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Pattammal, truly a class apart

Photo: Hindu Archives

Musician nonpareil: D.K. Pattammal.

The end of an era. How else do you describe the passing away of Damal Krishnaswamy Pattammal (1919-2009)? Has her death not restored power and poignancy to a well worn cliché?

Musicians and scholars, artists of every genre, and music lovers of three generations, rushed to pay their last respects to the grand old lady of Carnatic music. Each felt a profound sense of awe in linking the frail figure to her singularly pioneering achievements. The television cameras and soundbyte searches seemed wholly alien to the austere spirit that permeated her life and art.

Her journey is widely known and well recorded. No girl of her generation, born in an orthodox Dikshitar family, could hope to pursue singing, even as a hobby. Rasikas though they were, her parents had neither musicianship nor financial means to develop her talent. But they supported her in overcoming the mounting hurdles.

Patta’s love of music was inflamed when she heard the stalwarts of Carnatic music in hometown Kanchipuram at temples, weddings and at the Tyagaraja festival organised by titan Naina Pillai. Pillai’s laya mastery made him a legend in his time, and Patta’s manasiga guru. She never admitted that Naina Pillai terrified his full bench of accompanists. Rather, she would announce proudly, “He was a lion. Naturally he towered over everyone!”

Stories are told of how she and her three brothers jotted down kritis with notation during live concerts, practised and perfected them at home. Even in those days of little publicity, Patta’s gifts were recognised early in life. Her live singing in a school drama brought an offer from the Columbia Recording Company and drew the ire of family elders: Who will marry a girl who sings in public? The criticism continued through the process of learning from sources as disparate as the unknown Telugu musician who volunteered to teach little Patta, and Ambi Dikshitar, scion of the Muthuswami Dikshitar parampara. All her life, DKP was to accumulate her vast multilingual repertoire from teachers such as Tiruppugazh expert Appadurai Acharyar, pallavi specialist Narasimhalu Naidu, composers Kotiswara Iyer, Periyasami Thooran and Papanasam Sivan.

She never mentioned T.L.Venkatrama Iyer, from whom she imbibed an imposing heritage of Dikshitar’s compositions, without shedding tears, especially when she recalled how he refused to die until Pattammal rushed to receive his blessings as the recipient of the Sangita Kalanidhi award from the Madras Music Academy.

“God’s grace made me a musician,” she said invariably, pulling the pallav closer across the shoulder. Never once did she claim that her own will and razor-sharp intelligence triumphed over the hurdles.

Irascible husband R. Iswaran suffered neither fools nor foolishness. He protected his wife from both, leaving her free to hone her art. Pattammal had the incredible good luck to have her own brothers as accompanists at different stages, and watching Jayaraman develop into a Sangita Kalanidhi himself. She also had the rare distinction of performing on stage, accompanied vocally by daughter-in-law Lalitha, granddaughters Gayathri and Nithyashree, great granddaughter Lavanya, and on the mridangam by son Sivakumar.

Long-term violin accompanist T. Rukmini never found the least trace of the superficial in DKP. “Whether khanda nadai in tisra Triputa, or misra nadai in Adi talam, every part of the pallavi was shaped with finesse, precision, commanding total silence, often with seniors seated upfront Semmangudi, Musiri, MS, Dr.S.Ramanathan. After that masterly exposition she would launch ‘Petra Tai Thanai’ and melt into tears. I too found myself crying. Suddenly I saw every eye in the hall was moist.”

As DKP’s sole male accompanist besides her brothers, Vijay Siva (disciple of both DKJ and DKP) was astonished by her energy. “She was not conscious of the mike, but her voice sounded as electrifying as if amplified on a bass speaker. At age 82 she was able to bring off ‘Dharma samvardhini’ (Madhyamavati) with a sense of fullness and depth.” Siva found her evolving everyday, investing old songs with freshness. He explains, “While she made adjustments in the old patanthara to improve and correct, there were authentic reasons for her refusal to change some sangatis. For example, she made me retain what I thought was an alien phrase in a Mukhari kriti from her 1958 recording. I later discovered that the prayoga was perfect Mukhari when hyphenated by a pause."

Everyone knows that Pattammal’s mastery of laya established her as ‘Pallavi Pattamal,’ on a par with male performers. The sentimental had no place in her oeuvre, not even in patriotic songs or folk tailpieces. Says Neyveli Santhanagopalan, “Her tukkadas had the same gravity as a ‘Minalochana Brova.’ Listen to her Syamaladandakam. Each ragam has a regal gait. Like the veena, DKP’s music sounds divine, not because of her obvious technical perfection, but from her visranti, nidaanam and disciplined faith.”

Her accompanists found Pattammal an affable travel companion, ready to enjoy jokes, but talking always about music. “Naina’s Bhairavi was pure essence,” she would say, or, “Rajaratnam Pillai made you wonder if his music came from heaven.”

Pattammal’s own music had that impact on the young. After a DKP recital at the Music Academy, the adolescent T.M. Krishna came running down from the balcony. “I was crying. I became aware then that music is more than mere excitement.”

Bombay Jayashree is amazed by the equanimity with which the senior musician faced everything in life: remaining graceful, contented, with a lifelong commitment to her ideals. “Listening to DKP is to feel secure, knowing we are not alone. Seeing how successful she was as wife, mother, homemaker and musician, we felt we could do it too.”

Jayashree is inspired by the chiselled perfection of DKP’s music in compositions both resplendent and plain. To her, as to many others, DKP’s pathantara is the definitive source of reference in sangitam and sahityam.

Gayathri Venkataraghavan says, “She makes a complex sangati sound simple because so much thought has gone into it. It is subtle. The most important lesson for us is the absence of unwanted improvisation.”

Bearing the stamp of tradition as it did, DKP was also able to delight the masses at national conferences, Congress rallies, memorial services for leaders like Mahatma Gandhi. Many of her film songs (from yesteryear ‘Naam Iruvar’ to present day ‘Hey Ram’) became hits.

Vocalist Lakshmi Rangarajan, walking into DKP’s house on a condolence visit, was moved but not surprised, when she found an autorickshaw driver waiting in his vehicle, visibly captivated by DKP’s voice on the radio. No, not a film song, but an immaculate rendering of ‘Kamakshi,’ Muthuswami Dikshitar’s Bilahari gem!

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