part0024

Having spent my early childhood in an ashram in the deep south of India, the only sound heard in the house was of bhajans and stotras, of Lalitha Sahasranama, Arunachala Shiva (in Tamil, composed by Ramana Maharishi). Every day from 4 to 10 am and from 5 to 8 pm, these were sung by the assembled devotees, each using his or her own unique notes, ragas and special effects. The overall effect may not have been cacophonic, but cannot be described as harmonic music, except by the most ardent devotee steeped in divine inspiration. The only other ‘music’ heard there was the veena, as the instrument symbolizing goddess Saraswati, the patron of knowledge. Young ladies in the ashram were encouraged to practice the veena; the results were not too different from that heard of the bhajans! Television had not arrived and the radio was used only for cricket commentaries. I still remember listening, ball-by-ball, to the thrilling commentary of the 1948 Leeds Ashes tests, as a 10-year old, when Bradman and Morris, on a 5th-day pitch, scored 404 runs in one day to snatch a historic victory for Australia. The Ipod and Ipad were not known, essentially we were completely innocent of any contact with classical music .

It was only in 1952, when I was about 14-years-old that I got to hear classical music in Kolkata (then known as Calcutta). The occasion was the annual Sadarang Conference of classical Hindustani music in Esplanade. My father had received a complimentary pass to the hall, and having ‘shown his face’ there, handed over the pass to me around 10 pm promising to send the car back for me in an hour to take me home. I had no idea what I was getting into. The only items listed for the night’s programme was a vocal performance by the duo Nazakat and Salamat Ali Khan, brothers from Pakistan, followed by a then new-comer Gangubai Hangal. I had planned to spend half-an-hour there, but bewitched as I was by the sound of Hindustani classical, I went home at 5 am with much regret that the programme did not continue. I recall that the Pakistani brothers sang only two ragas in about four hours; Gangubai Hangal, only one raga for much of her performance, with some bhajans and lighter songs in the final half-hour. Contrast this with the one-hour shows of classical music today on television and radio when the artist displays his expertise through eight or ten ragas; or of a regular concert where ten ragas are sung in two hours, apart from a number of tukdas and bhajans. I was hooked, and would go to every possible concert that I could manage to during the next four years in Kolkata.

My first contact with Carnatic music was in Kolkata sometime probably around 1956. My father in his capacity as the President of the Tamil Sangam of Calcutta had invited ‘Flute Mahalingam’ for an evening performance in an open-air enclosure, somewhere near Dhakuria Lakes. The performance was to start around 7 pm. We awaited the arrival of the flute genius; around 8.30 pm the buzz went around that Mahalingam who had arrived that morning from Chennai by train (from a then prohibition area), was holed up in his hotel room, barely conscious, with an open bottle nearly empty by his side. Apparently my father along with his co-organizers went to great lengths to ‘revive’ him, which took much time. Meanwhile they had to periodically go to the podium to invent excuses for the delay in the arrival of the maestro. Around 11.30 he did arrive, escorted (nearly carried) by three office bearers to the stage, where he had difficulty in identifying his own flute and recognizing the accompanists. Anyhow he started his performance, and as word spread that the great man was performing, people started pouring out of their houses in the predominantly south-Indian neighbourhood; the pandal was full by midnight. Normally Carnatic classical performances finish by 10 pm at the latest. This one started around midnight but then we were privy to the most glorious five hours of divine Carnatic music that anyone can ever listen to. Mahalingam, only half-conscious, unaware of the crowd in the pandal, kept us in raptures till 5 am. I could never imagine that anything in the world could be as exalted and uplifting as the quality of music that was delivered by him.

However, my first real contact with Carnatic classical music was in Ghazipur (in east Uttar Pradesh), where I was Collector. Kalyan Baksi, who joined me as probationer trainee in the IAS, had brought for me a gift when he returned after the Pooja holidays—the ragamalika ‘Bhavaiyami’ by M.S. Subbalakshmi, summarizing the Ramayana in six wonderful musical stanzas in different ragas along with Shrirangapura Vihara on the other side of the HMV gramophone record. Only those who have heard this in their younger days can remember the thrill and discovery of high quality music. With this I was hooked to Carnatic music.

One then listened to the greats of music—Ariyakudi, Semmangudi, the plebian GNB, MLV and so many others—I became an aficionado. I even started criticizing, commenting and analyzing, especially, indeed only, when I sensed that my companion didn’t know much of music! I would even name the ragas (mostly wrongly I guess) and display a sense of superiority. The reality is one does not need to technically understand or recognize the ragas or the notes, or the combinations—all that is required is that you lose yourself in the magic of the music, and enjoy it. In later years, I discovered that M.S. as a Carnatic musician was not all that great, many others including some I have named earlier were far superior singers, with better voices, more lilting, and with greater command over their art, indeed more satisfying. M.S., hitting the high notes, would become irritatingly ‘nasal’—she was outstanding in Tamil, Sanskrit, Telegu and Hindi bhajans, mainly because of the bhavana and simulated ‘devotion’ that she injected into her bhajans; her Vishnu Sahasranaam and Lalitha Sahasranaam are immortal works. It is debatable whether purely as an artist she deserved the Bharat Ratna more than other great exponents of Carnatic music. The fact is she had the right combination—political backing by Rajaji, support of the media (Kalki), the aura of emerging from a ‘dancing girl’ family to marry into ‘respectable’ high society, coupled with high quality talent—these got her the highest award. One has seen the same phenomenon in so many other walks of life. It is not always the best exponent or the best practitioner who bags the highest prize, it is a combination of circumstances, support and backing, right connections, coupled with talent.

During my posting in Chennai I took the occasion to travel by car extensively in south India and once spent half-a-day at Tiruvarur. Those familiar with Carnatic music would know that the three ‘greats’ of classical music—the Trinity—Tyagaraja, Muthuswamy Dikshitar and Syama Shastri—all were born in Tiruvarur, a small temple town about 40 miles from Tanjore. They all lived in houses within a 100 yards of each other in the same small town. They were born within 15 years of each other in different households, in the late-18/early-19 centuries. This most remarkable fact has not been commented upon or explained adequately, as to how this extraordinary coincidence could take place. The situation could be likened to say, Beethoven, Mozart, Strauss and Verdi being born within a mile of each other, within a 20 to 30 years period. The extraordinary coincidence in the case of the Carnatic greats has not been explained anywhere. There is no record of a common ancestor, nor of a common teacher or guru who was in contact with their families. Which common gene was shared by these three divinely gifted people? Is it possible that much the same way that ‘Amrit’ leaked out and fell at different spots of our blessed land, some special divine spark was present in Tiruvarur, and came into contact just with these three people over a 40-year period? Was there a supernatural/outer space intervention? If you recognize the magical quality of the music of these three greats, you cannot over-rule the theory of divine intervention—music injected into them from outer space emanating from a higher civilization ?

There is a record of Muthuswamy Dixitar leaving the village early, and moving on to Varanasi with his guru. Dixitar, those days, visited every major north-Indian temple—Pashupatinath, Kedarnath, Badrinath and so many others and left immortal compositions in praise of each divine manifestation in these places. His brand of Carnatic music also got highly enriched by induction of a number of Hindustani ragas, which now have got blended into the Carnatic style. There is the story of Muthuswamy’s visit to a Christian function organized by the Collector, where he got enthralled with the harmony inherent in the western classical style. On that occasion, his melodic performance of Carnatic music, greatly appreciated by the British audience got him the gift of a violin—the first time violin became part of Carnatic music. Today every vocal performance in Tamil Nadu has a violinist accompanist, even solo violin Carnatic music performances are not uncommon.

The ‘season’ in Chennai is a major annual event, from about 15 December to 4 or 5 January. Everyone who is anyone in the world of Carnatic music has to perform in one of the 40 or 50 sabhas—the more the invitations, the higher his rank. This is like the Wimbledon in Carnatic music, in fact much more than that; it is all grand slams rolled into one. Musicians are rated by where they perform, and at what time of the day. The Music Academy is the most sacred temple for Carnatic music. Membership of this hallowed institution is more difficult to obtain than of the Delhi Gymkhana or Delhi Golf Club. The waiting list is for more than 50 years and the joke is that as soon as a child is born, the application for his child—to come 25 years later—is already made, well before the father starts going to school! The Music Academy is a grand institution; its management committee reads like the who-is-who in Chennai. My good friend Ambi Srinivasan, a man of many accomplishments in business and other fields, would rightly consider his membership in the management committee of the Music Academy of much significance.

A visit to the Music Academy any season evening will get you to see the cream of the Brahmin community in Chennai. Everyone who should be there will be there. The average age of the audience is about 65 years, many are in wheelchairs, with a large sprinkling of second or third generation NRIs in their teens and early 20s; aristocratic, eagle-nosed, and the equivalents of the dowager-duchess are also a common sight. In the cafeteria, one can meet famous Tamilian Brahmin greats of the past five decades. The equivalent of ‘strawberry and cream’ is served in the form of keeravadai and ‘filter coffee’. Inside the hall, the regulars, male and female, looking like well-bred vultures, enjoy the music, scratching their bald heads to the ‘tala’. With music steeped in their blood, they can recognize the raga even before the artist opens his mouth. They have seen it all from the days of Chowdiah to Maharajapuram to Madurai Mani to L. Subramanian, and frown at impertinent improvisations or variations. Suddenly there is spontaneous applause at an innovation, which gets accepted as the new norm. This is the Mecca of Carnatic music. At the first sound of a minor apaswara (false note), there is a collective sigh, barely heard, of acute disapproval; there is a gasp of approval at an imaginative and tasteful variation.

In one recent performance, the brilliant young Abhishek Raghuram, grandson of the legendary percussionist Palghat Raghu, made his classical vocal debut. He wowed the knowledgeable audience with his classical style, embellished with wonderful variations; clearly a maestro of the future. Alas he blotted his copy-book by extending his performance by as much as ten minutes beyond the period allotted to him by the ‘Academy’s authorities’, incurring their ‘displeasure’. One wonders if he would be denied future assignments at the academy for this grave blunder, thus jeopardizing his career.

With the renaissance of classical music, thanks to the internet, youtube, Ipad and Ipod, there is a great revival, with practitioners all over the world innovating, enjoying themselves and reliving the greatness of their tradition. Thus, in at least 50 towns in the US, and an equal number in Europe, and elsewhere in the world there are sabhas and associations devoted to classical music—many exclusively to Carnatic or Hindustani—some to a combination of the two. Thus, from at least six suburbs of San Francisco, practitioners of Carnatic music, who hardly know India, arrive in Chennai for the season and have their formal public performances. Unknown as they are, they hire the hall, pay for the accompanists and get their friends, relatives invited for the performance. It is not unusual for a budding ‘artist’ to spend say

20 lakh for this ‘experience’; there is great thrill in rediscovering one’s heritage.

Another special feature of the ‘season’ is the lecdem—lecture demonstration for the benefit of the innocent—that is held in a number of sabhas in the mornings. Usually an exponent talks of history, special features and attributes of a raga, or of a style, or of a method of rendering this aspect of the art or the other. There are usually two kinds of audiences—the young teenagers, both Tamilian as well as Caucasian or other foreigners, generally from the US, Europe or Japan, coming to learn or participate in an arty forum; also very old ladies and gentlemen from Mylapore, coming along to relive their past, and to see if there are new innovations or interpretations of what they already know. The tiffin is usually of high quality, often superior to the quality of the lecdem!

I once presided over the Bharatanatyam Arangetram (debut) of a young danseuse in Delhi, where the natwanar (teacher) was a Canadian lady, herself an artist of repute. The chief guest was the famous danseuse Geeta Chandran. In my short speech, I spoke of my great enjoyment of the performance (which was only partly true) and mentioned that this was despite my total previous ignorance of the grandeur of this art form. Geeta, in her comments, rightly chided me saying that I should be ashamed of my ignorance of this art form. She also rightly said that every Indian should make the effort to understand the very great cultural treasure that we have inherited.

In every part of India there is a great tradition of classical music—from Kerala to Karnataka to Maharashtra to Bengal to Manipur—there is equally a grand tradition of classical dances. One wonders if there is any other country in the world so blessed with such treasures of fine art experiences and their practitioners to be found everywhere.

Wherever you go in the US you can turn on the television or the radio to listen to a classical music performance; there are 24-hour dedicated channels for Mozart or Beethoven or other classical greats. It is a tragedy that when we turn on our television sets, we do not have access to 24-hour performances of classical music or dances. With Doordarshan and All India Radio having great archives, a treasure-house of performances over the years by all-time greats, the cost of mounting these television channels or radio stations will be miniscule. Alas one does not see our culture ministry or I&B ministry encouraging, through government or private channels, attempts to give pleasure to millions by broadcast of these performances; equally preserving the greatness of our tradition. Perhaps, much like our traditional knowledge relating to yoga or ayurveda or other distillations of our 5000-year old culture, the continuation, revival, innovation and improvement in our classical art forms will be left to Indians in the US and Europe, as well as to foreigners who recognize the greatness in these art forms, and bring new energy and enthusiasm to maintain and revive them.