Sync In

No performance in Bharatanatyam, Kuchipudi or Mohiniyattam can be executed without the Nattuvangam. What makes this instrument so special that a dance recital is never complete without this?

Aadith Seshadri

Nattuvangam (also called as Thaalam)- a pair of metal alloy cymbals with one being flat, hard and base, and the other being small, cupshaped and shrill, is a rhythm instrument which is played, basically, for maintaining the tempo (Kalapramanam) and for executing the rhythmic nuances incorporated in the dance recital. The three major roles of a Nattuvanar (the artiste, generally the guru, who yields the Nattuvangam) in an orchestra is to maintain the time cycle, play and recite rhythmic patterns known as Jathis or Korvais to which the dancer executes pure dance movements (Nritta sequences comprising of Adavus) and conduct the orchestra in harmony. This instrument has always been the forte of the Guru because it is the guru who, also takes the role of the choreographer, knows the nuances of music and dance and thus harmonizes the co-artistes to embellish the dancer’s portrayal. Thus this instrument gives the person yielding it, dignity and stature. In recent times however, dancers themselves choreograph their repertoire, and freelance Nattuvanars, with good rhythmic and time keeping competence, have come to be a part of the orchestra. Yet, it is undeniable that one who yields the cymbals has a great responsibility in knowing all aspects of the performance, such as the music orchestration, dance choreography and not just the rhythmic execution. 

My keen sense of rhythm was observed by my parents during my childhood. I remember, playing the imaginary Guru, and with a pair of Bhajan Jalras conducting an orchestra and correcting an imaginary student. Like all young students, I was trying to imitate my Gurus rehearsing an Arengetram! I am fortunate to have gurus, Koothambalam Sri Aravindan and Smt VasanathaAravindan, from whom I learnt Bharatanatyam, and late guru Dr Vempati Chinna Satyam – The Kuchipudi Arts Academy, where I learnt the art of Kuchipudi, who have inspired, influenced and motivated me in many ways in both my “center” stage and “side” stage performances. 

Learning is a journey. And, this journey can be walked on many paths. One path is learning from a teacher, and the other is learning from experience. I have been blessed to have been identified by Gurus Sri Narasimhachari and Smt Vasanthalakshmi, who, are known for their multifaceted excellence in Bharatanatyam, Kuchipudi, and Carnatic music, and more popularly known for their prowess in rhythm and its complexities in Natyam, and to accompany them for Nattuvangam in their orchestra. That was when I was introduced to the dance fraternity as a Nattuvanar. What I knew then about rhythm was exiguous and what I was assigned to execute was prodigious. The on-the-job training I had with them initiated me in comprehending the rhythm structures in general, and its artistic incorporation and the complex execution in dance choreographies. Their forte being “cross rhythms” – where the Nattuvanar recites a particular (and generally a complex) rhythmic pattern and plays a totally opposite or even more complicated rhythmic pattern on the cymbal – was indeed a herculean task for me, considering the trivial knowledge I had then. Thus, I walked on the path of experience. 

My learning phase came with the guidance from Gurus Vasanthalakshmi and Narasimhachari to the veteran mridangist and Late Guru Sri Madurai T Srinivasan (Seena Kutty Sir). This phase of learning provided me a holistic understanding of rhythm, patterns, and its execution in Nattuvangam. My one-to-one classes with Sir were always interesting and challenging, as he taught me how rhythm is played in the percussions and made me work on them. I would always try to find ways in executing the rhythmic complexities played in the Mridangam into Nattuvangam. Though I know it is a juvenile imagination of interpreting a rhythmic structure played on an instrument with infinite tonal combinations into another instrument which had just TWO tones, it  helped me  to search for possibilities, and thus enhanced my understanding.

Every performance and every artiste whom I have accompanied for have given me abundant knowledge in enriching my understanding of this instrument. From day- to-day rehearsal routines to the on-stage performances, I cherish every moment of those invaluable experiences as I accompanied veterans like Smt. Vyjayanthi Mala Bali, Smt. Chitra Visveswaran and other performing gurus.  Being a dancer myself, added the ability in better understanding of the performer’s needs. This provided me a platform to conduct dance recitals with adeptness. I feel fortunate in having the opportunity to interact with these great artistes.

It has been an exhilarating journey for me so far, but as the poet says, “there are miles to go before I sleep’…… I await with humility for more elevating experiences in my artistic journey.

The writer is a Chennai-based dancer and nattuvannar

God's Own

The temple, the stage and the street; the sound of Gods and the sound of Man; in a collective ensemble and as a solo instrument, the Chenda straddles diverse worlds with ease. A glimpse into the life- journey of Chenda...

V Kaladharan 

Chenda, the indigenous percussion-instrument of Kerala, is singularly distinctive amongst a plethora of percussions all over the world commonly categorized under the title: Drums. Of the eighteen major musical instruments graded by the great practitioners of yore, Chenda has been treated as the foremost musical instrument in Kerala for depth and volume of the sound produced.

This hollow cylindrical drum is made of Jack-wood both surfaces of which are covered by cow-hides. Cotton ropes run through the leather-surface technically called vattom. The tightening and loosening of the ropes generate necessary tensions on the two faces of the instrument. The left-surface (edanthala) is the space of main discourse on the Chenda while the right-surface (valamthala) is played to add to the rhythm or to invoke moments of auspiciousness in the music of art forms like Kathakali.

Like other traditional musical instruments in vogue, Chenda came into being as part of the Hindu temple-rituals. For the poojas in all the major temples of Kerala, chenda is an inevitable component of a whole ensemble. Outside the sanctum-sanctorum but within the Nalambalam (the outer structure encircling the sanctum), Chenda reverberated probably dating back to 9^th or 10^th century. In a consistent process of evolution, Chenda progressed to three main genres; Melam, Thayambaka and Kathakali Melam.

For the collective ensemble, Melam, Chenda is the lead instrument heavily supported by the beats on the right-surface of the same instrument, the two wind instruments – Kuzhal (a clarinet-shaped instrument) and the kompu, a mini-trumpet besides pairs of huge cymbals. The helmsman of the Melam is called Pramani under whose direct and suggestive supervision the rest of the players acts and reacts. The key negotiation is between the Chenda and the Kuzhal in a Melam. The collectively blown Kompus signal the shifting of the tempos. Panchari, Pandi and Chembada are the three well-established Melams based on the time-beats of 6, 7 & 8 respectively. Melams performed in front of the caparisoned Elephants and the flames of traditional torches epitomize the grace and grammar of a collective endeavour. Individual artistry is least pronounced in any Melam. The Poorams (festivals) of Peruvanam, Arattupuzha, Thrissur and Kuttanalloor in Thrissur District are hubs of Melams in Kerala.

Thayambaka, the highly sophisticated solo performance on the Chenda, would have evolved as an offshoot of Melam as and when the gifted individual artists ventured to create a new medium which could express their inventiveness and imagination. The pre-eminence of Chenda in the different genres of temple-rituals and performing arts is the contribution of central Kerala comprising of the former Cochin State and the present Palakkad and Malappuram Districts.

Beginning with Mukham in Chembada tala (Aadi in Karnatic Music), the Thayamaka proceeds to the Pathikaalam (slow-tempo) in which the performer plays a couple of set ennams interspersed with lots of manodharam (improvisation). Following the nalamiratti (the crescendo of the Pathikaalam), Kooru, the piece de resistance of the Thayamaka recital starts. While the illustrious players belonging to west Palakkad do the Kooru in Panchari/Chemba (6 & 10 beats respectively), those hail from east Palakkad revel in Adantha ( Mishra chappu - 14 beats). While Malamakkavil Kesava Poduwal, Thiruvegappuram Rama Poduwal and Thrithala Kesava Poduwal championed the west Palakkad baani, those who held aloft the East Palakkad School include Thiruvilwamala Adantha Kontha Swamy, Pallassana Padmanabha Marar, Chethali Rama Marar and Pallavoor Appu Marar in the 20^th century. After Kooru, there are three more segments viz. edavattom, edanila and irikita. The last one is in the fastest tempo in eka taala invoking a high amount of passion among the listeners. Nerkol (vertical falling of the stick at the center of the chenda) and urulukai (rotation of the wrists inward and outward) complement each other throughout the performance.

In the 17^th century when Ramanattam came into being as a dance-theater tradition in south Kerala, Maddalam alone was its percussion-instrument. The provincial king of Vettathunadu (currently in the Malappuram District) introduced chenda in Ramanattam as the accompaniment of male-characters. When Ramanattam developed into Kathakali and afterwards, chenda grew into prominence as its aural signpost. Chenda supported by Maddalam commendably translates the navarasas on the Kathakali stage .Thiruvilwamala Venkichan Swamy, Moothamana Kesavan Namboodiri, Kalamandalam Krishnankutty Poduval and Kalamandalam Appukutty Poduval were the top icons of Kathakali Melam in the 20^th century.

Before the beginning of the story per se in Kathakali, there is Melappadam in which the singers and the drummers (chenda & maddalam players) come together to create an aural feast. Manjuthara from Jayadeva’s Gitagovind, is a delicious treat by the Kathakali vocalists who employ their entire musical prowess to impress the audience. The two/four instrumentalists are also given tremendous opportunities in Melappadam to display their creativity. As soon the play begins, the instrumentalists are ‘sidelined’ for providing functional music.

In the decades subsequent to 1970, Chenda started seeking fresh spaces in the cultural landscape of Kerala. The seeds for the same lie in Keli, a combined performance of Chenda, maddalam, gongs and cymbals that preceded an overnight Kathakali recital in the traditional temples. Keli till the last decades of the last century was an effective medium of announcement of a Kathakali performance. The political and cultural institutions as well as the large and medium business-houses in Kerala are now widely employing small groups of percussionists for greeting VIPs/VVIPs and for the opening of Malls/Textile shops in the urban centres. Commercial films sometimes portray the sentimental conflicts surrounding a Chenda player caught up in family life. Film music has widely made use of the swaras of this musical instrument with fabulous effect. One of the erstwhile Movie Directors, A. Vincent even directed a film in Malayalam titled “Chenda”.

A revolutionary transition in the history of Chenda was heralded by the genre, Singari Melam. Barely a quarter century old innovation by one or more populist Chenda players, Singari Melam cuts across caste, community and religion in its practical applications. It is a non-liturgical branch of percussion-music carrying a secular image. Although Panchari is the taala used by the players, the drumming-pattern is irresistibly indigenous in nature and the players are dancers too. There is a near perfect synchronization between their footsteps/torso movements and the sounds generated on the Chendas. Equal number of men and women do Singari Melam. In the festivals held in the Catholic churches of Kottayam District, Singari Melam is an indispensable component. Ms. Katherine Morehouse, an ethno-musicologist from the US has done an interesting research on the democratic dimensions of this genre of music.

Mattannoor Sankarankutty, one of the few outstanding percussionists of the day, has successfully incorporated Chenda in the performance-structure of eastern and western percussion-instruments. With Mridangam, Tabla and Drums, Chenda is in harmony. As an independent solo instrument and as a powerful facilitator of aural emotions in performing arts like Kathakali, Chenda enjoys a rare privilege among scores of traditional musical instruments in India.

The writer is a bi-lingual writer, arts’ commentator and Assistant Registrar of Kerala Kalamandalam Deemed University

Anga Sutra

The dancer’s body is the canvas on which the choreographer paints her picture. The rigour, the discipline, the restraint and the passion, described by one of the doyennes of dance

Anita Ratnam

The production Pushed

Drenched in sweat, she completed her routine and walked to the side of the rehearsal room to take a sip of water and wipe her face with a towel that was already soaked with the previous two hours of rigorous practice. Two more soiled towels lay tossed on the floor. The guests applauded warmly, rose from the straw mats and walked silently towards the other end of the dance studio where a simple meal was waiting. The dancer did not follow. She was already into her next routine - stretching, jumping in place and twisting her torso to stay warm and keep her muscles pliant for another round of rehearsal. She was now into her third hour of intense dancing and her slim body was as energetic as when she first began. Her energy was unflagging. By the time she had finished, the dinner and dessert – a large bowl of fruits and ice cream- had disappeared. The dancer once again wiped her face and arms and gracefully approached the dining table. The single thought with all the admiring guests was “What will she eat to sustain such an amazing body? She plucked a small bunch of grapes, a piece of jackfruit and nibbled on them, still lost in thought. I turned to her aunt who whispered, while still gazing admiringly at her niece, “She lives on air, water, fruit, very little food and her passion for dance”. 

The production Pushed

The above scene was from my recent visit to Sri Lanka to watch preparations for the annual Chitrasena Dance Company’s performance season, this time dedicated to the 82 year old matriarch Vajira, principal dancer and wife of the late dance icon Chitrasena. The ensemble of dancers were universally slim and fit.  Thaji and Mithilani, the two women who are also part of the brilliant Nrityagram ensemble performance SAMHARA, were distinctly superior to their colleagues. In private conversation with Thaji’s aunt Upeka, I learned of the rigorous routine that all dancers at Nrityagram are submitted to. For three years these two young women, accompanied by their choreographer Heshma, did early morning runs through the countryside followed by sessions of  yoga, pilates, pranayam, Odissi adavus, stretching before and after rehearsals, simple food and 14 to 16 hour days immersed in nothing but caring and working the body to its limits. And the results showed on stage with high octane vigour, stamina and stellar performance energy.

Nrityagram

The late American dance diva Martha Graham said so rightly, “ Dancers are atheletes of the soul”. The sentence is telling. Like sportspeople, dancers have to train. But unlike their colleagues who grunt, yell, slide, shout, shriek, grimace and pant, dancers have to practice the art of camouflage while still exerting their bodies with the same pitch of hyperactivity and containing all pain beneath a smile or a calm visage. To dance is to share one’s entire being – body and soul – with the audience. A most generous and vulnerable act that not everybody recognises. And to perform at a supremely effortless level of sublime finesse takes hours, days, weeks and years of taxing, exhausting work. On and off the stage.

To tune ones body to the demands of today’s performance spaces and the cynical unforgiving eyes of distracted audiences, is calling for a lifetime of total surrender. Look at the many systems of cross training that has emerged in health studios around India and elsewhere. Gyrotonics, Soul Cycle, Zumba, Kick Boxing, Spinning, Mixed Martial Arts, Tai Chi, Qi Gong, Running, Cycling….. the list goes on. Yoga has now assumed many avatars and so has becoming vegetarian, vegan ( no dairy foods) and fasting. Dancers are taking all methods of cross training to keep their bodies and muscles alert and alive in order to express anything and everything their minds conceive.  In Indian dance, the torso remains static and the legs mostly in a demi-plie, araimandi, semi squat position which demands that the lower body and the core become very strong to support the back and the spine area. The arms and feet are those that are moved and exerted while the extremities and the facial muscles are trained to “speak the stories”. As a contrast, western dance forms, especially modern and contemporary dance training demands a shift of the centre of gravity where the torso can turn and the centre of gravity can be thrown any way it chooses. That, combined with extensive floor movements and upside down tumbles demands a different system of training. Indian dancers are getting introduced to these newer systems of sustained hyper physicality in order to quieten the facial communication and transfer the energies to the entire body. 

Aditi Mangaldas

This calls for extreme discipline and a 24/7 lifestyle of abstinence. Dancers in the west take to smoking in order to cut their appetite and remain thin. A slim Indian dancer was not the norm until about 15 years ago, when the large scale of international theatres called for a hyperkinetic level of dance excitement from the performer. To succeed in leaping, jumping, stretching, turning while retaining compusure is not what the traditional gurus taught. After all, classical dance schools did not have mirrors or sprung wooden floors. Indian dancers trained on stone and concrete surfaces and in mostly small rooms.

The late Ranjabati Sircar recognised this shift in dance viewing and called for a new system and method of training dancers, both in the classical and contemporary fields. Classical dancers were more likely to rest on the weight of the great tradition and allow the music and poetry combined with the cultural memory of eyes accustomed to seeing voluptuous temple friezes transferred onto mature bodies on stage. The focus towards fitness and the articulate body began when the contemporary dancer in India recognised the dire need for new ways of training the body as a machine. Western dance styles offered the tried and tested methods and so began the ideas of “warm ups” and “cool downs”.

Kalpana Ranjana Raghuraman

Today when we watch Bijoyini and Surupa of Nrityagram , Padmini Chettur, Preethi Athreya, Mavin Khoo, Kalpana Raghuraman and Aditi Mangaldas perform, we can recognise the hours of cross training those classical dance bodies have undergone to make smooth transitions from one level or pose to another. Rehearsing Odissi, Bharatanatyam and Kathak steps cannot create THAT level of precision and perfection. The seeing eye is often forgiving while the camera’s eye shows every imperfection. The new age dancer of today recognises that every moment is a “Kodak moment”. That every muscle and tissue should be in perfect simpatico at every moment to communicate whatever the soundscape is saying.

To dance with the entire body does not always mean to create fast, breathless nonstop movement. It also means that slowing down a particular moment or a movement to near stillness calls for extreme control of muscle and breath. That too is not taught in classical dance systems. These are neo-classical interventions of the here and now. To extend one arms in longing and to make the entire body stretch in anticipation calls for strength and flexibility. To stretch on the ground as Vishnu in regal respose atop serpent Adisesha needs balance, Krishna twirling on Kaliya’s hood needs focus, Nataraja dancing in the heavens demands the extremes of every asset the body can call upon.

Kalpana Ranjana Raghuraman

In contrast, the ideas of nightmares, changing moods, tornados, feminism, dislocating geographies and personal memoirs also mandates another kind of  fitness for non narrative presentations. Watching the dancers of Pina Baush, Nederlands Dance Theatre, Marie Chouinard of Montreal and Lee Hwa Min of Taiwan’s Cloud Gate Theatre makes me realise the kind of observation, improvisation and out of studio experiences that these dancers have. Observing birds and animals and translating those into choreography, making calligraphy into body art, social behaviour into performance – all these inputs from imaginative creators needs an empty but pliant canvas to work on. The dancer’s body is that empty canvas. Unless it is ready, primed and toned it cannot become the site for the choreographer’s imaginative paintbrush. 

The writer is a Chennai-based dancer, choreographer, curator and arts’ activist

Rank holder

The life-story of the Veena, an instrument that is considered the soul of Carnatic music and how different shades and nuances of it are expressed in the hands of different artistes…

T T Narendran

S. Balachander on the veena

Among the numerous musical instruments that owe their lineage to India, the Veena occupies a high position. Known by a generic name like yazhin in Tamil (that was used for several stringed instruments of historic times) and the modern version, known as the Saraswati Veena in North India, is now a few centuries old.

Every system of music has a few instruments that are designed to articulate the accent of the system to which it belongs. One could think of the piano for western music, the sitar and the shehnai for Hindustani Music; for Carnatic Music, the nadaswaram and the Veena are, perhaps, the brand ambassadors. The subtleties/nuances of some of the hard-core Carnatic ragas such as Bhairavi, Anandabhairavi or Sankarabharanam, emerge most effectively from these instruments, when handled by a competent and sensitive musician.

The Veena was seen as a versatile instrument that lent itself to different ways of handling. Traditionally, Andhra Pradesh was home to an orchestral style, the Tanjavur style from Tamil Nadu was said to follow a gayaki (vocal-based) approach while Karnataka was said to be a hybrid of the two. The divisions must have collapsed gradually with the advent of technology that increased mobility and communication.

Stalwarts of the early 20^th century would include the legendary Veena Dhanammal, Karaikkudi brothers (Subbarama Iyer and Sambasiva Iyer), Sehanna, Subbana and Venkataramana Das (of Vijayanagaram). Archival recordings of some of these artists (For example, Dhanammal and of Karaikkudi Sambasiva Iyer) do exist, providing a clue to the intent rasika on how the Veena was played in those days. Dhanammal was reputed for ability to bring subtle nuances of a raga out on the Veena. Karaikkudi brothers were reputed for a fair degree of audibility to a reasonable crowd even in the mike less days; their grip over laya was evident in their execution of difficult pallavis while their overall orientation was towards a gayaki style. Seshanna’s rich tone helped him connect with the lay listeners with ease.  The glorious traditions were carried forth by the next generation of vainikas that included M K Kalyanakrishna Bhagavathar, Devakottai Narayana  Iyengar, M A Kalyanakrishna Bhagavathar, K S Narayanaswamy, Mysore V Doreswamy Iyengar and Emani Sankara Sastry. Narayana Iyengar was a bold innovator within the tradition; on the Veena, he accompanied the stalwart Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar for a concert at Perambur Sangeetha Sabha, move that did not quite endure him to his guru, Karaikudi Sambasiva Iyer. He also paired up with M A Kalyanakrishna Bhagavathar for performances at prestigious sabhas such as the Music Academy, the venue at which he played an unforgettable aalaapana of Dhanyasi in a morning concert. Of the two bhagavathars with the same name, I have heard that M K Kalyanakrishna Bhagavathar had mastered the instrument to play at incredible speed, while M A Kalyanakrishna Bhagavathar, who was also an accomplished vocalist, had melody as his forte. K S Narayanaswamy, a Sangita Bhushanam from Annamalai University during pre-war times when the university had star-studded faculty on its rolls, showed concern for grammar as much as he did for aesthetics. His handling of ragas such as Bhairavi drew high praise from connoisseurs. One memorable occasion was at the Music Academy in 1968, when he had M S Subbulakshmi accompanying him with the second Veena. A soulful saveri and an evocative O jagadamba (Anandabhairavi, Syama Sastry), which M S sang along, remain etched in the memory of this rasika. Doreswamy Iyengar had an amazing nadam and was adept at handling ragas familiar and obscure. A fabulous Hamirkalyani, an abheri with Shuddhadhaivata, Salakabhairavi and Narayanagoula (with tanam) are among the unforgettable experiences that he provided. Emani Sankara Sastry was melody personified. Archives will bear testimony to his felicity with a raga as obscure as Ganamoorti while he was equally effective in his rendition of as classical a piece as the inimitable Atatalavarnamin Bhairavi.

Meanwhile, there emerged another set of vainikas, partly overlapping in their careers with the earlier set. There was S Balachander, the self-taught wizard on the Veena. There could not have been another like him earlier and there may not be one more like him after his times, either. Exploiting the instrument to its fullest potential, Balachander was creativity and innovation personified. He coaxed melody out of the instrument to portray the richness of the Rakthi ragas, to show how even the most obscure Vivadimela raga can sound pleasing. He could also play a popular Raghuvamsa at break-neck speed. Parallely, there was another popular artist in Chitti Babu, a disciple of Emani Sankara Sastry. He took the Veena to the masses. Hugely popular in his hay days, he won audiences over with his sweet tonal quality. He could play with a slant towards western music, towards folk music and so on. His cuckoo song was hugely popular.

Two sensitive vainikas who left us in the last decade were Kalpakam Swaminathan and Trivandrum R Venkataraman. Kalpakam was a vainika with an exceptional repertoire, particularly of Dikshitarkritis, while Venkataraman, who had learned from K S Narayanaswamy, had a keen analytical mind and had acquired extraordinary felicity with the instrument. Both were essentially based on the vocal tradition and were well-versed in all aspects of improvisation.

There are talented vainikas at present, too, showcasing different styles and demonstrating the capabilities of the instrument in their respective individual styles. The only concern, before signing off, is the lament from the teachers about the dwindling enrollment of students for Veena classes and an echo from the vendors of this instrument that the off-take is falling. One fervently hopes that this will only be a passing phenomenon.

The writer is a professor at IIT, Madras and a veena player

The Singing Violinist

Padma Bhushan Dr N Rajam needs no introduction in the field of Indian classical music. A child prodigy, Dr Rajam has, over her seven-decade musical career, attained a legendary status in the field of classical music. A violinist par excellence and a musician whose name has come to be synonymous with the Violin, Dr Rajam is also acknowledged for introducing the Gayaki Ang and Khayal Gayaki Ang on the Violin. She is also a fabulous and fantastic teacher, and is currently training students at the prestigious The Dr Gangubai Hangal Gurukul at Hubli, Karnataka. Over a Skype interview with Team AALAAP, she shares her musical journey…

N Rajam

First things first; how and where did your love for music stem from?

In my house, right from the day I was born. My older brother, T N Krishnan used to learn music and my father was a teacher of classical music. So, the atmosphere at home was always charged with music. It is impossible then for music not to seep into your system.

So, you had no choice but to pursue music?

In our family, music was a tradition. So the question of choice didn’t even arise; it was always a part and parcel of life. When I turned three, I was handed over the Violin and I began training in it, formally.

As a child, how did the Violin manage to sustain your interest?

My father had an uncanny knack of ensuring I spent enough time on the Violin without ever getting bored. I remember he’d make me play on the Violin for five minutes and then give me incentives to practice and perfect what I had learnt. He knew exactly what he had to do to hold the interest of a child. Having said that, I must add that I was also a very good student.

You were born into a South Indian family, and you grew up learning Carnatic music. What triggered your interest in learning and pursuing Hindustani music?

After I completed my SSLC in 1953, I was really keen to study at the Benares Hindu University (BHU). Owing to an age issue, I had to enlist myself as a private candidate. It was at that point that my father suggested I pick Hindustani music as one of my subjects. That was really the beginning of my journey with Hindustani music.

Was that transition into another genre of music easy?

As far as the music was concerned, making the shift was easy for me. Even before I joined BHU, I had had twelve years of rigorous training in Carnatic music. I had already accompanied M S Subbulakshmi. That apart, even though musically I was trained in Carnatic music, my father ensured my brothers and I listened to a good amount of Hindustani music, either at concerts or on the radio.

But musically, the styles are distinct; how did you pick up those skills?

In terms of the music, Carnatic and Hindustani have the same roots. The difference really lies in the improvisational suggestions, compositions and raga elaborations. By the time I began to learn Hindustani music, I had already mastered the basics and nuances of techniques on the Violin. I was already proficient to reproduce any vocal musician on the Violin.

Is that how you learnt Hindustani music too?

Yes. I learnt to play Hindustani music on the Violin from a vocalist. He would sing and I would play that on the Violin. So, in terms of learning, what I had to imbibe was really the spirit of Hindustani music.

How did you do that?

Although I had an intense training in Carnatic music and learnt the best techniques in the Violin, I realized as time went by, that the techniques I had learnt so far weren’t enough for me to reproduce the intricacies of Hindustani music. It took me nearly 15 years of intensive research to finally create and develop bowing and fingering techniques that enabled vocal Hindustani music to be reproduced on the Violin. Like I said before, I knew I had to create music that preserved the spirit of the genre.

Can you tell us a little about your legendary Guru, Sangeet Marthand Pandit Omkarnath Thakur?

I first heard Panditji sing when I was 12. A friend of mine gave me a set of records by him and even at that young age, I was convinced that if I ever learnt Hindustani music, it would have to be from him. Fortunately, the universe worked in my favour. I had the unique opportunity of realizing my dream. I still remember the first day I met him. He asked me to play the Violin and after I finished, he said I was a good student and decided to be my teacher.

Was it easy learning from him?

It was a pleasure but definitely it entailed a great deal of hard work. Panditji’s music was acknowledged for its emotional content. So, to replicate that on the Violin called for intense bowing manipulation and fingering technique. It also meant that I had to spend several hours training and practicing, after class. Sometimes a phrase took weeks, sometimes, months.

What is the significance of gharana in Hindustani music? Can you briefly describe the Gwalior gharana?

Gharanas are like schools of thought. In the earlier days, students did not get the opportunity to listen to different styles and learn from them. So they belonged to a particular gharana. Nowadays, of course, things are different; an intelligent student will take to a particular style very easily. But even if you belong to a particular gharana, there is nothing wrong in taking inspiration from another. In the Gwalior gharana, the ragas developed systematically.

You learnt the intricacies of raga development from the renowned vocalist, Mussiri Subramania Iyer. Any anecdotes that you can recall…

To be honest, initially I was really scared of him. He however, was very fond of me as a student. Over the brief period of four years that I learnt from him, I began to look up to him like a father. I learnt raga development from him. He has been very influential and inspirational in my musical journey.

What are your favourite ragas?

I particularly like Raag Darbari, Bhairavi and Bageshri.

You are considered a pioneer for developing the Gayaki style on the Violin. Could you tell us a little about it?

In Carnatic music, there is no separate or distinct style for instruments. In Hindustani music, owing to the construction of instruments like the sitar, sarod, etc, there was a need for a Gayaki style to be implemented. When I began learning Hindustani music, I increasingly felt the need to develop a new path wherein we could reproduce the vocal style on a bowed instrument in a way that the continuity of the tone is easily obtained. This style/technique is highly stylized and sophisticated. In my career as a violinist, I have reproduced all the different forms of music, namely, Dhrupad, Khayal, Thumri, Tappa, Bhajan and also the Natya Sangeet of Maharashtra on my Violin.

Apart from being a performer, you are also an amazing teacher. How do you juggle these two roles?

Where there is a will, there is a way. If you have to do something, you’ve just got to do it! Teaching is my passion.

You have been in the field for over six decades now. How has art changed in the world?

Art has to change, constantly. If it doesn’t change, you cannot call it art. Having said that, young musicians seem to be making insignificant, unnecessary changes and I’m not in favour of that. Change is mandatory but it is important to preserve its sanctity.

Do you have a soft spot for Chennai? Tell us a little about your association with the city…

I have performed at several places in India and across the world. The audiences everywhere are different and respond differently to my music. But I must admit that I have a special place for Chennai. I have had so many lovely experiences there. It is rightly called the Mecca of music because the people there are genuinely interested and sensitive towards the arts.

Voice Over

Is voice an instrument to encourage solidarity? Is it an instrument of self-expression? Is it an instrument to break conventions? Or, is it the ultimate vehicle of liberation?

Sushma Somasekharan

Voice as an instrument

Damal Krishnaswamy Pattamal’s (DKP) career was a landmark event in the history of Carnatic music. It marked the emergence of Brahmin women as public singers and was instrumental in paving the way for female singers of the same community. As the first vocalist of her community to give public concerts, she challenged the prevailing orthodoxy not by argument, but by her Voice. Hailing from a family where her own mother was not permitted to perform even privately, D K Pattamal broke tradition and made history by giving her first radio performance for Madras Corporation Radio (now All India Radio) at the age of ten in 1929. In any discussion regarding the power of Voice to lift a culture, D K Pattamal presents an excellent starting point. Hers is an example of what a culture has to gain by unlocking its unheard Voices, not least because of the power of Voice itself. Despite difficult circumstances, she became the first woman to sing Ragam Tanam Pallavis (RTPs) in her concerts. No one would have thought that this was possible without formal training in the gurukula. She dispelled that belief by showing that she was capable of singing publicly on stage, and handling complex RTPs without learning under the conventional structure. This paved the way for more liberal learning methodologies. It showed that women too were capable of handling complex RTPs and were not musically simplistic. By being a doting wife and mother, she defied the stereotype that performing women were immoral or neglecting family responsibilities. 

The desire to challenge societal normsthrough Voice did not start with D K Pattamal, nor did it end there, for example, T M Krishna’s experimentation with initiatives unfamiliar to the modern music fraternity. During the 2012 December music season in Chennai, he renounced all ticketed slots, coveted by every musician. By performing at non-ticketed slots, he demonstrated that music and Voice should be made accessible to music lovers who cannot afford expensive tickets, and senior citizens who cannot queue for them at wee hours of the morning. 

T M Krishna

Margaret Atwood reminds us that, ‘A Voice is a human gift; it should be cherished and used, to utter fully human speech as possible. Powerlessness and silence go together.’ Undeniably some power is added when the Voice in question is raised in song. When the elegance of music is combined with lyrical power, the product is a melodic splendour capable of birthing wonders. From breaking convention, to encouraging solidarity and inspiring creativity, Voice has been, in a way, a useful implement to achieve a variety of purposes. And not just those stated. After all, M S Subbulakshmi was not doing any of those things when she put Carnatic music on the world map when she sang at the United Nations on 23 October, 1966. Yet, it is her magnificent Voice that takes credit for that accomplishment.

The power of free Voice has long been recognised. As late as 1909, the great Tamil poet, Indian independence activist and social reformer Mahakavi Bharathiyar felt compelled to remark in his essay, Sangita Vishayam, that if married women were taught to sing and appreciate music, society in general would improve. For him, music inculcated culture and ethics. And by prohibiting women from singing, he observed, that it was not only music but some fundamental goodness of life that was abandoned. 

More than advocating singing as an abstract means to better the public’s cultural lives, Bharathiyar used his nationalistic poems to foster national unity, freedom from foreign rule, the removal of discrimination based on caste and religion, and the liberation of women. Renditions of those songs nurtured national integration of people from all classes and creeds for one purpose –independence.

D K Pattamal’s delivery of his patriotic song Aaduvome Pallu Paduvome in the film, Naam Iruvar, was released a few months before India gained independence. It captured his confidence that his burgeoning nation would gain independence. He knew his lyrics only truly take flight with the power of a Voice and its ability to portray with close precision a worthy interpretation of the composer’s work. 

One observes in these examples the direct utility in a Voice, brought artfully together with lyrics and music. The beauty in a Voice and its ability to move, seemingly serves a different sort of ‘utility’. Say, an audience given to witness Lord Siva’s cosmic dance when the singer sings Bho, Shambo! Shivashambho! Svayambo! (Oh, Granter of Prosperity! Shiva! The Self-formed one!). Or observe an audience immediately feeling a mother’s agony when the singer sings Un Kannil Neer Vazhinthaal, En Uthiram Kottuthadi (When you shed a tear, my heart bleeds a river of blood). The capacity of one’s Voice to extract the essence of the composition remains unrivalled in its ability to fuse lyrics and melody. This enables a singer to use Voice as the instrument to allow the audience to indulge in the character of the song. Moreover, when the meaning of the song is elegantly communicated, Voice removes the listener from reality to a transcendent world. Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer’s rendering of Dwaithamu Sukhama Advaithamu Sukhama (which conduces to beatitude, Dwaita or Advaitha?) undeniably invokes devoutness in the listener and brings him closer to feeling the presence of the Divine.

In observing how Voice moves an audience, elevates a culture, and even an entire nation, one risks traversing well-worn observations of the usefulness of Voice. Yet, to return to D K Pattamal and Atwood, what draws Voice its power to be an instrument remains intangible; one wonders whether it is melody, lyrics or the combination of both. Ultimately, it is the numinous quality of a Voice lifted in song, which penetrates consciousness. It can liberate as well as compel the listener to oblige the Voice and its intention. It is this transcendent quality that reinforces an ancient conclusion: that the ultimate desire to liberate the Voice is to appreciate Voice not as a mere instrument to achieve some temporal end, but for the most valuable purpose of all - itself. 

The writer has had a formal training in classical music in Singapore and currently lives, learns and performs in Chennai

Roll Call

A personal account that focuses on how the camera reflects the way one connects with the world; someone chooses to capture minute movements, some others a larger picture

Anushka Meenakshi



 The Tetseo Sisters, at their house in

Kohima, Nagaland, getting ready

for a performance

Filming performances has been a fascination for me for some 

time now. I usually sit and watch from a fixed space in the audience, and while the sound, light and action on stage may give me clues to guide my eye in one direction, I always have the liberty of casting my eye somewhere else, letting it wander, observing the twitch of the person in the seat in front of me, wondering whether that precariously placed light is going to fall, catching a glimpse of the backstage actor getting ready to run in for her moment, or reacting to the temperature of the AC. Having my attention distracted by something else is as much a part of the experience as watching the action on stage, riveted.

The Camera gives one great freedom in terms of perspectives and angles - one can catch all the action from the best vantage point, one can turn the performance on its head, bring in views from backstage for example that give the whole thing new meaning - but what you lose is the immediacy and the choice. As a filmmaker or Camera person, I’m making the decisions about what the audience should see, what emotion should be highlighted, and which action is important at a given moment.



Honza and Sieve, students of the
Subbody Butoh School in McLeod Ganj

So when one tries to create something that is beyond just a document or record of the performance, one watches rehearsals, one tries to get a sense of what the performance is trying to evoke, what the performers are trying to convey. Finding a frame is often more work off the camera than on it. Filming Sangathi Arinhya (Have you Heard!), a play based on the stories of Vaikom Muhammad Basheer, I tried to get to know something of Basheer and his stories, of the director interpretation of Basheer’s writing and to understand the actors’, especially Chennai-based Paul Matthew, who played Basheer. But I found, later, that what gave me an entirely new perspective, both while filming and while editing the performances was speaking to Basheer’s family and friends who had known him closely. The most rewarding experiences have been where I have known the performers and the production closely, where I have even been involved in the creation of the production in some way.

The most beautiful example of performance translated to film that I have seen is Wim Wenders’ Pina. The way he has woven the choreography into the landscapes of Wupertal is mind-blowing. Wenders watched Pina Bausch’s work for over twenty years before starting work on the film, and for me, the understanding that he gained of her work shines through in every frame.

Young monks waiting to perform at the Buddh Jayanthi celebrations,

Kaza Monastery, Spiti Valley

For the last two years, my friend Ishwar and I have been filming performances as part of a project we were working on, a nonverbal film. The idea has been not to look at performances merely on the stage, but to also find music and rhythm in daily life, as well as to see the performer in the everyday. The focus of our project is on everyday music and rhythms, and a large portion of it is dedicated to work music – music that accompanies or is closely connected to a specific form of work. One of the fascinating things about work music is its theatrical quality. Work music has a strong visual and dynamic quality to it. The swing of the spade, the tap of the feet on the loom, the swish of the broom, the turn of the potter’s wheel, these movements are an integral part of the rhythm of work music. Our visual focus is on these physical movements that accompany the music, looking at what these body movements are, where they originate from, how groups of people move through a certain space, their choreography, how they move the tools of the trade, and how patterns are created.

Filming this has brought into acute focus how differently different people see the world and the use of one’s Camera reflects the way one connects to the world. What Iswar often sees and captures through the Camera are minute movements and emotions - a tick, a nervous or impatient gesture, a small detail that tells something of the personality of the performer. What I look for is a larger picture, stories, and interactions between people.



Passing time at the community sit-out, Phek, Nagaland

Using a DSLR Camera for video has completely changed the way I film and also the way people interact with me. The ease with which one can set up to start filming changes your content matter quite dramatically. Even though people know we are shooting video, that small-sized Camera is still linked with photographs in people’s minds, so the way they go about their work or interact with the Camera is quite different. There are people who are still very uneasy in the presence of the Camera, for whom its presence can never be ignored, but for the most part, people tend to forget its existence very quickly, or – and this is often quite interesting – they are enough at ease with it to interact with it or confront it. The size of the DSLR, and also its technology is becoming more accessible. For instance, people don’t even seem intimidated to take over the Camera from you. There have been some incidents where someone we are filming with will themselves step behind the Camera and turn it around on us. And this for me is exciting because it opens up a new level of interaction, changing, even if just for a moment, the dynamics between the performer and the filmmaker.

The writer is a film-maker and is a collaborator in the project U-RA-MI-LI, which documents music and rhythm in everyday life