The first crossing
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Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar was, in the words of a contemporary, the "architect and maker of modern Carnatic music." He brought Carnatic music out from the purview of pure art to entertainment, introducing modernity yet keeping tradition intact. Exclusive extracts from the just published Voices Within Carnatic Music by Bombay Jayashri and T. M. Krishna with Mythili Chandrasekar.
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"The first reaction is of reverence, of reverential fear and respect for the father, the creator. When elders in the family dropped this name it was like they were talking about God Himself."
PHOTO: COURTESY PADMA NARAYANASWAMY
Commanding presence: Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar was the first to combine the scholarly with the popular.
THE oonjal in the living room of his house would start swinging at around 8.30 in the morning. He would take a pinch of snuff as he waited for his breakfast to arrive, humming to himself ... the first explorations of the day. Two idlis and a tumbler of coffee.
The oonjal would swing to and fro. Tossing a phrase here, turning a gamaka there.
Visitors and friends. Discussions on music, dates and terms for concerts.
Great routine
The oonjal would swing till 11 o'clock. Then the daily bath in lukewarm water. A man of great routine, his bath included a weekly ritual of massage with warm sesame oil sprinkled with pepper, washed off with shikakai, sometimes with the assistance of a disciple. That done, the oonjal would start swinging again. Mirror in hand, he would apply the white and red mark on his forehead — that took a meticulous half hour ... to honour the `Iyengar' that followed his name.
It was then time for another important ritual: an hour-long prayer, usually reading from the Ramayana and chanting Rama's name. It was his firm belief that everything was by the grace of Rama, or Raghavan, his favourite personal deity. Perhaps that is why he felt a particularly deep reverence for Thyagaraja, or Thyagabrahmam as he preferred to call him.
After lunch, the oonjal would swing through the afternoon till coffee and snacks at three. Then it was time for coaching disciples, concerts, and sometimes visiting friends. In the evening, there was palaharam, two idlis or dosas, and a tumbler of warm water or milk.
The oonjal would stop swinging by 11.30 at night. For Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar would have retired for the day.
* * *
His life and music followed the movement of the oonjal: like the pendulum, always equidistant from the central point, striking the golden mean. Neither too slow nor too fast, neither too abstruse nor too simplistic.
Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar was the first to combine the scholarly with the popular. He brought Carnatic music out into the open, from the purview of pure art to entertainment, introducing modernity yet keeping tradition intact. In the 1920s he introduced the shortened kutcheri as we know it today, with the varnam, a few short krithis, the mid-section consisting of a main raga and krithi followed by a ragam-thanam-pallavi, and the thukkudas towards the end.
The varnam, normally taught to students in the early part of their learning routine, became a concert opener largely under Ariyakudi. Other opening pieces would be precise and to the point, engaging the listener. This was followed by a slow introduction of masterpieces, interspersed with smaller numbers, setting them up for the grand ragam-thanam-pallavi. In contrast, a Maha Vaidyanathan Sivan concert of the 1890s would have a varnam, vathapi, sri subrahmanyaya namaste and straight into the ragam-thanam-pallavi — and about five hours later, a few thukkudas to end the show. Indeed, the idea that every concert must be a success, and that the artiste must work towards satisfying listeners was Ariyakudi's. He had the foresight to spot this and the vision to tailor his abilities to satisfy this need.
Proactive response
His was a proactive response to social imperatives. It was a time when the patronage of Carnatic music was shifting from princes, zamindars and community leaders to music enthusiasts who were coming together in the sabhas so unique to Carnatic music. A time when the centre of gravity of Carnatic music was shifting to Madras, a city that snatched the title of `cultural capital' from Thanjavur. With this came a paradigm shift: from a few listeners to many. From exclusive patronage to mass patronage, and therefore, from elaborate improvisation to briskness and brevity. From eight items per concert to almost twenty, there was also a change in the profile of the listeners: from pure reverential listening to tickets. Some of these people came for spiritual upliftment, others for entertainment, and yet others because it was the fashionable thing to do.
Perfect bridge
Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar clearly had his finger on the pulse of this mixed group. Converting what could have been a problem into an opportunity, he found the perfect bridge — the first crossing, as it were, that brought Carnatic music straight to where we see it today. The response was overwhelming. He applied the same wisdom and efficiency to his music, converting every problem into an opportunity. Whether it was his "lack of manodharma," as many saw it. Or the "fractional non-alignment of sruthi."
First, with intense discipline and practice he developed a large repertoire: it is rumoured that he knew the most number of songs, almost a hundred, in thodi alone! And going beyond this, he chose his compositions for the day intelligently, to accommodate not only his own voice but also the capability of his accompanists of the day, the occasion, the place where the concert was held, and even the mood and composition of the audience.
Next, he mastered technique. His raga alapana would not be longer than five minutes but within those few minutes he etched out the characteristic attributes of any raga he chose. It was his belief that the essence of Carnatic music was to convey raga bhava, and the alapana would reflect the embodiment of the krithi to follow. So while his raga alapana was brief, the perception was that people could actually guess which song he was going to sing by listening to the alapana.
Not for him the long swara korvais or the gimmick of speed. Even without singing long swaras, he managed to create excitement. His tight and precise neravals could take audience and accompanists alike to climactic heights ... his lalitaku in koluvamaregada and vasavadi in sri subrahmanyaya namaste are legendary examples. His swaras of kanulara in an All India Radio recording exemplifies his mastery of the oru avarthanam swarams — short, sharp phrases continuously rendered without many pauses, in a way that kept the violinists on their toes.
Golden mean
His hallmark was the madhyamakala or medium tempo, the golden mean. Between the slow and the medium, he carved a unique construct for himself that particularly suited his voice and gave it a special ravai or timbre. Deceptive and very difficult to emulate, he maintained this unique tempo throughout the concert and retained the audience's attention, in fact, famously so. His favourite and closest accompanist, Palghat Mani Iyer, is known to have said that he found Ariyakudi's kalapramanam tricky and elusive in the early years until he got used to it. Even then, it always remained a challenge, and an exhilarating one at that.
His native intelligence also helped Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar sight an opportunity in Tamil compositions. The Chettiar community, which patronised him, requested that he popularise Tamil songs so that the women of their community could enjoy Carnatic music a little more. Ariyakudi was quick to oblige. He built a sizeable repertoire, drawing from thevaram, thiruppugazh, thiruppavai, divya prabandham, Bharathiyar, and more. He set them to music and slipped them into his concerts, sometimes replacing Thyagaraja krithis. The audience lapped them up and other musicians soon followed in his footsteps.
PHOTO: COURTESY SAMUDRI ARCHIVES, SRUTI
At a wedding in S.S. Vasan's family: Ariyakudi with T.N. Krishnan on the violin, Palghat Mani Iyer on the mridangam, Palani Subramania Pillai on the kanjira. Sitting with them are Rajam Iyer, Madurai Krishnan, behind Palghat Mani is his student Palghat Raghu.
However, he took a principled stand when asked to sing only Tamil songs in certain sabhas or concerts, and insisted that he would not begin without a varnam followed by a krithi of Thyagaraja, which would be in Telugu. Extremism was not for him. The equidistant swinging of the oonjal, indeed.
His wisdom, intelligence, and mastery helped him define the music of the day, and won him unstinted praise from his contemporaries, his accompanists, and his disciples. And kept his flag flying for over fifty years. G. N. Balasubramaniam, a trailblazer of a very different kind, considered him his guru, calling him the "architect and maker of modern Carnatic music." Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer would refrain from sitting down in his presence till he was specifically requested to. Palghat Mani Iyer, a maestro in his own right, thought him an all-encompassing vidwan. He would sometimes stop playing his mridangam, as if to say "does this man really need it." He would refuse to play the thani avarthanam, as if to say "why change the mood."
Mysore Chowdiah once carried him on his shoulders after a concert on a kind of victory lap. At yet another time the Paramacharya of Kanchi removed his rudraksha beads... His disciples spent time with him as in the tradition of gurukulavasam. He is known to have had disciples who were not directly taught but would actually hide behind doors and learn while the teacher taught others. Frustration, depression, running away, being brought back, willingly doing all kinds of household chores, and feeling it was all `worth it' was part of learning from this maestro.
Failings
The vidwan also had his failings. He resisted the rise of women musicians ... till the writing on the wall refused to go away. He insisted on being paid at least a rupee more than other top artistes in All India Radio. At the same time he was quite reluctant to open his own purse. He would be willing to sing for friends as part of childish bargains, in return for a bottle of honey or his favourite pickle, or fruits and nuts or best of all, a small box of snuff. He once even agreed to sing all the way to Karaikudi in return for being driven there in his Standard car, which he himself didn't know how to drive. Child-like, he would angle for gifts like rings and watches. He once even asked for an oonjal he saw in someone's house.
Wealth of memories
He was a man who left behind a wealth of memories, and a vidwan with a commanding and dignified presence on stage, who left behind a wealth of music. As a connoisseur once said at the end of a concert: he has a great defect, which is, if you have heard him once, you are unable to take in any other music.
But then, the stars had foretold this. Indeed, the greatness of Ariyakudi owes much to his astrologer father, Thiruvengadam Iyengar. He had noticed the boy's habit of `mumbling' music all the time, always half singing or humming under his breath. One look at his horoscope, and the father apparently knew that music and success lay ahead. He decided to nudge it along, not only by identifying his first music teacher, Pudukottai Malayappa Iyer, but also by educating him in Tamil and Sanskrit literature.
Diligent practice under Namakkal Narasimha Iyengar paved the way further. The 16-year-old Ramanujam's voice filled the thousand-pillared hall in the temple of Lord Ranganatha at Srirangam early every morning till the sun's rays and worshippers started streaming in. The next ten years with Poochi Srinivasa Iyengar saw him being well and truly launched on to the concert platform.
Destiny, and the call of the voice within, did the rest.
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