ON DEATH AND DYING

   Why am I writing this blog at this time when most of the world is facing a pandemic and many are worried about becoming a victim?  Certainly, it is not because of any personal fear, or any perverse desire to make you more worried.  So read on setting your worries aside. It is mainly to let you know that if you feel scared, depressed and down, it is a natural reaction.  There are things you can do to subdue those feelings.

   My first encounter with death was early in my fourth year in Kerala, India.  Hearing some loud crying, I came out of the main hall into the side room of our house to see my favorite 'Shantha teacher' bawling a good four feet or away from the side exit door to our house narrating to my mother and grandmother how her younger brother contracted small pox on a train and died just three days later.  There was no official manifesto for 'social distancing' in those days, but what contained epidemics to some extent was probably all the social and religious taboos surrounding death and concerning diseases like small pox and chicken pox. Those forbade visits from and to houses infected and required that their members may not touch anyone for several weeks.  Not that I knew what death really was, but I could figure that something really bad had happened.  I kept asking my mother and grandmother for many days as they tried to put me to bed, but was told not to think about it, and that all my teacher was crying about was that her brother had left to God's place and she could not see him any more.  That, of course, brought from me many questions about God and why people go to his place etc., but no answer came that was anywhere near the truth or what I could understand.

    In another six months or so, my great grandfather who was living with us passed away.  He had become very old (93) and had suffered a head injury from a fall, but he recovered surprisingly.  But he developed a diarrhea which got worse by the day.  None of the medications was working, and my grandfather, who was a doctor, had pronounced that his father was sinking, and all we could do was to make his days as nice as possible.  Those were days when old people were allowed to die without more pain induced on them through heroic attempts to keep them going even if it were only to a life with highly diminished quality.  One morning when I woke up, I saw the old man laid in the main hall like a stick.  He seemed to be sleeping.  The odd thing was his two big toes were tied together, and there was also a yellow ribbon tied from under his chin to the top of his head.  We lived in a small town, and our custom does not permit moving the body to a mortuary or morgue.    I saw lots of crying, some religious ceremonies being performed, and later my great grandfather, who used to make me breakfast every day, carried out on a bamboo stretcher sort of a thing and driven off in our large family car.  The mood of the house had changed drastically, and it stayed that way for many days.  Again, I could get no satisfactory answers from my elders.

     When I was about eight, we moved to Madras (now called Chennai) where it is common sight to see dead bodies being carried in full view in a procession to the burial or cremation grounds.  I was initially scared to see these, and even more scared to ask anyone at home since I knew by then that this was not a topic for discussion.  But then I had classmates who could give almost an entire lecture on death, and from them I 'learned' quite a bit.  Yet, the statements by some contradicted those of some others and left me with some knowledge buttered with a lot of confusion.

     The time I came to understand death in a proper way was while I was in high school browsing through some medical books of my grandfather.  This was something of a routine done clandestinely and started with the curiosity about certain body parts and related matters.  Surprisingly, I found the discussions in them very interesting, not in any prurient sense but in a really intellectual way.  I was getting wiser about life and death after all, along with information on lots of anatomy, diseases, and treatment.  Wiser may be, but not at ease, as I found out later in Vaishnav College right in front of which was a cremation ground from which at times came the smell of burning bodies into our class room.  Even today, the burning of flesh in a barbecue brings back in me those nauseating memories.

     I must say that those were days when my agnosticism was at its peak.  All the religious stuff appeared absolutely nonsensical to me.  But then, other than my agnostic grandfather, the rest of the household was too religious for me even to disclose my agnosticism, let alone to have my doubts cleared.  And, I kept reading and reading, trying to find answers to many an intriguing question while simultaneously going through many a religious ceremony mechanistically to please the elders, nay to avoid their ire.

     The time death really hit me hard was when I was in my early forties and when a young colleague at Bellcore died due to a recurrence of his sarcoma.  His cancer had spread to his brain, and details of his last days filled with unbearable headaches and his resisting to take morphine so that he could take in every waking moment in the company of his mother who had come from India broke my heart as of many of my colleagues.  Sitting in his memorial meeting, something really snapped inside me making me wonder whether I could go too just like that, and what would happen to my whole family.    The only thing I could do was to take out some insurance policies on myself and my wife; I did that. But that did not help with the other challenges imagined for those dependent on me I would leave behind.  All this, combined with a discovery of a cyst in my wife's brain that took two years and three divergent medical opinions about surgery to resolve into a diagnosis as an 'arachnoid cyst' that was not growing and didn't pose a risk, was driving me up a wall.   Retrospectively, I must say that what I went through as a consequence was really an utter depression, although at that time, I thought my doctor was jumping to conclusions and most likely wrong.  Prozac, Zoloft, and a series of medicines helped me to appear normal to the rest of the world, but there was a deep abyss in my own mind known mostly only to me and my wife.  Trust me, pretense is not a pleasant game.

     An American lady, who was a Ph.D. class mate of my wife and also a Counsellor, suggested that I read, "Passages: Predictable Crises of Adult Life" by Gail Sheehy, a book that I would highly recommend to all as one that details the ages 20-60 in very insightful ways.  Just to cite one example, explaining the so-called 'midlife crisis,' the author says that around 40, some young friend or relative dies and that changes one's personality much; men begin to become mellow shedding their previous aggressive quest to succeed at all cost, but women begin to become suddenly self centered complaining how they have spent their prime years serving others like a husband, children, et al.  That book was certainly an eye opener in many ways, but unfortunately not a solace.

     Then I hit the jackpot in the form of a small book titled, 'Teaching of the Bhagavad Gita' by Swami Dayananda Saraswati.  Written in captivating prose, it started expounding the lessons by pointing out how inconsequential the problems we worry about really are, and how there is a big macrocosm that makes our microcosm and its issues quite irrelevant.  It was as though I suddenly became an Arjuna being told by Krishna himself:  'asOchyAn anvasOchastvam (you are worrying about things not worth your worries).'  That set me off on a serious study of vEdantA which, as a system attempting to answer many fundamental questions, was the perfect antidote to my hitherto agnosticism.  It cleared many a doubt in my mind and gave a level of incredible peace.  More importantly, the mathematician in me was fascinated by its unquestionable logic and consistency of thought.

     Here I am at 70, immune compromised, and facing a virus that is causing enormous devastation all around and killing many.  Yet, I could not be more at peace with the notion of death than ever or anyone.  It is true that I have been fortunate to be blessed with many wonderful people and things around me and to have some accomplishments.  I could also look back at my life and claim that I have lived a good life in the sense of having been blessed to do some things of value and usefulness to others.  But they are not the real reasons for my peace.  Like everyone else, I too feel my life as incomplete and want more time to achieve a few more things.  But I know, to hope that some day we can claim our life to have become complete is a futile quest.  In any case, none of that matters.

     My peace comes from the Vedantic view of our world and our existence as a small part of an infinite continuum of repeated states of being manifest and unmanifest of the Supreme Consciousness that the true Self in me is.  Many may applaud, "Cowards die many deaths, the valiant but once," but to me the most appealing tenet is that of Vedanta that the real I does not die.   I accept that model and many of its explanations as the best I have seen based even on  many observables.  How else does one explain how even members of a twin often are different in diverse ways, even as babies exposed only to a common environment?  But the real reason of my acceptance may well be the underlying cogency and logical foundation on which the concepts of Vedanta stand.  Among the many privileges of my (this) life has been to have had my eyes opened to this great system of thought and the opportunity to delve into it seriously and to attain a level of peace that is indescribable.

         If one death can have profound impact similar to that of my colleague on me, it is no wonder that news of many deaths every day, day after day,  and worries for oneself and the near and dear could become quite onerous. The right way to uplift ourselves in such an environment is through taking on a quest to understand what this life is all about through the teachings of the wise across many generations that have preceded us, and to fill our minds with those thoughts and inquiries thereon rather than be consumed by what is being played out incessantly on television and the newspapers.  In the least, hear some nice lectures, or pick up the phone or connect through the Internet and talk to some who can give you the right perspectives.  Above all, stay safe, and be proactive.

Indian Diaspora, Carnatic Music, and Competitions

   There was a time when learning Carnatic music was an enjoyable activity for the US children of South Indian descent.  For the parents and elders,  programs where these children displayed their talent were a real treat where they wholeheartedly applauded every child along with utmost an understanding inward chuckle at their lapses like that of a lisping child uttering a phrase incorrectly would get.   As for the children, they came and participated happily - mind you, participated, and not competed -  and went away with some present - everyone a winner, which indeed they are for engaging themselves in an art form of a distant land despite the challenges of finding time to practice and (at least partial) lack of understanding of the attending language, mythology, and context.

  Then came the introduction of competitions.  Initially, we allowed also participation without competing, but - we don't know whom to blame - that also went away, and all we have now in many places are competitions.  To some extent, the competitions perhaps have increased the effort put in  by those who were really there to compete as well as others, and we got better and better quality of music even from the young.  Thus, an activity that was mainly one of encouraging children that were 'lisping' music  turned  slowly into hours of enjoyable music.

    Of course, to be able to judge competing performers with some uniformity, it becomes necessary to announce a set of kritis (songs) or ragas (melodies) or talas (beats) over which they all will be tested.  The net result immediately turns learning music into coaching for a competition, and a new kind of an industry.  Rumors abound that some teachers charge as much as $400 per song and polish them over an extended period of several months just to create winners in some competitions.  Some organizations make a killing in participation fee; a group of one hundred children simultaneously on stage singing as a group and each paying even $50 for the 'honor' is not small change!  Honestly, one is confused on who is really competing - the kids, the parents, or the teachers?  When I begged him to lend his stage in Chennai for some of "our" children (our in the sense of NJ children; mine never got to that level unfortunately), a great music organizer in India also highly informed on Carnatic music - whom I must leave unnamed -  once remarked to me, "These youngsters from your America are good, I would even say very good, for the two or three kritis they know, but their improvisations are not improvisations at all but regurgitations of learned phrases with no real spontaneity.  How can you expect me to put them up on my stage?"   [I hasten to add that we now do have some really talented Carnatic artists born and brought up in the USA who are standing shoulder to shoulder with their counterparts in India, although they are far too few compared to the thousands learning the art.]  For many children in the USA, it is no longer a matter of learning a new art for learning and enjoyment per se.  As my own daughter once remarked, "Appa, I felt like I was a show pony."    No wonder, many including those showing high promise leave the activity for good once they leave the nest of their parents. 

     Now, we have taken things to even a worse level, thanks to all the 'idol' programs and the like on television, now mimicked by many US based organizations.  We now have 'professional' judges,  not all of whom are a Sri Santhanagopalan beaming with encouragement and kindness; some of them appear more eager to show how clever and knowledgeable they are and grill the kids mercilessly in public, interrupting their performance repeatedly asking them to do, not music but acrobatics with music.  Honestly, I hate to even go to  such shows, since I cannot even listen to one segment, let alone an entire piece, sung or performed in its entirety by anyone without being interrupted by a judge.  The type of 'music' we get in these competitions as audience is not music that is 'the food of love' but of great heartache and indigestion.  We really need to think on this and ask ourselves what it is that we are trying to achieve here.

   To me, the motivations behind these children's events should always be to provide them an enjoyable day while connecting them to their great inheritance and to groom them to be able to appreciate the richness of that heritage as they grow into adulthood.  Simultaneously, we want to give the opportunity to those who want to go much beyond that and enter even the professional arena, but that should always be with our resounding applauses, personal words of praise and guidance, establishing contacts and finding opportunities for them to learn with stalwarts and to perform in bigger venues.  With all my experience as a teacher, I personally cannot understand how a public flagellation would encourage a student; honestly, there is no better way to kill talent altogether.

    I understand that we cannot groom real maestros here without the rigor of theory, tests, and testing, and I am one who keeps hammering that we cannot live for ever on borrowed feathers from India and need to groom our own stalwarts.  I have also expounded on the virtues of honest criticism elsewhere, after all. ( https://veeraam.blogspot.com/2017/10/a-critique-of-critics-and-criticisms.html ). Can we not reserve those tests etc., only for those who want to take that path and do those tests and testing in a more private setting allowing our public programs to be ones where children and youth can sing for their sheer enjoyment and let us enjoy music too without those totally irksome interruptions and questions?
    I can almost guess the answers that will come from organizers: Yes, we can, if we have more volunteers to help us organize and run additional events, and enough donors to foot the bill.  Yes we can do all that as a community, but shall we, or will we just let things drift whichever way?

The DJ who is a Din Jockey

For a long while, I thought DJ stood for Deaf Jockey. Usually, people who talk way too loud almost like they are shouting, and play up the volume of the radio, TV etc way too high, are often deaf and can't hear well.

Could you blame me? With the level of volume at which these DJs play anything and at all times in a typical Indian wedding, what else would one think? If they are not deaf, are they leashed out by some on Wall Street who have some futures contract on hearing aids and the like, or are they some agents spawned by the ENT doctors' guild to drum up business for themselves?

My name is not Andy Rooney, and I am not against fun either. And, I do believe that functions like a wedding or a birthday should be nothing but fun. But ask yourself: is it fun to have your ear drums torn apart while you are having a dinner? Or how much social is that social event where you cannot even have a conversation above the unending din? BTW, the writer is also guilty of patronizing the DJ experience once, having been forced into doing so by "the kids" although we did manage to keep the volume level to reasonable limits by making a clear statement to the DJ that his tip depended on how tolerably high the volume was.

Why is it that we seem to need some professional help just to socialize and have fun and to even applaud the stars of the party and the hosts who have kindly invited us? Isn't that funny and weird? Well, I am glad in one way though that in these days when most jobs have been outsourced and off shored, there are some new occupations like DJ-ing that have opened up for some people. I only wish they add value with sensitivity and some aesthetic sense as part of what they do.

To me, the ideal DJ is one who understands sound and sound equipment well. He should know how to position his equipment and equalize sound depending on the needs of the environment avoiding echo, squeaks etc. He is one who should know how to provide professional audio in a way that speakers can be heard clearly (can they use wireless lapel or

headset microphones, given that most clients don't know how to hold a hand held in an optimal way?). He should be someone who knows when to play what type of music. For example, during dinner time, soft instrumental music that does not interfere with people's conversations

and enjoyment of food is what I guess most would prefer to loud music with undesirable vibrations. In short, the DJ should, in the least, understand the difference between noise and sound, period.

I agree there are times when the volume level has to be racked up to maintain a certain level of tempo, like for instance while announcing certain key events like the entry of the bride and groom in a wedding reception or during dance. But that does not mean that it has to be raised to a level exceeding all OSHA standards and provide an experience comparable to that of having a

few jack hammers going in full blast.   And, whoever thinks that a subwoofer set at such reverberating levels resembling a never ending passing of gas by a huge dinosaur and amplified manyfold is music?  After all, a large audience such as at an Indian wedding invariably includes some old people, babies, and some with ailments who cannot tolerate high levels of noise, and hosts do take offense if they don't show up.

Certainly, the DJ plays a useful role as an MC bringing some order in what would otherwise be a chaotic gathering. But he has to do it in a carefully careless way without appearing to be comical. Some DJs are so mechanical and so contrived in the way they make announcements that it all makes all too Bollywoody and takes away the spontaneity one would not like to lose.

Also, the DJ's overall tone should be one that displays a certain level of respect for the audience and not one treating them like a set of puppets. Sometimes, the whole process reminds one of an old Indian scene of the street gypsy with his monkey with the latter jumping over a stick to each command of the gypsy.

There are many things in which old is gold. There is a need to ask ourselves if this whole canned DJ experience is one that could be modified to bring some of the gold back for greater enjoyment of our social events by most if not all. No one is proposing that we replace the DJ with classical Hindustani music at a slow pace or whatever, but some of us do wish that we be spared of an experience that produces heartburn and headaches.

UMA ROY - SHE CAME, SHE SAW & SHE SERVED

   

   You have probably heard the saying, "She came, she saw, she conquered."   Dr. Uma Roy, a former President of CMANA, the Carnatic Music Association of North America, certainly conquered many hearts - of music lovers and artists - but even more, she served.  She served in such eminent ways that hers is a legacy that will far survive her in the form of CMANA that grew enormously strong during her Presidency and due to her tireless efforts.  

     Our introduction to Dr. Roy was through a critical letter she had written complaining about the poor public relations of CMANA that made even she, an ardent lover of Carnatic music, not even know of our existence.  Dr. Rajagopalan, our President, had brought her letter to our Board meeting, and I suggested to him that she should be invited to become a member and also join our Board, which we did, and she agreed.  We were expecting to see a Bengali woman appear at our next meeting, but were surprised to see that Dr. Roy was indeed a saree clad South Indian lady though she - as she herself averred in a later article - had no parochial identity, being born as she was in a Kannadiga family, raised in Chennai speaking Tamil, having moved to the US and married a Bengali, and being more comfortable in English than in any other language!

     Uma started earnestly right from the start contributing some articles to the sporadic issues of CMANA's magazine Sangeetham that Dr. Rajagopalan and I edited and doing various chores of the Association including transporting and hosting artists as needed.  In her usual self effacing way, she claims she is surprised her articles were published by us, although I recall they became instantly popular for their humor and human interest in addition to interesting observations related to music.

      Saddled with many tasks to do, Dr. Rajagopalan and I asked Uma to take over Sangeetham as Editor, and she did after much coaxing and promises to support her, the latter being shown superfluous soon, as she had a natural flair for it.  I still remember her first editorial in which she said she is starting with an ending problem - raga or ragam, tala or talam, laya or layam, etc.?  Sangeetham became a regular quarterly periodical with each issue containing many interesting articles and tidbits and puzzles which included at least one humorous article by Uma and a highly erudite one by her father Mr. Visweswariah.  The countless hours put in by Uma, her parents, and Madhuri (her daughter) manually typing the pages, cutting and pasting, etc. in the era before desktop computers and word processing software were uncountable.  She was such a stickler for deadlines to publish that sometimes we were called in to help late into several nights doing those chores; but they were attenuated by great conversations of hers and her parents, and also good food from her mother Mrs. Chayamma.  (For their regular, continuous and notable contributions, Mrs. Chayamma was inducted later as an Honorary Patron of CMANA, and Mr. Visweswariah was honored through the institution of a Junior Membership award in the name The Visweswariah Prize for service.)

     Dr. Rajagopalan, the founder, had assumed the Presidency of CMANA for the second time in the face of a letter from many members claiming that CMANA was financially non-viable and should be closed.  With hard work by him and colleagues, he had put the association in sound financial footing although much more remained to be done.  Yet, he would not continue for fear that he would create the perception of hungering for power, and that forced us to look for a successor.  Noting her commitment and contributions, I chose to nominate Dr. Uma Roy.  Faced with skepticism from several Board members on how a woman, that too a widow with a young daughter, could take on such a daunting task - regardless of the fact that this lady had driven cross country with her parents  and had already contributed much - I had to appeal to a large number of members and get a set of proxy votes to get her elected.  In many ways, that election changed the course of CMANA.  Of all my contributions to CMANA,  I consider getting her elected as President to be one of the best deeds I have done.

    Uma served as President for several terms during which the association tripled its financial net worth, increased its membership five fold, and gained much greater national recognition - all this without compromising even by an iota its ideal to serve the cause of music as a non-profit organization run by volunteers.  Each year two tours were held without fail, of which one was always dedicated to a young and upcoming musician.  Uma herself identified several upcoming artists and pleaded on their behalf and brought them on tours - K.S. Gopalakrishnan, Kadri Gopalnath, The Rudrapatnam Brothers are some examples that come to my mind.  She instituted a new event called 'Teachers Day' to give opportunities for teachers and students to perform.  The Great Composers Day was made much bigger with attendance increasing many fold.  Junior Membership was introduced into CMANA and JMs were encouraged by Uma through many means, of which one was to be seated in the first row in concerts to compete on identifying the ragas sung.  The number of programs increased many fold and included many artists not even brought by CMANA to the US.

       Uma showed equal respect and kindness towards all, famous or just starting out.  That made people open up to her spontaneously.  Recently, she recounted Kadri Gopalnath recalling his young days when without food and only on water he would walk behind nadaswaram vidwans to learn more about how they play music.  Such tales of the bruises endured along the climb up the ladder of Carnatic music were as much behind her determination to help the young and upcoming as her own love for music and for its continued sustenance. 

     Uma is a self-appointed empirical anthropologist in many ways and can laugh at many human follies.  She would hide from many in Narada Gana Sabha to avoid being dragged to the front row.  She would rather be in the balcony watching people's reactions and later writing about them in Sangeetham in her commentary on the season.  Yet, one thing that irked her was how many parents would come to a CMANA program just to have their child sing and leave immediately without providing any support to others - an organizer's angst that continues to this day.

    Uma continues to enjoy Carnatic music and is an avid connoisseur of the art.  She names 'the "young girls" Ranjani-Gayathri as one of her favorites, the adjective being a result of how we freeze some in our minds from our first contact.  Ramakrishna Murthy she views as her manaseeka adopted son as everytime she hears him sing, she feels how nice it would have been if she had a son like him.  The music she likes is more lakshya (aesthetics) oriented and not lakshana (grammar) oriented.  She doesn't like too much acrobatics with 'kanakku' (mathematical permutations) etc, and for this reason Sikkil Gurucharan is another favorite of hers.  One can listen to her for hours on music without getting bored.

    Despite being a major support on which art and talent thrive and get publicized, the organizer is often the least applauded in the context of any art, and Uma is no exception.  I am forced to be brief here about her contributions and to stick mainly to the core.  Let me, however, state categorically that when someday the history of Carnatic music in the USA is written, it would be a travesty if this great lady is not given her due place at the top of the list.  May God grant that her days be filled with music and the best of memories.  Today, she is known to most around her as "Madhuri's mother" only, but that Madhuri's mother's greatness is something that must be told, and I am privileged to be the one to recount them for you.
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Postscript added on June 8:  Since writing the above on May 24, Uma left us on June 6 after a protracted, successful (?) battle with  cancer waged with a determination not to pre-decease her mother.  I am so glad I could write this while she was still around and could read it.  It is not often that one gets such an opportunity.

D.K. PATTMMAL - A TALE OF BEARDING LIONS IN THEIR DEN

      

     Rightly called a “Trail Blazer” by Sruti, the leading Indian magazine for classical music and dance, Sangeetha Sagara[1] D.K. Pattammal (1919-2009) really opened the door for women into the top echelons of Carnatic music by venturing on stage into manodharma (improvisation-based) music including Ragam-Tanam-Pallavi.  She demonstrated that women are no less capable when it comes to extempore creativity and talent.  Her singing not only earned the respect of the very community that had made it a taboo for women to sing on a concert stage, but also succeeded in making it take pride in the fact that she was indeed one of their own.   She left an indelible mark on Carnatic music itself and earned a permanent place in the annals of history in many unique ways.
     Being the birth centenary of that great lady Pattammal, 2019 will certainly bear many tributes to her in the form of lectures, lec-dems, and scholarly articles from many institutions around the world.   But an understanding of the magnitude of her achievements shall remain incomplete without juxtaposing them with those of the daunting set of male musical giants who had ushered in a golden era for Carnatic music - the milieu in which these were attained - as well as of fellow and later giants who were to embellish that era even more during her career.  To say that her success is a tale of bearding a set of lions (and retaining her own territory amongst lionesses) would be no exaggeration at all.

    When Pattammal entered the Carnatic stage in 1929, it was dominated by some of the all-time greats: Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar, Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer,  Musiri Subramania Iyer, the Brinda-Mukta duo, and Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavatar.  As though this was not competition enough, Madurai Mani Iyer, Semmangudi Srinivasaier, and G.N. Balasubramaniam had started making big waves around then, and M.S. Subbulakshmi arrived in Chennai just a few years later as a rising star from the very start.  Within a decade, there were to come some other great musicians like M.D. Ramanathan and M.L. Vasanthakumari who quickly gained prominence and a remarkable following of their own.    An excellent account of each of these musicians can be found in the book Great Masters of Carnatic Music[2], our main source for this article, which we have used in the spirit, “Originality is but a pair of fresh eyes.”  Here, we shall highlight briefly the individual forte and contributions of the stalwarts the young Pattammal had to face and how she had to differentiate her music from theirs.  We will also discuss her music in juxtaposition to those of her peers and of those that came later.  The fact that Pattammal was able to penetrate the formidable den of these giants, who were adored highly by both experts and lay rasikas, and continued a steep and speedy ascent despite them and the giants that came in later is what makes her deeds not just revolutionary, but highly commendable.

     Among the stalwarts, Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar stood much taller than the rest as a margadarshi (one who showed the way.)  He had streamlined the concert format, in the words of GNB, away from the “unalloyed interpretative music … insufficient to meet the increasing demands of the public” to one with a rich mix of compositions in a variety of rhythmic patterns (tala) with fast and slow tempo kritis sung alternatively, and in tune with his advice on how to format a concert, with “kalpanaswaras … limited and proportionate, and restricted to a few places, after a reasonable measure of neraval.”  Ariyakudi’s golden mean extended also to moderation in other aspects like the use of gamakas (microtones) and brigas (brisk phrases similar to the vibratos employed by Western band artists).  He did not display unnecessary virtuosity, and “one could say his music lacked passion, romance, and abandon.”  Yet, in the words of Dr. Pinakapani, he was “embellishing it, redecorating it with jewels, clothing it beautifully; and it appeared we heard only the raga and forgot about the kriti, its words or the talam …” His music was not pandering to the crowds, but one that evoked so much admiration and imitation even by experts in the field that GNB later acknowledged, “His music is to Karnatic music what the Gita is to Indian philosophy, its quintessence – eternal and elemental truths and values which stand for all times …  If one may say so, his music can be called ‘The Gita of Sangita.’”  It is quite interesting to note that GNB, who went on to become an all-time great himself, was a master par excellence in madhyamakala. With his highly briga laden voice, he ventured into several new territories on stage such as grahabhedam that Ariyakudi probably would have done much more sparingly. Ariyakudi’s music excelled both in lakshana (grammar) as also in lakshya (aesthetic aspects). Although Ariyakudi drew strong criticism from traditionalists like Rangaramanuja Iyengar who commented that his concerts were like “an appetizing sweet dish with which traditional Hindu feasts began, (but) … stopped with that,” his new format stood the test of time and became the de facto standard that is followed to this day.  Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar thus embodied a highly illumined sun that could eclipse many stars and make them invisible.  Artists who could stand the glare of such a giant do deserve our highest respect, and Pattammal is certainly one of them.

     Standing high in popularity in the 1920s along with Ariyakudi was Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer. He deserves the credit for being the first to bring about a change in the concert style by shifting its emphasis to kritis.  He was also the first to introduce Hindustani touches to Carnatic music.  His singing was brisk and marked by an emphasis on lakshya, the aesthetic aspects, which mattered more to him than lakshana.  He approached ragas differently each time and never repeated himself.  Even today, his renderings of certain ragas like arabhi and mohanam must be acknowledged to be very special, as they have the unique ability of touching one’s heart immediately and making one want to listen to them again and again.  Although his career started waning precipitously in a couple of decades, he was certainly a formidable force on the stage at the time when Pattammal entered it.

      Yet another favorite on the Carnatic stage was Musiri Subramania Iyer who had a high pitched, almost feminine voice.  He had a leisurely style emphasizing bhava, the emotional aspects of ragas and kritis, and he handled even difficult phrases with considerable ease.  Perhaps due to his giving priority to sahitya and treating technique only as its handmaiden, his music, more than that of the others, was on the lips of most listeners.  His neravals displayed the best of manodharma music. He could hold a note for an incredibly long amount of time, and his inflections of the notes, particularly, were sensuous.  The way he calls out “Deva!” in the kamboji composition Tiruvadi Saranam and his rendering of that song as also ‘Nagumo’ are unmatched even today.  Indira Menon² has noted the following with regard to M.S. Subbulakshmi:

“Musiri’s greatest achievement as a guru was to train (her) … She acquired technique and depth from Semmangudi.  But in the shaping of the MS bani with its special tonal effects, nuances, and embellishments in alapana and niraval singing, Musiri’s influence is unmistakable. … Every sensuous inflection in Subbulakshmi’s voice sounds like that of Musiri.” 

Available recordings of Musiri do confirm these assessments.  Unfortunately, Musiri’s career on the stage almost ended by 1940 on account of his poor health although he was at his peak when Pattammal started off her career.  

    Brinda and Mukta, who were well known already by the time Pattammal started, were granddaughters of the legendary Veena Dhanammal to whom flocked even famous and highly respected musicians to hone their own skills.  They were probably the first popular female duo to sing on stage and specialized in javalis and padams, which they sang in a very slow tempo (ativilambakala), a kalapramana (time measure) that requires ‘a special kind of voice culture, breath control, and a special tala.’  While this partnership lasted a while, it was Brinda who reigned as a ‘musician’s musician’ on the Carnatic scene for many decades.  We refer to the excellent article³ by Savita Narasimhan in The Hindu for an eloquent portrayal of Brinda confining ourselves here only to some main aspects of her style.  Brinda’s was a style that emphasized gamaka heavily to the point of drawing criticisms from some.  Comparing her to GNB, Indira Menon² notes, “The difference between the Brinda and GNB styles (to take two extreme examples of gamaka- and briga-oriented styles) may be likened to (that between) a river of the plains winding slowly along and a torrential mountain stream.”  There was none to match her in the way she used gamakam particularly in singing padams like “Ososi” and “Peyyada,” and her oscillations in ragas like Kalyani and Todi were masterly. Semmangudi Srinivasaier is supposed to have remarked, “Even if someone can sing even a single padam as well as Brinda, one can consider one’s life well-spent.” Indira Menon² notes with great regret that “Brinda’s musicianship or the fact that she was the pioneer woman vocalist to enter the male domain of manodharma sangita did not receive the appreciation they deserved,” and we recall this here with no disrespect to Pattammal whose popularity and appeal were certainly much higher.  In fact, Dr. Menon states explicitly in her book, “… her music did not dazzle.  Hers was not a ‘popular’ style.”  It is, after all, well known that the appreciation of music at a slow tempo that truly brings out the ragabhava (the emotive aspectis of a melody) in the best possible manner is not given to all but mainly to those with an innate ragajnanam (knowledge to discern melody.)  It would be appropriate to recall Brinda’s own words in this context, “Many people have swarajnanam (knowledge of notes) or layajnanam (knowledge of beats and timing) but very few people have ragajnanam.  It is something you either have you don’t have.  It can’t be learned or acquired from someone.”  Despite that, Brinda and her sister Mukta do occupy a special place in the world of Carnatic music. Brinda, deservedly, continues to have a large following, and several worthy students continue to propagate her bani (style).

    Yet another giant of this era was Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavatar. Though his music missed “many facets – like gamakas, curves, bends, and glides, and fast brigas,” he still commanded a major part of the field through his style, which was “massive and weighty, shorn of embellishments and sentimentality, (but) went straight to the heart.”  Just as a roaring lion cannot or does not have to modulate its voice to get attention, Chembai too could simply rule the stage with his full- throated and high volume singing (the latter once inviting the comment from Semmangudi that he needed no microphone but a silencer).  Indira Menon, who equated frozen music to architecture, considers Chembai’s music to be like the much-admired Doric order of architecture in that they are both majestic and solid in their simplicity. Chembai was known not only for his vocal music, but also for his great mastery over the violin. He often provided violin accompaniment to many of his leading colleagues.  His renderings of certain verses from Narayaneeyam like “Agre Pasyami” are played to this day across temples in Kerala.  We must note, among others, that Chembai’s devotion to Guruvayurappan was such that he gave away almost all his earned wealth to the Guruvayur Temple keeping only a bare minimum for his sustenance.

    The above is a brief account of the musical giants reigning at the time Pattammal entered the stage.  Some of those mentioned above who entered the scene just around the time she did or later – Semmangudi, Madurai Mani, M.S. Subbulakshmi, GNB, and MLV  - are well known to the present generation.  Unfortunately, space does not permit us to write in detail about them, but we must note that M.S. Subbulakshmi, D.K. Pattammal, and M.L. Vasanthakumari came to be hailed as the Female Trinity of Carnatic music.  While each of these artists was a musical giant in his or her own right, what is relevant to this article is that none of them could unseat D.K. Pattammal from her position or diminish the great following of rasikas she enjoyed.  What then was her uniqueness and magic?  We explore that only briefly below in the hope that other articles on her will cover these in much greater detail, and the reader will be spared of unnecessary repetition.

     First and foremost, D.K. Pattammal broke all the barriers that kept out women, particularly Brahmin women, from singing on stage and displaying their real talent in manodharma (improvisation) and in rendering swaraprastharas and RTPs.  Although other women like Brinda had already ventured on stage with manodharma, Pattammal was the only one to ‘go the whole hog.’  She also effected this major change in an evolutionary manner by relying on her unquestionably high musical merit.  Hers was a success one simply could not argue with and did not need any visual branding, politicization, or other extra-musical support.  She established a unique bani (style) of her own in many diverse ways including through some innate aspects she was blessed with.

    Among others, her deep-toned voice resembling the veena had a special charm of its own.  Even with no reference point, she had the fantastic intuition to choose the tempo and style of the veena that could “draw out the grace notes with the minimum plucking².”  Her kalapramana was also unique.  Hers was a slower pace than that of Ariyakudi, but yet closer to the madhyama than those of, say, Brinda or MDR.  That choice made it possible for her to excel in the popular compositions of Sri Thyagaraja as also in the more slow moving ones of Sri Muthuswamy Dikshitar and Sri Shyama Sastri.  Her sruti was low-pitched compared to other females but one that did not ‘take away the power and depth of classical music.’ Her greatest strength, however, was her sense of laya.  She had a special way of singing pallavis. She would sound as though she was repeating herself but, in reality, would be adding micro variations in  small doses akin to an artist adding minute details to an intricate sculpture.  Above all, her high self-confidence never morphed into pride and that allowed her to be easily liked and remain approachable.  She remained a perpetual student, learning Thirupugazh and Pallavi singing from Nayana Pillai and others, and the kritis of the great vainika Sri Muthuswamy Dikshitar from Justice T.L. Venkatarama Iyer.  She acknowledged with great generosity and candor her debt to her teachers in these words:

“My interest in laya originated from my admiration for Nayana Pillai’s style of singing.  This made me take a deep interest in Pallavi singing and learning Thirupugazh songs … If you learn (Thirupugazh songs in 108 anga talams) you can distinguish the subtle nuances of rhythm and become a master of tala.  I learnt these songs from Sri Appadurai Acharyar … (and) many new and difficult Pallavis from Sri Narasimhalu Naidu of Tirupati …”

She introduced many new compositions to the Carnatic stage by setting many pieces of Sri Subrahmanya Bharati and Sri Papanasam Sivan to tune, adding yet another facet of novelty to her concerts.  She had a high national consciousness and participated in the freedom movement through singing many nationalistic compositions in her concerts.  And, she developed a great coterie of disciples including her illustrious brother D.K. Jayaraman and granddaughter, Nithyashri, who is now highly popular.  It is these multifaceted achievements that make her a Sangeethasagara, an ocean of music. To this day, her singing inspires us with so much awe that we often ask ourselves ‘Eppadi paadinaro,’ a phrase borrowed from a composition she herself set to music.  The lady, who sang in a poignant manner “Santi nilava vendum” (Peace must indeed reign) soon after the death of Mahatma Gandhi and later adopted it as the ending piece of her concerts, exuded peace both in her music and persona.  May her celebrations be a call for that peace both in the land she loved and in countries around the world!

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This article was written for the souvenir of the 12th annual festival of IFAASD, Indian Fine Arts Academy of San Diego.

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[1] Sangeetha Sagara is a lifetime achievement award of The Carnatic Music Association of North America (CMANA).  It is given sparingly to extraordinary contributors to Carnatic music who demonstrate the highest levels of creativity in multiple areas and can be called role models.  CMANA sponsored the first tour of Pattammal to the USA.

[2]Indira Menon, author.  Indialog Publications, 2004, ISBN: 81-87981-53-9.  For a review of this book, see
https://veeraam.blogspot.com/2019/02/great-masters-of-carnatic-music-1930.html

³https://www.thehindu.com/features/friday-review/music/a-sum-total-of-the-carnatic-aesthetic-tradition/article2742366.ece

⁴Sruti, 1983 interview.

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The author, Dr. V. Ramaswami, is a past President and Secretary of CMANA.  He is also a composer with many compositions in Tamil, Sanskrit and Hindi, some of which have been released as a set of CDs with the title Swarabharanam performed by Sikkil Gurucharan, Sanjeev Venkataraman, and Kalaimamani J. Vaidyanathan.