“Tiger show” as it is called in wild life jargon is actually a diluted version of the experience of seeing the tiger in the wild, but to be practical, the only sensible way…..  It is not for the connoisseur but for the lay wild life enthusiast.  The mahouts set off early in the morning on their elephants to try to spot any tigers.  If they do, word goes out to the forest rangers or guides who ritually congregate with their respective tourist customers to a spot somewhere in the middle of the forest.  The tourists are then taken on elephants to the spot where the tiger is – for a fee of course!  The tourists would have woken up early and driven through the forest, an experience in itself – driving in an open jeep through the silence of the forest with its sights and smells and sounds.  Desperate for a “successful” safari, it is normal for the first timer to miss out on these….

I just couldn’t get these wild life enthusiasts before this:  what’s the big deal?  Egged into a safari by Akhil, an IIT – IIM guy whose childhood ambition it had been to become a zookeeper and whom I might have intiated into a Bhairav and a Yaman, I was not without misgivings at the early wake up call.  With two young kids in tow, I was tired from our journey from Chennai via Mumbai to Nagpur and the late night drive to Pench in Madhya Pradesh.  Madhya Pradesh boasts of many tiger reserve forests and the three on our itinerary were at Pench, Bandhavgarh and Panna.  We had to give the beautiful forests at Kanha a miss.

When we finally set off in our jeep at Pench, it was quite bright.  We wanted to see a tiger, who wants anything less!  “It’s a little late in the morning,” the guide said; Akhil nodded grimly.   We set off into the jungle and the first happening sights were droppings – tiger droppings no less!   I couldn’t share Akhil’s enthusiam.  “Oh, oh! How many days old would those be?” he goes.  Oh Please!  And then, pug marks!  What?  Foot prints of the tiger, stupid!  “How fresh are they?”  The tiger has been here, walking right along this path.  We saw plenty of spider webs, really huge ones; and trees – teak trees with a very diseased appearance.  “Oh that is nothing.  The trees will be fine” comes the nonchalant reply.  Where is the tiger – any tiger please?  Suddenly there was a filthy stench – more excitement.  “Oh, it is a kill!”  A tiger must have mauled some creature a couple of days ago somewhere here and the flesh is rotting.   A monkey gives a sharp cry.  “Is that a normal cry Bhaiyya?”  asks Akhil.  If the monkey has seen a tiger in the vicinity, it will not be a normal cry – so that is the point of the question, I later learn.

So, we saw the tiger’s droppings, pug marks, gaped at scratch marks left by the tiger on trees to mark his territory, smelt the rotting flesh of a kill, tried to hear any warning calls that deer or monkeys give out when there is a tiger in the neighbourhood – but we saw no tiger.  Some gaurs (wild bisons) sighted many meters away had Akhil more sad than excited – if we had come in just a little earlier we would have had them crossing our path.  Ok.  At Bandhavgarh we will be up real early I promise him.

Bandhavgarh, where Sri Rama is said to have built a fortress for Lakshmana (Bandhav – brother, Garh – fort, house), still has a fair tiger population and has been the home to many legendary tigers like Charger (he who would charge at tourists!) and B2 (Chargers’s son and later, challenger and killer; for tigers are territorial creatures and two males cannot cohabit in the same territory!).

Our guide was a strong, silent man – silent definitely.  We saw a bird caught in a spider web.  It was a paradise fly catcher!  A lovely, if slightly puzzling, name.  And the fly catcher was caught in a spider web – what irony this.  Many jeeps stopped, the tourists clicked away at the hapless bird (only man is vile), and went on their way to the spot where information about tiger sighting would be available and where we would have to join a long queue, if one had been sighted.  “Can you not release the bird?” I ask fearing that I would be given a contemptuous dismissal.  The bird was going to die for no reason – the spider was not going to eat her!  Akhil warns me – “Don’t play with nature Didi!”    Release the bird the guide did and we went on to see the tiger.  I think it was that good deed done that fetched us the tiger darshan.

As one leaves the Bandhavgarh tiger sanctuary, there is a board with a painted tiger saying: Don’t lose heart if you have not seen me – for I have seen you.  Many tourists have to leave with that small and eerie consolation, but the gods were on our side and we actually saw a tiger a few feet away from us.

It was later in Panna where we were more relaxed, having seen a tiger and all that, that the real joy of wild life hit me.  It was a common peacock with his feathers downsized (happens during the monsoons, informed my guide) which was just roaming among some tall grass.  It was so beautiful – just the experience of seeing it like that.  We have left some for other creatures too, even if it is too little.  The peacock was there not because we had put him there, like in a zoo, but because – that was his home.

(Panchali being Draupadi and Sapatham being vow, it refers to Draupadi’s vow to bring about the end of the Kauravas when she is humiliated in an open court.  It is a popular theme for “dance ballet” in Bharatanatyam.)

“But I thought it is Odissi or something?”

“It is Manipuri; surely Panchali Sapatham can be depicted in Manipuri as well, no?  pointed out the lady.

Kalakshetra organised a series of dance concerts to commemerate Rukmini Devi’s birth anniversary; she was born – rather quirkily – on 29^th February.  Throw of Dice by the Anjika group, headed by Preeti Patel was presented on the last day.  It proved to be somewhat more than what the title promises.  The dance presentation was vocal in its political message, bemoaning the fate of Manipur, that Pearl of a country.  “Today Manipur has become a playground of vested interests robbing the land of happiness and peace” said the voiceover, and not just once.

The stage lighting showed a dice board across the stage and in came two sutradhars who spoke in Manipuri about an earlier pristine life of man when he played no games, but led a life of “simplicity, happiness and love”.  Male and female dancers wove together dainty steps characterestic of Manipuri and masculine movements drawn from other forms to present a vivid recreation of that idyllic, if possibly imaginary, world when “Man played no games”.

The idyllic world is soon lost and as Man steps into more complex lifestyles, he starts to play games of lust and power.  The dice game of the Pandavas and Kauravas is “perhaps the most famous of the games Man has played”.  Yudhishthira wagering his wealth and belongings, his kingdom and army, even his own valourous brothers and losing them all – and the violence of those very acts, were depicted with freshness and vigour.  The dancer playing the role of Duryodhana gave a stunning display of agility and control while exulting over his victory.  Even though it stood out as a separate segment with the clear intent of impressing the audience with its exotic nature, it did not rankle too much.  Finally, Draupadi (Preeti Patel) makes her appearance and while that interlude somewhat dragged down the pace of the presentation, we still waited with bated breath for the presentation of the epiphany.  (Strangely and a little disappointingly, Draupadi is shown as placatory.  None of the righteous anger and rage that we associate with her character was depicted).  The epiphany was vividly presented with two bales of sheer white cloth being held diagonally across the stage with Draupadi at the centre.  Thankfully, no flute sounded.  It is good to have one’s intelligence respected and not have everything spelt out.

And then comes the fate of Manipur.  Male dancers rushing across the stage in choreographed movements with all kinds of weapons, the sound of the drums, the sutradhars shouting across the stage without any respite, created well the sense of intense turmoil.  Finally, “Manipur” lies impaled on the stage.  A dancer propped up on an inverted stool, with others pointing spears and such weapons at him, accompanied by some brilliant lighting, was a macabre and too explicit image.

This is when it struck me that it is all too easy a target for an artist.  One hears that the plight of Manipur has been presented by other artistic groups too such as Ratan Thiyam’s.  Plato wisely observed that it is only the bad man who is interesting in art and so he famously banished poets from his Republic.  Another famous actor said, there would be no art if we just got along perfectly with each other…  The question artists have to face when raising political questions is about their sincerity.  Even Satyajit Ray was accused of selling India’s poverty abroad.  In this case, do the artists go beyond their art to tackle the situation in Manipur?  Do they even need to?  Does sincerity demand that they go beyond just presenting their art?

Again, how does one take the development of the story from the idyllic world to the world of ugliness and games?  Can one question its veracity?  Or is it insulated from such questions because it is art?  Immanuel Kant said it does not matter whether a work of art represents correctly, whether it is the result of much or little labour, whether it took a few years or a few minutes to complete.  The artistic product is an aesthetic object whose appreciation is entirely free of such extraneous considerations.  But then, when art is a comment on a real situation, what happens?

The dance presentation worked fabulously at various levels.  The choreography, the dancers, lighting, costumes, music – all maintained high professional standards.  It kept my two kids aged 8 and 5 rapt.  “Will you give it an ‘A’ or an ‘A star’?” I asked my 8 year old.  “A hundred stars”, she said without any hesitation.

It drove home the poignancy of the human situation in Manipur in a way only art can.  One comes back from such a show and wants to know more about Manipur and what is happening there.  And yet distrubing questions remain about art itself.

A genius, according to a dictionary, is one who posseses exceptional intellectual and creative power.  Kumar Gandharva was that – even those few who may dislike his music cannot deny the creativity of the man and his music.  “Genius” also means one who wields enormous influence on others.  And that too he was – the musical world was shaken by the phenomenon that was Kumar Gandharva when he entered it and today when he has left it, it is a much richer place for his contribution.  It is indeed no exaggeration when Menon says that KG split the world of Hindustani music into two halves – one before him and one after him – “a kind of BC and AD in music”.

Menon traces the twin careers of KG.  The early Kumar Gandharva burst into the musical world in Mumbai as a prodigious boy of nine years with an unbelievable aural memory and vocal capacity.  The child could remember and reproduce with astonishing accuracy the music of the greatest stalwarts then as recorded in long playing discs.  It was uncanny and could be dismissed as a freak talent, but not by all.  Menon recounts the poet Vallathol’s reaction to the boy’s music who, among others, knew the boy was destined for greater things.  The early KG later came under the tutelage of Prof. Deodhar, a teacher with an almost missionary zeal, where he learnt the “rules” of raga-s and was clearly emerging as a very competent musician.  As Menon puts it, he came to that stage of competence all too easily and was restless, looking for more, or as Menon would have it, looking for the source of raga music.

And KG did turn out to be much more than a competent musician-he blazed new trails.  And this was on his return to the scene after a life threatening illness from which he took 6 years to recover.  And how he sang then!  The music of the later KG was unlike anything heard before and yet, as Menon puts it, seemed to capture the very essence of the thing that we call raga music.  KG now had a completely original style that could not be explained by referring to any one or more gharana-s (styles of Khayal music).  It was certainly not eclectisism.  Every major singer today has an eclectic style, but KG’s music was not some elements of this gharana, some of that and some of yet another gharana.  It was radically original.  This is the tantalising mystery of the man’s music.  How did he sing the way he did?  The answer always given to this question – and Menon gives it too – is that KG drew from the resources of folk music; but if one looks for any details on this “drawing from folk music” theory, one is disappointed.

One is tempted to compare the career of KG with that of the Cambridge philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein.  Like KG, Wittgenstein had two completely different phases in his career (he is always studied as the early Wittgenstein and the later Wittgenstein).  Wittgenstein’s early philosphy was  taking Bertrand Russell’s logical atomism to its logical conclusion-inexhorably and saying this is not to belittle it;  in his later philosophy Wittgenstein completely repudiated his early theories and came up with a brilliantly original philosophy, one that was to have a lasting impact. Brilliant it was, it was also seemingly simple – Wittgenstein said he arrived at the basic idea by looking (at language use), rather than thinking about it as he did in his early phase.  One of his famous exhortations to fellow philosophers was “Look, don’t think.”  Where Wittgenstein looked (at language use) KG listened – to the folk music of Dewas, the town in Madhya Pradesh where he spent 6 years fighting a deadly disease.  Drawing from this experience his style of singing had something that could profoundly tug at very raw musical instincts that lie latent in everyone as also the refined ones.

Menon offers other insights into KG’s music such as his total disdain for exhibitionism of any kind in music – technical virtuosity or vocal power…  He did not leave you flabbergasted by holding on to a note for an eternity or spanning the three octaves in one taan….  In fact, his vocal range was pretty limited and he could not be bothered to extend it.  That, as Menon puts it, had not any place in his vision of music.  KG’s music was mesmerising despite – and because of – disturbing elements in his music.  The bandish or the composition that is often sidelined in the music of other masters (so much so that often one can barely discern the words) erupts in KG’s music forcing attention to a sudden syllable here and a word there.  Again, there was none of the leisurely, slow-paced vocalising of notes that is so characterisitic of Khayal music.  There are instead phrases (much like in Carnatic music) delivered with a sharpness that is only miraculously not harsh – short staccato phrases delivered with intensity in perfect pitch.  Surprisingly, while Menon talks of the Southern accent in KG’s music, he does not touch upon the Carnatic music’s engagement with musical phrases rather than notes.  If KG sought an alternative to what Menon calls the “scalar exploration of raga-s”, it was already there – in Carnatic music – and the possibility of his being influenced by it is not touched upon.

The book is no routine biography – it itself is a quest, a journey.  There is no chronological tracing of the major events in KG’s life; they do find a place in it but only in so far as they are relevant to Raghavan Menon’s quest of understanding the music of the man.  Menon says it is not so much to understand KG the man and his music but to understand ouselves that we need to try to place KG and his music.  The very fact that despite being so different KG could capture the imagination of thousands of music lovers and students does say something about them.  Yet does the book answer any question about KG or about ourselves as Menon would have it?  Engaging ideas are thrown here and there but never explored completely.  Converstaions with KG, and about him with Aldous Huxley, Vallathol, Krishna Chaitanya and not to forget —-the household cook in Dewas – all interesting tid bits, but all serving to heighten the mystique of KG and his music, not to analyse it.  Menon’s style of writing is anything but Kumar Gandharvesque – nothing is short and brief here.  He loves the long winded, picturesque sentence, and flirts frequently with ambitious, metaphysical ideas.

The quiet and beautifully understated production of the book, intense black and white photos of the master in concert by Avinash Pasricha, nearly impeccable editing all make for extremely fulfilling reading.

Lakshmi Sreeram

We often find people lamenting lack of concert manners among Carnatic music audiences.  Oh, they sing along, put the talam loudly, walk in an out as they please and so on.  But it is possible to see such audience behaviour as integral to the  character of Carnatic music, to its evolution and social presence.  It could be an irritant, but within limits, the utter informality of a Carnatic concert can be alluring; this came to the mind during a TM Krishna  concert for Nadopasana.

This was one of the front ranking carnatic vocalists of today, a highly sought after musician the world over, whose music embodies some of the finest things about Carnatic music.  And as for Carnatic music itself, it is one of the most sophisticated systems in the world, offering a magnificent combination of the rootedness in a great tradition, while allowing immense scope for improvisation and creativity.  The performance was before the Mylapore audience, most of which would be more than just music literate.  If there is an audience that knows its music, it is the Mylapore one.  And yet, the event happened with no fan fare.

The stage was absolutely no frills.  Musicians on stage were no frills either – informally attired.  Two tambura-s looming on either side of the vocalist, a violinist, mridangam and ghatam players completed the ensemble on stage.

Lights are dimmed to acceptability levels – both for the musicians on stage and the audience.  Krishna starts off with the Kedaragowla song Venugaanalola and sings it with superb bhavam.  The feedback is not great and there are some discussions on the stage.  The mikeman has disappeared of course.  Ritvik Raja, Krishna’s student, trots off to find him and brings him back.  Krishna signals to him to please remain available and the mikeman nods sulkily.  Any lesser musician would not have been able to get the elusive guy to stay put!

And then Krishna embarks on a raga alaapana of Atana.  As can be expected of him, nothing is on expected lines.  He is focussing on the raga and trying to work some crazy, mind blowing phrases around the dhaivatam and in saunters the photographer.  Man! Did he want photos!  The flashes went on and on for sometime until Krishna folded his hands and asked him to stop.  The photographer went away.  The violinist played Atana and Krishna embarked on epaapamu ne jesiti.  And the photographer was back!  All of us were disbelieving!  How many photos did the man need!  Krishna good humourdly grinned and did a small abhinaya – epaapamu jesitine!

Nadopasan Srinivasan, that utterly sincere man, walked up and down once or twice in his trademark veshti and shirt.  He makes a trip on to the stage to leave a couple of bottles of water.  Krishna asks him at one point – “Till what time Mama?  8.30?” “No, no 8.45.”   comes the reply.  Krishna runs his hand over his head – it is 8 pm and he has just finished an elaborate piece – Bhairavi swarajati with ragam, neraval, swaram, tani.  OK!  Lets do an RTP then.

This utter informality, to repeat the phrase, hides well the magnitude of the event that happened.  The training and practice of the musicians on stage, the ferocity of the working of their minds during the concert, the physical and mental effort that goes into this, the weight of the tradition of music, the listening experience of the audience, their sahrudayatva honed by years of listening to good music, the effort of the sabha people in putting together such a concert – all of these made this event.  But no fuss is made! Was the mikeman told how he must behave or the photographer told not to intrude?  When musicians like Ravi Shankar play, there is a list of do-s and don’t-s that the organiser disobeys at his peril.  The photographer must behave, the mike man must also behave and the audience too, of course, for the great man to play.  There is a code of behaviour too in Western music concerts and most Hindustani musicians like some panta when they perform.

But, the informal air of a carnatic music concert is something we must cherish – while always remembering that this music is truly one of the greatest things that the world has to offer.

(Jottings about events in the 2007 December season in Chennai.  Published in Sruti with the byline ‘Sarvalaghu’)

Margazhi was celebrated in the city with full gusto – music concerts, dance concerts, lecdems, tiruppavai pravachanam, other kathakalakshepams, awards, canteens… and this despite horrendous roads in many parts of the city and intermittent heavy rains.  Following are some stray reports and jottings about a few events during the “season”.

One of the earliest events in the city in December, heralding margazhi as it were, was a talk by John Strotton Hawley of Columbia University organised by Prakriti Foundation.  The talk, titled “Seeing the Bhakti Movement”, was on a peripheral, if interesting, aspect of the bhakti movement.  What stories about the bhakti movement can we find in sculpture and architecture?  What, about the bhakti movement, can we (literally) see?  With mild suggestions thrown in that to talk of a “movement” is a mere convenience, trying to understand one verse in Bhagavata Mahatmyam, a little known text, the talk was delicately nuanced.  And even though the lecture did not address this question, the question that one carried away was what our dance and music would have been without the bhakti movement!  This is not meant as a rhetorical question because surely, if the bhakti movement had not happened our dance and music would have moved in another direction.  Ah!  But which?  Actually, the course of classical dance forms perhaps has not been determined by the bhakti movement as music has been, especially Carnatic music….

Talking of bhakti, the tailend pieces in a Carnatic concert tend to be overtly and explicitly bhakti oriented.  Abhang-s and bhajan-s are, of course, immensely popular even when they are rendered with atrocious pronounciation and full Carnatic nuances. But seriously, there is enough variety in Carnatic music itself and the satisfaction of hearing or singing a tiruppugazh or tevaram or padam at the end of a concert cannot be matched by tirtha vitthala, kshetra vithala – but who is anyone to sermonise when janata janardan thinks otherwise!  What is really irksome is when these songs or any other tukada song is sung with explicit sentimentality.  If there is a “Muruga” or a “Krishna” or “Vitthala” in the song, then oh, one can expect to hear the singer tugging at those words, going progressively higher and higher until there is the all too predictable dramatic ending with a “Muruga!” at the tara sthayi gandharam or some such swara! 

There was this memorable concert of Gopalakrishna Bharathi songs by Sanjay Subrahmanyan a couple of years ago when he had the audience spellbound with neraval at aduttu vanda ennai tallalagadu.  There was Kambhoji pure and unadultrated – no sentimental toying with swaras or words.  It was truly moving and a member of the audience was so moved he suddenly got up and burst out with a muruganukku harohara!  Never mind that he got the wrong god, the feeling was genuine. The singer, however, just looked on impassively and went on to the next piece.  But that is how it should be.  A Carnatic vocalist should sing the kritis and ragas etc, and that itself will do the job of elevating.

The poor harassed mikeman was a villain in many places, as usual.  Srimushnam Raja Rao’s outburst while on stage with veteran Srikanthan and Ravi kiran (a unique event as billed by Carnatica) had the latter two squirming.  “If you would only leave the amplification at one level, I will know how to play.  You keep raising and lowering the mike, I have to raise my decible level too.”  He was obviously very irritated and continued, “Some people don’t like the mridangam and so they keep asking for the volume to be lowered – avaaloda kadai arutudanum.  Mridangam illamal enna sangitam?”  Anyone in his place would have been irritated, not everyone in his place would have burst out like this.  But all sympathies to Raja Rao Sir.  It is hard enough for the artists to settle into a concert and to have such avoidable extraneous factors is well, avoidable!  A senior Khayal vocalist in Pune once just packed up and left without singing for the AIR when she had to put up with the air conditioning coming on and going off thrice.  The instruments all had to be retuned each time and she had had enough….

Talking of mikes and mridangam players, one mridangam player was complaining that he did not have enough feedback during his concert for Nada Inbam.  And then he said something mind boggling – “I am here after playing for three concerts – it is such a strain for me if the mike is not set loudly enough.”

One can’t imagine the physical and mental exhaustion that such a feat must involve – four concerts in a day and that too a physically demanding one like mridangam accompaniment.  But it is surely no solution that the mike be raised to a level high enough to spare him more physical strain!  Such is the madness of this phenomenon of the mad mad season that many musicians, especially accompanists, perform at more than one venue on many days.  Accompaniment and any kind of performance in general, besides the physical demands, is a matter of having some instincts right and surely that must get dulled if one performs for such long hours.

Even vocalists perform at more than venue on the same day.  The more the merrier, as they say!

Kalakshtera flagged off its season concerts with a film by Chennai based R.V. Ramani called SEASON.  The film captures moments with most leading singers and dancers before, during and after their concerts during the 1996-97 season.  It is surely one of its kind and a must see.  Director Leela Samson also launched the Kalakshetra website.

Oh, and there were no mosquitoes!  I had gone clothed to take the Kalaksetra mosquitoes which can really bite through your clothing to get their share of your blood!  But, it was mosqui free!  I asked the girl sitting next to me in her dance practice costume:  “where are the mosquitoes?”  She looked a bit dazed, unsure that she had heard right.  Obviously a sense of humour is a rare occurrence among the students there.  It turns out Ms. Samson has come up with a simple solution – tortoise coils or Goodnight coils or whatever.  But she had these stuck all over the place and hey presto!  It is such a simple solution.  But not every evening during their series had these repellants, or so one hears!

OF TANPURA-S AND TAMBURA-S

Pt. Ulhas Kashalkar, one of the finest exponents of Khayal in the country, sang at Kalakshetra to a not very full house.  But those who were there enjoyed his Chayanat, Basant etc. immensely.  When someone mentioned he could have sung Patbihag or some other jod raga, the Pandit said with a smile, yes, but it is difficult to find good tanpura-s here!  Now where in the world did that come from, one wonders.  The point is that singing a complex raga requires a greater level of concentration and if the tanpura does not stay steady it can be really tough!

But, it should surely offend anyone in Chennai that we are deemed not to have good tanpuras/tamburas by the northies.  Pt. Kashalkar is not the only one who has this opinion.  But, it is a sad truth.  There is very little awareness about tanpura maintenance in this great cultural beehive that is Chennai.  The idea of changing strings regularly, keeping the bridge in good condition etc. are simply not part of the consciousness of the average Carnatic musician.

It might strike the most casual observer that in a Hindustani concert the tanpura –s are often retuned in the middle of a concert whereas in Carnatic concerts, while the tuning of the mridangam and violin are often adjusted, the tanpura is rarely retuned.  What can the reason be?  Maybe those Hindustani tanpuras don’t stay tuned while our Carnatic ones do?  Or maybe the singers are not senstive enough to the fluctuations in the tanpura’s tuning?

Most Carnatic vocalist perhaps don’t really use the tambura – they may take two or three tanpura-s on stage, but the question is to what extent are they really listening to it.  The more fundamental issue is whether the tambura can be heard clearly for most part of the concert – even by the musicians on stage, leave alone the audience!  The vocalists rely on the accompanying violin it seems for sruti!

One star singer started to tune the tambura on stage for her concert for Nada Inbam and the mridangam artist offered to do it.  She smilingly and willingly let him do it and when it was “done”, she did not think it necessary to check if it was indeed tuned properly!  Won’t be able to hear it anyway! Such a thing is astonishing, but there are many Carnatic vocalists who do not care to pick up the fine art of tuning the tanpura.  Especially now with the electronic tanpura coming in many shapes and sizes.

And, during the concert of a young singer, who actually had a tambura on stage, instead of just the electronic one, the tambura was quite off key.  The only person to be bothered by it was the poor tambura player.  At one point he could take it no more and tried to adjust the tuning but the singer and the violinist admonished him as respectfully as they could – you see time was running out and a couple more songs had to be sung!

There is another angle to this.  SVK, the late SVK of Nada Inbam, once told me that the kind of sruti shuddha that is an ideal in Hindustani music cannot be achieved in Carnatic music.  It ought not to be sought was his opinion.  There is something in this to mull over.  The pinpointed precision of notes that Hindustani musicians aim at is not the Carnatic musician’s objective.  The ubiquitous presence of gamaka-s and the greater value of azhuttam pushes this away somewhat.  More important is the madhyama kala rendition that is the norm in carnatic music.  Of course, there has to be a general sruti shuddham but it is different in kind from what Hindustani musicians aim at.  A related phenomenon here is the strident growth of the crooning style of singing among Carnatic vocalists, both male and female, which many connoisseurs deplore.  Would this be the result of a (perhaps misplaced) seeking after the pitch perfect?

Hamsadhwani of course ran its NRI festival and I did hear one of them – a lady from Madrid, Spain!  How in heavens does she keep it up – not that the music was outstanding or anything, but certainly there was hard work in it.  She sang Bhairavi (Yaro ivar yaro) with a detailed alapana etc. – with generous splashes of Todi!  The poor violinist (very much local) accompanying her shut her eyes tight each time the Todi garnish was thrown in.  Yet, it is a good thing that Ms Mohan was getting this platform to sing in Chennai.  Performance opportunites keep spirits up and eggs one on to improve and wherever these artistse are in the world, they do their bit about spreading Carnatic music.    That was the vison of RRC.  Of course Todi should be kept out of Bhairavi, and the sad thing is that these musicians and dancers perhaps just don’t get the right kind of feedback – the kind that is called constructive critisicm.

This is also the season for the Q and A.  Musicians are called upon to answer questions from members of the audience – and not all of them relish it.  But some positively revel in it.  There was this question put to Neyveli Santhanagolan on a TV programme.  The caller was obviously a young person, and her question was this:  “They say that if you sing the ragam Chandrakauns during a fullmoon night, a chakram (or some such thing) will rise from the waters.  Is this true?”  The question was so genuine and naiive and innocent!  Now, how in the world does one answer such a question?  It is like being asked by a child if Santa Claus is real!  There is much that is part of musical lore and a musician cannot rubbish it; at the same time one cannot blatanly say “yes” to such a question.  But, Santhanagopalan handled it with astonishing finesse.

There were many attempts at offering newer experiences to audiences besides the regular concerts and lecdems.  Mudhra with its penchant for the new and novel, included in its month-long series a few thematic presentations such as a multimedia presentation called “Ariyakkudi to Semmangudi”, and “Trimurthy Vaibhavam” and also held a quiz contest, besides running Carnatic music appreciation programmes.  Carnatica jumped into the December bandwagon with a series of concerts and presentation of the award “Nisshanka Sarangadeva” to Dr. V. V. Srivatsa.  Global Carnatic Music Association organised a series of events billed “Coffee with a Carnatic celebrity” and had musicians like Aruna Sairam, Neyveli Santhanagopalan, Ganesh Kumaresh, Sudha Raghunathan interact with interested people over coffee at Sangeetha Hotel outlet.

And so it goes, newer and newer programmes, longer and longer series, more and more sabhas….  They say the word “margazhi” is on its way into dictionaries other than Tamil to mean a musical and dance extravaganza!

Lakshmi Sreeram

Barring very few exceptions, the spectrum here ranges from apathy to dislike. While many South Indians take avidly to Hindustani music and even become competent performers, there is scarcely any traffic the other way.

The issue raises two questions. First, why do those north of the Vindyas not appreciate Carnatic music? And conversely, how is it that the people of the South are attracted to Hindustani music? More interestingly, why don’t Carnatic musicians, who are so supremely ignored by their Northern counterparts, return the compliment?

Stating a fact

The fact is Carnatic musicians feel compelled to engage with Hindustani music, if only in an uneasy relationship, as borne out by this scene. Its a TV show where a noted, youngish singer is teaching a kriti in the raga Kedaragowla. The singer says that if, instead of kaisiki nishadham in the arohanam, one uses kakali nishadham, it becomes Desh. And then, suddenly, he adds, “appadi padinomna 50,000 ruba sambadichudalam” (if we sing that way we can earn 50,000 rupees). The remark seems off the cuff, a spontaneous aside, and the reference is to the vast difference in the remuneration received by Carnatic and Hindustani musicians.

Obviously, some Carnatic musicians, beginning with Veena Dhanam, GNB, and others find something attractive about Hindustani music. There is the famous incident of GNB prostrating before Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, much to the chagrin of his fellow Carnatic musicians. Secondly, it is difficult to ignore that many South Indians take to Hindustani music and even become competent performers. And finally, but perhaps most importantly, Carnatic musicians cannot ignore the fact that those guys get paid SO much more!

The distressing question of the lack of a similar interest among Northerners in our music remains.

The late Subbudu once declared that North Indians are contemptuous of South Indians – their languages, their music, and their mannerisms and so on. A sweeping statement, which captures some truth while ignoring some others!

It is true that many North Indians have this image of the archetypal South Indian – unsophisticated, boorish, speaking Hindi and English with a pronounced accent. But surely, not all North Indians are prejudiced against all things South Indian. Don’t they love our idli, dosa and sambhar, Sridevi, and, on a more serious note, Bharatanatyam?

Let us visualise an open-minded Northerner at a Carnatic concert. Remember, he is used to the first few minutes of quiet music with sustained notes, meends or jharus, a low key harmonium, a non-intrusive tabla and the soothing sound of the tanpura! Now switch scenes to a Carnatic concert. The singer begins with a brisk varnam or appropriate kriti and a number of things happen – simultaneously. There is the singer keeping talam; there are lots of words, the mridangist and the violinist follow the singer, reproducing every sangati, creating a certain energy level – viruviruppu. Somewhere in all this the tanpura is lost! There is a gaiety, even festivity, which often characterises a Carnatic concert, rarely found in a Hindustani concert. It is only natural that the Northerner is bewildered.

A Southerner at a Hindustani concert has less to contend with, although this is not to say it is less complex. The build up, both in Khayal and Dhrupad music, is gradual and sophisticated. Doubtless, our Southerner will wonder when, or whether at all, the singer is going to move on beyond that mandra nishadha!

Of course, there is the sahitya aspect. A Carnatic concert lays great emphasis on kriti-s, which is actually a hurdle for the Northerner; but one should surely be able to appreciate a song in any language and our kriti-s are not just humdrum songs!

Granted, that any form of music, especially “art music,” demands constant exposure and some initiation on the part of the listener, it is arguable that it is easier for Hindustani music to grow on the outsider. Carnatic music presents a tougher shell. But this does not mean it is impenetrable to an outsider. Westerners have learnt to appreciate it, why, even perform creditably. But effort needs to be put in, and North Indians, to their discredit, are simply not willing to try to overcome the initial roadblocks in appreciating Carnatic music.

For reflection

It is worth reflecting though on some aspects of the presentation of Carnatic music. There is much eliminable noise in Carnatic concerts that listeners and performers have become desensitised towards. This merits reflection, not with a view to appealing to the Northerner, but simply to work towards greater refinement in our musical endeavours.

Ultimately, it might well be true that the North’s apathy to Carnatic music is due to complacency rather than prejudice. If the market worth of Carnatic music goes up to be comparable with that of Hindustani music, perhaps our Northern brethren will sit up and take notice. Money, and the power it brings with it, rules everything else, even appreciation of music. Now, why the fee commanded by Carnatic musicians compares poorly with that commanded by Hindustani musicians is a much larger, and more vexatious, question.

This article was published in the Hindu and can be found here.

Yo’yam dhvani viseshastu swaravarnavibhooshitah

Ranjako janachittaanaam raagah kathito budhaih

In the opinion of the wise, that particularity of notes and melodic movements, or that distinction of melodic sound by which one is delighted, is raga. (Matanga in Brihaddesi)