Eight Minutes of Horror

“Are you sure?”, I asked under my breath.

“Dude, shut up…”, he retorted in a harsh whisper, “just follow me.  No one is gonna know!”

“I’m nervous…”

“Shut up!”

The two of us tiptoed up the last flight of stairs leading up to the roof of the school building.  Our eyes darted around anxiously as we climbed onto the roof.  We proceeded one step at time, making sure no one was watching us.  What made our covert operation seem all the more iniquitous was that it was being carried out in broad daylight.  Sweltering sunlight, to be exact.  But we had no option.  It had to be done.

It had all started the previous day.  With the school annual day function just a day away, one of our Std VII classmates had recklessly spilled two fat drops of water directly onto the school tabla dayan, the tonal head, thus bringing the pitch down unevenly.  The prudent thing to do at that juncture would have been to report the incident promptly to one of our teachers.  However, our tabla player, who was my partner and the fearless leader in the above covert operation, had made the executive decision to not report.  “काही तरी करू आपण (we’ll figure out a way)”, he had said.  The three of us had then put our heads together and tried to come up with some idea.  After a few minutes we had hit ourselves up against what we had thought was a brilliant scheme, viz. leaving the dayan under the afternoon sun because the water-spiller, who incidentally was also our harmonium player, had heard from somewhere that ‘उन्हात तबला चढतो (the tabla goes up in pitch under the sun)’.

“What kind of a traitor is he?”, I whispered loudly to my leader as I gingerly closed the stairway door on the roof, “this whole thing was his idea, and he chickens out now!”

“One more word out of you and I will tell Madam that it was your idea… now shut up!”, the fearless leader hissed back at me.

“Okay, okay…”

We found a sunny spot next to the water tank, placed the dayan there, and ran back down the stairs as quickly and quietly as we could.

Later that evening, when everyone was getting ready for the big event, the two of us, all dressed and neat combed etc., went up onto the roof secretly to retrieve the dayan, and lo, there it was!  Disaster staring at us right in our faces!  A gaping hole ran right through the middle of the dayan, bisecting the syahi (the black spot).  It turned out that our double-crossing water-spilling harmoniumist was absolutely right about the sun’s ability to tighten the head of the dayan, for it had tightened it enough to crack under the tension!

Once we returned, the fearless leader intercepted the water-spiller backstage and said certain things that I cannot type here (yes, Std VII kids are old enough!).  I stood about 10 feet away, my heart racing.  20 minutes later, the three of us were on stage.  We were all sweating.  The water-spiller leaned over and asked me the one question he shouldn’t have been asking on stage, especially after having practiced together that whole month: “Which Raag are you singing?”

I gave him a stern look and said in my mind all the things the fearless leader had said 20 minutes ago.

“अरे tension आलंय… समजून घे (Dude, I’m nervous… please understand)!”, he said.

All nerves, I started my alaap in Raag Bihag.  The water-spiller was so nervous that he couldn’t play anything constructive.  Instead he just held down Sa with a trembling finger.  Not the worst situation from a performance standpoint, I solacingly said to myself.  I managed to complete my alaap successfully.

Then, it began.

The moment I started the bandish Kaanhaa Jaa Re Jaa Re in Madhyalaya Teentaal, the fearless leader launched into a totally irrelevant Drut Ektaal on the cracked tabla.  I glared at him in horror.  Our Madam, who was standing in the wings slightly downstage from us started making hieroglyphic gestures toward us.  The severe look on her face sent a shiver down my spine.  There was no doubt that she had noticed the injury the dayan had endured.  The fearless leader, not so fearless anymore, panicked and suddenly changed the theka to an ultra slow Madhyalaya Teentaal.  As I was trying to decipher the weird sounding bols emanating from the cracked tabla to figure out which matra he was on and adjust the bandish line I was singing, I suddenly heard random notes coming from the direction of the water-spiller.  I quickly turned to him and found him frantically searching for the right key to play on the harmonium.  I had no idea what had happened.  Maybe his finger had slipped and he had forgotten where Sa was?   Madam had now gone beet red in her face and looked like she was about to explode.

The performance ended up being a painful 8 minutes of sur searching, bol searching, and soul searching.  The longest 8 minutes of my life without a doubt, not to mention the proper dressing down the three of us received post-performance!

For the next few days, I kept wondering why the water-spiller had played those ridiculously random notes during the performance.  It took me a good couple of weeks to finally learn that the water-spiller had extemporaneously come up with the brilliant idea of matching his Sa with the weird sound of the cracked dayan, and was trying to locate the note while the performance was going on!

Uncle 'n' Auntie

Never guess someone's age based on their physical appearance.  Sure, a graying bean or a creased epidermis can indicate aging, but these are neither physiologically accurate indicators nor states that cannot be temporarily undone with the help of some age-defying makeup.  And before you think I'm going to go all philosophical and say that you are only as old as you feel or that age is just a number, let me state that society really doesn't care about how old you feel or actually are.  At the end of the day, your age is a nothing more than a social perception determined by your function in society.

Allow me to explain.

I started teaching music at the age of 24.  A relatively bantam age, right?  Not according to society!  Here I am, on the first day of teaching, sitting in my bicep hugging Aeropostale t-shirt and juvenile faded jeans from Old Navy, feeling all youthful and buoyant (you get the picture), and the mother nonchalantly says to her child:

"Beta, ANKAL ko Namaste bolo...".  

Boom!  --  From that day forward, I became an Uncle.  Sometimes Sir, sometimes Master, rarely Anna or Mama, but mostly Uncle.  Pavana wasn't spared either; she became an Auntie too around the same time!  

In reality though, it would just be a matter of time before these honorifics would start feeling appropriate.  Besides, I personally find honorifics petty and couldn't care less about what honorific was attached to me, if that.  I just find it interesting that students that are almost the same age I was when I started teaching still call the two of us Uncle and Auntie!

Reassessing favorites and lost for a current favorite...

As one learns or listens to more and more music, one evolves as a rasika. For me, every music session opens a new door that forces me to reassess my tastes. Consider this. When I was young, K J Yesudas was my absolute favorite, and then it was Maharajapuram Santhanam. I spent a long period when I used to adore and mimic the way P Unnikrishnan sang. The cassette era saw me liking new comers like S P Ramh and Balaji Shankar. I then graduated to guru Neyveli Santhanagopalan, T V Sankaranarayanan, and T M Krishna. Of the older musicians, I would listen to only Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, G N Balasubramaniam, and M S Subbulakshmi. Dr. M Balamuralikrishna was another musician I used to follow (whom I respect immensely today, and believe that trying to copy his style is like playing with fire).

When cassettes started going out of fashion, I was forced to listen to music on the internet, and this is when I realized that I had been an ignorant child all along. My journey as a rasika and singer took a different route as I developed a liking to K V Narayanaswamy and Oleti Venkateswarulu. I started learning music from Girish anna, who is T Brinda's grandson and this, I believe, started refining my taste immensely. In reality it was Oleti and Brinda amma's music that affected me the most and I would like to believe that I have begun a journey towards musical excellence ever since I have been exposed to the music of these two stalwarts. However, now I find that I am able to enjoy only a few musicians, and the troubling(?) part is that these musicians are NOT current performers. Has my outlook become very narrow and is that why the current musicians fail to create any impact on me? Is my taste really getting refined?

Some of my favorite artistes in concert

Sri Oleti Venkateswarulu
(Sri V Kamalakar Rao on Mridanga)

Sri Palghat K V Narayanaswamy
(Sri Palghat Mani Iyer on Mridanga and Sri Papa Venkataramiah on Violin)

Smt M S Subbulakshmi
(Sri Trichy Sankaran on Mridanga and Sri Sundaresa Iyer on Violin)

Smt T Brinda and Smt T Muktha

Smt D K Pattammal and a very young Sri D K Jayaraman

Sri T V Sankaranarayanan
(Sri Guruvayur Dorai on Mridanga, Sri Nagai Muralidharan on Violin, Sri Suresh on Ghata)

Sri Neyveli R Santhanagopalan
(Sri Trichy Sankaran on Mridanga and Smt Kalpana Venkat on Violin)

Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan

Ustad Amir Khan

Ustad Ali Akbar Khan

Ustad Rashid Khan

Dr. M. Balamuralikrishna and traditional Carnatic music

I am a great admirer of Dr. M. Balamuralikrishna's music. Very often, people who attend his concerts or listen to his music complain that his exposition of ragas is too complicated and he makes even the most mundane ragas like Shankarabharanam difficult to identify. Even if one manages to identify the raga, one never knows when he will break into a seemingly easy and painfully scalar but yet intricate interpretation of the raga. A lot of people view his innovative style of rendition of certain ragas as something that is taboo as far as traditional music is concerned. However, I feel that very few people can reach the level of expertise required for such obscure interpretations of popular ragas (not to mention BMK's own interpretations of obscure ragas!). But I've always wondered why he does that when Carnatic music is already so well defined. And then today, I came across one of his interviews on youtube. Below is the text version of the same. I would love to hear what the reader thinks of this.

Interviewer: You have done over 400 compositions.

Balamurali gaaru: Yes

Int: Intially when you were doing that, the traditionalists, the purists, were a little outraged?

BMK: (getting a little irritated) I'm sorry?

Int: (now meekly) The purists of Carnatic music...

BMK: (interrupting) There is nothing like purists, you see. "Pure", "traditional"; there is no meaning for these. Nobody knows the meaning for these.

Int: (poor guy is still trying) But the traditionalists of carnatic music...

BMK: (interrupting again with fiery eyes) There is no tradition..

Int: (close to tears now) Okay, the Carnatic musicians were used to singing Thyagaraja keerthanas...

BMK: (mellowing down a little) Yes, Thyagaraja keerthanas... but they are not singing alike. Each one has his own way of singing; quality of voice and presentation differ for each individual. Otherwise, how can you identify that so-and-so is singing or playing? There is something always there. Tradition means the fundamental thing. Tradition means "sa ri ga ma pa dha ni", that's all. When you know it, forget about it, and you improvize. See, the tradition in those days is not the dress you are wearing now. But it does not mean you have gone out of the tradition, right? You always walk with your legs, talk with your mouth, see with your eyes. That is tradition. Tradition is the base. That base will never change. Everybody has one nose, two eyes, two ears, but each one is different. So you can't say that if someone looks handsome, it is not traditional.

Int: (has given up by now) Right, right...

BMK: So, you have to give importance to tradition as a foundation. Like a blue print of a house. The house is built on it.

Int: Absolutely..

BMK: (continuing) So that base is very important, but it does not mean that you should always remain at that level. That is how I feel abt the tradition. People who talk abt tradition or convention usually don't the meaning of what they r talking about.

M S Subbulakshmi.. will we ever have another one?

do i have the right to write anything about MS?

every time i listen any recording of hers, i feel that the sublime music ferries me to a different world. a beautiful and divine world. a world filled with bhakti. today, i was listening to her "bhavayami raghuramam" and felt compelled to write something about her.

what makes MS so special and endearing to everyone is that her music has the power to reach the heart of every person out there. she "connects" with the listener, and this is what makes her one of the greatest singers ever. i refrain from using the past tense because for me, MS is still very much alive. a lot has been written about MS, so whatever i write here is not something new. we don't talk about MS as just a singer. we talk about her as a great human being, an altruist in the true sense, the one with the god-given gift of a mellifluous voice. i also remember my grandmother telling me how people used to flock to MS concerts just to get a glimple of the queenly lady on the stage. however, her music resides at such lofty heights of both technicality and divinity that one doesn't need to know anything about her philanthropic nature, humility or anything else to fall at her feet and worship her. the profundity in her music makes everything else inconsequential.

for a long time i believed that sticking to the rule book of carnatic music while rendering krithis had nothing to do with the bringing out of either bhakti or bhava. as a kid, i never paid attention to bhava as such. as i grew up, all the people around me started telling me that i should put more emotion, more bhava, more expression into my singing. yet, my gurus never told me anything beyond clear diction, shruthi shuddham, swara shuddham, adherence to tala, and singing every sangathi twice. why? is it because they ignored bhava? they knew that bhava is something that cannot be taught, but is in fact something that comes along with the krithi. but the key is to render the krithi exactly the way it should be. and MS's rendition of every krithi is a standing example of this fact. her diction is perfect. her gamakas touch the exact frequencies at the exact speed and with precision. every sangathi is sung twice. every syllable of the sahitya falls perfectly at the same place in the tala, whichever sangathi she sings. the shruthi is perfect to digital accuracy. the tala metre is unwavering. and the bhava comes along with it. this is something that i realized after i started listening to her renditions closely. you first need to have perfection before any bhava can come out. trying to put bhava into your singing without strictly following the rule book will do nothing but dilute the krithi and do no justice to the reason the composer composed it in the first place. you definitely need to "feel" the lyrics when you sing a krithi, but the expression will never come out if you don't sing the sangathis perfectly. i remember my teacher telling me that if MS sang a krithi now and sang it again 20 years later, it would sound exactly the same. i looked at my teacher with a bewildered look because at that time i didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad thing. but now i know. my teacher meant to say that the perfection would still be there, and so would the bhava.

her raga alapanas are perfectly structured. but a great exposition of a raga is something more than structural perfection. her exposition of the raga goes beyond the nuances, brikas and raga bhava. there is a certain grandeur in her sancharas, a certain augustness in her improvisation, and above all that, she makes it sound so easy. the brikas are there, but there are no "acrobatics", because she doesn't need any. the magic is already there. the same thing applies to her niraval as well. again, every syllable of the sahitya falls perfectly at the same place in the tala, and the sahitya bhava co-exists with the raga bhava. and above all, there is balance. nothing is in excess, be it swara kalpana or niraval.

what i have written about her now is nothing. but then, i don't have the right to talk about anything else. this is all i understand. for me, MS stands for tradition, purity and divinity. she is loved by one and all. she might not be amongst us today, but her music is so powerful that she is still alive.. very much alive...