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Unique touch: T.S.Kalyanaraman.

Daughters Visalakshi and Saraswati took to music passionately and as they sang, the spark in young Kalyanaraman was kindled. Before long, Thanjavur S. Kalyanaraman’s presence was felt in the world of Carnatic music.

At Madras, (where he had shifted from his domicile, Aravangadu) illness prevented Kalyanaraman from taking the final year exams at the Presidency College. He refused to take the exams in September. Kalyanaraman was a proud man — a pride that, in later years, as a performer, prevented him from actively seeking performance opportunities. He also instructed this principle to his students: “If you don’t have kutcheris, work as you would do in an office. Efforts never go waste.”

Periappa N. Ramachandran, Kalyanaraman’s host at Madras was a music rasika. Many musicians visited his house. One day, Kittamani Iyer, a music teacher, heard Kalyanaraman sing and said, “His voice and style are akin to that of GNB’s.” Without much delay, Kalyanaraman was escorted to GNB’s house.

“What’s there for me to teach? You’re already singing so well.” The large-hearted remark from GNB evinced a level-headed response from the youngster. Lessons commenced and before the end of one year, Kalyanaraman was providing vocal support to his guru. In 1949, he gave his first solo concert at Gokhale Hall. Guru GNB was in the audience, beaming his approval at the individualistic touches, Kalyanaraman was imparting to his bani.

In 1984, a review from a Bombay newspaper applauded, “He (Kalyanaraman) is not a musical parrot singing what he learnt from his guru.”

Over the next four and a half decades, music gave Kalyanaraman peace but not satisfaction and he ceaselessly endeavoured to unravel the mysteries of his Muse. From this approach followed pallavis in vivadi ragas like Tanaroopi and Sucharitra rendered further challengingly with Grahabheda (modal shift of tonic) and nadai (beat) variations. He popularised 36 ragas that eschewed ‘Pa’ but used both the varieties of ‘Ma’ and presented lecture demonstrations on them.

Hindustani ragas were presented with “The Ustad touch” as the Hindustan Times enticingly captioned one of his concerts. Accompanists, stalwarts in their own rights, went on record to say, “If it is a Kalyanaraman kutcheri, we have to be alert.” Kalyanaraman, on his part, was vocal in appreciating his accompanists. The man was reputed to be straightforward but his music was not. It was ‘vyavahara laden’ (replete with complexities). The buzzword was, “If it was easy, Kalyanaraman would not do it.”

“What is this forceful inhalation and exhalation that I hear?” Sister Subbulakshmi switched on the lights to see her brother, palms placed on abdomen, doing a breathing exercise. “Shhh, I’m trying to identify the originating position of the seven swaras in the human body. Hasn’t Tyagaraja in his ‘Swararagasudha’ suggested that?”

Kalyanaraman subjected his voice to various experiments. He was incensed when he heard Hindustani musicians describe Carnatic music in disparaging terms as “Besur” (off-pitch). “They don’t understand our anuswarams,” he would defend but nevertheless he continuously worked on methods to improve sruti suddham. He wanted to bring out as a book all the techniques that he devised. The book remained a lasting desire.

But he taught unflinchingly to his students all that he knew expecting nothing in return but devotion to the art. To the apathetic, his behaviour was stern. “Place this between your lips and practise akaara,” he commanded thrusting a three-inch long stick into his student Brinda’s hands. And come back only if you can produce a neat one.” “He was a difficult teacher to learn from but he would also analyse if anything had gone wrong with his teaching,” wife and student, Bhushany reveals. “Perfection was the goal and no effort was too much to attain that.”

Kalyanaraman’s musical experiments fructified as original varnams, kritis in rare ragas like Madhuri and Vanathi, tillanas and ashtaragamalikas.

In the ragamalikas, the ragas proudly revealed their names but the composer chose not to affix his mudra to any of his creations. He tuned the ashtapadis of Jayadeva only in Hindustani ragas, incorporating his unique touch. After all, wasn’t Jayadeva from Orissa? Kalyanaraman’s recitals of these included fast-pace taans too. Listening to his disciple sing Suddhananda Bharati’s ‘Nilayam Onru Enukku Arulvaai,’ GNB walked up to him and demanded, “Teach me this and give me the notation.” And that, one supposes, is the final word.

Notating songs was another of Kalyanaraman’s strengths. He brought out as a book the notated compositions of GNB. Kalyanaraman’s CV lists barely a couple of awards, one of them posthumous. But to him music was, by itself, rewarding. His tambura never stopped resonating.

The night of January 9, 1994, as he went to bed, Kalyanaraman suggested to Bhushany, “Begin your forthcoming radio recital with the song Gananaayakam.” These were almost his last words. At 1 a.m. Kalyanaraman woke up with a severe chest pain and asked for some water. A few seconds later his wife gently touched him on the shoulder and asked, “Are you feeling better now?” Silence prevailed. The tambura continued strumming in the background.

A documentary film on Thanjavur Kalyanaraman will be screened at 6 p.m. The agenda includes release of CDs, and felicitations.

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