Vaak Issue 04 by Vaak Magazine

CONTENTS 01

A life journey with Kolams Chantal Jumel

Indian copyright laws Ananth Padmanabhan

Ragamala series of paintings Simon Ray

Musical legacy of Musiri Subramania Iyer Thyagarajan Sankaran & Suguna Varadachari

Legacy of the Pandanallur Gurus Arvind Kumar Sankar

My journey with Karnatik music Aditya Prakash

Thillanas: an introduction Ananthakrishna Panuganti

Above: Sūrya, © The Trus Cover picture art: Surya Narayan

stees of the British Museum na (The Sun God), Christies, 2019

Surya /Sūrya/

noun Watercolour painting on paper of the four headed sun god, Sūrya. The god has orange skin and rides on a chariot pulled by fourteen white horses. Sūrya is seated on a lotus which is placed on the golden seat of the chariot. He has four arms, his lower left hand holds the mace over his shoulder and his upper left hand holds the lotus flower. In his right hand he holds the discus and conch. From behind Sūrya emerge numerous golden rays and his chariot is shown flying through the sky.

Thank you for reading Vaak.

A lot of our thinking at Vaak these days has been around the idea of consciousness. Many spiritual paths have explored this idea in great depth. In South India, the sacred Arunachala (“the red mountain”) is said to be the manifestation of the Supreme Light of consciousness. Religions have symbolisms to help us plod through this puzzle; the sun, it is said, is the most perfect physical form of the Source. Ancient Egyptians and Mesopotamians worshipped the sun. Germanic, Greek and Vedic mythologies feature the solar deities to represent the sun. Adi Shankara discusses sun worship in Souram, where he elaborates on Souraprayogam mentioned in the Vedic texts. Sufism places consciousness at the centre of its explorations. Christian Theologists have debated the place of the Roman God – Sol Invictus – in the depiction of Christ. Neuroscientists have also been attempting to understand and explain the mind and its intricacies by measuring brain activity. What lies between the conscious and the unconscious is a marvellous mystery, and a scientific understanding of what constitutes the mind in neural terms has been central to the study of consciousness in the last fifty years. Art is a great channel to capture consciousness in a tangible form. Many artists and composers have recreated philosophies of the mind through poems, compositions, paintings, and movements. Among the Carnatic music composers, Mutthuswamy Dikshitar gives us a lot of cues. In the sixth composition in the Guruguha Vibhakti series, he sings “shrI guru guhasya dAso.aham no chet chidguru guha evAham” (I am the humble servant of Guruguha, or else I myself am of the form of Guruguha himself).1 The British composer Cyril Scott captures a similar sentiment through his timeless Lotus Land. Rumi’s verses stand testimony to the poet’s complete surrender to the Divine Light of consciousness. Two important writers, Thomas Mann and Tomasi di Lampedusa, have grappled with the relationship between time and the consciousness of self in their novels, The Magic Mountain and The Leopard respectively. All these ideas not only fascinate us, but urge us to look beyond the seemingly obvious to access that which is not apparent, but that which (perhaps) is eternal and hence, real. In this edition of Vaak, we have aligned ourselves with this theme in our cover and centre pages to express this thinking.

Issue 04 is wide-ranging. Simon Ray, who deals with Indian and Islamic Art in London, introduces us to the Ragamala series of paintings. Chantal Jumel’s passion for Kolams is inspiring. She is amongst the rare kind of people to have fully listened to and followed her life’s calling. We are honoured to have her write for us. The Pandanallur style has been home to some very prolific artists of Bharatanatyam, and Arvind Kumar Sankar traces the history of this lineage of dance in his ongoing series on the great gurus of Bharatanatyam. At Vaak, we have a personal preference for music that brings out the essence and emotion of a composition in a manner that is original, thoughtful, unhurried, and exploratory. Musiri Subramania Iyer’s music is all of these and more for us. We are ecstatic to bring out an interview with Suguna Varadachari and Thyagarajan Sankaran on Musiri

Sūrya, © The Trustees of the British Museum 1 Translation

by Todd M. McComb, Ganamandir Trust.

Subramania Iyer’s musical legacy. Aditya Prakash surveys his journey as a South Indian classical musician in the United States. His reflective piece on the search for meaning and musical identity is something that most of us can resonate with in spirit. We are also thrilled to feature Ananthakrishna’s series on the Thillana. In this edition, he introduces us to the structural, historical, and normative aspects of the Thillana, and we look forward to presenting more scholarship on this dance concert form in our future editions. Lastly, we take copyright laws seriously. An established media platform recently threw allegations at us for infringing copyrights. We would have preferred if this were a respectful, constructive dialogue, but they took the unfortunate route of inauspicious naysaying to the extent where we were told that “our reputation will be at stake” if we did not comply with their demands. We do not want to engage in petty politics, but we want all of us to have a clear idea of what the copyright laws are, and how these laws apply to digital content creators, publishers, and producers. Keeping this in mind, we spoke to Ananth Padmanabhan, Dean, Law School of Sai University and Fellow at the Centre for Policy Research, and we have an excerpt from an interview with him on copyright laws for the arts industry. Hopefully, we can avoid the politics of gatekeeping, and connect with each other in a spirit that attests our mutual love for good art. Utopian ideals indeed, but it doesn’t hurt to give these ideals some life when necessary. Vaak is an educational, non-profit endeavour. We take arts scholarship very seriously. We are also people with day jobs and other professional identities, and we have no other motive but to inform our curiosities on the goodness that is around us. This goodness, for us, comes in the form of art, philosophy, mathematics, and literature. We are clarifying our motives because we are believers in the democratic ideals of transparency and accountability. We are a young initiative. If you have constructive comments, or if you are unhappy with our work, we are very keen to engage with you. We are always excited to learn, so do drop us a line at vaak.me@gmail.com if you would like to reach out to us. Our sincere thanks to Shreyas Gowrishenkar and Vivek Ramanujam for their design and editorial support. Vinay Jain has guided us in our design aesthetics. We are grateful to him for his patience and compassion.

Wishing you the best, Vaak.

Shreeraam Shankar

Archana . Sivasubramanian

A life journey with Kolams Chantal Jumel

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ll it took was a handful of coloured powders to begin an amazing exploration of Indian imagination and a journey into the self. The call of India started with a book

and a film. Contes et légendes de l’Inde was a shorter version of Mahabharata and carried the French girl that I was to the world of Indian epics. The second one, much later in my teens, was a film called The River, shot in Bengal by Jean Renoir a French director. The narration and the frames from the film both have deeply impacted my childhood and I searched for a book that would describe the astonishing drawing gestures seen at the beginning of the movie. One day, heading to the library of Asian museum Guimet in Paris, I found a work titled l’Alpona ou les décorations rituelles du Bengale with illustrations from the painter Abanindranath Tagore, nephew of the poet, writer, composer, and Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore. Page after page, the booklet features geometrical diagrams, animals, birds, and everyday objects as well as descriptions of rituals. The very first image that Jean Renoir offers to the audience is the sight of a feminine hand tracing a perfect white circle on the ground, followed by four petals facing the cardinal points while an off voice starts narrating the film: “In India to honour guests on special occasions, women decorate the floor of their houses with rice flour and water”. What an appealing custom, the gesture and the sitting posture are fascinating but why paint on the ground? Is there a reason? Is there a repertory or is it merely the result of a fertile imagination? Does the painting remain? The questions lingered in my mind for a long time until I decided to go to India. Dots and lines to welcome the day My introduction into the traditions and rituals of India spirited me first

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to Tamil Nadu, where designs festooned the ground front of each Tamil-speaking household. Just before sunrise, passers-by will be intrigued by the gestures of hands, repeated many times, raising dot after dot on what looks like a powdered canvas. These visual markers placed on the ground, these budding constellations created by women who fill up this earthly sky with their culture and imagination. To this day, this exquisite custom of welcome continues in intricate dots echoing other dots, aligning themselves, either face to face or in alternate rows. A connect-the-dot game waiting for a line to sketch out the walls of a divine palace, the silhouette of an animal, a bird, or an everyday object. Dots inviting flexible, graceful, curved lines to pay tribute to the wide variety of real or imaginary flowers. Enmeshed lines with crossings made up of false twists and dead ends skirting around dot caper in all directions to better lose or slow down those who try to follow their path. Other women trace long parallel lines in slower and freer movements that almost flow, brushing the ground. The swaying of arms and the whole body, accompanied by winding gestures, somehow suspend the lines in a momentum that seems to never want to unite with the ground. These lines are equally fine with the absence of a dotted grid and soar unwaveringly towards the four corners of a square or as beams from an imaginary circle. There are strong, decided, brilliant lines that define the outlines of a Kolam. Emotionally tuned lines that curl up in volutes then return to their starting point, giving rhythm to the passage of time and to the reincarnations of the soul. Kolam and what they tell me Would it be ludicrous to imagine that these ephemeral drawings draw their contours and

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rhythmical consonances from the choreographies of the dancers of the past? These graceful designs connected to the earth call to mind the straight and curved lines of Bharata Natyam and the vigorous and joyous way it is grounded to the earth while reaching towards the sky. Like the hoary art form that took its birth in the temples, a Kolam, like dance, takes the form of curves, spirals, and delicate ornaments, it resembles the lasya aspect of dance; but when it is made up of parallel lines, it is the majestic, virile, and powerful dance of the Ananda tandava, which displays a quiet strength. Just like the alarippu, literally the flowering bud, a Kolam opens and illuminates the day, saluting the deities and passers-by. The interlacing and intermingling lines devoid of right angles borrow from the jatiswaram and thillana a certain nimbleness, then there are the rhythmical variations and the idea of creating beautiful forms purely for aesthetic pleasure. Meanwhile, the Kolam achieves perfection when it combines complex lines with a combination of different motifs and a rapid execution just like in the central piece of a recital, the varnam, literally meaning “colour”. The padam is described as a subtle narrative dance which is internalised and adapted according to the interpretations a dancer gives it. In the same way, a seasoned artist adapts the motifs of a graphic composition according to a story associated with a certain deity, the day of the week, or a religious holiday. The javali performed after a padam is more light-hearted, and in the past was addressed to a king. Today, the Kolam has moved away from the family puja room and doorstep and has adopted colours and bold shapes and forms. They celebrate contemporary heroes, everyday objects, and are used in advertising. There are even plastic versions which

Course with Sri Parameswara Kurup

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are devoid of religious meaning and are not much more than attractive visual designs.

Because the Kolam blossoms at daybreak and celebrates the Earth and the link that human beings maintain with her, I always compared it with a visual chant capable of waking up and silently educating the heart of passers-by. A painted prayer renewed every day and similar to the suprabhatam. The art of Kolam seems to borrow certain aspects of classical Carnatic music, notably composition and improvisation. Just as the musician chooses the pitch of a note based on the range of his or her voice or the instrument being played, the Kolam artist

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delves into her repertoire of informal designs and proceeds to personalise it, adding her own devotion and religious expression. The musical composition is revealed through the raga or colour that defines its notes, inflexions, and melodic contours. As for the Kolam, it develops beyond its geometrical form with a medley of lines and figurative or abstract elements, thanks to the creativity and hand of its creator. Fine or bold lines, doubled or shaded, twisted, or stretched, the thick or fine lines embellishing the Kolam are like gamaka: subtle ornamentation that sways and curves, producing the ascending or descending notes of the melody form which give a particular mood to a raga.

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In my eyes these ephemeral drawings appear to be geometrical metaphors illustrating the idea of time in Hinduism; a cyclical time where creation and destruction alternate, giving rhythm to the universe and human life. Sometimes, their silent presence offers me the unique opportunity to savour a moment of eternity and at other times, I have the impression I am beholding a miniature temple encircled by walls, and in the centre, its sanctum. It seems to me that my understanding of Indian and Tamil culture grew clearer watching the ritual of this feminine hand gesture, deciphering in a playful and visual way all the various philosophical speculations. Graphic recurrences, similar to the priest’s incantations, punctuate the passing of time. By repeating motifs or lines, we try at all costs to suspend the present moment. The hand tunes the breath on the delicate weft of dust, which becomes a pattern and immobilizes time. And that is when awareness of our finitude occurs, but in Hinduism there are no Parcae sisters to preside over human destiny by severing the thread of life, and there is no mode of despair, void or melancholy found in Vanitas still life paintings. Nascendo quotidie morimur, as we are born, we die, that could be the motto borrowed from Sénèque to suggest the intrinsic quality of Kolam. But instead of emphasizing fate, Hindu philosophies have highlighted the cyclical manifestation of the universe that appears and disappears, as the Kolam vanishes in the evening, to be born again the next day, revitalized. Hic et Nunc – here and now – that is what is at stake in this early morning maze. But one must start all over again to retain the images in this frail canvas, repeated over time; one has to harmonize breath to hand movements, to embrace the present moment, the whimsical thoughts, the metamorphosis of the world and the fleeting incarnations of the unspeakable.

The journey does not end there, there are so many streets and dirty roads to explore. Then, there is this exhilarating pleasure to discover with a pounding heart, a unique Kolam, unheard of, sitting there, majestic, on the threshold of a house and distilling throughout its short existence the fragrances named delicacy, enchantment, patience, humility, and serenity.

A graduate of Sorbonne University, Chantal Jumel is a freelance researcher, traveler and writer, specialised in Indian visual and performing art. Author of two books Voyage dans l’imaginaire Indien, Kolam, dessins éphémères des femmes tamoules (A journey through graphical India, Kolam, ephemeral drawings by Tamil women) and Kolam et Kalam, peintures rituelles éphémères de l’Inde du Sud ( Kolam and kalam, South Indian ephemeral and ritual paintings), Geuthner, Paris, 2013-2010. She also made a film (Kalam eluttu pattu, To paint and sing the kalam) produced with the help of CNRS (National Centre for Scientific Research).

Indian ephemeral ground-painting Kolam, kalam, rangoli | Facebook Page Bhumi Chitra - Ephemeral floor paintings | YouTube Channel Chantal Jumel | Website Inward Journey Through Art and Travel | Blog

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Indian copyright laws An overview by Ananth Padmanabhan

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here are many independent musicians who create, produce, and publish their creative work online. There are also organisations involved in the production of digital

content. And then there are copyright owners, and this includes artists, creators, production and media houses, and independent publishers. In this vast creative ecosystem that is only growing by the day, it is easy to publish content for educational purposes (without an intention to plagiarise, but sometimes without the permission of the copyright owner) as much as it is easy to plagiarise and upload digital content. Clearly, this is a complex space, and the complexities can be dealt with to arrive at a fair resolution of copyright disputes only if there is a good grip on what the legal system says about copyright laws in the country. We spoke to Ananth Padmanabhan, Dean, School of Law at Sai University to help us understand India’s copyright laws and what these laws mean for digital content creators, producers, and publishers. An excerpt:

Vaak: Can you give a brief overview on India’s copyright law?

Ananth: Indian copyright law is laid out in a self-contained parliamentary legislation, the Indian Copyright Act, 1957 (the Act). The idea behind copyright law is to protect “works”, including literary, musical, artistic, and dramatic works, sound recordings, cinematograph films and computer software, against unauthorised use and reproduction. However, the Act does not stop with protecting these works against copyright infringement through the grant of certain exclusive rights to their owners. It grants performance rights to “performers” including actors, singers, musicians, and dancers, in respect of their performances. It also grants moral rights to authors. These special rights continue to remain with authors even after they transfer their copyright to a publisher or any other entity and help them in asserting authorship over their works (if not duly credited for their authorial efforts) and preventing any distortions, mutilations or other modifications to their works that potentially cause a dent to their authorial reputation or honour. Thus, the law aims to comprehensively secure property rights and other rights to creators, with the aim of incentivising creative activity. At the same time, it provides a legal channel for these property owners to deal with their rights in a fair manner, largely through voluntary contractual arrangements, such that society benefits from access to these creative works. Vaak: Who is this law applicable to?

Ananth: The law has relevance for, and applicability to, all four players in the content ecosystem – authors and creators, producers and investors, distribution channels, and end users. Authors are the original owners of works in most circumstances, but industry practices often dictate that they assign (ie. transfer) their rights in respect of these works to producers / investors. The latter group then negotiate with distribution channels – radio stations,

Cover image: The Court buildings, Madras, c. 1890's

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theatre owners, digital platforms – regarding royalties and other license terms. In certain settings such as radio broadcasting, when negotiations fail, the designated public authority steps in to fix royalty rates and facilitate compulsory access. Finally, the end users access works through various channels, and either pay for the copy of the work provided to them or resort to the fair dealing provision that exempts them from taking permission before consuming a work. It is also worth noting that copyright protection is available both to Indian works and foreign works (the latter subject to some international conventions and treaties, and statutory conditions), though the enforcement of such rights will be as respects infringing activities that take place within India. Vaak: What is Copyright Infringement? Under the Copyright Act, copyright owners have certain exclusive rights such as the right to reproduce the work, issue copies of it to the public, perform the work in public, make cinematograph films or sound recordings based on the work etc. When any person other than the copyright owner indulges in any of the aforementioned activities without the owner’s permission, this would usually amount to copyright infringement (except when there is a fair use under the law, as explained below). Therefore, the composer of a popular song (who hasn’t yet transferred her copyright ownership to a sound recording label or a movie producer) can sue another composer who copies her tune or proceed legally against a reality show where contestants perform her song in public. Both civil remedies like injunction and monetary compensation, and criminal remedies like penalties and imprisonment, are available to copyright owners, depending on the severity of the infringing activity. Moreover, infringement also includes secondary activities that support primary acts of infringement, such as permitting, for commercial gain, the use of any place from where infringing copies of a work are communicated to the public. Such place can include virtual spaces such as digital platforms. Thus, if the composer in the aforementioned example notifies Youtube that a song that sounds similar to her musical work is uploaded on the platform, Youtube has to take down that song at least for 21 days. After the 21 day period, the take down will only continue if the composer manages to obtain a judicial order supporting her claim. Vaak: What is the Concept of Fair Use and Fair Dealing in the law?

Ananth: Under the Copyright Act, any behavior that is excused under Section 52 will not amount to infringement. This is the fair use/fair dealing provision in the Act. The purpose behind fair use is to acknowledge that there are some trivial or legitimate uses of copyrighted works, which simply cannot be a voided, or which must in fact be actively promoted for the greater good of society. For example, it would be difficult to carry a news report on acultural event if the news organization is expected to take copyright license for every song that may be played at this event, and which forms a part of the news broadcast. Therefore,

VAAK | 12 Section 52 allows exemption from copyright infringement for purposes such as news reporting, criticism or review of a work, private or personal use including research etc. There are many other exceptions too provided in this section. Some of the more prominent ones are educational and instructional uses, library purposes, judicial orders and official gazette notifications, sound recordings at not-for-profit clubs and residential premises, performances for the benefit of religious institutions, and the tailoring of works in accessible formats for the benefit of persons with impaired access to such works.

So far as a content creator who relies upon an existing copyrighted work is concerned, she should first check the listed exceptions in Section 52 and see whether her proposed use falls within any of the enumerated exceptions contained therein. If yes, she can safely proceed with making use of the existing work. If not, she then has to explore the possibility of identifying the copyright owner and seeking a license.

Vaak: Can you tell us how this law can be applied to digital content creators?

Ananth: When it comes to creative activity, copyright law makes no distinction between the various forms or medium in which works are created. Thus, regardless of whether a song is notated in a book, recorded in a studio, or hummed for the first time during a Facebook live event, the composer of the tune shall be entitled to the same level of copyright protection. In fact, there are some distinct advantages for digital content and related production models that arise from the reality that, unlike in the case of patents or trademarks, copyright exclusivity does not require mandatory registration of works in question. The moment a three-year old child records a dancing video using her mother’s smartphone, she becomes the copyright owner of that cinematograph film. In a digital world, with its velocity and volume of content, this instantaneous rights protection is very useful. Moreover, owners of digital content can also take self-help measures in the form of encryption technologies. If any such encryption is circumvented in an unauthorised manner or for “non fair-use/fair dealing” purposes, that would result in separate liability under law just for tampering with the encryption. Vaak: What should digital content publishers know about copyright laws?

Ananth: Digital publishing is a domain where the law diverges on certain key features from analog modes of publishing. Take cinematograph films for instance. A 2012 amendment to the Act makes it clear that music composers and lyricists are entitled to an equal share of royalties as the film producer for all uses made of their respective works, except in the case of theatrical revenues

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(which the film producer gets to keep entirely, besides that which he must contractually share with the theatrical distributors). Most of these subsequent uses in turn are digital avenues for content dissemination. Similarly, even if music composers or lyricists have transferred their rights to film producers or investors, such transfers will not automatically cover future technologies (most of which are digital these days). Thus, separate transfers have to be effected on a later date for exploiting these works in the digital realm.

Again, while radio broadcasting gets the benefit of royalty rates fixed by a public authority (without these broadcasters having to independently negotiate with each sound recording label), the Bombay High Court has made it clear that digital streaming players like Spotify and Wynk cannot avail of this provision and must, instead, seek voluntary licenses first.

Finally, digital intermediaries like YouTube which traditionally host content rather than curating them (unlike a Netflix, for instance) get the benefit of a fair dealing exception wherein they are not liable for copyright infringement. However, when information is passed to such intermediaries by way of a complaint that a hosted video is infringing in nature, they have to immediately take it down for a 21-day period. Within such period, the onus is on the complainant to get a judicial order to ensure that the take-down decision is extended beyond 21 days.

Ananth Padmanabhan serves as Dean, School of Law at Sai University and as a non-resident senior fellow at the Institute for South Asia Studies, NUS. His research interests are in the fields of technology policy, intellectual property rights, and innovation scholarship. He has authored a leading treatise, Intellectual Property Rights: Infringement and Remedies (LexisNexis, 2012), and co-edited an important volume, India as a Pioneer of Innovation (OUP, 2017).

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Surya by Syed Haider Raza Painted in 1997 Dimensions : 100 x 100 cm. (39 x 39 in.)

In Surya, Raza presents an arrangement of shapes and earthly colours which evolve from dark to light, following the natural sequence of night into day. Here he utilises vibrant red, electric blue, black, ochres and white while maintaining harmony in the use of simple geometry and pure colour. According to art historian Geeti Sen, "Geometrical forms are used to map the universe. Here, the vocabulary of pure plastic form acquires an integral purpose: to relate the shape and rhythm of these forms to Nature." (G. Sen, Bindu: Space and Time in Raza's Vision, New Delhi, 1997, p.118)

Surya by Syed Haider Raza, Christies, 2013

Ragamala series of paintings Simon Ray

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imon Ray is a London based art dealer specialising in Indian and Islamic art. He has a gallery focusing on Indian and Islamic art right in the centre of London in

King’s street, St. James’s named ‘Simon Ray – Indian & Islamic Works of Art’ { Ragamala Paintings. Courtesy: Simon Ray, London }

Dipak Raga India (Bilaspur), 1730-1740 Height: 26.7 cm Width: 17.5 cm Opaque watercolour heightened with gold on paper.

Inscribed on the reverse in takri: [sri] raga dipak chautha 7?Ipahi/a Inscribed in devanagari: sri raga dipak chautha 4 patra 1 Further inscribed in takri: sri raga dipak Iraga dipak chautha di patra 4 Kshemakarna's Ragamala system used by the artists of the Punjab Hills contains two sets of verses. In the first set, each musical mode is described as a person. In the second, Kshemakarna compares each raga, ragini (wife) or ragaputra (son) to a sound either found in nature: such as the hiss of a snake or the song of a bird; or made by a human activity, such as churning butter or washing

clothes.1

In stanza 98, Kshemakarna

describes the sound of Dipak Raga as that of fire

which “sings” the melody,

hence the iconographic convention of depicting

the raga with lamps or burning verse of stanza 54, Dipak is described as: “Brought forth [born] by the eye of the sun, mounted on an excellent white elephant, shaped like Sutrama (Indra), of red body [complexion], with wide eyes, with a diadem on his head, in a bright dress, very lovely; a garland around his neck, holding an axe in his hand [here an ankus or elephant goad], giving delight to the god of love, Dipak may confer joy to all people during the hot season at noon”.2

flames. In the dhyana

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In this painting the god Indra rides his magical white elephant Airavata, which carries a lamp on its trunk. Indra's body is covered with a thousand eyes which were originally yonis, a punishment he receives for making love to Ahalya, the beautiful wife of the sage Gautama who curses him for seducing her. After a long period in which Indra hides from the world in shame, Gautama's anger subsides and in response to Brahma's appeal, converts Indra’s thousand yonis to eyes. Henceforth Indra becomes known as “the god of a thousand eyes”.

The delight in pattern making seen consistently in the paintings of this Ragamala series gleefully incorporates Indra's all-seeing eyes into the texture of the design as a repeated motif against a deliberately plain background. Indra carries his large steel ankus in one hand and his vajra or thunderbolt as the god of rain in the other. His scarf flies in the wind as the faithful Airavata charges ahead at great speed, effortlessly balancing the oil lamp on the curling tip of his trunk. A flame darts sharply upwards, emitting a whisper trail of smoke. Airavata's trunk presses against the left red border as if about to pierce it, rush out of the picture and take flight into the sky. According to mythology, Airavata reaches deep down into the underworld to suck up its waters which he then sprays in the clouds for his master Indra to make the rain, thereby linking the waters of the sky with those of the underworld. Provenance: Formerly in the collection of Dr Alma Latifi, CIE, OBE (1879-1959)

Acknowledgements: We would like to thank Jerry Losty and Robert Skelton for their expert advice and kind reading of the inscriptions. References: 1.

Catherine Glynn, Robert Skelton and Anna L. Dallapiccola, Ragamala Paintings from India: From the Claudio Moscatelli Collection, 2011, pp. 19-20.

Ernst and Leonore Waldschmidt, Miniatures of Musical Inspiration in the Collection of the Berlin Museum of Indian Art, Part I: Ragamala Pictures from the Western Himalaya Promontory, 1967, pp. 43 and 121; Klaus Ebeling, Ragamala Painting, 1973, p. 74.

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Hemala Ragaputra of Dipak Raga India (Bilaspur), 1730-1740 Height: 26.6 cm Width: 17.6 cm Opaque watercolour heightened with gold on paper.

Inscribed on the reverse in takri: dipak raga raputra raga hamela ch[??] Inscribed in devanagari: dipake daputra raga tamala chheva 6 / Ipatra 11[below that] 12 Further inscribed in takri: dipake daputra raga hama/a/ patha chha ? “Hemala Raga, sixth son of Dipak Raga”.

Hemala Ragaputra is shown as a young yogi, perhaps Mahadeva, seated meditating on the summit of a craggy mountain, attended by a pair of confronted jackals who keep watchful guard below him. Mahadeva, meaning “great god”, is one of the names of Shiva, who despite his potent destructive powers, also has a benevolent side where he lives the quiet contemplative life of an ascetic and omniscient yogi on top of Mount Kailash, which the imbricated cone-shaped rock formations may represent. Mahadeva is seated cross-legged in the padmasana lotus position, counting his string of rudrakshamala beads made from the seeds of the evergreen broad-leaved tree Elaeocarpus ganitrus. Rudra is another of Shiva's epithets and rudraksha in Sanskrit means “Shiva's teardrops”. The simple, organic jewellery (mala), made by foraging the fruits of nature, is much more suitable for a yogi in the wilderness than the princely gold and jewels worn by Rama in cat. no. 51, and in place of Rama's palatial rugs and cushions, Mahadeva has a rush mat. Further strings of rudrakshamala form necklaces, armbands and bracelets for our ascetic, while snakes writhe around his waist and through his ear lobes as a belt and earrings. Meditation bowls, cloths, staffs and crutches (zafar takieh) complete his minimal accoutrements. The Indian jackal (Canis aureus indicus), also known as the Himalayan jackal, is a subspecies of golden jackal native to Pakistan, India, Bhutan, Burma and Nepal. Golden jackals appear prominently in Indian and Nepali folklore where they often take over the role of the trickster played by the red fox in Europe and north America. While in folk mythology jackals share their scavenged food with ascetics, they are of iconographic significance to Mahadeva as the name Shiva also means “jackal”.

A similar painting in the Ragamala set from Basohli-Bilaspur now in Berlin is illustrated in Ernst and Leonore Waldschmidt, Miniatures of Musical Inspiration in the Collection of the Berlin Museum of Indian Art,Part I: Ragamala Pictures from the Western Himalaya Promontory, 1967, fig. 58, discussion on pp. 131-132, no. 36. Here Hemala is depicted as a solitary female ascetic,

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unaccompanied by jackals. Though clearly leading a life of austere practice, unlike Mahadeva she is adorned by especially rich jewellery of pearls and gold. By contrast, our painter is keen to emphasise through every element the rudimentary simplicity of Mahadeva's existence. A drawing depicting Hemala as a bearded ascetic meditating in the rain is illustrated in Klaus Ebeling, Ragamala Painting, 1973, p. 284, no. 341. The Berlin picture also has a backdrop with a thunderstorm atmosphere, an element of the iconography prescribed by Kshemakarna that is missing from our picture, perhaps on account of the fact that Shiva is never depicted in the rain. According to Ebeling and the Waldschmidts, Kshemakarna's verse 103 compares the music of Hemala Ragaputra to the sounds produced by the conjunction or mixing of fire (lightning) and water (rain), in other words, thunder.

Provenance: Formerly in the collection of Dr Alma Latifi, CIE, OBE (1879-1959) Acknowledgements: We would like to thank Jerry Losty and Robert Skelton for their expert advice and kind reading of the inscriptions.

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Gauda Ragaputra of Sri Raga India (Bilaspur), 1730-1740 Height: 27 cm Width: 17.2 cm Opaque watercolour heightened with gold on paper.

Inscribed on the reverse in takri: sri raga daputra raga g(a)uda hibha?? Inscribed in devanagari: sri rage daputra raga g(a)uda tritiya 3 patra 9 [but 10 above] Further inscribed in takri: sri rage daputra raga g(a)uda Ipatha 3 “Gauda Raga, third son of Sri Raga”.

The verses that constitute Kshemakarna's Ragamala system often offer poetic but vague iconographies of little use to the painters who created the first Pahari Ragamalas, forcing the artists to invent their own imagery to illustrate some of the musical modes. A case in point is Gauda (or Gumda) Ragaputra, which according to stanza 109 is vehemently sung by the “royal bird”, perhaps a jay. The ragaputra is personified in the dhyana stanza 77 as simply “a worshipper of Vishnu”.1

The striking image of an acrobat dancing over a katar (thrust-dagger) accompanied by a drummer is therefore the product of the painter's imagination as it is not specified by the text. Ragamalas are an unequal blend of music, poetry and painting; painters are not musicians, and poets such as Kshemakarna may have little knowledge of musical performance despite excelling at poetry. According to Klaus Ebeling in Ragamala Painting, 1973, p. 54, Kshemakarna's Ragamala appears to have been written for the express purpose of visualisation. He notes that by musical standards it is very untechnical, especially when compared with the system devised by the ancient musical author Hanuman, whose visual couplets are followed by verses listing musical properties such as scales, leading notes and performance times. However, by the standards of poetry and painting, Kshemakarna's system is very sophisticated, if at times visually imprecise.

It is thus with interest that we study this painting of music accompanying a vigorous dance. The painter cannot record the melody but in his depiction of an acrobatic handstand heightened by the added danger of the dagger pointed

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at the dancer's face, we must imagine the music to be fast moving, rhythmic and exciting. The drummer leans forward, urging the dancer on. According to Ernst and Leonore Waldschmidt in Miniatures of Musical Inspiration in the Collection of the Berlin Museum of Indian Art, Part I: Ragamala Pictures from the Western Himalaya Promontory, 1967, p. 81, the barrel-like drum he plays is a mardala. The Waldschmidts illustrate in fig. 10 a mardala drum that accompanies a juggler and a woman dancing on her hands. Similar in size to the mridanga but with drum-heads of equal width, the mardala is slung by a strap over the left shoulder and played with a curved stick in one hand and by the palm of the other, thus generating two different types of sound for a syncopated rhythm. The mridanga has by contrast drum-heads of differing diameters, the larger one producing a lower bass note while the smaller creates a higher pitch. Notes on both types of drum can also be resonated together, producing harmonics as well as beats. The drum is tuned by leather straps laced in a zig zag around its circumference and held in a state of high tension to stretch out the goatskin membrane covering the apertures on each end. Wooden pegs are slid under the straps for fine tuning, here only on the left side thus raising the pitch on that face.

Similar attention to details applied to the figures who wear the striped shorts sported by acrobats, athletes, strong men and fairground performers in Pahari paintings. From beneath a turban with a gold mesh band and a spindly aigrette trail the drummer’s gossamer locks. The dancer has a fine coating of body hair including the piquant detail of hairy ankles.

Waldschmidt, 1967, p. 124; Ebeling, 1973, p. 76.

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Kanada Ragini India (Provinical Mughal, probably Lucknow), circa 1780 Height: 26.5 cm Width: 17.4 cm Opaque watercolour heighted with gold and silver on paper.

A dramatic scene unfurls in the depths of the night under a sky dimly lit by a smattering of dark stars. A lord riding a cantering horse holds an elephant tusk in one hand. He is saluted by two hunters that stand before him, both wearing floor-length jamas and carrying spears. The elephant which he has killed lies at the bottom of the picture with one tusk removed, its massive carcass collapsed and convulsed by its writhing death throes into a contorted form. The elaborate contrapposto of the beast retains within its gamut of twisted postures the recent history of its enraged combat: the legs still placed for charging; ferocious attempts to rut the lord still apparent in the now truncated tusk and tensely coiled trunk. The lord is accompanied by a courtier that rides alongside holding a parasol. In the background, a princess seated under a red awning watches from a crenelated palace balcony; one of her two companions standing behind waves a chowrie (flywhisk). The ladies of the court echo the rhythmic pairing of the horses and the two hunters praising their lord's prowess in unison.

This painting depicts the musical mode, Kanada or Karnata Ragini, which as Andrew Topsfield notes, is named after the Karnataka region of Southern India, where it may have originated as a hunting melody.1 The ragini is visualised as a princely warrior who has shown his valour by slaying an elephant and is often depicted blue-skinned like the god Krishna.2

In his discussion of a seventeenth century Kanada Ragini illustration by the Bikaner artist Ruknuddin, now at the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, Topsfield observes that elephants were too highly valued in India to be hunted in this way, so the subject may allude to the Bhagavata Purana story of Krishna's defeat of Kuvalayapida, the demonic elephant sent by the wicked king Kamsa to kill Krishna before he enters the arena at Mathura, where he slays Kamsa's champion wrestlers, then Kamsa himself.3 The text describes how Krishna tears off Kuvalayapida’s tusk, then uses it to gouge the elephant and kill the mahout. In this painting, Krishna is further identified by his peacock crown and nimbus.

Klaus Ebeling publishes an eighteenth century Deccani picture of the subject in Ragamala Painting, 1973, pp. 82-83, no. C29. This shows the slain elephant at Krishna's feet alongside a box of severed heads that may be Kamsa's four champion wrestlers. The Ashmolean Museum painting described by Topsfield has an earlier iconography of Kanada Ragini in which the defeated elephant is not depicted. Ebeling illustrates on p. 236, no.167, a seventeenth century Marwar painting, and in no. 168, an early eighteenth century Amber painting, both without the elephant. These examples suggest that the elephant was added to the iconography of the heroic slayer and his saluting admirers round 1700, and then widely

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adapted during the eighteenth century. Ernst and Rose Leonore Waldschmidt note that in sixteenth and seventeenth century paintings, congratulations take place in the vicinity of the hero's house, whereas in eighteenth century pictures, the scene is the very spot of the heroic deed, located in a mountainous region with the carcass of the elephant in the foreground. Our late eighteenth century painting combines the wilderness with an approach to the prince's palace and elaborates on his regal splendour by the addition of retainers and a royal consort. A note attached to the back of the old frame by the dealer Ray Lewis of Marin County, California, informs us that the portrait inserted by the palace wall depicts the patron of the painting. For comparison Lewis draws our attention to Ivan Stchoukine, La peinture indienne à l’epoque des grands Moghols, 929, pl. 89. Provenance: Marjorie D. Schwarz, collected 1965-1974

Acknowledgement: We would like to thank Jerry Losty for his expert advice. References: 1.

Andrew Topsfield, Indian paintings from Oxford collections, 1994, pp. 44-45, no.19.

Ibid.

Topsfield, 1994, p. 44.

Ernst and Rose Leonore Waldschmidt, Miniatures of Musical Inspiration In the Collection of the Berlin Museum of Indian Art, Part II: Ragamala Pictures from Northern India and the Deccan, 1975, p. 97; and pp. 93-96, figs.25-29.

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Asavari Ragini India (Hyderabad), 1784-1786 Height: 24.3 cm Width: 15.2 cm Opaque watercolour heightened with gold and silver on paper.

In the cool air of the early morning, two female ascetics meet under thetrees on the rocky outcrops surrounding lotus ponds. Dressed in courtly attire and seated with one leg raised is Asavari Ragini, who plays her melancholic melody on the punji, the wind instrument of snake charmers made from a bottle gourd and two reed pipes (jivala), one for the tune and one for the drone. Attracted by her music, snakes coil around her arms and legs to adorn her like jewellery while others hiss and slither on the ground and in the branches above. Her companion on the left, with a dog at her side, embraces a tree with her leg wrapped around its trunk. Dressed in a short dhoti and cloak that opens to reveal her delicate breasts, she re-enacts the role of bare-chested Gorakhanatha, the celebrated male yogi who gives Asavari the punji so that she can call forth swarms of serpents. She holds a crutch handle (zafar takieh) in one hand and with the other, silhouettes her gentle profile with the haloed shape of her fan.

According to John Seyller, Asavari Ragini derives its name from asi (snake) and ari (enemy) and is associated with the snake-taming Shavaras tribe. She is usually depicted as a solitary dark-skinned woman dressed in a skirt of leaves or peacock feathers, sitting on a rock surrounded by snakes that console her disappointed love. The light-complexioned noblewoman accompanied by a standing ascetic is an iconographic variant peculiar to the Deccan.1 A similar painting in the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalya has inscriptions identifying the male ascetic as Gorakhanatha. The distant white

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building is an element of Hyderabadi painting also at odds with the traditional wilderness.2 The stylised landscape develops from traits seen in seventeenth century Golconda painting, the rocks and foliage abstracted into even more strongly defined shapes. The sense of rarefied elegance continues in the palette: the lotus ponds are rendered a gleaming silver, the snakes a luxurious gold and the sky a salmon pink.3 This painting from the Seitz Collection comes from a Ragamala set nearly identical in composition and quality to the celebrated Johnson Ragamala now at the British Library.4 Richard Johnson collected paintings during his twenty years in India, holding positions in Calcutta, Lucknow and Hyderabad. He spent 1784-1785 in Hyderabad, where he acquired the series of thirty-six paintings now in the India Office Collection. The most elaborate of five closely related sets, it is probably the earliest as well, dating to the years around Johnson's sojourn in Hyderabad.5 The other series were produced in quick succession by the same artist or his workshop using a set of master drawings. The six paintings in the Seitz Collection parallel those in the India Office closely enough to demonstrate this process. While alterations can be seen in all the Seitz paintings, the most aesthetically significant change is the replacement of the golden sky of the Johnson series with a lyrical salmon coloured one.6 Provenance: Eva and Konrad Seitz Collection

Published: John Seyller, with introductions and interpretations by Konrad Seitz, Mughal and Deccani Paintings: Eva and Konrad Seitz Collection of Indian Miniatures, Museum Rieberg Zurich, 2010, pp. 140-141, cat. no. 48.

References: 1.

John Seyller, Mughal and Deccani Paintings: Eva and Konrad Seitz Collection of Indian Miniatures, 2010, pp. 138, 140 and 146.

Ibid.

The musical legacy of Musiri Subramania Iyer A conversation with Thyagarajan Sankaran & Suguna Varadachari

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t Vaak, we have a personal preference for music that brings out the essence and emotion of a composition in a manner that is original, thoughtful, unhurried, and

exploratory. Musiri Subramania Iyer’s music is all of these and more for us. We are ecstatic to bring out an interview with Suguna Varadachari and Thyagarajan Sankaran on Musiri Subramania Iyer’s muscial legacy. Thyagarajan Sankaran is a grand nephew of Musiri Subramania Iyer and a graduate of the Guindy Engineering College. He runs his own automobile parts business in Chennai.

Suguna Varadachari is a senior carnatic vocalist. She served as a faculty member at the Department of Indian Music, University of Madras, for two decades, and is a disciple of Musiri Subramania Iyer.

Vaak: Could you tell us about Musiri’s early life?

Thyagarajan: Musiri was born in 1889 in Ponmalar Palayam (alias) Bommalapalayam near Karur. Musiri lost his mother when he was young. His paternal aunt used to live in a nearby village called Musiri. He then shifted to Andal veedhi in Trichy where shared a room with his father Shankara Sastry and his wife. Musiri was truly a self-made man. He also had many friends at the St. Josephs college. His handwriting used to be very good. He wrote many letters and I recently discovered a letter that he had written to CS Iyer (Vidhya Shankar’s

Cover image: Musiri with Thyagarajan as a small boy teaching music to his students at the music college, 1959

father) about his guru Sabesa Iyer’s death in Chidambaram. Vaak: Did he study at St.Joseph’s, Trichy?

Thyagarajan: He denies that he studied there, but I think he picked up his knowledge from his friends there. He used to read a lot. He enjoyed reading works of Charles Dickens like Bleak House, David Copperfield, Great Expectations, Oliver Twist etc. He used to insist that I read those too. Back then I used to find them uninteresting and that would disappoint him. Once I told him that I found all these books boring and he refused to speak to me for a week.

Vaak: What about his gurus? Thyagarajan: Before learning from Sabesa Iyer, Musiri learnt from one S. Narayanaswamy from Pudukkottai. He was not a professional musician. He was working for the government mainly, but he also taught music. Musiri then learnt from the violinist Karur Chinnaswamy Iyer. From 1920 onwards, he trained under Sabesa Iyer in Madras.

Muusiri with her nephew Natrajan, late 1920s

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Musiri with T Brinda, Rajaji who had come for the first convocation. Taken at Bridge house which was then the Adayar music college, 1950s

Vaak: Did he have friends in the music circle?

Thyagarajan: T Brinda and T Muktha used to visit us often. Brinda was associated with Musiri through the Adyar Music College. Musiri earned a lot of goodwill. For instance, I lost touch with great musicians like MS and Semmangudi after Musiri’s passing, but when I went and requested for them to sing at my house for the Musiri chamber concerts, they agreed immediately. Not only that, but they were also delighted to sing here after 20-odd years of his passing! Vaak: Did he have friends outside the music industry?

Thyagarajan: Musiri was a very social person. He had many friends: CV Narasimhan, TT Krishnamachary, RK Shanmukam Chetty, VD Swami. Ramanujachariar, who was heading

Musiri with Ramanujachariar (centre), late 1930s

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Ramakrishna Mission was also a good friend of Musiri’s. There is also a photograph where Musiri is seen seated with Ramanujachariar. It is my conjecture that Ramanujachariar from this picture was wrongly identified as Musiri.

L-R Front row: KS Jayarama Iyer, RK Shanmukam Chetty, unknown, Musiri Subramania Iyer. Thiruvayyaryu, 1941

Musiri also had a lot of friends in the film industry. AV Meyyappan was a very good friend. They infact were also business partners in Pragati Pictures. This was located behind Kapali Theatre in Mandaveli. Vaak: Could you tell us about his film career?

Musiti T: When RK Shanmukam Chetty was the finance minister of India, he was very instrumental in making sure that Musiri agreed to play the lead role in the film Thukkaram. Sriramulu Naidu who directed Thukkaram was also a good friend of Musiri’s.

Musiri playing cards with his contemporaries. L-R: Palghat Mani Iyer, Papa KS Venkatramaiah, NG Seetharaman (Musiri’s student), Tanjavur Vaidhyanatha Iyer, Bhudalur Krishnamurty, Sastrigal, Musiri Subramania Iyer, Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer. Early 1940s

VAAK | 33 During the shooting of this film, Musiri got affected with pleurisy that led to a lung congestion. You can also hear him cough in many of the recordings we have of him. Unlike his contemporaries like Semmangudi, Musiri did not pay enough attention to his health.

Vaak: Was Musiri religious?

Thyagarajan: Although he was very spiritually advanced and did a lot of poojas, he was a very practical person. For instance, his role in the film Tukkaram required his character to have a moustache. He was very uncomfortable to use a fake sticker stache, so he ended up growing one. Back in the days it was not a custom for people from his community to grow facial hair. He also went overseas to the federated states of Malaya (Malaysia) to perform in concerts. These concerts were conducted as fund raising programs for the Ramakrishna Mission in the 1930s. Above: Musiri Subramania Iyer with Thyagarajan before receiving the Sangeet Natak Akademi award in 1957.

Musiri has also written an article about his experience travelling abroad and performing there. This article was published by Sruti Magazine in 1999. Vaak: We have many recordings of him singing without any accompanying artists.

Thyagarajan: Yes! These recordings are referred to as the Srirangam records. We have a total of 3 or 4 concerts by him as a part of these records where he sang just with the sruthi box. He was either singing alone or with TK Govindarao. They were recorded in Thathachari’s guesthouse. Thathachari was related to CV Narashimhan who was a good friend of Musiri’s. These recordings were done for CV Narashimhan to learn at leisure.

Musiri had a friend called Ratnachalam Iyer who stayed at the foothills of Malakottai and he used to host a lot of concerts. The deity in Ayyarmalai close to Kauvery river was called Ratnachalam. It was on this deity that Muthuswamy Dikshitar composed a magnum opus, Pahimam Ratnachala (Mukhari). Musiri was one of the first musicians to popularise this kriti. It is presumed that Musiri sang this first in one of the concerts hosted by his friend Ratnachalam Iyer. Vaak: What were some of his memorable concerts?

Thyagarajan: He performed a home concert along with Papa Venkataramaiah and Umayalpuram K Sivaraman for J Krishnamurthy. According to me that concert had the best version of his Enthaninne (Mukhari). This concert also has Endu Daginado (Thodi), Etu Nammina (Saveri), Viriboni (Bhairavi) etc. Another concert that comes to my mind is his concert for Perambur Sangeetha Sabha. In this concert, he has performed all his favorite Next page: Anandha Vikatan Diwali Malar approx. 1930s

compositions as though it were his farewell concert. He also sang O Jagadamba (Ananda Bhairavi), Pahimam Ratnachala (Mukhari) at the Academy in 1962.

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Musiri Subramania Iyer teaching his students. L-R: Suguna Varadachari ,Padma Narayanaswamy, Rukmini, Mani Krishnaswamy & Suguna Purushothaman

Vaak: How did you start learning from Musiri?

Suguna V: I was learning music at RR Sabha’s music school till 1960. In 1960–61, I passed out of SSLC. At that time, I was also parallelly learning music under great vidhwans who were then teaching at the Music Academy’s Teachers College of Music. Some of my teachers at the Academy include T Jayammal, Mudicondan Venkatarama Iyer, etc.

While I was learning at the Music Academy, I got to know about the Adyar Music College (it was then called Central College of Karnatic Music). In 1961, when I joined the Adyar Music College, Musiri Subramania Iyer was its President, and the rest of the faculty at that time included great vidhwans like Budalur Krishnamurthy Sastry, T Brinda, TR Subramaniam, KV Narayanaswamy, TM Thyagarajan, Varahur Muthuswamy Iyer (violin), Devakottai Narayana Iyengar (Veena), MA Kalyanakrishna Bhagavathar (Veena), Karaikudi Muthu Iyer (Mridangam). I studied under them for about 2 years. Later from 1965 when Musiri retired, I had the opportunity to learn directly from him under the Government of India scholarship. Vaak: How was the admission process into the music college like in those days?

Suguna V: Usually, they conducted interviews in which the student was tested in many aspects. Depending on your performance in the interview, your course in the college would either be for two years or three years. I was just 15 at that time, but I still remember how Musiri conducted my interview. I sang a varnam in 2 speeds, manodharma in raga Thodi (Alapana) and followed that up with Koluvamaregada Kodandapani (a kriti by Thyagaraja).

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Vaak: Can you talk about Musiri, the teacher?

Suguna V: At a time, there were atleast 25 students in a class. Since vidhwans like Chittoor Subramaniam Pillai had retired, senior faculty were asked to take classes. Musiri used to teach kritis; he usually selected a few (upto 5) and make them sit next to him in a half circle or in 2 rows. He used to sing a line and students would repeat after him. He would not make the entire class sing. When I learnt from him under the scholarship, we would have classes every day in his residence. Each class went on for 3-4 hours. Vaak: How were these classes structured?

Suguna V: Classes would either be directly with Musiri as a one-to-one session, or with some of his senior most students: Suguna Purushothaman, Padma Narayanaswamy, Mani Krishnaswamy, etc. He usually taught one full composition in one session. From day one, he made me sing nerval. He would sing a line and I usually repeated after him. This process would go on till I fully grasped a composition. You would not realise that there are nuances in the beginning, but as one repeats a composition over and over, it takes a nice shape in your head. You would understand the composition in great detail. Vaak: Did Musiri share notations when he taught compositions?

Suguna V: He did not allow us to bring papers to class. He was strictly against students learning from or creating their own notations. He would also not accept or provide cassette

Musiri with Gayatri. She was a student of Bhudalur Krishnamurty Sastrigal

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recordings. We would go every day and he would teach the same composition in full, for however long it took for us to learn it. Mind is your computer. Even during my college days, papers were taken away when our Principal taught a class. Vaak: What would you say are some of Musiri’s unique teaching methods?

Suguna V: From day one, he made us sing manodharma (both nerval and swaras) for the kriti that was being taught. His style and his technique is very captivating. His neraval singing is filled with bhava and ruchi. Even if a listener does not understand the language in which the composition is set he would still understand the composition from Musiri’s bhava rich singing. Vaak: Was he a strict teacher?

Suguna V: Back then we as students had a kind of fear and respect towards our teachers. We would think twice before asking something even as basic as “is that a va or a pa in the pallavi?”. If you made a mistake, Musiri never got angry. He usually would indirectly point the mistake out by clearing his throat. If you sang well, he wouldn’t acknowledge it explicitly, but would just “hmmm”.

He expected us to reproduce the neraval lines just as he sings. He had a lot of patience. He would repeat the same lines without hesitation, and it was up to us to observe, understand and repeat after him. We would sing a kriti for months to gain control over a composition. In 1989, three of us who studied under him sang throughout India for his centenary. We were singing together after 30 years, but all it took for us was a day’s rehearsal to sync with each other. He trained us in this manner. It was very surprising that we took a breath at the

Musiri in a concert with Mysore T Chowdiah and Palghat TS Mani Iyer 2. Musiri singing a concert at the Adyar Music College. Varahur Muthuswamy iyer (violin), Karaikudi Muthu Iyer (mridangam), TK Govindarao (vocal support), KS Venkatram (tampura) 3. Musiri at Thiruvaiyaru in 1941. Also seen are Mayavaram VR Govindaraja Pillai, Madurai Mani Iyer & Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar Ramanuja Iyengar 4. Front row L-R: Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, Musiri Subramania Iyer, unknown, Thanjavur Vaidhyanatha Iyer, Annaswamy Bhagavatar,

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same time even after not singing together for 30 years. The reason is because of the intense training with Musiri. He would ask us to sing swarams for all kritis. Times have changed now; people are learning with cassettes these days. Brinda & Mukta also emphasized on not changing a single sangathi they sang. Vaak: How would he teach allied ragas like Bhairavi-Manji or Mukhari-Bhairavi?

Suguna V: I don’t know how he taught them. I learnt these ragas by watching his other students sing and repeat. He would never compare two ragas and analyse in class. Vaak: What if you sang a wrong phrase in the raga?

Suguna V: I would just need to look at his face to realise that I have made a mistake. Vaak: Musiri was known for his neraval, how did he teach this art to his students?

Suguna V: We would sing the kriti and the neraval can be line a with a gap in sahitya or madhyama kala, say for example Manda Gamana Jjitha in Sri Kumara Nagaralaye (Atana). He would sing neraval for both these types. Another example would be Janaka Suthadi in Swati Tirunal’s Anjaneya Raghurama (Saveri). Wherever the dirgha is, he would put a sangathi there. Take a kriti like Sri Panchanadisha (Purnachandrika). There is a lot of scope Musiri at a concert by Bismillah Khan. Also seen are T Jayammal, T Balasaraswati, T Brinda, T Muktha and Karaikudi Sambasiva Iyer

in lines with dirgha. He would sing neraval in all three kalams. The patterns would be rhythmic but not with actual kanakku. He was very particular about finishing off a neraval or swaram from where it exactly began (graha swara or the eduppu swara). He has even sung neraval for ragas like Saraswathi Manohari.

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Vaak: Has he taught you any scale-based raga?

Suguna V: Yes, Samukhanu Nilva (Kokilavarali). There is a recording where he has sung ragam and swaram. Vaak: How did he handle manodharma for scale-based ragas?

Suguna V: He would just focus on the scale, just the way it is structured. That’s all. He would also strictly stick to the arohanam avarohanam of the scale. Vaak: How did he teach voice modulation?

Suguna V: Just by singing. This is the advantage of learning face to face. Certain modulations would come learning that way by reproducing the same melody. Vaak: Did he teach about voice culture?

Suguna V: He has never spoken about it. Musiri sang in 4.5 kattai. He was an open throated singer. We would have to only observe what he sang and then reproduce. There was no concept of teaching voice culture then. Vaak: Who were the others who learnt from Musiri when you studied under him?

Suguna V: Mani Krishnaswamy, Suguna Purushottaman, Padma Narayanaswamy and Rukmini Ramani.

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Vaak: Did Musiri set kritis based on the Pradarshini? As examples, say Neerajakshi Kamakshi, Pahimam Ratnachala?

Suguna V: I dont know if he did. In Neerajakshi Kamakshi (Hindolam), you will have to touch mandhira M if you were to sing according to the Pradarshini, which is not part of our padantaram. Maybe MNDNS. Perhaps he referred to this text and sang the raga Hindolam. He did not teach us any chittaiswaram for Sri Vishwanatham (Ragamalika) though there is a chittaiswaram and swara sahityam in Pradarshini. We were directly taught sahityam. There is also some difference in the anupallavi in Pahimam Ratnachala (Mukhari). Vaak: Has he tuned any compositions?

Suguna V: Yes, he has tuned many Swathi Tirunal songs. Devi Jagajjanani, Sri Kumara, Anjaneya Raghurama, Palaya Raghunayaka all these songs have his stamp. Vaak: What are some typical songs in the Musiri bani?

Suguna V: Endu Daginado (Thodi), Na Morala (Devagandhari), Entaninne (Mukhari), Rama Rama Gunaseema (Simhendramadhyamam), Devi Jagajjanani (Shankarabharanam), Janani Pahi (Suddha Saveri), Kavadi Chindu, Mela Ragamalika, Kana Kan Ayiram (Neelambari), Amba Nadu (Thodi), Paruvam Parkam (Dhanyasi) and many more.

DISCOGRAPHY: Kural – A collection of voice only recordings by Musiri Subramania Iyer Excerpts from a private session without Mridangam Padams and Javali by Musiri Subramania Iyer Sri Viswanatham Bhajeham – Chaturdasa Ragamalika with MS Subbulakshmi Alapana – raga Reetigowla Next page: Musiri with his wife Nagalakshmi, early 1940s

Neraval – raga Thodi – Endu Daginado – Misra Chapu – Thyagaraja Kalpana Swarams – raga Neelambari – Kana Kan Ayiram – Adi – Anai Ayya

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Arunachala, Th

hiruvannamalai

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Legacy of the Pandanallur Gurus Arvind Kumar Sankar

The great Gurus of Bharatanatyam II

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n our journey of going through the great masters who have come in the lineage of the Tanjore quartets and who were instrumental in creating the Margam, we

will look at the legacy of the Pandanallur bani in this edition. A style of Bharatanatyam which is one of the most prominent amongst the schools of Bharatanatyam is the Pandanainallur school (more popularly known as the Pandanallur bani). It is unique because of its clean lines and subtle abhinaya. Guru Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai is its torch bearer.

Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai was trained in nattuvangam by his cousin Kumaraswamy Nattuvanar, who made him master the art of creating instant jathi korvais. Not only did Pillai teach prominent personalities like Mrinalini Sarabai, Rukmini Devi Arundel, Shanta Rao, and Tara Chaudri, but he also taught Thangachi Ammal, Sabaranjitham, Pandanallur Rajamanikkam and Pandanallur Jayalakshmi and many other women from the Devadasi lineage.

1. Pandanallur Rajamanikkam 2. Sabaranjitham 3. Guru Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai with Mrinalini Sarabai Cover Picture: Pandanallur Chokkalingam Pillai

VAAK | 47 Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai with Ramgopal

Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai was very renowned across the country. Kubendranath Tanjorker of Gujarat came to Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai to learn the nuances of his style before he established the Tanjore Music and Arts Research Centre in Baroda. T. K. Swaminatha Pillai who stayed with Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai for over a decade imbibed this style and popularised it by mentoring several students. Ramgopal was one among his notable students who pioneered in taking Bharatanatyam to the West.

In the early 1900s, Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai was invited to the Ramanathapuram Samasthanam to receive the royalty’s prestigious Nalvar Thamboolam Bridhu instituted by the Sethupathy Maharaja. That is when he gifted the Maharaja a varnam in raga Vachaspati called Sarasudu Nee that glorified the ruler. The Maharaja witnessed this grand piece performed by Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai’s student Pandanallur Jayalakshmi. The Maharaja was in complete awe of the piece. The spirit of the raga, the rendering of the jathis, the poetry that praised his glory and Pandanallur Jayalakshmi’s gracious execution had a palpable effect on the him. Upon witnessing this piece, he later sent word to Pillai expressing his desire to marry Pandanallur Jeyalakshmi. On hearing this wonderful news that his student is going to become the Queen of Ramnad, Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai was elated and composed Intha Kopamu yenara, a varnam in Thodi, in praise of L-R: Rang Vithal, Muthiah Pillai, Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai & Indrani Rehman. Credits: Ram Rehman

the Maharaja. He also immediately trained Jayalakshmi to present it as an exclusive

piece at his court. Pandanallur Jayalakshmi’s career as a dancer came to an end very soon as she chose to outgrow her tradition since she entered royal matrimony and became Jayalakshmi Natchiar. Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai was an impartial teacher. He had students come to him from various backgrounds. Among them, one of the most notable is Smt Rukmini Devi. She hailed from Madurai district and got to learn this artform from Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai when she was much older than her peers. While learning from him, she requested him to come to Madras and join her in executing her vision that later became Kalakshetra. He did not want to leave his place but promised to guide and help her in her vision. He then sent Pandanallur Jayalakshmi

his son-in-law Chockalingam Pillai to stay in Kalakshetra. After spending enough years

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training students, young gurus and nattuvanars, whom he felt would hold up the tradition, Chokalingam Pillai decided to leave Kalakshetra in 1943. However, he decided to stay on in Madras and Sarangapani Iyengar came forward to patronize him through his Indian Institute of Fine Arts that was then situated in Egmore. His leading dance students at that time were Indrani Rehman, Mambalam Geetha, G Kousalya, Nirmala Ramachandran and Sucharitha Ratnavel Subramaniam.

Chokalingam Pillai continued to keep up the clean lines of linear geometry and intense but subtle abhinaya in his patantharam. All his students were taught to be firm and erect while dancing but also to be gracious in maintaining the curves and bends when required (in his own words, “Sila idathula sedhukki pidikanum, sila idathula thovalaya pidikanum”). Chokalingam Pillai was also an extremely conservative teacher and strictly taught only the 9 or 10 varnams and swarajathis mostly by the Tanjore Quartet. These include: Sakhiye (Anandha Bhairavi), Mohamana (Bhairavi), Sami Ninne (Navaragamalika), Danike (Thodi), Athi Moham Konden (Sankarabaranam), Ee Mandayanara (Huseni), Ee maguva (Dhanyasi), Sami Ni Rammanave (Kamas) & Sarasijanabha (Kambhoji)*. His father in law Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai had choreographed all the complex varnam pieces and coined apt jathis as interludes.

The last of this illustrious lineage of Gurus was Chokalingam Pillai’s son Subbaraya Pillai, who was born in 1914. He was with

Sucharitha Ratnavel Subramaniam

Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai at Pandanallur as an apprentice and later migrated to Madras to assist his father. Dr. Ratnavel Subramaniam’s daughter Sucharita learnt under Chockalingam Pillai. Later Dr. Ratnavel Subramaniam established a dance school in memory of his wife late Lalitha Subramaniam. The father son duo moved to Dr. Ratnavel Subramaniam’s premises and were running the Lalitha Subramaniam School of Bharatanatyam. Sucharita moved to the United States in 1966 and continued her dance journey there.

After Chokalingam Pillai’s demise, Subbaraya Pillai continued teaching at Lalitha Subramaniam school of Bharatanatyam. This school saw many students including Preetha Gopinath and Kavitha Sankar, Prema Sadagopan (Reddy), Anuroopa, Kamadev & Sangeetha. Among the various students he taught, Alarmel Valli, Meenakshi Sabanayagam

* The attached links are only to demonstrate the musicality of the compositions. The Jathis are not from the Pandanallur Bani

Below: Meenakshi Rukmini Devi Arundel Sabanayagam (Chitharanjan) with Guru Chockalingam Pillai

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(Citharanjan), and Padhmini Sundaram (Dorairajan) are noted students who have taken this style forward to the next generation through their dance schools.

Pandanallur Srinivasa Pillai assisted Subbaraya Pillai in his concerts as his prime mridangist. Due to his long association with Subbaraya Pillai, he was pickled in the Pandanallur bani and knew the nuances of the framework. He has also played an important role in reviving the varnams in Kambhoji, Vachaspathi and Thodi.

This school of dance is very close to my heart and is unique because of its stylistic aesthetics that was nurtured by these gurus. This spirit has Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai

rubbed off on to the students of this bani who continue to innovate within the framework. I am hopeful that this art form will be preserved and passed on because anyone who has experienced this in their true spirit wouldn’t want to step out of this golden ring as it is unique, exceptional, and unparalleled. DISCOGRAPHY: Alarmel Valli choreographing with her guru Pandanallur Subbaraya Pillai Bharatanatyam performance by Shanta Rao & Mrinalini Sarabai. Meenakshi Chitharanjan | Change, the Constant Factor Samarpan | Centenary Celebrations of Pandanallur Subbaraya Pillai

Chokkalingam Pillai, Source: Sruti Magazine

Arvind Kumar Sankar is the Founder President of the Chinmaya Yuvakendra and the Founder Convenor of Intach Madurai Chapter. He also chairs the LAMPS trust. Arvind is a collector of antiquities and heritage artifacts. He is also the Founder Chairman of Arvind Constructions. His first book is ‘Pulli Kollam and the Creative Mind’ published by Palaniappa Brothers, Chennai

Subbaraya Pillai

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Pandanallur Chokkalingam Pillai and his son Pandanallur Subbaraya Pillai were repositories of a lofty dance legacy. But they imparted this ancient tradition to me unstintingly – as a dynamic, living language. Subbaraya Pillai Sir’s choreography was always lyrical, musical and wonderfully diverse. I owe him a deep debt of gratitude for guiding me in the principles of choreography in the Pandanallur tradition, when I was just fifteen years old. He gave me a strong foundation and rich vocabulary, but also the freedom to be my own dancer. As role models who represented the highest values in dance, my gurus inspired me to dance with courage and truth.

– Alarmel Valli (Exclusively for Vaak)

Alarmel valli At her Arangetram with Guru Chokkalingam Pillai and Guru Subbaraya Pillai

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My mother would say that Thatha (guru Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai) called on her when I was born and blessed me. He told her that I will reach great heights in my career in dance and jokingly asked if he can start teaching me right away. I never realised that I would become so famous. It is purely because of his vision and blessings that I am one of the well-known artists in the Pandanallur Bani. I owe my success entirely to him.

– Pandanallur Jayalakshmi

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Pandanallur Jayalakshmi

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Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library. "Shanta Rao" The New York Public Library Digital Collections.

When I speak of my dance, my mind is athrill with the thoughts of my gurus who made me what I am. They have been the greatest masters of traditions this century has known and acclaimed as such because of the vast store of knowledge they received from their forefathers. What is more, each one of them were a trained dancer before they took to teaching. No wonder they were rigorous in training their pupils and the grounding I received at their feet remains as one of the greatest of experiences I have had and the most unique.

Naturally, there would be rare items in my repertoire. In each of the 4 styles of dancing I am proud to present. When I proposed presenting thana varnam for the first time, my guru Pandanallur Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai announced to the critical dance world “Shanta will present for the first time thana varnam which I have not taught anyone for over 50 years” and I did.

– Shanta Rao (All India Radio)

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Guru Meenakshi Sundaram Pillai, Sruti Magazine

My journey with Karnatik music Aditya Prakash

Photo Credit: Sushma Soma

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hat is Karnatik music to me? It’s strange that I never attempted to articulate the answer to this fundamental question until recently. From childhood till now,

Karnatik has been a sound I have held very dear to me. It has been my point of reference for me to understand and analyse all other kinds of music. It has been an anchor at home giving me and my family a sense of purpose and closeness, as well as disagreement and tension. As I started exploring my identity as a young American of Indian heritage, the journey between Karnatik music and I has been a shifting one of coming together and moving apart as I searched for identity and acceptance in America. As I look back now, it is not lost on me how privileged my upbringing has been. I count myself lucky for the space my family has given me and for all the opportunities that have come my way. Despite that privilege, the disconnect that I was grappling with stemmed from my lack of understanding on what actually Karnatik music was at its essence, and what that meant to me, which I will elaborate on. The pandemic has been an important time of reflection and re-examination. It has pushed me to change making me to look into my journey and choices and sit in the discomfort of these spaces.

Upbringing It helps to know a bit about my upbringing before knowing about my musical journey. I was born and raised in Los Angeles to a family steeped in Indian arts. My mother, Viji Prakash is a pioneer in Bharatanatyam in North America and is the founder of the Shakti School of Bharata Natyam. My sister, Mythili Prakash, is a world-acclaimed Bharatanatyam dancer. Karnatik and Hindustani musicians were always visiting us and rehearsing in our garage studio. Sri Shubo Shankar, son of Pandit Ravi Shankar, would spend months at a time in our house, composing haunting and catchy melodies for my mother’s dance dramas, some of which I still remember to this day. Smt. Lakshmi Shankar’s gorgeous voice, I got to hear in my own house! She sang and composed music for many of my mother’s productions as well. Other influential musicians who visited from India and stayed with us were Babu Parameshwaran, Debur Shrivathsa, V. Vedakrishnan and Mahesh Swamy to name a few – and I was fortunate to learn music from all of them. As a toddler, many days I would fall asleep to the intricate jathi rhythms reverberating

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through our house, and I would wake up to Karnatik and devotional songs being sung or played on cassette. In my young childhood years, I would follow my mother on her performance tours, tag along for her rehearsals and classes, and I would spend the rehearsal breaks learning and playing cricket with the visiting musicians. I cherish these memories very much. School Once I left the safe and cozy home environment and started forming my ‘American’ identity (a.k.a. going to school), the confusion began. I was enrolled in the public-school system in Los Angeles, where I met people from different ethnic backgrounds. However, I was one of maybe three to four Indians in school, so I did not see many others like me. From a young age, my peers at school were predominantly white, with a smaller percentage of people of color. The social culture at school was a big disconnect from the culture at home – which was very much about Indian ‘classical’ art, culture and language. I also lived with my grandmother, who was very religious. My diet was mostly South Indian flavors and aroma; I was raised a vegetarian. I did not watch MTV and did not know a thing about pop culture, nor did I watch cable television (which was taken away from me as it was considered a distraction from Karnatik music practice!). I did not know the taste of a Big Mac from McDonalds, which seemed to be the birthright of every American kid! I tried giving mainstream music a chance when my friends played their favorite songs to me, but the sound did not resonate with me like the music I had grown up on. From the way my friends engaged with the music by rattling off lyrics, humming melodies and gushing about artists, I developed a sense that only this was ‘cool’ music.

Aditya performing a chamber concert in Bangalore at age 13

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Cool because the music was about the ‘now;’ It spoke of romance, relationships, sex, fashion, style, drugs, money, corruption, politics, fame, etc. There were songs of anger and rebellion. The music I was singing and loved, I thought, was about praising, describing, or calling out to Hindu Gods. I did not know if there was more to it. So, when my friends would ask me, “what do you sing about in Indian music?”, I had no clue what to tell them. This was one of the reasons I thought it was better to just keep my Karnatik music out of my social life. I had other things to connect with my American friends about: basketball, football, baseball and power rangers. But this sense of wishing my choice of music could also connect to my friends, peers, and American society was a big desire; after all, who doesn’t want to be accepted and fit in with their society? Training Although I had a complicated relationship with Karnatik music since I was born and grew up in America, I could not stop myself from going deeper into this artform musically. It all started with my initial lessons from Debur Shrivathsa, who made learning extremely fun and engaging. His encouragement was a big reason I trudged through the tough early morning practices and not-so-fun beginning lessons. Then I began learning from Rose Muralikrishnan, a music teacher in LA, who continued to foster my learning and encouraged me greatly. In 1999, my parents thought it would be good for me to get a further push in my training and took me to Chennai to study under Smt. Sugandha Kalamegham who instilled in me the importance of listening to the yesteryear masters. Under her guidance I started gaining the skills needed for manodharma and began performing concerts slowly and steadily. I was also learning mridangam under Sri Neyveli Narayanan in Chennai.

Aditya with his niece Rumi, sister Mythili, and his guru Sugandha Kalamegham in Chennai, 2017

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I delved more into my love for Karnatik and there began an obsession with Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer’s music. My father saw this and took me to learn in the Semmangudi bani under the guidance of the great vidwans and senior disciples of SSI – Sri Palai Ramachandran and Sri PS Narayanaswami. By the time I was 12 years old, I was performing concerts in India and by age 15, I performed at The Music Academy and Gayana Samaj to name a couple of important institutions in India. I felt confident about my Karnatik sound in those moments, and was proud to tout myself as a Karnatik musician. In my parallel life back home in America, Karnatik music remained a clandestine pursuit. I began finding this back and forth confusing and tiring, and wanted to find a way to get my American friends and peers to respect and understand the music I was singing because it was a huge part of my identity. I felt I had to find a way to explain and justify the sounds of Karnatik to the Western ear because I wanted to be relatable to more people than the South Indian ‘mamas and mamis’ who were appreciating my music. At this time, a very important opportunity came my way, a world tour with Maestro Pandit Ravi Shankar. The First Tour My world really started to change when I started touring with the Maestro Pandit Ravi Shankar. Raviji had known about me through my family as my mother was quite well – known in the North American community of artists. His first son was also closely connected to our family as mentioned above. Raviji was always looking for young talent, and when he first heard me sing a Karnatik concert at his residence in San Diego, he was very impressed and asked me to be a part of his Festival of India III tour shortly after. He was touring an ensemble that performed his original compositions in an orchestral-style with both Hindustani and Karnatik instruments, and the music combined elements of both styles as well as occasional elements of Western harmony. Being around Raviji was an eye-opening experience; to be around someone of his stature who was so humble, curious, and excited to share his knowledge, was a blessing for me. It opened me up to the world of Hindustani music and I fell in love with it. I had listened to Hindustani music many times in my youth, but never quite fell in love with it like I did when I was around him. I was also introduced to jazz and Western classical musicians through Raviji and his daughter, Anoushka Shankar, whom I also toured and performed with. Before this moment, I had no exposure to a cross-genre collaboration and hence kept the idea of fusion at a distance from me – the only setting I saw myself performing music in was in the Karnatik kutcheri essentially. In Anoushka’s performances, it was such a thrilling feeling to stand up and sing with guitars, bass, drums and sitar at music festivals in Europe and North America to 10,000+ people in the audience. I started to feel closer to the identity of the rockstars that my friends in school were listening to, while still staying true to my perceived Indian music identity – singing alapanas, swarams and in Indian languages! At the age of 15, I witnessed first-hand, the scale of the professional, top tier touring life.

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We performed to sold – out audiences, filled with many non – Indian listeners of all ages, in world-class venues like Carnegie Hall, Hollywood Bowl and Disney Hall. We were staying in nice hotels, traveling in tour buses with beds, televisions, and a kitchen! These experiences made an impact in changing my perception of being a professional musician. Through Raviji, I saw that a serious, and rigorously trained classical musician can also branch out beyond the traditional format of presenting music and can attract a mainstream audience and be relevant beyond the Indian community. There was a feeling that I could be a Karnatik musician, but I could also step into other musical settings with ease and open this music out to a wider audience base. When I around the school that I was a musician and performing with a legendary artist at the most famous venues in America. Peers at school were naturally curious about the music I

After Aditya's concert at Pt. Ravi Shankar's residence, 2004. L-R (1st row): Pt. Tanmoy Bose, Sri Palai Ramachandran, Aditya, Pt. Ravi Shankar, Smt. Sukanya Shankar, Viji Prakash. Back row (left to right): Kikkeri Prakash, V. Vedakrishnan, Pt. Partho Sarathi, Kamala Venkatesh, Mythili Prakash, Krishna Kutty Aditya in rehearsal with Pandit Ravi Shankar at his residence in San Diego, CA

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Aditya Prakash Ensemble in an intimate performance in Los Angeles. Photo Credit: Dennis Hannigan

was doing. Now that I had my friends’ curiosity and interest in my music, something that I had longed for, I felt I had to find a hook to keep them engaged in Karnatik music. I remember doing a lec – dem in high school on Karnatik music and more than anything my friends were intrigued by the complexity in my vocal abilities but there was never a connection to the music. After a few minutes of awe, I saw blank faces and felt a wall between the music and the audience. When I was singing for them, I felt like an exotic and fascinating museum piece that was on display. Around this time, in 2006, I had been accepted to the UCLA Ethnomusicology department, another important milestone which helped me find a different side to my voice. College and Collaboration During my second year at UCLA, I had attended a jam session party in a friend’s backyard. Usually at these parties, I would enjoy watching my friends play together and impress us with their virtuosic brilliance. They were all rigorously trained jazz musicians. However, that night at the party, I was called up to the mic to sing along with a keyboardist, bassist, drummer and guitarist. Although, we had listened to each other’s respective styles of music and engaged in dialogues about them, we never really put anything into practice together. I was hesitant at first, I didn’t know what I could do or how I could keep up with them; but something special happened that night. Not only did the music click between us musicians, but the audience in attendance stopped all side conversations, perked up to listen and got involved with the music they were hearing. My peers, friends, and college classmates were completely receptive to the music, and cheered along. I couldn’t help but feel cool! I felt accepted and heard by the people who seemed more like the American side of me. After the high of this went back to high school after my 3 – month tour with Ravi Shankar, word spread that after my initial experience I now wanted to learn more about how I could take this cross – genre

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collaboration deeper, and this is what led to the formation of Aditya Prakash Ensemble.

The lessons I was learning in my Ethnomusicology studies came into play as we started to create the material and foundation for the Ensemble repertoire. I found many connections between the jazz modal system and the melakarta, raga scale system and I was also thrown into jazz composition classes which gave me an entry into the world of harmony. We released our first album, The Hidden in 2012 which was our first, initial response to this world of collaboration. I composed melodies for lyrics that impacted me: Akka Mahadevi vachanas, Gorakhnath’s verses on yoga, Meerabai’s poetry on love. I, along with my team, arranged the music for these melodies with a jazz ensemble instrumentation. In my latest album, Diaspora Kid, I was enamored with exploring the sound of modal jazz and finding how my voice can adapt to the technicalities of jazz and other Western styles of music. But the question in me remained: what role does Karnatik music have in all this? I wanted answers and I knew I needed a mentor to guide me further along in my journey. Mentorship It was at this point that I began mentorship under artists RK Shriramkumar (RKS) and TM Krishna (TMK). I had known RKS for many years, he even played violin for my Mridangam arangetram in 2005. A well – wisher of mine suggested I meet him and seek his guidance. From the first class in 2016, I felt I was in safe hands and was excited to be on the road to a deeper understanding of Karnatik music. I had known TMK from a young age, as a fan – boy who used to frequent his concerts; he had also been a judge in one of the few music competitions I had taken part in my teenage years. Shortly after I had started with RKS, I shared a long plane journey with TMK and struck up a conversation with him about Karnatik music and my role as a practitioner. I was excited and inspired to talk to him and spontaneously asked him if I could come train with him.

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Both RKS and TMK brought back the spark in Karnatik music for me – a similar obsession I had when I popped in my first Semmangudi cassette as a kid. They expounded on the detail and nuance of the movement of the gammakam, and the way they articulated this was astounding. They expanded my understanding of the phraseology of ragas like Begada, Varali, Sahana, Todi, Bhairavi, Kannadagowla, just to name a few. I learned about the erasure of prayogams in certain ragas, the alteration in compositions that have taken place over generations. In this training, I was exposed to the magnificent text, Sangita Sampradaya Pradarshini, which they both have been vital in reviving. I began looking deeper into the history of this form, which I thought was my cultural inheritance, once I picked up TMK’s ‘A Southern Music’, a comprehensive commentary on the history and relevance of Karnatik music.

Over a year of slowly going through the book, important changes and reflections happened to me. I learned about my flawed perceptions of Karnatik music. My idea of Karnatik music was that which was told to me and reinforced by the practitioners and story tellers of the form. I did not know that I had a skewed and simplistic understanding of the history of the artform, which also furthered the gap between me and the form. Some words and phrases that come to my mind when I tried to define Karnatik according to what I thought was correct were: ancient, religious content, Hindu deities, high flown poetry in Sanskrit, Telugu, Tamizh, the trinity, temples, courts, Vedas, Shastras, serious music, main piece, sub main, tukkada, light ragas, heavy ragas, improvisation, pure and sacred. The sound of the music resonated so deeply with me, but the definitions of the music I had in my head did not. Karnatik music felt like an ancient, fossilized museum piece that I couldn’t engage with, but only admire from afar. Because of this perceived gap in time, space and relevance to me as the ‘Aditya of the 21st 1.

Century’, I felt a distance; there was a sacred wall between me and the music. Once I learned that the history of this artform is not just a sacred, beautiful, happy – ending story that was rooted in the past, it became something real, something I needed to engage with. Because

Aditya with his gurus Sri Palai Ramachandran and the late Sri PS Narayanaswami at the residence of Sri PSN in Mylapore, Chennai. 2.

Another major influence in my journey of finding connection with my identity and music, is

Aditya with the legendary Sri Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer at his residence. Also in the picture are Sri Palai Ramachandran and Aditya's father Kikkeri Prakash

Akram Khan – the brilliant choreographer, dancer, and story – teller, whom I have been

this space of engagement with the form started to open up, thanks to TMK and RKS, I was able to start the process to breaking down the sacred wall.

Aditya with Sri TM Krishna after Aditya's Music Academy concert in 2019. Also in the picture are Aditya's friends and wonderful musicians - Shiva Ramamurthi and Anirudh Venkatesh

fortunate to tour and perform with for the last 3 years. From him, I learned the power of narrative and of shifting the emphasis of art telling stories of beauty and harmony, to art reflecting that which is not so harmonious; it was about art as a connection between me and my life experiences. I learned that art wasn’t just about veneration, devotion and upliftment

but also about the uncomfortable realities that we see around us. I was learning that Karnatik music can also be an avenue for that reality.

Aditya with Sri RK Shriramkumar

Aditya performing with Akram Khan in XENOS.

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During the lockdown at home with my mother and sister, there is so much that we went through together as artists and as a family. The idea of questioning what the art means to us and the purpose that it has today is a journey that we are on together as a family, each of us in our own ways. The dialogues re – examining the histories of both countries we call home, America and India, has been part of this interconnected search. Learning and engaging with the messy, complex histories of both our homes and finding a way to tell the stories of this discomfort and anger through our art form has been our similar journeys.

My current musical project (which I hope to release sometime in 2022) explores my reaction to what I have seen unfold especially during the time of this pandemic. Xenophobia, corruption, immigration, hate and violence are some of the themes that my new music reflects. I could not help but feel extreme emotions during this pivotal, and historic period in our lives. I have also had to confront my own privilege and my complicity from years of apathy and disengagement from these difficult issues in my countries and my artform. The rage that is reflected in my new music, is partly directed towards myself. After being a practitioner of Karnatik music for nearly 25 years, it is only now that I feel I have finally found a way for me to engage with the artform in a way that is relevant to me, the ‘Aditya of the 21st Century’, and I look forward to going deeper in that engagement. Though the pandemic has taken away performances and my artistic livelihood, it has brought me back to my home environment which is a space for music, growth, arguments, agreements, and honesty. Afterall, this is where my journey began.

DISCOGRAPHY: Live from Drive East presented by Navatman Diaspora Kid | Roots (Ramakali) Shadow by Aditya Prakash Ensemble Alapana – A train of thought

Aditya Prakash is a Karnatik vocalist known for his powerful and emotive voice. He is currently under the advanced mentorship of Sri RK Shriramkumar and Sri TM Krishna. He has also been fortunate to study with Sri Palai Ramachandran, Sri PS Narayanaswamy and Smt. Sugandha Kalamegham. Aditya has worked with leading innovators of the arts such as Pandit Ravi Shankar, Anoushka Shankar, Karsh Kale, Tigran Hamasyan and Akram Khan. In 2010, Aditya founded the Aditya Prakash Ensemble, a group that highlights the intersection of many styles of music.

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Photo Credit: Sushma Soma

Thillanas: an introduction Ananthakrishna Panuganti

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“Then, the Thillana breaks into movement like the final burning of camphor accompanied by a measure of din and bustle” - T Balasaraswati

wo years back, I walked out of a two-hour long concert of Aruna Sairam’s, feeling happy and contented with the music that I had heard. As I walked out, in the Sabha lobby I

heard Rasikas eagerly discuss the Kalinga Nartana Thillana that was a staple at her concerts, and express their disappointment at not being able to hear it this time. They were not thinking about the stellar Thodi RTP she had sung, nor the fantastic Srinivasa Tava Charanou (in Kharaharapriya) that was the piece-de-resistance of that concert. They came to that concert because there was a slim chance that Aruna Sairam would present that one Thillana, and they would attend every other concert of hers eagerly waiting for the same. This got me thinking, when great musicians like Aruna Sairam present so many fantastic compositions, show such vivid and innovative Manodharmam, and explore every facet of music beautifully and perfectly in their recitals, what is it about the Thillana, that makes it the standshow of any concert? This question, that I asked myself in the lobby of the Music Academy on 26th December 2019 led to a two-year long journey into the world of Thillanas. In the course of my exploration into the form, its history, aesthetic and shape, I discovered several interesting theories regarding its history and popularity, encountered quite a few innovative and unique Thillanas, and learnt of composers and compositional forms and styles that I had never heard of before. It is a common misconception that the Thillana may not be a very rigorous and strict compositional form, with as hoary a history as say a Varnam or a Krithi. Nothing could be farther from the truth. There is still so much to learn and study about its past and present as the Thillana remains largely unexplored in the wider scheme of things. Therefore, it is proposed that this article be one of a series, dedicated to the Thillana, and its multifaceted nature. In this article, hopefully the first of many more, we shall look at the history of the Thillana with respect to its evolution, look at the basic form of the Thillana, and finally try to discuss what makes Thillanas popular in the musical scene today. This article is meant to serve as an introduction to this series, wherein I shall first discuss the common structure of the Thillana, and then posit a few reasons for why the Thillana is a popular compositional form in the Carnatic sphere today. It is worthy to note here that Thillanas are also extremely valuable and important to the artforms of classical dance and Kathakalakshepam [1] [2]. The role of the Thillana in these spheres shall be discussed in future articles.

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The form Broadly speaking, a Thillana obeys these following conditions•

It is a composition that is centred around rhythmic patterns. The composition, in both Sahityam as well as melody, emphasizes mathematical patterns embedded therein.

•

A major part of the composition comprises of Jathis/Solkattu set in a melodic framework, thus giving the impression that the composition is majorly Konnakol set to tune in a particular Ragam and Thalam.

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The composition contains Jathis, Sahityam and even Swaram passages, and all the Swaram passages are used to underline the rhythmic pattern they are a part of. Also, the composition typically contains more of the Jathi component than the Sahityam component.

•

It is set to a Pallavi-Anupallavi-Charanam pattern, and the Sahityam portion is typically limited to the Charanam only. The Pallavi generally starts with the Jathi, and often the Pallavi and Anupallavi contain Jathis exclusively, with a few Swaram passages.

•

The composition is moderately fast paced.

The general structure of the Thillana closely resembles the Krithi, for it too is in a PallaviAnupallavi-Charanam framework. But what characterizes a Thillana is that the Pallavi and Anupallavi are heavily oriented towards rhythm. Also, in most modern Thillanas we find that the Pallavi appears to focus on a particular broad rhythmic framework, which is explored and elaborated through smaller patterns and rhythmic ideas in the form of Sangathis. The Anupallavi on the other hand is more free flowing, and is more like a series of cascading rhythmic patterns set within the boundaries of the talam. Both the Pallavi and Anupallavi are generally set in the first Kaalam (first speed). Also, generally after the Charanam there is an Anubandham of sorts, again comprising of Jathis, that serves the purpose of linking the Charanam back to the Pallavi. This Anubandham may be in the Madhyama Kaalam, or in some cases is actually just a Chitteswaram of sorts. Where a specific Anubandham is absent, the Anupallavi takes on the role of the Anubandham, is again sung after the Charanam to take it back to the Pallavi. We shall look at the form with some examples through the case studies later. [1], [3] It is interesting to note that most Thillanas from the late 19th Century and after have many other facets in common. The talams chosen are generally simple; the Poruttams (a cadence of short or long duration where the concluding portion of the chosen pattern and the commencing portion of the Eḍuppu, melodically match so much so, that the concluding bit of the pattern it is a part of is merged with the commencing bit of the Eḍuppu.) are simple and equally melodically oriented; the use of patterns fit into a Sarvalaghu framework, these are all facets that almost all 20th Century composers of Thillanas have featured in their Next page: Krishna overcoming the serpent Kaliya. © The Asian Art Museum.

creations. [3] We know that the Thillana features Jathis prominently. We find a variety in the kinds of syllables used in the Jathi portion. Some phonemes used resemble the Solkattu used by

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15th century bronze statue from Thanjavur district, Tamil Nadu

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Music Academy, Madras

Carnatic percussionists (Tad, Dhingu, Kitataka, Tom, e.t.c) while yet others seem to be Hindustani imports (Udani, Thil, Tarana, Jhum, e.t.c). A few syllables also seem to have been imported from the Nattuvangam tradition (‘Takku’, ‘Tadingu’ e.t.c.). [3] We should note here, that these syllables do not have any specific meaning. By themselves, ‘Tadhiginatom’, ‘Udani’, ‘Tadari’ et cetera are meaningless. Regardless, they seem to carry a great deal of musical value, perhaps due to the onomatopoeia associated with those syllables. There is a certain sound associated with these syllables that makes great musical and aesthetic, if not lyrical, sense. It is this very sound that the Thillana seeks to explore. The idea that musical meaning is not necessarily dependent on lyrical import is best characterized by the form that is the Thillana.

The popularity of the Thillana As I realised on that day at The Music Academy, despite being very small compositions sung towards the end of a concert, they are one of the most awaited pieces in the recital. In the concert template that evolved in the early 20th Century, the Thillana occupies a place of pride in what is colloquially called the ‘post-Thani’ phase of the concert. It is also to be observed that most 20th century composers have composed Thillanas, and in fact almost all the Thillanas we hear on stage today have been composed very recently. It can be said that the Thillana became an integral part of the Carnatic presentation and the compositional sphere around this time. This indicates that the Thillana actually gained more popularity in the 20th Century. Let us briefly discuss why this may have occurred.

In the Carnatic concert One of the reasons that learned musicians and musicologists give for why the Thillana is popular is one regarding the use of Jathis. The use of those syllables, especially given the fast pace and comprehensible mathematical patterns, makes a Thillana a highly engaging piece

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that is catchy and also stimulating. A well composed Thillana never fails to please us with the melody, while also intellectually stimulating us with the use of those rhythmic cadences. Another aspect of Thillanas that makes them enjoyable is the innovative transitions observed while shifting from one cadence to another. There is of course always the fact that the onomatopoeia associated with Solkattu makes the musical experience gained while listening to a Thillana much richer. The use of these meaningless syllables enhances the value of the music embedded within. The opportunity to showcase a different aesthetic experience within the concert, especially towards the end can act like a whiff of fresh air, energising the audience as well as the musicians on stage to end the concert on a high note. The important role played by Thillanas in the Carnatic concert setup was very well explained by Vid. R K Shriramkumar, whom we interviewed on the 30th of June, 2021. He said, and I quote- “It is a composition that gives you a different aural feel…. in a concert which is packed with Krithis and Sahitya, here is a composition that showcases Raga with Jathi and Swara, and it contrasts the other compositions. Especially after you have sung compositions that are pregnant with Sahitya, the Thillana offers aural diversity”.

Yet another possible reason for why the Thillana is often presented on the concert stage is that the Thillana is a means for the artistes on stage to display their technical prowess. The fast speed and pace of the Thillana, taken in conjunction with the tricky pronunciation of the Jathis, make this composition a fitting display of mastery over Laya, musical proficiency and control over one’s instrument. [2]

In the compositional sphere One of the possible reasons for why Thillanas as a compositional form got a shot in the arm

Photo by Hariharan Sankaran

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n the late 19th and early 20th Centuries could be, that there came to be a paradigm shift in how the concert format was perceived in this period. Popularised and crystallized by Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar, this format actively sought to increase the variety of forms presented in a concert. It was at this juncture that the need for more Thillanas exclusively meant for Carnatic recitals was sorely felt. Until then, Thillanas were still predominantly pieces meant for the classical dance forms. And out of this need were born so many Thillanas that are now ubiquitous.

When we spoke to Vid. R K Shriramkumar to discuss the popularity of the Thillana, he made a very interesting observation. He said, “When you compose a krithi, I would say it is more challenging, because you have a longer section of Sahityam, and you also have to take care of Prasa between the Pallavi and Anupallavi, as also within the Sahityam… one has to choose the right words, the words must fit in the Taala and must fit in with the emotion or purpose of the song. Now, in Thillanas, we have just 2 lines of Sahitya. The rest is just Jathi and Swara, which one has more liberty to work with.” Therefore, one can say that the popularity of the Thillana as a compositional form could be in part due to the relative ease in composing such forms over more Sahitya-laden forms. The comment made about the flexibility of the form is also quite interesting, and merits a closer look.

One finds that there is a wide range of styles of composing Thillanas, and that there exist several exceptions to the conditions stipulated earlier. Multi-Charanam Thillanas like the Thillana (Kuntalavarali) by Dr. M Balamuralikrishna, Thillanas with Sahityam even in the Pallavi like Oothukkadu Venkata Kavi’s Thillana (Surutti), Thillanas heavily centric on intricate patterns like T V Gopalakrishnan’s Thillana (Behag) or Srimushnam V Raja Rao’s Thillana (Sindhubhairavi), Swaram-centric Thillanas like Thirugokarnam Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar’s Purvi Thillana*(Purvi), and many more such great, exceptional and unique Thillanas are known to exist. A Thillana may even give importance to the semantically meaningful Sahityam like Kunrakudi Krishna Iyer’s Kamba Ramayanam Thillana, or K Arunprakash’s Thillana (Sarangaprakashini). The variety of expression and structures that one can find in Thillanas is immeasurable. Thus, the inherent flexibility in the structure of a Thillana, and the freedom to explore it without strict conditions as in a Krithi, may have contributed to the Thillana. Also, there is a great deal of freedom afforded to composers as far as the use of the Jathi syllables is concerned. We find examples of unique syllables being used like ‘Jhoom’ (Thillana (Hamir Kalyani) by Harikeshanallur Muttaiah Bhagavathar); ‘Tlaam’ (Paras Thillana (Paras) by Ramanathapuram Srinivasa Iyengar); ‘Dhru’ (Thillana (Kapi) by M D Ramanathan) et cetera. It can be argued that this flexibility allows for a wider range of creative expression, and so * The categorization of this

composition as a Thillana is disputable, as authentic sources in form us that the composition was originally termed a Dhrupada [4]. The question of whether this composition can be termed a Thillana at all shall be taken up in a future article.

might have been a contributing factor towards the popularity of the Thillana today.

It is also possible that composers have chosen to deal extensively with Thillanas because of the different view and perspective it offers of a Ragam. The very approach to the soundscape of the Ragam changes because of the fixed fast pace and emphasis on patterns. One can’t just

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fit phrases to the Talam cycle in an aesthetic manner when it comes to Thillanas. To embed patterns even in the melodic setting and Sahityam is a must. This is an interesting and engrossing challenge for composers. Especially when it comes to phrase-based Ragams like Anandabhairavi or Sri, to mould their Ragasancharams into mathematical patterns is a highly stimulating exercise. Yet composers like Swathi Thirunal Maharaja and Mysore Vasudevacharya have done that beautifully. We can see that in some cases Thillanas have even infused new phrases and reinvented others through their melodic setting. An example would be the Thillana (Ritigowla) composed by Mysore T Chowdaiah. An interesting, rarely heard phrase in Ritigowla ‘DDNPD’, features in this Thillana. Despite being highly unnatural for the Ragam, because of the musical context and pattern it is set in it feels like a Ritigowla phrase through and through. We can also note that Chowdaiah places the lyrical Sahityam in the Anupallavi instead of the Charanam, a unique feature for a Thillana. This flexibility and possibility for innovation may have contributed to the popularity of the Thillana. So, in conclusion, the versatility of the Thillana and its unique musical aesthetic are the main the Thillana is a popular compositional form. DISCOGRAPHY: Hindolam Thillana | T Viswa | Thirugokarnam Subbarayyar | Khanda Eka Kanada Thillana | Mudicondan Venkatarama Iyer | Maha Vaidyanatha Iyer | Simhanandana Nagaswaravali Thillana | Seetha Narayanan | Chingleput Ranganathan | Sankeerna Dhruva * The categorization of this

Reference: 1.

T.K.L Sujatha, Tillana-Tarana-A comparative study [thesis]. Tirupati; Sri Padmavathi Women’s University; 2019

The Tillana and some of its well known composers, Smt. Sulochana Pattabhiraman, Journal of Music Academy of Madras 1985: 149-155.

K. Bharat Sundar and Rithwik Raja. Lecdem on Thillanas. [Lecture-Demonstration] Sri Parthasarathy Swamy Sabha. 18th December 2019.

Next page: T Balasaraswati at Jacob’s Pillow, 1962. Ruth Alexander and Lakshmi Knight with K Ganesan, S Narasimhulu, and T Ranganathan. Photographed by John Van Lund.

Prof. N Ramanathan. Musicologist. Personal communication. 30th June 2021

Ananthakrishna Panuganti is a student of music based in Bengaluru, learning under Vid. Malini Ramasubramanya. He is currently studying in class 12, and is deeply interested in Carnatic musicology. He also blogs about Carnatic Music.

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A black stone stele of Surya North Eastern India Pala period, 11th century Dimensions : 59.1 cm (231/4 in.)

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The sun god Surya, stands on a lotus on a base below beaded garlands and gandharvas, both hands holding fully bloomed lotuses, wearing a dhoti, and adorned with a tall, narrow crown. Flanked by Rajni and Nisprabha, celestial figures and protectors, all of the surrounding figures are mounted on Aruna’s seven-horsed chariot beside Surya. A similar example can be found in the Seattle Art Museum (acc. no. 45.59), illustrated by P. Pal in The Arts of Nepal: Part 1, Leiden, 1974, pl. 255. The American violinist Louis Kaufman was one of the most influential classical musicians of the twentieth century. Together with his wife Annette, also an accomplished musician, the Kaufmans donated much of their large art collection to the National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C. and other cultural institutions.

A black stone stele of Surya, Christies, 2019

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Vaak Issue 04

Articles inside

Thillanas: an introduction

My journey with Karnatik music

Legacy of the Pandanallur Gurus

The musical legacy of Musiri Subramania Iyer

Ragamala series of paintings

Indian copyright laws

A life journey with Kolams