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Photo: K. Pichumani

poignant moments recalled: (From left) Rajsekar, Rita Ganguly, Sowmya, Jayanthi Kumaresh, Charumathi Ramachandran and Kalapini Komkali.

Vocalist, veena player, musicologist, researcher and linguist, Dr.S.Ramanathan remained a child at heart.

He was a lakshya-lakshana vidwan who showed how lakshana aspects can also appeal to everyone.

He was accessible to all. Classes began at 6.30 a.m. Anyone could join and leave at any time.

He taught children little songs before starting on sarali varisai to impart laya and sruti gnanam without intimidation.

He devised combinations in different ragas to make them complex even for seniors.

Those who sang well were rewarded with Re.1. Mistakes? You had to pay a Re.1 fine!

Sometimes he would ask a dancer among us to do abhinayam for the song being taught.

He made everyone sing kalpanaswara, sometimes even the escorting parents!

Dr. Ramanathan hated rest and sleep.

He spent the whole day teaching, singing and playing the veena, and the evenings at performances, his own or others.

At night I remember falling asleep over the veena until he sent me to bed. He would then sing Hindustani music.

He carried a notebook to jot down what he learnt from all the time, and left a pile of papers with valuable information.

He was not just guru, but Thatha (grandfather) to me. I grew up in his house, saw how he sang with discernment and understanding.

His approach to rakti ragas was exemplary.

No spoon feeding, he himself would start researching if anyone came with a query. I realised that this is how you keep learning something new about even things you think you know.

Photo: K. Pichumani

On the greatness of the guru: N. Murali, M.D., The Hindu, addressing ‘The Hindu November Fest’ symposium at Taj Connemera.

“Guru” is a word of power. It is almost a mantra. The guru is the guide who removes darkness and leads the disciple into light. Saints and scholars have written about what the guru means to them. A favourite image is that of the Guru as the skilled Boatman who rows the disciple across turbulent oceans and takes him safely ashore. Knowledge and liberation can never be reached without the right guide.

These metaphysical concepts are inseparable from the world of Indian art. Since art is seen as the process of bhakti, the artiste is a bhakta who can get nowhere without his guru. Self-help manuals, Teach Yourself Raga CDs, Learn Laya in 50 days DVDs are useless here. At best they can be aids to what is orally learnt from the guru.

Oral transmission, personal bonds and individual training still remain indispensable in learning Indian classical music. The IT revolution has not been able to replace the guru with machines. True, machines have made every kind of music accessible to everyone. To some extent, such democratisation has taken place at the cost of individual identity.

Indiscriminate multi-source learning can produce uniformity, and lack of identity, in our young musicians.

True, not every guru past and present was or is exemplary. But the best know that music cannot be taught like theorems and formulas to a set annual syllabus. The teacher knows the different stages at which the disciple is ready to receive what is imparted. The gurukula system demanded trust and surrender from the sishya. In turn it gave identity and bred strength and endurance in the disciple. After all what binds the guru and sishya then, as now, is not just a mental exchange, or physical training. It is a soul force.

Twins born to a second wife, Akhtari and her identical twin Zohra were inseparable.

The father, with a wealthy first wife in Lucknow, visited them less and less. Zohra died by poisoning. Misery followed, including the burning down of her house.

The mother accidentally discovered Akhtari could sing. Her career was launched when established musicians boycotted a free fundraising music conference.

Little Akhtari got a slot and became a star. HMV recorded her ‘Diwana banana’ which made the whole subcontinent mad.

She had become the State singer for Bhopal, Hyderabad and Rampur, when she was forced into hibernation. She was a fighter, and came back with a little sister in her arms. Therefore, despite her ascent as a singing star Akhtari had to undergo endless pain.

She gave up music for marriage and respectability. But eight dumb years and six miscarriages later she opted to sing and retain her sanity.

She dreamed of finding her father’s love and protection until the illusion was shattered upon meeting him with his family. She went back to school in Kirana gharana and resurfaced in the 1950s. As Begum Akhtar she reinterpreted music with a rare and intense simplicity.

She became a sensation overnight, again.

Begum Akhtar knew rejection, frustration, deception and loneliness. The best part of her music is in its intimate sense of pain. She communicates this hidden pain in all of us. Everyone who listens to her believes that Begum Akhtar is singing exclusively and individually to each one of us.

Kumarji said that most musicians sing thoughtlessly. Forging his own style with fresh thought processes, he created new ragas, some based on folk tunes of Malwa, composed in traditional ragas, gave thematic concerts based on the seasons.

Like an archaeologist, he rediscovered forgotten aspects of music. A rebel? He broke away from gharana configurations but it was a return to the basics. He said, “I use space and silence. Then my tanpura continues to sound the notes.”

Kumarji’s creativity was sparked by everyday situations. “Apke bulawa hai” is a dialogue about forgetting a friend’s invitation. “Karan dere” arose when his baby son demanded total attention. A Shrikalyan piece paints twilight colours with two evening raags.

Demanding from sishyas loyalty, seriousness and love for music, he even taught a tehsildar who couldn’t sing to save his life because he had shraddha. I observed him as a father, husband and guru. My mother, also his disciple, taught me to listen, learn and understand his music. I cannot imagine my journey without her guidance. In the initial stages he emphasised practising only the swaras, matching my voice with the tanpura. His teaching was not performance-oriented, but about understanding music.

If I did overlong riyaaz he’d say, stop, read a book, do some gardening. He taught me to see the changing sky, the shades of dawn and dusk, feel sharpness of the noon, observe the rain, understand the zest of the farmer growing crops. My guru changed my understanding of life. He once wrote, “Those I followed for a long time I’ve now left far behind. But when I look around and behind me, I see everything is just ahead.” He was a drashta (seer), a yugapurush.

I became MLV’s disciple at age 12. She’d say that every concert is an examination, but sishyas never saw her preparing or practising. Only the new songs would be sung, and she’d say, “You learn it properly, I’ll catch up on stage.” And so she would!

She depended on the creative muse and it never failed her. She imbibed her parents’ music, amalgamated it with her guru G.N.Balasubramanian’s bani, and left her own stamp on whatever she sang. She said to me sadly that till the end her parents never gave her music their wholehearted approval.

She stressed on singing pleasantly, in sruti, without straining the vocal chords. She also insisted on good pronunciation and raga bhava. She used syllables in her tanam that purists objected to, but she thought they brought lilt and verve.

Janta prayogas marked her swaras. Her brigas were sung clearly. She swept through all the octaves in raga alapana to give a full picture, her imagination adding unexpected touches in a rare Shivashakti, or a well known Saveri.

She didn’t have the time to teach me personally. The platform was itself a place of learning. We were very alert on the stage. She encouraged me very early to sing niraval and swara. She collected compositions from various sources. Of course Purandaradasa songs were her speciality. Some had such intricate sangatis. I am still struggling with some of those sangatis that she brought off so effortlessly.

She was blessed with a naturally fine voice, intelligence, genes. She was not so lucky in other departments. But that’s all right. Only her music lives on, not her troubles.

In the guru-sishya relationship what was passed on was not art alone, but vinaya, wisdom. The focus was on vidya. I wonder if my father knew the names of his children – seven daughters and myself, the only son. My mother managed everything, left him free to sing.

I learnt every moment I spent with my guru, even on the concert platform. I hate the term “music class.” A music session cannot be a timebound class, it’s an event in one’s life. It changes your personality, even of you’re learning the same raga. A fan has 38 recordings of Bihagada sung by my guru, each unique. Think of the knowledge, energy, application and dedication behind that!

My father could sing 300 ragas, including the aprachalit (unfamiliar) ragas that our gharana is known for, and many bandishes in each. In Chayanat he knew 42 compositions. Can you sing them all? But each added to his knowledge of its facets, more possibilities for creativity. His vocal accompanist for 50 years, I never knew the extent of his knowledge. Once, on a taxi ride from Hubli to Dharwar, he suddenly came out with an unheard “Nisadin more” and taught it to me there and then. My father thought only of sadhana. Padma Vibhushan at 80 made him say, “I have to do more.” He gave a major concert two months before he died at age 82. No wonder it was said that his address was not of number and street, but simply “Mallikarjun Mansur, Music.” For him singing was living.

Film and music director, chess player, photographer and musician (kanjira, tabla, sitar, veena) vidwan S. Balachander was a larger than life multifaceted genius. He didn’t want to emulate any existing style. He crafted his own techniques to play six notes on a single fret, and a whole alapana with dasavidagamakams. His asurasadhakam explored tuning areas near the pegs. He introduced machine head tuning for greater power, designed a pick up exclusively for the veena.

To him raga alapana was the epitome of Carnatic music. His 45-raga concerts had no rhythm, no pakkavadyam, only the veena in all its majesty, and audiences gasping at every raga shift. He didn’t feel the need for a huge kriti repertoire. Once when I innocently suggested that we start with the navaragamalika varnam, he played alapana for all nine ragas, and kalpana swaram, finishing the concert with Sriragam! At a government function he had the chattering audience stand up for 45 minutes when he played Jana gana mana, with niraval and swaram.

Every class was a magic show. Once he made me open his Dikshitar book with my eyes closed. It opened to ‘Ardhanarisvaram.’ He gave me 30 sangatis for the first line alone, not to be played in order, but for choice, and to learn all possibilities in prayogas. For Balachander music was an unending exploration.

His veena was studded with navaratnas, a golden Lakshmi and Saraswati, ivory pegs, and swathed in a specially woven, multi-coloured shawl. People were awestruck when he swept it off flamboyantly. No tuning on the stage. The first deep note announced grandly, “I am here!”

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