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Melodies from far away

See Paris in spring before you die,' I read somewhere. Which is something that's not going to happen in my case. But, then, Ernest Hemmingway's A Moveable Feast gave me a fair idea of Paris. So did Hollywood movies like An American in Paris, The Last Time I saw Paris, Paris Blues and Last Tango in Paris. Unfortunately, the last named became more famous for certain erotic scenes than for depicting the beauty of Paris.

But there are consolations. Instead of Paris in spring, but I have been to Madras in December. I don't know how travel writers, or even Pico Iyer, will feel about this comparison. But Madras, in the month of December, comes culturally alive.

Normally, south India has no winter to speak of. But December and January do have cool mornings. The Tamil months of Margazhi and Thai are noted for early morning religious processions and bhajans. When we lived in Madras, these activities were concentrated in the brahmin areas of Triplicane and Mylapore. Today, too, they continue to be the centres of brahmin religious activities as well as the focus of cultural programmes.

Then, there were less than 10 clubs which cultural activities. Today, there are nearly 50 and the rasika (a music lover) does not know which sabha to visit. Hundreds of singers, both junior and established, participate in these kacheris (music programmes), which provide the budding singer with a rare opportunity to perform along with the maestros. The masters regarded the kacheris as opportunities to consolidate their position.

Music ran in our family, but I was not a connoisseur of Carnatic music. My mother sang beautifully. My sisters learnt music; the elder two even qualified for public performances. Two of my aunts were wellknown names in the fields of the veena and vocal music respectively. They performed regularly at All India Radio, and later on, Doordarshan.

In my boyhood, we had a bhagavatar (expert musician) who came home on weekends to teach my sisters music. We even had a music teacher when we were living in Tambaram, a suburb of Madras city, in the late 1940s.

When I was around nine or 10 years old, my parents urged me to learn Carnatic music. "You have a good voice," they said. I agreed reluctantly, but gave up after a couple of months because I was teased mercilessly by some of my friends. They gathered outside the window which faced the staircases and made faces at me while I practised my 'sa, re, ga, ma'.

Music, they believed, was for girls. Boys were supposed to play cricket, throw stones at the dogs and steal mangoes from the gardens. I did all these with enthusiasm, but occasionally wished my friends had left me alone to continue with my music lessons.

That feeling of regret remains to this day. In fact, it had become stronger. Though I never learnt music, I found I had an ear for Carnatic music. Whenever I attended kacheris, both the music and the accompanists enthralled me. Actually, I found the the accompanists more appealing.

M S Subbulakshmi was, of course, the supreme artiste, but the accompanists on the violin, mridangam and ghatam were equally enjoyable. And if the trio turned out to be T Chowdiah, Madurai Mani Iyer and Alangudi Ramachandran, my cup of happiness ran over. Chowdran used a special violin which had more strings than normal. It was worth travelling for miles to hear the jugalbandhis between the mridangam and ghatam vidwans.

The ghatam resembled an earthern pot made to certain specifications. Normally, the ghatam vidwan wore no shirt. Holding the ghatam close to his chest, he produced from it an amazing variety of musical sounds which were in harmony with the various ragas handled by the vocalist. Sometimes, he threw the ghatam in the air and caught in on its way down -- an act that ensured the audience's applause.

Each vocalist had his/her own style. Some were bound to tradition, other were bold enough to experiment. Some sang quietly, others grimaced, gestured and even made faces! It was great fun watching them. Since my knowledge of Carnatic music was rather limited, I preferred the tukda items which revolved around lighter music to the elaborate handling of the difficult ragas. One of my favourite singers was Chembai Vaidyanath Bhagavathar. His music literally exploded into your ears, for he had a harsh, grating, voice.

Though I don't know much I don't know much about Carnatic music today, I' sure that music will never die in Madras. There is something in the atmosphere of the region which encourages people to sing. The Music Academy kacheris were the litmus test for the singers. If the response was positive, they had made it.

M S Subbulakshmi, a stalwart of Carnatic music, is now a Bharat Ratna. No one deserved that honour more than the legendary MS. The soothing manner her songs brought the listener closer to the supreme supreme elements. I got a similar feeling when I listened to only MS' great contemporaries -- D K Pattamal, M L Vasanthakumari and N C Vasanthakokilam.

Not only is the above four dominate the women's section in Carnatic music; they also rendered melodious numbers in quite a few Tamil films. MS, of course, was Meera, Pattamal sang Bharati's patriotic songs in films made by AVM, while Vasanthkumari was favoured for songs which had a classical touch. Those melodies are still fresh in my memory.

Illustration: Dominic Xavier