Pathfinders is the name of a book on Indian art, literature, music, dance, theatre and cinema brought out by Ace Publication of Mumbai, to which I have made a small contribution, doing some half a dozen profiles of Indian classical musicians. Along with me, S Janaki, Executive Editor of Sruti, the magazine I edit, and Gowri Ramnarayan—who contributed substantially more than I did—were the other two writers from Chennai featured by the book.
The book is really mammoth in size, weighing 5.5 kg as it does, and is a visual treat. It has contributions from some very eminent artists besides critics and experts. It is by and large readable and rich in content. It should be a collector’s item that will make its owners proud, if only they make a suitable stand on which to place it and turn its pages. It was released in Mumbai sometime last year, when I got to browse through it.
Last evening, the publishers collaborated with Taj Coromandel to launch the book in Chennai, amidst some fanfare. The programme started half an hour late, unusual for Chennai book releases, with a jugalbandi concert by Rakesh Chaurasia (flute), Purbayan Chatterjee (sitar) and Satyajit Talwalkar (tabla), a pleasant enough affair appropriate to the occasion.
This is when Shashi Vyas, musician-music critic and son of eminent vocalist Pandit CR Vyas—whose brainchild the book was—took over. Welcoming a number of celebrity guests from the music world seated in the front row, he went on to thank a number of people who had helped bring out the book. He also made frequent references to Vijayabai, who was like a mother to him and who was writing her biography (“She’ll fire me [sic] for revealing this secret”), leaving everyone in the audience who did not know Vijaya Mehta, the theatre personality, guessing Vijayabai’s identity. He also went into raptures about the greatness of Vikkuji, (Vinayakram) and Sriniji (Mandolin Shrinivas), but missed out on Lalgudi GJR Krishnan who sat next to Shrinivas in the audience. Later, he spotted Chitravina Ravikiran in the audience, thanked him for accepting his invitation, and recalled the exciting interactions they had had at the National Centre for Performing Arts, Mumbai. Followed speeches by Ravikiran and Vijaya Mehta, which were well received by the audience.
Now I come to the central part of the evening’s proceedings: the book release.
Vyas had both Vijaya Mehta and Vinayakram release the book, in the presence of all the celebrity guests who were asked to ascend the stage. Shrinivas was very reluctant to do so, but we soon found out he was only drawing attention to the noticeable lack of an invitation from Vyas to GJR Krishnan to join the crowd on the dais. Once this omission was repaired, both Krishnan and Shrinivas joined the star spangled daispora—to coin a word—of the evening.
Now Vyas launched into a fairly comprehensive vote of thanks, in which he expressed his gratitude to a number of actors—from the publishers and Taj Coromandel to the stenographer and the light boys—before condescending to mention the editors and at long last the writers from Chennai. He finally remembered the name of Gowri Ramnarayan and of course “her husband Mr Narayan.” Some of us then loudly reminded him that he had omitted to mention the name of my Sruti colleague and fellow contributor S Janaki.
Obviously horrified to realise what he had done, Vyas then went into overdrive and profusely thanked Janaki and Sruti (we had helped the book with many photographs from our archives). “How can I forget Janakiji and her Sruti Foundation for all their help, blah, blah, which was all very well but for his obvious ignorance of the fact that besides being Mr Narayan, Gowriji’s husband, I happen to be the editor of the magazine which gave him permission to use all those photographs.
As it happens ever so often in life, here was another instance that brought me down heavily from whatever imaginary perch of self-importance I had assigned myself.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Prasanna again
Gamaka and all that jazz
(The Hindu Businessline, 13 February 1995)
The air was thick with expectancy. The open-air theatre at the suburban sabha was more crowded than usual. Most of the regulars were there—plus a number of new faces, drawn apparently by the novelty of the programme. The first half would be Carnatic music, while the second would feature jazz—with the lead musician playing in both styles.
Twenty-four year-old Ramaswami Prasanna, slight of build, bespectacled, tousled hair, clad in kurta-trousers, soon occupied centre-stage, accompanied by Sikkil Bhaskaran (violin), Poongulam Subramanian (mridangam) and TH Subhashchandran.(ghatam). E sat before the mike, guitar in hand, in traditional south Indian style.
He then proceeded to play punctiliously orthodox Carnatic music—full of the gamaka so difficult to achieve on the guitar. The violinist, slow to come to terms with the creativity of the soloist, warmed up as the evening progressed. The percussionists exercised restraint, yet lent imaginative rhythmic support. The ragas delineated were carefully chosen to highlight scales common to the two systems as much as to accentuate the uniqueness of Carnatic music.
At the end of the first session, the secretary of the sabha took over the microphone and dropped a bombshell. The jazz part of the concert would last no more than 45 minutes, as the residents of the neighbourhood had vetoed the prolonged assault on their eardrums. This, even though the drummer even promised to play softly!
What followed was a minifeast. The jazzmen packed into their brief programme an incredible amount of variety. Prasanna showed why he was considered special. His prowess in an alien musical system was as impressive as his ability in Carnatic music. Handling the jazz idiom with apparent ease, he embellished the music with improvisations based on ragas. He had the audience—a good half of them either grey-haired or bald—glued to their seats, at least those who were not swaying or tapping their feet.
This was Prasanna’s first jazz performance in public. After graduating in naval architecture from IIT Madras, he is now studying international music, specializing in jazz composition at the Berklee College of Music, Boston. His brilliant accompanists in the jazz part of the concert were Keith Peters (bass guitar) and Sivamani (drums). Prasanna, who has about five years of concert experience in Carnatic music, played ragas that form part of the major pentatonic scale of western music as well as at least one vakra raga to illustrate a scale without parallel outside Indian music.
Prasanna’s display raised a number of questions. How often do we come across talents such as his, proficient in more than one system of music? What could have prompted a youngster to attempt the seemingly impossible? Could it be the prospect of stardom, or the lure of wealth? What are the financial implications of studying music in an American university?
We have known some rare exponents like Jon Higgins, L Subramaniam and L Shankar who have mastered western as well as Indian classical music, and others like MS Gopalakrishnan, equally at home in the two major branches of Indian classical music. Prasanna is that rarity, an accomplished Carnatic musician, specializing in a Western instrument and a serious student and practitioner of jazz. He also belongs top a small group of musicians attempting genuine fusion as different from hastily put together hotchpotches.
In conversation, Prasanna comes through as an articulate, thoughtful person with a clear idea of where he is headed. Enjoying no formal financial assistance to pursue his expensive musical education, following a punishing academic schedule, he is driven by fierce commitment to complete his course with credit. He supports himself by doing campus jobs and performing at weekend concerts, often traveling out of Boston. “I could earn more money working at Burger King or MacDonald’s, but it is important for me to keep performing Carnatic music.” In fact, Prasanna sees his training in Carnatic music as a great asset in jazz. In modal jazz, the form jazz has taken today, the harmony is a stable, defined base pattern from where the soloist launches into an exploratory journey of altered scales much in the manner of sruti bhedam, a sophisticated usage in Carnatic music.
This is where knowledge of ragas is such a tremendous advantage. Armed with a mere 150 ragas for the course, even a debutant vidwan would be far, far ahead of his western counterpart in jazz—provided he can make the harmonic connection with jazz. Prasanna is one of those who can make that connection with the harmonic structure, ‘the cornerstone of jazz.’
It is the challenge of Carnatic music that converted Prasanna from participation in ‘light music’ orchestras years ago, via a stint playing Santana and the like with rock bands. At his mother’s initiative, he began taking lessons in Carnatic music from Tiruvarur Balasubramaniam who was teaching Prasanna’s sister to play the veena. Gradually he moved from neighbourhoods to full-fledged cutcheris.
Again a few years later it was this quest for challenges that made jazz attractive to Prasanna who was looking to study music abroad. Already an accomplished Carnatic guitarist, he was able to convince the visa authorities that learning western music was a serious pursuit with him, not a mere passport to the US.
Jazz is so complex that it does not enjoy the large following of pop or rock music. “It has such a complicated harmonic structure that it doesn’t appeal to the layman, who likes to hum the tunes he has heard. Even trained western classical musicians find it difficult to understand jazz.” Practitioners of jazz are dedicated to their art: they are not millionaire celebrities. It is the challenge, intellectual and musical, that it poses, the devotion it demands, that energises and motivates Prasanna.
“It will be so easy to give up and find a job, but I want to be perhaps the first Indian to complete what he has undertaken to study at Berklee.” This is the reference to the number of dropouts at Berklee, which is renowned music college with a tough curriculum.
Prasanna finds his teachers inspirational. “They are so giving, so interested. At school, I learn music, but my personal interactions with my teachers give me perspective.” Among the teachers are some great jazz musicians who have invested their ward with a keen sense of history and an ardent desire to explore genuine fusion.
Prasanna teaches his teachers Indian music, a major undertaking given the sophistication of our system. One of his teachers has created a jazz composition that includes a Bhairavi raga interlude, a case of well-informed fusion music.
Prasanna admires the Mahavishnu Orchestra, John McLaughlin who came to Madras to learn Carnatic music, and Frank Bennett, accomplished as a Carnatic vocalist, mridanga vidwan, jazz drummer, jazz pianist, and a classical composer! Bennett is known to followers of Carnatic music as a student and son-in-law of the late Dr S Ramanathan.
Twentieth century western classical music and the impact it has had on jazz inspire Prasanna. In Mozart or Bach, the music keeps coming back, resolving itself into the basic tonal identity of the composition, much like the sruti in Indian music. Composers like Debussy and Strowinsky led the revolution in 20th century classical music, in which conventions are broken. Jazz, a direct derivative of such influences, has been enriched by them.
Setting high standards and dedicating himself to his studies and his Carnatic music, Prasanna is determined to graduate with distinction. In the end, he knows he will be a unique practitioner of a complex art, strengthened by his rich legacy.
He will bring to jazz a capacity for variation and concepts such as gamaka, which no western musician can match. Through it all, he will continue to perform Carnatic music unblemished by external influences. Only time can tell which of these areas of specialization will bring him greater recognition.
(The Hindu Businessline, 13 February 1995)
The air was thick with expectancy. The open-air theatre at the suburban sabha was more crowded than usual. Most of the regulars were there—plus a number of new faces, drawn apparently by the novelty of the programme. The first half would be Carnatic music, while the second would feature jazz—with the lead musician playing in both styles.
Twenty-four year-old Ramaswami Prasanna, slight of build, bespectacled, tousled hair, clad in kurta-trousers, soon occupied centre-stage, accompanied by Sikkil Bhaskaran (violin), Poongulam Subramanian (mridangam) and TH Subhashchandran.(ghatam). E sat before the mike, guitar in hand, in traditional south Indian style.
He then proceeded to play punctiliously orthodox Carnatic music—full of the gamaka so difficult to achieve on the guitar. The violinist, slow to come to terms with the creativity of the soloist, warmed up as the evening progressed. The percussionists exercised restraint, yet lent imaginative rhythmic support. The ragas delineated were carefully chosen to highlight scales common to the two systems as much as to accentuate the uniqueness of Carnatic music.
At the end of the first session, the secretary of the sabha took over the microphone and dropped a bombshell. The jazz part of the concert would last no more than 45 minutes, as the residents of the neighbourhood had vetoed the prolonged assault on their eardrums. This, even though the drummer even promised to play softly!
What followed was a minifeast. The jazzmen packed into their brief programme an incredible amount of variety. Prasanna showed why he was considered special. His prowess in an alien musical system was as impressive as his ability in Carnatic music. Handling the jazz idiom with apparent ease, he embellished the music with improvisations based on ragas. He had the audience—a good half of them either grey-haired or bald—glued to their seats, at least those who were not swaying or tapping their feet.
This was Prasanna’s first jazz performance in public. After graduating in naval architecture from IIT Madras, he is now studying international music, specializing in jazz composition at the Berklee College of Music, Boston. His brilliant accompanists in the jazz part of the concert were Keith Peters (bass guitar) and Sivamani (drums). Prasanna, who has about five years of concert experience in Carnatic music, played ragas that form part of the major pentatonic scale of western music as well as at least one vakra raga to illustrate a scale without parallel outside Indian music.
Prasanna’s display raised a number of questions. How often do we come across talents such as his, proficient in more than one system of music? What could have prompted a youngster to attempt the seemingly impossible? Could it be the prospect of stardom, or the lure of wealth? What are the financial implications of studying music in an American university?
We have known some rare exponents like Jon Higgins, L Subramaniam and L Shankar who have mastered western as well as Indian classical music, and others like MS Gopalakrishnan, equally at home in the two major branches of Indian classical music. Prasanna is that rarity, an accomplished Carnatic musician, specializing in a Western instrument and a serious student and practitioner of jazz. He also belongs top a small group of musicians attempting genuine fusion as different from hastily put together hotchpotches.
In conversation, Prasanna comes through as an articulate, thoughtful person with a clear idea of where he is headed. Enjoying no formal financial assistance to pursue his expensive musical education, following a punishing academic schedule, he is driven by fierce commitment to complete his course with credit. He supports himself by doing campus jobs and performing at weekend concerts, often traveling out of Boston. “I could earn more money working at Burger King or MacDonald’s, but it is important for me to keep performing Carnatic music.” In fact, Prasanna sees his training in Carnatic music as a great asset in jazz. In modal jazz, the form jazz has taken today, the harmony is a stable, defined base pattern from where the soloist launches into an exploratory journey of altered scales much in the manner of sruti bhedam, a sophisticated usage in Carnatic music.
This is where knowledge of ragas is such a tremendous advantage. Armed with a mere 150 ragas for the course, even a debutant vidwan would be far, far ahead of his western counterpart in jazz—provided he can make the harmonic connection with jazz. Prasanna is one of those who can make that connection with the harmonic structure, ‘the cornerstone of jazz.’
It is the challenge of Carnatic music that converted Prasanna from participation in ‘light music’ orchestras years ago, via a stint playing Santana and the like with rock bands. At his mother’s initiative, he began taking lessons in Carnatic music from Tiruvarur Balasubramaniam who was teaching Prasanna’s sister to play the veena. Gradually he moved from neighbourhoods to full-fledged cutcheris.
Again a few years later it was this quest for challenges that made jazz attractive to Prasanna who was looking to study music abroad. Already an accomplished Carnatic guitarist, he was able to convince the visa authorities that learning western music was a serious pursuit with him, not a mere passport to the US.
Jazz is so complex that it does not enjoy the large following of pop or rock music. “It has such a complicated harmonic structure that it doesn’t appeal to the layman, who likes to hum the tunes he has heard. Even trained western classical musicians find it difficult to understand jazz.” Practitioners of jazz are dedicated to their art: they are not millionaire celebrities. It is the challenge, intellectual and musical, that it poses, the devotion it demands, that energises and motivates Prasanna.
“It will be so easy to give up and find a job, but I want to be perhaps the first Indian to complete what he has undertaken to study at Berklee.” This is the reference to the number of dropouts at Berklee, which is renowned music college with a tough curriculum.
Prasanna finds his teachers inspirational. “They are so giving, so interested. At school, I learn music, but my personal interactions with my teachers give me perspective.” Among the teachers are some great jazz musicians who have invested their ward with a keen sense of history and an ardent desire to explore genuine fusion.
Prasanna teaches his teachers Indian music, a major undertaking given the sophistication of our system. One of his teachers has created a jazz composition that includes a Bhairavi raga interlude, a case of well-informed fusion music.
Prasanna admires the Mahavishnu Orchestra, John McLaughlin who came to Madras to learn Carnatic music, and Frank Bennett, accomplished as a Carnatic vocalist, mridanga vidwan, jazz drummer, jazz pianist, and a classical composer! Bennett is known to followers of Carnatic music as a student and son-in-law of the late Dr S Ramanathan.
Twentieth century western classical music and the impact it has had on jazz inspire Prasanna. In Mozart or Bach, the music keeps coming back, resolving itself into the basic tonal identity of the composition, much like the sruti in Indian music. Composers like Debussy and Strowinsky led the revolution in 20th century classical music, in which conventions are broken. Jazz, a direct derivative of such influences, has been enriched by them.
Setting high standards and dedicating himself to his studies and his Carnatic music, Prasanna is determined to graduate with distinction. In the end, he knows he will be a unique practitioner of a complex art, strengthened by his rich legacy.
He will bring to jazz a capacity for variation and concepts such as gamaka, which no western musician can match. Through it all, he will continue to perform Carnatic music unblemished by external influences. Only time can tell which of these areas of specialization will bring him greater recognition.
When I first met 'Guitar Prasanna'
Guitar Prasanna is now the president of the Swarnabhoomi Academy of Music, a world class institution some two hours from Chennai, where he is doing commendable work, shaping the music of students from around the world and across genres. I met Prasanna at SAM a month ago and plan to write a comprehensive profile of the institution he heads in the near future. In the meantime, an enquiry in Facebook about Sukumar Prasad, the first Carnatic guitarist, led me to this story—one of two I did on Prasanna in the 1990s.
Have guitar, will travel
Ramaswami Prasanna received rave reviews during the last Madras 'Music Season' for his guitar concerts at various sabhas. The 24-year-old engineering graduate is not the first South Indian classical musician to specialise in a Western instrument. Generations of violinists have made a European instrument their own, while the saxophone, clarinet and mandolin are now a regular part of the Carnatic music scene. The guitar itself was exploited as a concert instrument by young Sukumar Prasad a few years ago with considerable success.
Prasanna, who is now a well-established musician in the South Indian mode, has a keen interest in fusion music. South Indian audiences are familiar with the attempts of mridanga vidwan T V Gopalakrishnan to offer ]azz-Camatic music fusion concerts. TVG has been responsible for introducing Camatic musicians, of the calibre of saxophonist Kadri Gopalnath, on stage as exponents of such fusion efforts. Prasanna has gone a step forward by opting to study jazz as part of his higher education and by learning to introduce elements of Camatic music in jazz. He finds that his proficiency in the sophisticated classical music system is a great advantage in the improvisational aspects of 'modal jazz', the most prominent form of jazz today. Where the traditional jazz player has to be content with the limitations of his musical imagination within the framework of his upbringing, Prasanna has hundreds of ragas to choose from, to give free play to his manodharma.
Prasanna's present preoccupation with fusion can be explained by the unusual path of his career. Not until he had been performing regularly in light 'music orchestras for years did he begin to learn Carnatic music. He had been playing film music and Western popular music with great success before he decided to learn South Indian classical. He had shown unusual talent as a boy and guitar-playing came naturally to him, with hardly any need to practise his numbers before performances. Enjoying perfect pitch, Prasanna would often learn songs in the car on the way to a concert.
The turning point was Prasanna's mother's success in persuading Tiruvarur Balasubramaniam, Prasanna's sister's music teacher, to accept him as his pupil. Soon, the guitarist found he could coax the instrument to produce the gamaka-Iaden notes typical of Carnatic music. Before long, he was performing in cutcheris to appreciative audiences.
During the past year, Prasanna has been studying jazz composition at Berklee College of Music, Boston, one of America's prestigious institutions offering higher education in music. Enjoying the guidance and encouragement of his teachers — top-flight jazz musicians — Prasanna is fast proving to be an outstanding student of the complex art form, thanks to his rich, legacy of training in classical Camatic music. Prasanna's jazz .compositions include improvisations based on South Indian ragas which serve to enhance the sophistication of his compositions.
To Prasanna, the strenuous efforts to pay his way through college, the complexity and nuances of jazz, the need to keep in touch with Camatic music through weekend concerts, all these pose a challenge that spurs him on towards excellence. He knows that his classical music base will be a great asset in jazz, while his academic pursuits have enriched his appreciation of the technical aspects of Camatic music. His is already a success story in which talent has been burnished by intelligence and industry,
V RAMNARAYAN
Have guitar, will travel
Ramaswami Prasanna received rave reviews during the last Madras 'Music Season' for his guitar concerts at various sabhas. The 24-year-old engineering graduate is not the first South Indian classical musician to specialise in a Western instrument. Generations of violinists have made a European instrument their own, while the saxophone, clarinet and mandolin are now a regular part of the Carnatic music scene. The guitar itself was exploited as a concert instrument by young Sukumar Prasad a few years ago with considerable success.
Prasanna, who is now a well-established musician in the South Indian mode, has a keen interest in fusion music. South Indian audiences are familiar with the attempts of mridanga vidwan T V Gopalakrishnan to offer ]azz-Camatic music fusion concerts. TVG has been responsible for introducing Camatic musicians, of the calibre of saxophonist Kadri Gopalnath, on stage as exponents of such fusion efforts. Prasanna has gone a step forward by opting to study jazz as part of his higher education and by learning to introduce elements of Camatic music in jazz. He finds that his proficiency in the sophisticated classical music system is a great advantage in the improvisational aspects of 'modal jazz', the most prominent form of jazz today. Where the traditional jazz player has to be content with the limitations of his musical imagination within the framework of his upbringing, Prasanna has hundreds of ragas to choose from, to give free play to his manodharma.
Prasanna's present preoccupation with fusion can be explained by the unusual path of his career. Not until he had been performing regularly in light 'music orchestras for years did he begin to learn Carnatic music. He had been playing film music and Western popular music with great success before he decided to learn South Indian classical. He had shown unusual talent as a boy and guitar-playing came naturally to him, with hardly any need to practise his numbers before performances. Enjoying perfect pitch, Prasanna would often learn songs in the car on the way to a concert.
The turning point was Prasanna's mother's success in persuading Tiruvarur Balasubramaniam, Prasanna's sister's music teacher, to accept him as his pupil. Soon, the guitarist found he could coax the instrument to produce the gamaka-Iaden notes typical of Carnatic music. Before long, he was performing in cutcheris to appreciative audiences.
During the past year, Prasanna has been studying jazz composition at Berklee College of Music, Boston, one of America's prestigious institutions offering higher education in music. Enjoying the guidance and encouragement of his teachers — top-flight jazz musicians — Prasanna is fast proving to be an outstanding student of the complex art form, thanks to his rich, legacy of training in classical Camatic music. Prasanna's jazz .compositions include improvisations based on South Indian ragas which serve to enhance the sophistication of his compositions.
To Prasanna, the strenuous efforts to pay his way through college, the complexity and nuances of jazz, the need to keep in touch with Camatic music through weekend concerts, all these pose a challenge that spurs him on towards excellence. He knows that his classical music base will be a great asset in jazz, while his academic pursuits have enriched his appreciation of the technical aspects of Camatic music. His is already a success story in which talent has been burnished by intelligence and industry,
V RAMNARAYAN
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Chandru Anna
First published in The Bengal Post on 12 Feb 2011
When CV Chandrasekhar, Bharatanatyam guru and this year’s Padma Bhushan awardee, dances before the beautiful Panduranga idol at Tennangur, a hamlet in Tiruvannamalai district of Tamil Nadu, it is an act of total surrender. What is special about this offering is that its sense of abandon is accompanied by total control and precision, perfect abhinaya or expression and nritta, or footwork, in the best classical traditions. The dancer is a mere 75.
For Chandru Anna, as every dancer young or old addresses him, it is part of an annual ritual in which he leads some 30 to 40 students and teachers of his art form in a three-day workshop, held at a large facility adjacent to the temple in this centre of pilgrimage. On two evenings during the workshop, all the participants dance before the deity, swinging into ecstatic action during the dolotsavam, when the idol is worshipped in a cradle, and the garudotsavam, a procession around the temple, with the local residents and visiting pilgrims joining them. So many professional and amateur artists coming together in such a joyous celebration of their art in a temple ambience must indeed be a rare spectacle
The workshop called Natya Sangraham, now in its twelfth year, with Chandrasekhar presiding over eleven of them (he missed one through illness), is organised by Natyarangam, the dance wing of the Narada Gana Sabha, one of Chennai’s major sabhas, typically south Indian institutions that conduct music, dance and theatrical programmes for their subscriber members and the general public. Experts from the fields of dance, music, poetry and theatre engage the participants, mostly young dancers and dance teachers, in academic and practical sessions on predetermined topics. The daylong activity is stimulating and rigorous, but the delegates are housed in considerable comfort and served delicious vegetarian food. The informal post-prandial ‘tinnai’ sessions at night are an opportunity to listen to stories from the rich past of the stalwarts and discuss current issues affecting the performing arts scene. The whole event has the blessings of the movement behind the temple, the GA Trust—founded by the followers of the late Swami Gnananda Giri—which among other things extends the best in education and healthcare to a number of villages in the vicinity. Adding to the atmosphere is the architectural beauty of the temple—built under the auspices of the late Swami Haridas Giri, Gnananda’s disciple, in the authentic old style of the Puri Jagannath temple—and its gopurams in the Pandya style.
I first came into contact with Chandru Anna, when he and Leela Samson, at present director of Kalakshetra of Chennai and Sangeet Natak Akademi, gave a thrilling performance of a tillana—the southern equivalent of a tarana—in praise of Rukmini Devi Arundale, founder of Kalakshetra on her 80th birthday, more than a couple of decades ago. A youthful fifty-something then, Chandrasekhar was then head of the department of dance in Maharaja Sayajirao (MS) University, Baroda. An alumnus of Kalakshetra, which he joined as a boy in 1945, Chandru Anna later went to Benares Hindu University where he did a masters in botany and taught for a while before moving to MS University, where he eventually became Principal. He served there till his retirement, relocating at Chennai some ten years ago. His wife Jaya and daughters Chitra and Manjari are Bharata Natyam dancers, too, and the Chandrasekhars are well known for their many productions that include both solo performances and dance drama. Chandrasekhar has choreographed and produced many dance dramas including Bhumija, Meghadutam, Ritu Samharam and Aparajita, showing a marked liking for the classics of Kalidasa. Jaya learnt Bharata Natyam from Lalita Sastri of Delhi, Kathak from Birju Maharaj, the maestro of the Lucknow gharana, and Odissi from the one and only Kelucharan Mahapatra. She too taught at BHU, MS University and later at her own institution Nityashree in Baroda.
Chandrasekhar is a rare amalgam of varied influences. A south Indian who started school in Delhi, he graduated in dance from Kalakshetra and botany from Vivekananda College, Madras. Well versed in Carnatic music, he grew comfortable with Hindustani as well as folk forms of music during his long years in Gujarat. His travels overseas, beginning with his tour of China in the 1960s as a member of a cultural delegation, brought him a sophisticated awareness of art forms and trends everywhere. While quite at home in so many diverse milieus, Chandrasekhar remains firmly rooted in the austere traditions of the classical dance he learnt from great gurus at Kalakshetra. Clean lines and good taste characterize his every move.
A vastly experienced performer and guru, and among the most accessible veterans of his art, Chandrasekhar is superbly fit and still able to dance like a young man. He is a giving teacher, holding nothing back while sharing his accumulated wisdom with his students and the participants at the annual workshop.
The high point of this year’s Natya Sangraham was his demonstration of a complex, physically demanding composition of his to the accompaniment of thunderous applause from students and faculty. It was a memorable moment that brought tears to the eyes of the onlookers.
When CV Chandrasekhar, Bharatanatyam guru and this year’s Padma Bhushan awardee, dances before the beautiful Panduranga idol at Tennangur, a hamlet in Tiruvannamalai district of Tamil Nadu, it is an act of total surrender. What is special about this offering is that its sense of abandon is accompanied by total control and precision, perfect abhinaya or expression and nritta, or footwork, in the best classical traditions. The dancer is a mere 75.
For Chandru Anna, as every dancer young or old addresses him, it is part of an annual ritual in which he leads some 30 to 40 students and teachers of his art form in a three-day workshop, held at a large facility adjacent to the temple in this centre of pilgrimage. On two evenings during the workshop, all the participants dance before the deity, swinging into ecstatic action during the dolotsavam, when the idol is worshipped in a cradle, and the garudotsavam, a procession around the temple, with the local residents and visiting pilgrims joining them. So many professional and amateur artists coming together in such a joyous celebration of their art in a temple ambience must indeed be a rare spectacle
The workshop called Natya Sangraham, now in its twelfth year, with Chandrasekhar presiding over eleven of them (he missed one through illness), is organised by Natyarangam, the dance wing of the Narada Gana Sabha, one of Chennai’s major sabhas, typically south Indian institutions that conduct music, dance and theatrical programmes for their subscriber members and the general public. Experts from the fields of dance, music, poetry and theatre engage the participants, mostly young dancers and dance teachers, in academic and practical sessions on predetermined topics. The daylong activity is stimulating and rigorous, but the delegates are housed in considerable comfort and served delicious vegetarian food. The informal post-prandial ‘tinnai’ sessions at night are an opportunity to listen to stories from the rich past of the stalwarts and discuss current issues affecting the performing arts scene. The whole event has the blessings of the movement behind the temple, the GA Trust—founded by the followers of the late Swami Gnananda Giri—which among other things extends the best in education and healthcare to a number of villages in the vicinity. Adding to the atmosphere is the architectural beauty of the temple—built under the auspices of the late Swami Haridas Giri, Gnananda’s disciple, in the authentic old style of the Puri Jagannath temple—and its gopurams in the Pandya style.
I first came into contact with Chandru Anna, when he and Leela Samson, at present director of Kalakshetra of Chennai and Sangeet Natak Akademi, gave a thrilling performance of a tillana—the southern equivalent of a tarana—in praise of Rukmini Devi Arundale, founder of Kalakshetra on her 80th birthday, more than a couple of decades ago. A youthful fifty-something then, Chandrasekhar was then head of the department of dance in Maharaja Sayajirao (MS) University, Baroda. An alumnus of Kalakshetra, which he joined as a boy in 1945, Chandru Anna later went to Benares Hindu University where he did a masters in botany and taught for a while before moving to MS University, where he eventually became Principal. He served there till his retirement, relocating at Chennai some ten years ago. His wife Jaya and daughters Chitra and Manjari are Bharata Natyam dancers, too, and the Chandrasekhars are well known for their many productions that include both solo performances and dance drama. Chandrasekhar has choreographed and produced many dance dramas including Bhumija, Meghadutam, Ritu Samharam and Aparajita, showing a marked liking for the classics of Kalidasa. Jaya learnt Bharata Natyam from Lalita Sastri of Delhi, Kathak from Birju Maharaj, the maestro of the Lucknow gharana, and Odissi from the one and only Kelucharan Mahapatra. She too taught at BHU, MS University and later at her own institution Nityashree in Baroda.
Chandrasekhar is a rare amalgam of varied influences. A south Indian who started school in Delhi, he graduated in dance from Kalakshetra and botany from Vivekananda College, Madras. Well versed in Carnatic music, he grew comfortable with Hindustani as well as folk forms of music during his long years in Gujarat. His travels overseas, beginning with his tour of China in the 1960s as a member of a cultural delegation, brought him a sophisticated awareness of art forms and trends everywhere. While quite at home in so many diverse milieus, Chandrasekhar remains firmly rooted in the austere traditions of the classical dance he learnt from great gurus at Kalakshetra. Clean lines and good taste characterize his every move.
A vastly experienced performer and guru, and among the most accessible veterans of his art, Chandrasekhar is superbly fit and still able to dance like a young man. He is a giving teacher, holding nothing back while sharing his accumulated wisdom with his students and the participants at the annual workshop.
The high point of this year’s Natya Sangraham was his demonstration of a complex, physically demanding composition of his to the accompaniment of thunderous applause from students and faculty. It was a memorable moment that brought tears to the eyes of the onlookers.
Friday, January 28, 2011
The Bhimsen Joshi gharana
The day we received news of the maestro’s death, a friend, Jayaram, called to share his memories of Bhimsen Joshi with me. He recalled a 1970s concert on the Health League grounds of Hyderabad. He remembered in particular the unforgettable Purya Dhanashri of that evening that lasted an hour and a half and was primarily responsible for the concert going on well past midnight. I did not know Jayaram then, but we were connected forever by that concert, for I too sprawled on the sands and listened transported to another realm that night.
My wife and I were fortunate to be in Hyderabad for a decade starting in 1971. Through my classmate and close friend Gourang Kodical, a disciple of tabla ustad Shaikh Dawood, we were exposed to some of the finest Hindustani music the twin cities offered then, not all of it in large halls or fancy venues. The ritual Guruvar mandal, a homage every Thursday to their teachers by local musicians was in the form of impromptu recitals by some of the finest local musicians in a tiny little apartment in Hyderabad’s own version of the chawl. The place was the residence of Bhaskar Rao Udgirkar, and the congregation had commenced in 1954. My wife’s music teacher Vajendra Ashrit, Shanker Daspremi, Vasudeva Rao Lasinkar, U. Govind Rao and Ramesh Hyderabadkar were some of Gourang’s friends and associates behind the mandal.
In addition to the up and coming, we also heard renowned musicians like Bhim Shankar Rao or Pandit Jasraj’s disciples like Girish Wazalwar and Chandrasekhar Swamy at the Guruvar Mandal. Promising young sitarist Pandurang Parathe was yet to migrate to Madras and the film world, while his senior M. Janardan had already done so, and Kartik Seshadri, Janardan’s younger fellow shagird of Ravi Shankar, was winging his way to the USA.
The whole gang from the mandal was present at all the major concerts held at Hyderabad during those years of relative plenty in terms of classical music there. They were generous to praise good music but caustic in their criticism of shallow imitation or artifice of any kind. Of course, they were biased as hell—aren’t we all?—and God save the musicians who strayed from the strait and narrow path! Countless cups of tea were imbibed, not to mention cigarettes and bidis—the self-effacing tabla wizard Ustad Shaikh Dawood led the bidi brigade—as some of the soirees we attended tended towards all-night affairs. The nip in the winter air as we sat mostly in the open at these concerts added to the excitement of the whole experience.
It was through our wonderful friends at the guruvar mandal that we became regulars at the Pandit Motiram Punyatithi that his sons celebrated every year in Hyderabad. All three of Motiram’s sons Maniram, Pratap Narayan and Jasraj had sung together in the early anniversary concerts, while I managed to hear the duo of Pratap Narayan and Jasraj and later Jasraj by himself. Those were memorable concerts, the best live vocal performances I had heard up until then. We were also to be thrilled by the virtuosity of four young instrumentalists answering to the names of Amjad Ali Khan, Hariprasad Chaurasia, Shiv Kumar Sharma and Zakir Hussain.
One unforgettable Ravi Shankar concert at Ravindra Bharati in 1974 was made more so by an announcement the sitar maestro made midway through the recital. “I regret to bring news of the death of two great musicians today,” he said. He was referring to the incomparable Amir Khan and southern film music legend Ghantasala Venkateswara Rao. The news meant that I would never listen live to one of the greatest Hindustani vocalists of our time, certainly my personal favourite musician. It was deeply depressing.
I was much more fortunate in the case of Bhimsen Joshi, who was the second member of a mutual admiration society whose other half had been Amir Khan. Legend has it that Amir Khan asked his students to listen to at least 25 concerts of Joshi before they ventured to ascend the performance stage. And Bhimsen Joshi always maintained that his Abhogi was Amir Khan’s gift to him.
At the concert Jayaram described, no one left the venue even as it stretched to some four hours. The singing was sheer joy, with Bhimsen Joshi traversing three octaves with seeming effortlessness. It was an amalgam of meditative depth, incredible taans, perfect laya control and absolute swara precision, so typical of the singer’s non-drinking years. His subsequent performances in the twin cities during my years there never equalled the pristine glory of that concert.
I had to wait until he came to Madras in the 1980s, when he had banished the demons from his life, to savour the old Bhimsen Joshi magic again. When he mesmerized Madras audiences at the Sri Krishna Gana Sabha, he had for decades worked assiduously at making the Kirana gharana his own, incorporating the influences he had sought all his life from all the masters he admired no matter what school they belonged to. It was the Bhimsen Joshi gharana.
My wife and I were fortunate to be in Hyderabad for a decade starting in 1971. Through my classmate and close friend Gourang Kodical, a disciple of tabla ustad Shaikh Dawood, we were exposed to some of the finest Hindustani music the twin cities offered then, not all of it in large halls or fancy venues. The ritual Guruvar mandal, a homage every Thursday to their teachers by local musicians was in the form of impromptu recitals by some of the finest local musicians in a tiny little apartment in Hyderabad’s own version of the chawl. The place was the residence of Bhaskar Rao Udgirkar, and the congregation had commenced in 1954. My wife’s music teacher Vajendra Ashrit, Shanker Daspremi, Vasudeva Rao Lasinkar, U. Govind Rao and Ramesh Hyderabadkar were some of Gourang’s friends and associates behind the mandal.
In addition to the up and coming, we also heard renowned musicians like Bhim Shankar Rao or Pandit Jasraj’s disciples like Girish Wazalwar and Chandrasekhar Swamy at the Guruvar Mandal. Promising young sitarist Pandurang Parathe was yet to migrate to Madras and the film world, while his senior M. Janardan had already done so, and Kartik Seshadri, Janardan’s younger fellow shagird of Ravi Shankar, was winging his way to the USA.
The whole gang from the mandal was present at all the major concerts held at Hyderabad during those years of relative plenty in terms of classical music there. They were generous to praise good music but caustic in their criticism of shallow imitation or artifice of any kind. Of course, they were biased as hell—aren’t we all?—and God save the musicians who strayed from the strait and narrow path! Countless cups of tea were imbibed, not to mention cigarettes and bidis—the self-effacing tabla wizard Ustad Shaikh Dawood led the bidi brigade—as some of the soirees we attended tended towards all-night affairs. The nip in the winter air as we sat mostly in the open at these concerts added to the excitement of the whole experience.
It was through our wonderful friends at the guruvar mandal that we became regulars at the Pandit Motiram Punyatithi that his sons celebrated every year in Hyderabad. All three of Motiram’s sons Maniram, Pratap Narayan and Jasraj had sung together in the early anniversary concerts, while I managed to hear the duo of Pratap Narayan and Jasraj and later Jasraj by himself. Those were memorable concerts, the best live vocal performances I had heard up until then. We were also to be thrilled by the virtuosity of four young instrumentalists answering to the names of Amjad Ali Khan, Hariprasad Chaurasia, Shiv Kumar Sharma and Zakir Hussain.
One unforgettable Ravi Shankar concert at Ravindra Bharati in 1974 was made more so by an announcement the sitar maestro made midway through the recital. “I regret to bring news of the death of two great musicians today,” he said. He was referring to the incomparable Amir Khan and southern film music legend Ghantasala Venkateswara Rao. The news meant that I would never listen live to one of the greatest Hindustani vocalists of our time, certainly my personal favourite musician. It was deeply depressing.
I was much more fortunate in the case of Bhimsen Joshi, who was the second member of a mutual admiration society whose other half had been Amir Khan. Legend has it that Amir Khan asked his students to listen to at least 25 concerts of Joshi before they ventured to ascend the performance stage. And Bhimsen Joshi always maintained that his Abhogi was Amir Khan’s gift to him.
At the concert Jayaram described, no one left the venue even as it stretched to some four hours. The singing was sheer joy, with Bhimsen Joshi traversing three octaves with seeming effortlessness. It was an amalgam of meditative depth, incredible taans, perfect laya control and absolute swara precision, so typical of the singer’s non-drinking years. His subsequent performances in the twin cities during my years there never equalled the pristine glory of that concert.
I had to wait until he came to Madras in the 1980s, when he had banished the demons from his life, to savour the old Bhimsen Joshi magic again. When he mesmerized Madras audiences at the Sri Krishna Gana Sabha, he had for decades worked assiduously at making the Kirana gharana his own, incorporating the influences he had sought all his life from all the masters he admired no matter what school they belonged to. It was the Bhimsen Joshi gharana.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The good grandson
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.”
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.”
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.
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