various locations on the Internet and our own home computer, and suggested Gowri compile it all into some 10,000 words, to be supplemented by several superb photographs from Cheenu’s collection. And we would publish the book ourselves, looking for a good distributor to promote it. This was the best we could do in time for the December deadline.
The task of scanning thousands of photographs and selecting the best through several iterations of parleys between Gowri, me and Cheenu, now back in his hometown of Bangalore, was a mammoth one. Our team at this stage consisted of Gowri, my assistant Ravikumar and me. We emailed the images to Bangalore for Cheenu to approve and mail back. We had to try a variety of methods of handling the enormous files.
Once Gowri started writing, the book possessed her, and her 10,000 words grew and grew until they reached a very respectable 65,000. She was still in some pain from her ailment but just about able to type on her computer all day long, sometimes late into the night. She had replaced Radha as the late MS’s vocal accompanist back in the 1980s when Radha fell seriously ill and could not continue her sterling onstage contributions to MS’s Carnatic music concerts, which she had started as a young girl in pigtails. Memories of the years she had watched Radha accompany MS and help her on and off stage, her own unforgettable years playing the same roles, the tragedy of the meningitis that felled Radha in the prime of her life and Radha’s indefatigable spirit came to Gowri in a torrent of emotion. She was in tears most of the time as she stuck to her labour of love.
Soon we set up a smooth daily routine. Gowri emailed me her day’s output—we worked in different rooms—I did one round of editing and proofreading, though the spontaneous outpourings were almost print-perfect most of the time; I then emailed my copy to my daughter Akhila in the US (she too was in tears, most of the time, she tells me); she sent it back within hours; I then emailed the file to Abhirami Sriram, our efficient and empathetic Chennai-based editorial associate; and Gowri gave the copy she returned a final once-over. The whole process took about 24 hours.
Ashok Rajagoplan, the friend who designed the book, stayed some 20 km away and hated commuting, so he too was a long-distance resource. We realised rather late in the day that he did his work in Coreldraw, hardly the best book publishing solution in the world—at least back in 2008. Throughout the period he must have visited our home-cum-office two or three times. We also met a few times at a coffee shop in neutral territory, carrying laptops, CDs and USB devices containing the files relating to the book.
The book was beautifully designed and I was sure it would look gorgeous. But would it be ready in time? No, not by a long margin, I realised just a week before the scheduled date of release. That is when another friend Arun Ganesh stepped in, converting the files to Indesign and getting the whole book print ready within 24 hours.
The printer would need at least ten days to give us a sufficient number of copies for the two release functions planned, the one at Chennai two days after the Delhi event. Our Plan B was to make some fifty copies via digital printing to take to Delhi. Parliament was in session and the PM decided on a semiprivate function at his official residence, so we could not sell the books during the function. It was a blessing in disguise as the guest list was small and 50 copies would be just right.
The last straw was when the digital printing equipment crashed and we were able to carry exactly seven copies to Delhi. Alls’ well that ends well, and the book launch went off without further troubles, with Pandit Ravi Shankar graciously receiving the first copy from Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. (MS and Radha by Gowri Ramnarayan can be bought online at www.sruti.com).
“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).
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.
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