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Songbird...

The veena is a delicate instrument. It has to be plucked and stroked gently. But this man pulled and grabbed and pushed and banged. What made it worse was that he had chosen to play an old, soulful raga called Sahana. And he chose to repeat the words, "Rakshasa Bhima." You know what it means! Just imagine listening to a noisy player repeating the words, 'a gigantic demon'. I choked as I stifled my giggles. Vadiva and Sakti were just as bad. Mother glared icily at us. But how could we stop laughing, especially when, at an explosive twang, the string broke and curled up with a squeak!

At another time, we had a musician who played the jalatarangam for us (jal means water and tarangam mean wave). The instrument consists of a set of china bowls, each filled with a different level of water. The player taps the bowls with two sticks and there you have it -- water music! It is like the tinkling of little bells.

I also listened to a lot of music on the radio. We didn't own one, but if I sat by the window halfway up the staircase, I could hear our neighbour's radio clearly. That is how I got introduced to Hindustani music. How enchanting it was to hear Abdul Karim Khan, Amir Khan or Paluskar, their voices sweetened by the silence of the night.

Hindustani music was not unknown to us in the south. The Maratha kings who had ruled over Tanjavur had made it popular among music lovers. I learnt Hindustani music for a while from Pandit Narayan Rao Vyas. This was to help me a lot when I grew up and acted in the film Meera. Then I had the privilege of singing Meerabai's songs. "Shyama Sundara Madana Mohana" was one of the songs that Pandit Vyas taught me. It was to become a hit when I sang it in Seva Sadan -- a film based on Munshi Premchand's novel.

Living a sheltered life as I did, what could I know of fashions? The only 'cosmetics' I had were turmeric powder and gram flour. There was kajal for the eyes and chaandu -- red and black paste stored in coconut shells, with which we made dots on the forehead. And, of course, coconut oil.

Mother used to get quite tired as she rubbed oil into my hair on Tuesday and Fridays. Then she would spread my hair out on the stone where we washed our clothes, and wash it with shikakai. My hair was long and thick and extremely curly. I smile when I see the corkscrew curls in my old photographs!

From the staircase window, I would watch the world outside. That is how I saw the girls in the opposite house getting ready to go out. They were dabbing something on their faces which made them white. Of course I didn't know it was face powder. I rubbed my hands along the white-washed wall and tried the effect on my face. You can imagine how irritated my mother was when she caught me at it. Her "Don't be stupid!" came with a slap.

I must tell you that street sounds were very different then from what you hear now. There was much less noise. Many more hawkers and vendors came by. They sold all kinds of goods, from vegetables to bangles. Then there was the man with the performing monkey; the snake charmer with his small pipe called magudi which played an eerie tune; the Govinda man who rolled across the street in yellow robes, as he collected alms to go to the Tirupati temple; the bhoom-bhoom maadu or the bull which told fortunes… each had his own way of singing and reciting. I remember the songs of the beggars. Never film songs, but catchy folk tunes. The beggar who made nightly rounds used to sing a haunting Hindustani tune!

I was also fascinated by records -- gramophone plates, we called them. Inspired by the gramophone company's logo of the dog listening to his master's voice, I would pick up a sheet of paper, roll it into a long cone, and sing into it for hours. This dream came true sooner than I expected, when my mother took me to Madras to cut my first disc. I was 10 years old and sang in an impossibly high pitch!

I lost my father at about the same time. He was a lawyer. His heart was not in the court, but in his puja room with Sri Rama. Every year he would celebrate the Rama Navami festival with great love and care. The picture of Rama, decorated beautifully with flowers, would be taken through the streets in a grand procession. This was on the saarattu, an open, horse-drawn buggy. How proud I felt when father picked me up and made me sit with him on that saarattu! After the rounds, the picture would be carefully taken into the house, and after the puja, father would lead the group singing of bhajans (hymns). Then came what all the children waited for: the distribution of prasad (food that was sanctified by offering it to God)!

As a child, I had a pet name. Everyone called me Kunjamma, which meant little girl. But my father had another special name for me. It was always "Rajaathi, my little princess!" He was very proud of my singing. He would say that he would get me married only to someone who would cherish my music. Then he would laugh and tease, "So how about a nice boy who plays the tambura? Do you fancy such a husband?"

I have one more green memory to share. Dakshinamurti Pillai was an awe-inspiring musician of those times. He played the mridangam and the ghatam. A wedding in his family drew a whole galaxy of musicians. Young and old, they came to his hometown Pudukkottai, not only to attend the function, but also to perform their best before the veteran. I was a young girl then, but I was given the chance to sing in that assembly. The next day, as we took leave of him, Pillai made us sit down. He turned to his fellow musicians, many of them top performers of the time. He said, "You heard this child yesterday. No fuss, no show, no fireworks. Didn't she sing straight from the heart and give us excellent, wholesome music? That is the kind of music which will always stay fresh, and last through a lifetime."

I was so overcome by these words that I shrank behind mother and tried to turn invisible. But he called me forward and gave his blessings.

Right from childhood, just as I felt devotion towards God, I felt a deep respect for my elders. Whenever something good happened, I believed it was due to their good wishes. And I must say that right through my life I was lucky to get their blessings.

My first important performance as a singer was at the Music Academy in Madras. It was to be a full-fledged, three-hour concert there before an audience of musicians, critics and music lovers. I was 18. I shivered and trembled before the event. Trying not to look at the listeners, I went up to the stage, sat down, checked the tuning of the tambura, and began.

Suddenly, my fears fell away. I sang with joy. Chemba Vaidyanath Bhagavatar, a well-known singer, had been sitting at the back. He got up and came to the front row, loudly expressing his approval. Others too were quick to say "Bhesh! Bhesh!" and "Shabhash!" I treasure the words of the great veena player Sambasiva Iyer. He said, 'Subbulakshmi? Why, she carries a veena in her throat!'

That concert at the Music Academy was a very big step for me -- a step towards a lifetime of singing. And of devotion and service through the pursuit of music.

Excerpted from Past Forward, as told to Gowri Ramnarayan, Oxford University Press, 1997, Rs 275, with the publisher's permission.

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