A Thousand Desires - Glimpse of the Margazhi-Kutcheri Season
Life is an ever-growing collection of unfulfilled desires; each alike Ghalib’s thousands, worth dying for:
हज़ारों ख़्वाहिशें ऐसी कि हर ख़्वाहिश पे दम निकले
Last month I gratified an old longing - For three days I witnessed the annual festival of music in Chennai, The Margazhi Kutcheri.
Utter solitude of the unit where I was posted after internship, more than three decades ago, had forced me to look for means to while away the idle hours. As I wrote sometime back, I discovered Kishori Amonkar in these fumbling efforts.
Then, a young officer from Kerala often saw me sprawled on a lawn chair, reading, and listening to music, as he walked across the corridor facing my room. He suggested that I listen to Yesudas’s Carnatic albums, which he said were popular in Kerala. A few weeks later he brought me two cassettes of Yesudas’s music, seeing I had not heeded his advice. I liked the music: the fast pace and the fascinating drums.
India Today had launched Music Today then, a prestigious label in Indian classical music. I bought some albums in its Carnatic collection; and quite rapidly became a fan of this music. A few compositions moved me strongly: The long alapana in Maharajapuram Santhanam’s Rama Ninnu Nammina in raga Mohanam; Thani avarthanam, solo mridangam, by Palghat Mani Iyer, in an album by the violinist L. Shankar; Kunnakudi Vaidyanathan’s rendition of Hindolam in his album Colours– with Zakir Hussain and Vikku Vinayakram; Violinist T.N. Krishnan’s Raghuvamsa Sudha, the catchiest classical composition I have heard.
(I must apologise at the outset if my opinions – that of an illiterate in this highly nuanced and complex art – appear pompous to the readers. I am an ill-informed aficionada of this stream of music, who is wonderstruck by the joys it offers. If I do not qualify every statement with ‘in my un-informed opinion’ it is only to avoid a tedious monotony.)
An amateur fan that I am, I find Carnatic classical music easier to enjoy than its Hindustani counterpart – its compositions are shorter, pick up pace fast, and accompanying artists on Mridangam, Ghatam, Kanjeera, Violin, seem to contribute significantly to the rendition.
In Delhi, I heard most of the Hindustani singers of the day, and some on many occasions. But Carnatic singers visited north infrequently. Over the years I could attend concerts of only few: Vikku Vinayakram, L. Subramaniam, Aruna Sairam, Balamurali Krishnan, and Mandolin U. Srinivas.
I read about the Madras music festival, the Margazhi-Kutcheri, in The Hindu, sometime back. Marghazhi is the Tamil month of December and Kutcheri is an assembly of musicians in the context of Carnatic music. Beginning end-November, Chennai hosts a string of musical concerts lasting about six weeks. This must be a unique cultural extravaganza in the world. In 1927, congress leader, S. Satyamurti, proposed a music conference in Madras to coincide with the annual Congress session being held in the city. Festival grew over the years, incorporating dance and drama in its fold. It provided music lovers, the rasikas – who till now could listen to artists only in temple or wedding ceremonies – an easy access to music. Sabhas, the sponsor-institutions, sprung up in Madras, to organise the annual festival. They were the bridge between the artists and the art-lovers.
The mere idea of being in Chennai when 10-12 concerts are happening simultaneously, from 6 A.M. to 10 P.M., was exhilarating. I earmarked 3 days in December from the measly ration of leave I am permitted annually. I was overwhelmed by the extensive schedules of the numerous sabhas. For decades I had only listened to the musicians that were celebrated by the media. Here, I was confronted by hundreds of names. I knew very few. An acquaintance, a Chennai-resident, and a regular at Margazhi, helped to choose. I booked the concerts of the artists I could recognise and decided to play by ear, in the remaining time.
For three days I breathed Carnatic music.
I would set out for the festival in the morning, after a hearty breakfast, topped by the wonderful filtered-coffee, at the hotel. Chennai flaunted its best weather, i.e., warm most of the day sprinkled with generous sprinklings of heat and mugginess. City’s auto-drivers lived up to their reputation always demanding a phenomenal fare; later, grinningly settling for half. Ola-Uber cabs rarely accepted the request in less than 3-5 attempts, and mostly refused.
I walked 3-4 kms to the first concert of the day. Roadside vendors sold flowers, for offerings in the nearby temples or for ladies’s gajra. Simple rangolis drawn in white chawk-powder or perhaps flour, adorned the washed street abutting the shanty-doors in the backstreets. Bunches of baby bananas hung from the awnings of the kiosks. Temples, with ornate facades, were busy with the throng of morning devotees. Tiffin-houses were waking up to the warmth of the day ahead.
Like music, food is a prominent manifestation of the culture of a people. It was a grand idea of the Margazhi sabhas to provide a common platform for these two cultural forms. Most sabhas hire caterers to run canteens in the auditoria premises. Canteens provide breakfast, tiffin, lunch, another round of tiffin, dinner, and the heavenly Madras coffee – furiously boiling milk poured over the chicory laced kaapi decoction in a steel glass. Crowds at these canteens was larger than the adjacent concerts, and seemed boisterously excited. I saw families comprising grandparents, parents, and kids, attired in flashy clothes, religiously devouring the savouries. I suspect many visited the auditoria only for the food. A look at the vast menu would make me drool. But I never found time for a full meal at these venerable joints, as meal times coincided with the concert and there was always a huge crowd waiting for a seat at the bench where meals were served. Snacks I had in plenty – Khichadi, Pongal, Idli, Vadai, Bonda - and gallons of Kaapi
Auditoria of some sabhas were lush, like the large TTK auditorium of Music Academy. But many were quite bare and some even looked faded with peeling paints, jaded curtains, and moulded chairs for audience. Many of the latter hosted music by celebrated old artists, and bespoke of the clout of the sabha and the patronage provided by the artists. These were the most venerated sabhas like Brahma Gana Sabha, Shri Parthasarthy Swami Sabha. Audio of all was excellent.
A live music concert is an unequalled experience. Listening to artists performing a few feet from you, sitting amid the accompanying players, is an experience that no recording can equal. Every time I listen to a live concert, I begin with a palpitating heart, dizzy with excitement. It is not only that the notes filling the space of the auditorium can not be captured by the most sophisticated equipment. It is the changing body-language of the artist: hands rising and falling, arm shooing out suddenly and then withdrawn as jerkily, as if singer is trying to pluck the invisible, evasive notes from the sky, agonised facial expression and the diminishing breath in a long difficult gamaka; the interaction amongst various performers on the stage, the look of approval by the accompanying players, a polite acknowledgement of the audience’s applause; and the company of the hundreds of other listeners, each lost in her joy.
In three days I attended about ten concerts, each lasting 2-3 hours. I began at the Music Academy on TTK road where I heard veteran vocalist Neyveli R. Santanagopalan followed by an IIT, Chennai research scholar, Dr N. Jayakrishnan Unni. All sabhas featured both, accomplished and young performers. A man placed a wheel chair in the aisle, by the side of my seat. A spastic boy sat in it. I watched him from the corners of my eyes in the dark auditorium as he waved his hands vigorously and softly exclaimed, Wah!, Oh! Tch-Tch, whenever performer played or sang an exquisite piece.
Most audience, in almost all the kutcheris I attended, comprised predominantly elderly people. It was a sobering sight – If the art doesn’t attract young lovers, can it thrive for long. But it was heartening to see that majority of the artists at all the concerts were young – most looked in 30s or 40s, many were teen agers.
Music of the region is rooted in its language. I was amused by my gross ignorance of Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, or Malayalam, languages of carnatic music. I tried to work out the structure of the concert in the dark crevices of my mind: this is the first composition, must be the Varnam. And this long alapana must mean artist is going to sing the body of the concert now. Alapana followed by the repeated syllables a-nam-tam, and varied gamakas with similar structure revealed the piece to be ragam tanam pallavi. Occasional tillana, and the invariable percussion solo, the thani avartanam, cautioned me that artist was winding her performance.
In the small, well-designed, and acoustically superb auditorium of The Asian College of Journalism in Taramani, I heard the young flautist brothers, Herambh and Hemanth. Mylapore Fine Arts Club’s auditorium looked like a rundown theatre of past. I attended two scintillating concerts here. Rithvik Raja sang with marvellous aplomb and in a full-throated voice, for more than two hours. Violinist Mysore M. Manjunath and veena player Nirmala Rajshekhar’s jugalbandi was vivacious and energetic, the soft and deep notes of veena complimenting the sharp sound of violin. At the gorgeous auditorium of Krishna Gana Sabha I heard Sudha Raghunathan followed by Maladi brothers. Large hall was full for Sudha’s performance. Bustle of heavy Kanjivaram silk, and the fragrance of fresh jasmine in the venis, filled the air. Sudha Raghunathan’s long, extremely skilful alapanas left me delirious with joy.
Hindustani music has a brooding quality. Artist, as she performs, seems to be drawn within herself - as if she has to retrieve the elusive notes of the raga from within her soul. Khayal singing picks up tempo gradually. Singer demands patience from audience as they seek the divine notes.Thus, though the singer sings on the stage, she appears aloof, inhabiting a world that the audience can not access, only glimpse it through her notes. Carnatic artist interacts with the audience more actively. She is playful, offering audience gems she has gained in her long sadhana. It helps, that each composition is short.
I fell in love with the drums in Carnatic music, early in this journey. Mridangam and Ghatam create a magnificent sound, like the clouds reverberating in the sky, an avalanche gathering pace on high mountains, thick rain drops rhythmically striking a tin roof. Their vigorous sound makes your heart leap up and for a few moments everything in the universe seems to dissolve but for these vibrant beats. Umayalapuram Shivaraman, the most renowned mridangist in country today, played at a stark highschool auditorium, under the aegis of Brahma Gana Sabha. This was the star performance in my kitty. Eighty-eight-year-old Umayalapuram sat like a Greek philosopher, benevolently smiling at his young colleagues, most of whom looked in their 30s. He played with the zeal and energy of his youthful accompanists. His solo performance of about 10 minutes, didn’t sound real; It was ethereal, sounds emanating from the heavens above.
Sri Parthasarthy Swami Sabha's concert in Mylapore was held in its courtyard, where marquee had been erected for audience. At one end stood the high stage. Shamiana of the canteen, run by Arusuvai Arasu, was much larger and choc-a-bloc full, with a large pile of waiting rasikas; perhaps only gourmands. I tried to buy lunch, but couldn't manage a seat. Here I heard my last concert. Sabha announced vocal recital by Dr Sriram Parasuram as a carnatic-hindustani jugalbandi. Actually, Dr Parasuram sang compositions in both the systems, in his rich baritone, one after another, accompanied by harmonium and tabla when he sang Hindustani and violin and mridangam as he switched to Carnatic. He sang Carnatic in the slow pace of Hindustani. I quit midway and rushed to Raintree in Anna Salai, to retrieve my bags. I bid goodbye to the spruce, smart, and courteous staff of the hotel.
Sounds of violin, mridangam, and notes of alapana accompanied me for long. It had been a celestial experience.
Old age deprives one of the many joys of living. But it opens doors on pursuits that escape us in youth. One now has time, inclination, patience, and money, to indulge longings that feed on these. Shrinking future lends an immediacy to these pursuits. It would be a good idea to visit Chennai during Margazhi season every year, I dreamed, as I sipped an excellent Kaapi at the airport.
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