MUSIC: November 29, 1998

Faded dreams

Gowri Ramnarayan

Are you turned on by legends of love and war? Come to Gwalior where the fort winds across the hill and looms over the city, not as a dead artifact, but as part of its daily life. The tourists are there of course, but it is also a favourite picnic spot for the locals, and echoes the chatter of the children of the Scindia School within its precincts. The sprawling lawns among the ruins make an awesome venue for the Gwalior Sangeet Utsav.

From somewhere above us, a transistor blares a Hindi film song.

The music buff who has made her pilgrimage to the fort recognises in the discordance a distant cousin of the raag Yaman. And suddenly, the courtyard where she stands begins to resound with resplendent melodies. The sun fades to starlight, the cunningly carved lamps on the stone pillars cast their glow from all four sides. The ornate balcony draped in gold and silk reveals crowned heads absorbed in the nuances of the raag as rendered by the master musician. Behind brocade curtains, the queens sigh unseen.

For it was here at the Man Mandir Palace and the Gujari Mahal seen below, that the dhrupad tradition of Hindustani music developed its definitive form, depth and sheen. Both were built by Raja Man Singh (1486-1516), the noblest ruler of the Tomar dynasty, to whom the poet exclaims, "O King of kings! Protect the earth till the sun and the moon shine in the sky!" (Gangola-tal inscriptions 1494).

The cultural splendour of Gwalior under Man Singh invited comparison with Shiraz in Iran. The Raja was no mere warrior, but a great patron of the arts. Himself a musician and scholar, he authored the lost musical treatise "Man Kautuhal" with the seven nayaks in his court, who excelled in the practice and theory of music. A specially designed music room allowed his eight queens to take singing lessons behind latticed walls, unseen by their instructor.

Gowri Ramnarayan
Gujari Mahal as seen from the Gwalior Fort.

Man Singh made his greatest contribution to the arts after his marriage to Mrignayani, a Gujar tribal he chanced to meet while out hunting. Captivated by watching her separate with bare hands two buffaloes, their horns locked in combat, the king won her consent to becoming his ninth queen after fulfilling two demands. He built her a separate palace, and had a canal dug to bring the water of her village Rai, for her everyday use.

Today her Gujari Mahal's open courtyard makes a sculpture gallery. A 5th century Gupta panel from nearby Pawaya depicts a dancer surrounded by musicians. An ancient panel of the birth of the Buddha attests to the flourishing of the performing arts in this region from the 2nd century B.C.

A hall under the courtyard with two-storied galleries on all sides provided the ideal space, cool and soundproof, for musical soirees. During my visit, this was closed for renovation. But one could imagine the enchanting raags of Tansen and Baiju Bawra who received their early training in the school of music established and monitored by the Tomar king and his Gujar queen. It provided 16 of the 36 singers in Akbar's court. It was in this hall and courtyard that the royal couple created the raags Bahulgujri, Mangalgujri and Gujritodi. Here Man Singh composed and sang in Brajbhasha as against the customary Sanskrit. The king built a vast rasmandal near the fort which could accommodate 4,000 people, where 200 women dancers played gopikas to his Krishna. Their anklets and the orchestra echoed from the hills and rippled across the Barai lake closeby.

Under the Tomars, the status of a man was determined by his right to sound five instruments at the start of his journey. Such a person was called "samadhigatapanchamahasabda".

Gowri Ramnarayan
Man Mandir Palace

Village Behet, a few miles away from Gwalior, is the birthplace of the singer who was to be hailed as Tansen, the "Emperor of Music". There are conflicting accounts of his early years. His parents Makarand and Lakshmi named the boy Trilochan (Tannu) because he was born after fervent prayers to Siva, resident of the local temple. As a cowherd, he kept predators away by imitating their roars. He knew the language of animals and trees. Swami Haridas was so impressed by his ringing voice that he took him as a pupil. Soon he became a peerless vocalist and composer of dhrupads. Akbar was happy to pay 2000 dinars to entice him to adorn the Mughal court, at a time when generals and officials were paid 20-30 dinars per month.

Another version has it that as a child, Tansen was blessed by the Muslim saint Mohammad Ghouse, who placed a drop of the paan juice from his mouth on the infant's lips. Repelled, the father abandoned the child, to be brought up by the pir.

At Behet they will tell you that their Siva temple leans to one side because the earth trembled as young Tannu practised beside the shrine!

Gwalior houses Tansen's tomb beside that of his spiritual guru Ghouse. The tamarind tree by its side is not the famed one under which Tansen practised, and eating whose sprigs guaranteed a sweet voice. (Gwalior residents recall that K. L. Saigal shared that belief, enough to come and taste those leaves). Another tree has taken its place, supposedly grown from a branch of the original, to retain its magic properties. Hundreds of sparrows flutter and chatter over it, making tawny at sunset.

We skip two centuries to arrive at the court of the Scindia rulers who came from Maharashtra to establish themselves at Lashkar (Gwalior). The Marathi culture provided excellent soil for the growth of performance and scholarship in music. Just as the dhrupad was shaped by the Tomars, khyal gayaki found its systematic, sequential and reflective development of its structure and texture with Scindia patronage. Directly or indirectly, the Gwalior gharana became the source of most other gharanas. But this ascendancy of the khyal is a tale of intrigue and counter intrigue through the generations.

From left: Rambua Gulwani, Balabua Umdekar, Krishnarao Shankar Pandit, Hafiz Ali Khan and his eldest son Mubarak Ali Khan.

Ghulam Rasool, a court musician of Lucknow, was greatly taken up by the khyal (literally thought), as composed by Sadarang and Adarang, descendants of Tansen. Rasool began to compose in this novel mode which was free, untrammelled and romantic, as opposed to the rigid, spiritually oriented dhrupad. He taught Shakkar Khan and Makhan Khan, so named for their sweetness and softness of expression, which brought even the bulbuls out of the bushes. Their bitter rivalry led the latter to suspect the former of using sorcery to murder Qadar Baksh, son of Makhan Khan. Thereupon, Naththan Pir Baksh of this line fled to the protection of the Gwalior ruler Daulatrao Scindia. There he trained grandsons Haddu, Hassu and Nathoo in dhrupad, and in khyal which was soon to supersede it. He also brought the excitement of tappa to Gwalior, from its innovator Shauri Mian, son of Rasool. Another version attributes the entry of tappa to Devjibua Paranjpe, who taught it to Nathoo Khan in return for lessons in the khyal.

Meanwhile, Daulatrao Scindia was so mesmerised by the taans of Bade Mohammad Khan, son of Shakkar Khan, that he invited him to reside in Gwalior. The king wanted the taan technique to be perpetuated, but the diehard ustad hoarded his wealth. The tale goes that the king hid young Hassu, Haddu and Nathoo behind his throne whenever the senior performed at court, so that they could pick up the art by osmosis.

That is how the khyal mode was created by the trio by blending Pir Baksh's virtuosity with the luminous stylistics of Bade Mohammad Khan.

When the youngsters made their durbar debut, Bade Mohammad Khan was furious to realise he had been tricked into losing sole control over his taans. He plotted a Machiavellian revenge.

At a later concert of the trio, he applauded them and asked Haddu to repeat the "kadakbijli" which had electrified the throng. This blitzkrieg phrase could not be rendered twice without fatal results. As Haddu essayed it again, his rib snapped and blood filled his mouth. Pir Baksh unwound his saafa (headgear) and stanched the blood saying,"My son, complete the taan. We die but once, it is God's will that you sacrifice yourself for music".

Avinash Pasricha
Krishnarao Shankar Pandit

The Khan brothers had been venerated in their lifetime as maestros. Kings valued them above ministers and generals. Royal gifts included a house with subterranean chambers for undisturbed practice, gold and gems, horses and elephants. Today, their graves in Gawaiye ki Baag (Garden of Singers) has been turned into a rubbish dump haunted by flies and pigs.

Gwalior has nurtured other families with a musical lineage. Among them the Pandits from Chinchwad, near Pune, were Sanskrit-Vedic scholars. Vishnu Pandit was assisted by his four sons in performing kirtans. It was he who suggested to his friend Pir Baksh that the ashtapadis could be rendered as khyals. Thus, another tradition was born, still nurtured by the Pandit family, whose presentday members Lakshman Pandit and daughter Meeta have recorded such a classical rendering of Jayadeva's verses, selected by their ancestors and set to music by the Pir Baksh family. From the Pandits the Khan brothers learnt Sanskrit slokas and Marathi abhangs, to sing before and with the maharaja at puja/festival times.

The Khans accepted the four Pandit boys as disciples, singling out Shankar for attention and affection. After their death Nissar Husain Khan, son of Nathoo Khan, continued the instruction. The neglect of musicians by the Regent's Council after the death of Jayajirao Scindia made Nissar Husain Khan leave the court in 1886, to find a home with Shankar whose singing he described as shakkar (sugar).

In this reversal of the guru sishya relationship the guru became a vegetarian, wore solah or madivastra and a sacred thread, chanted slokas, spoke Marathi. His final rites were performed by Shankar Pandit as per the Islamic code. Within months the disciple followed the guru to the other world.

With Nissar Husain Khan all music ended in the Pir Baksh family. The sons of Haddu Khan died young. The elder, lauded as Chote Mohammad Khan, fell a prey to an unsavoury lifestyle. So mellifluous was Rehmat Khan that he was hailed as Bhu Gandharv, a celestial on earth. His influence was to turn a stripling from Kirana into the charismatic star Abdul Karim Khan, and to launch a new gharana named after that remote village. A presentday claimant to the Pir Baksh line ekes out a living repairing gas stoves.

Avinash Pasricha
Lakshman K.Pandit and daughter Meeta.

The Gwalior style eschews the ati vilambit (very slow) pace, emphasises fullthroated enunciation, has a range of taans, maintains the purity of raags, ensures that pauses do not distort the melody or meaning. It avoids rare raags. A speciality is the Bade khyal sung to Tilvada taal.

In the past, people came from many states to learn from the artists of Gwalior. Some adopted disguises, others made straightforward pleas to be accepted by the gurus. Not every one was lucky as we see from the story of Bawa Dikshit, who arrived from Maharashtra as a penniless boy, with dreams of learning from the celebrated Hassu-Haddu brothers. Chased out of their house unceremoniously, the boy went and lay down before the horse drawn buggy of the Scindia minister who disbursed payments in cash and kind to the court musicians. "Better that I die under hoof and wheel than to be spurned by the guru," he said. Taking pity on him, the minister recommended his case to Haddu Khan. A later warning was necessary before the Khansaheb would start to share his secrets with the boy.

At an invitation performance before the king the boy was unlucky enough to please him greatly. The enraged Khansaheb demanded his gurudakshina. "You must never again sing before the king". Bawa Dikshit set up his own house and lived a simple life. Soon he was puzzled to find a gold coin at his doorstep every day after his morning puja which ended with him singing his heart out for the Lord. One day he caught the culprit and pulled off the shawl covering his face. It was the maharaja. "You have made me break my vow," Dikshit cried. "Not at all," answered the king. "When did I promise not to hear you?"

Another account emphasises the complexities of the guru sishya relationship. Guru Shankar Pandit refused to believe sishya Mavalankar's protestations of his innocence over the charge of having spoken ill of his guru. Whereupon Mavalankar simply placed the tanpura at Pandit's feet and walked away saying "I won't sing again". Nor did he. He played the sitar.

Krishnarao Pandit who has left his imprint on the Gwalior gharana had redoubtable gurus in father Shankar Pandit and dadaguru Nissar Husain Khan. His extraordinary regimen included pre dawn (brahma muhurat) practice in the woods to perfect swara, laya and breath control. He was taught wrestling, gymnastics, yoga and swimming to develop stamina, and a range of three octaves. A handsome man dressed in old world elegance, with pearl ear ring and embroidered turban, he had a personality to reckon with. He resigned from the court more than once, as when he was asked to teach women singers, that despite his admiration of Mango bai and Sukhiya bai whom he rated higher than Rasoolanbai and Siddheshwari Devi.

Gowri Ramnarayan
Balasaheb Poochwale.

Another breach was caused by differences with Professor V. N. Bhatkhande, who requested the Pandits to allow him to record their traditional repertoire in notation. "My father was prepared to teach him in the traditional method, but not to let his priceless legacy be distorted through notation," explains Lakshman Pandit.

The Shankar Gandharva Mahavidyalaya was established in 1914 by the Pandit family, with traditional teaching methods. But royal support went to the Madhav Music College set up by Bhatkhande in 1918. Acrimony was fuelled by the Pandits' prize disciples, like Rajabhaiyya Poochwale who was "enticed" to the enemy camp and made principal. Son Balasaheb Poochwale who also served as the principal of the same institution, now a ripe 80 and much in demand as a teacher in and out of Gwalior, recalls, "There was jealousy and one upmanship. Madhavrao Scindia brought in Bhatkhande only because he realised that he could not get what he wanted for his college from Krishnarao Pandit who did not teach anyone whole-heartedly. My father got even the Pandit disciples to take the exams in the Bhatkhande College because its degree was recognised everywhere." He is quick to explain that in his father's time the college followed the guru sishya parampara, the teachers were all students of Poochwale to ensure continuity, and the principal gave individual attention to each pupil. He would tell a parent not to feed his son if he did not practise!

Balasaheb adds with a chuckle, "Of course no one can become a musician with notation alone, but it is a valid aid. It makes accessible several things hoarded by traditional musicians as private property."

A visit to the two colleges ends in disappointment. Whatever their state in the past, they are now victims of bureaucratic lassitude. Madan Pandit is visibly bogged down by administration hassles. "We trained artists like Saratchandra Arolkar, but the future is bleak." The grants are minimal, budgets stringent, and even eager students find it difficult to practise along with their academic pursuits. Sitarist Shriram, son of the eminent vocalist Balabhau Umdekar, shrugs, "Nowadays students are not interested in becoming good performers, scholars or listeners of music. To them a college degree is a passport to a job."

Later, in Shriram's home, we plunge into the ethos of a lost world. Sepia manuscripts painfully written by hand, and crumbling books of lifetime labours open up facets of melody and rhythm. We see his father's "Raag Suman Mala" which traces the similarities between the Hindustani and Carnatic systems, and introduces ragas like Saraswati, Janaranjani and Kamalamanohari to north India. Jayajirao Scindia had gifted Rs. 1,000 for its publication at a time when the price of gold was Rs. 7 a tola!

Gowri Ramnarayan
The tomb of Haddu-Hassu Khan, now a garbage dump.

Gwalior was the home of the sarod, introduced in India by the Bangash family which had come from Afghanistan to settle there. Four generations strove to increase its range, resonance and sophistication. Theirs is the Senia gharana, with gurus from the descendants of Tansen. Ustad Amjad Ali Khan, the best known Gwalior musician today, is a scion of this clan. His father Hafiz Ali Khan, esteemed court musician to the Scindias, had the flamboyance of a Renaissance prince. His sweetness of expression on the difficult instrument was unrivalled. The son has no nostalgia for the past. "Kings may have been connoisseurs but it is unhealthy for an artist to concentrate all his energies on pleasing one man who had the power of life and death over him." He remembers the intrigues which bred envy and competitiveness.

Is he referring to the attempts to discredit Ustad Allauddin Khan by the votaries of Hafiz Ali Khan, we ask. The former's versatility and virtuosity could not satisfy those who preferred the mellifluousness of the latter. "In the darbar, someone wanted Allauddin Khan to take over. And one evening my father was summoned to play alternately with Allauddin Khan. The maharaja went too far when he asked them to play together. My father lost his temper. "I respect him but he is a violinist and a disciple of my own family," he said. After that Allauddin Khan left Gwalior.

On another occasion, this self respect made Hafiz Ali Khan stop another artist's recital midway, and admonish the organisers for seating the musicians among the audience on the floor, while government officials were given chairs. The concert could resume only after chairs had been fetched for the artists. Similarly, commissioned to teach the princess, he could tell her after a few lessons, "You don't have time to practise, better that you discontinue music." The maharaja was upset, but appreciated the ustad's honesty.

Strength of character was a family trait. Once when a sarangi player arrived in Gwalior to throw a challenge at the court musicians, grandfather Nanne Khan decided to take him on. Extracting a promise from the boaster to do exactly what he did, he had the right hands of both tied from behind. While Nanne Khan could still play something with his left hand, the sarangia could do nothing. That was the end of his arrogance.

Young Amjad knew the court well. He often accompanied his father there wearing the special costume de riguer for the occasion. He recalls playing for guests like Marshal Tito and Rajendra Prasad. "There's nothing in Gwalior now, not even good listeners. A brash political culture has taken over." He has turned his ancestral home into a museum, the "Sarod Ghar," its well maintained neatness an incongruity amidst the shoddy surroundings. It houses the musical instruments on which seasoned artists, including members of his family, had practised and played. Photographs of Indian musicians hang on the walls.

The Pandits too had known royal favours and disfavours. But Lakshman Pandit recalls how Jiwajirao Scindia was quick to reinstate his father as court musician as soon as he came to power in 1936. He showed the utmost respect to the senior artist. "Why take the trouble to visit me? Send me word and it shall be done," he would say, to which Krishnarao Pandit's answer would be, "To see you is to feel satisfied." Much later, the Rajmata was to reveal to Lakshman Pandit that before every visit from his father, the maharaja would have the room aired, and incense burnt, to hide all traces of cigarettes. At the annual Gwalior fair, if the chainsmoking ruler came across the Pandit, he would stub his cigarette hurriedly on his silk coat.

Balasaheb's story illustrates the relationship of mutual esteem between the Scindia kings and artists. Once a singer tried to win the unresponsive king's interest by abandoning his raags midway and trying out new ones to charm him. At one point the raja stopped the recital and asked, "Is this the way your ancestors sang?" Whereupon the singer shot back, "Is this the way your ancestors listened?"

Gwalior today? The filth and stench at Haddu - Hassu Khan's tomb point to changed values. "In the past there were well attended recitals every day in somebody's house or the other. Now you get a crowd only for a star musician," laments Lakshman Pandit. "Few come to hear local artists," admits Madan Pandit. "Not a single good auditorium in the town," says Amjad Ali Khan. "The Tansen Festival is neither special nor inspiring, Nothing like the bhakti atmosphere at the Tyagaraja festival in Tiruvaiyaru." Gone are the days when a B. V. Keskar could insist that Ravi Shankar, Vilayat Khan and Girija Devi come and give their haziri (offering) at Tansen's tomb - no payment, only transport costs. The erstwhile royals have lost interest in their tradition. Madhavrao Scindia M.P, says he has no time to share memories of music in the Scindia court, anyway he never cared for music. To Vasundhara Raje, Union Minister, the music of Gwalior is a faint, pleasant scent of childhood, the stuff of faded dreams.

Any musicians of stature in the town? Balasaheb shakes his head dolefully, "Ab koyi nahin hai n(one left now)."

As I leave, an old-timer tells me, "A great artist died a month ago - Mubarak Ali Khan, the elder son of Hafiz Ali Khan, who remained unknown while brother Amjad became a world celebrity. Why? because that was his fate..."

Inner peace and timeless faith

Kunjamma (as she is known to those close to her), brought up with all the rigorous strictness that her mother could impose upon her training in art as in life, had sung at a wedding in the household of Dakshinamurti Pillai, the venerable percussionist from Pudukkottai. The event had drawn a galaxy of artists – including the upcoming Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, Musiri Subramania Iyer, Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar, Rajamanickam Pillai, Rajaratnam Pillai, Palghat Mani Iyer, G.N. Balasubramanian and the Alathur brothers.

The next day, in the midst of this starry assembly, Dakshinamurti Pillai suddenly smote his head with vehemence. ‘Andavane! (Oh God!) How will you save your throats for a lifetime if you engage in vocal gymnastics? Leave all that to us drummers. Singers must emphasise the raga and the bhava so that you preserve your voice and let it gain in timbre. That little girl there, she knows this already. Didn’t we hear her yesterday? Wasn’t it satisfying? Touch our hearts?’ At that public praise, Kunjamma shrank even more behind her mother in the corner.

Lost in memories, Subbulakshmi’s narrative trembles. Those were times to recall with tears. She was blessed by every senior musician who came home to sing and play before or listen to her musician mother Shanmukhavadivu playing the veena. Some were legendary figures like Tirukkodikaval Krishna Iyer, Veena Seshanna of Mysore, Ponnuswami Pillai, Naina Pillai, Chittoor Subramaniam Pillai, Venkataramana Dass of Vizianagaram. Invariably, Kunjamma would be jerked forward to sing. ‘Though I was always encouraged and appreciated by them, I never lost my timidity.’ She recalls that some of them would teach her a song or two – as did the great Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar.

‘What were you like in those days?’ brings a change of mood. ‘You can see it in the old pictures,’ she laughs. ‘A side parting in thick curls pressed down with lots of oil, a huge dot covering most of my forehead, the half saree pinned to the puff-sleeved blouse with long brooch and longer safety pin, eardrops, nose-rings and bangles of imitation gold… Oh, I forgot. The long plait was tied up with a banana stem strip! Or a ribbon which never matched.’ Getting ready for the stage meant also the addition of a row of medals on the shoulder.

M.S. has been sheltered and protected through all her 89 years. Like everybody else, she has had ups and downs, faced hurdles and setbacks, known heartbreak. As an artist in India, she has scaled unrivalled peaks of fame. Through these public and personal happenings, she continues to radiate the childlike innocence of the old portraits. Yet what lingers on her face is not the look of naivete, or inexperience. It is a sense of inner peace and timeless faith lining her gentleness.

A perceptive profile of Subbulakshmi states: ‘Success and fame bring in their train friends and adulation, as well as jealousy and carping critics. She has been paid the most extravagant tributes by musicians, scholars, high dignitaries of state… I have also heard others dismiss her as a pretty singer with a pretty voice who has built up a reputation on false values. She herself takes all this in her stride.’ It ends with a tribute to the beauty and grace of her music and looks to its maturing into greatness. The year was 1955.

That she has reached this greatness will hardly be challenged, even by critics of her style – or those who play the devil’s advocate. She has been the recipient of the highest awards and honours the nation could bestow upon an artist, including the Bharat Ratna, and of significant international recognition.

But the impressive list of distinctions can hardly explain the M.S. mystique. Certainly it has to do with her extraordinary voice, which continues to ring in the mind with vibrant power and clarity, whether heard from near or far or from any angle. That her music is not diminished by the absence of instrumental accompaniment is knowledge treasured by those privileged to hear her in private. It was also realised by the multitudes on occasions when her devotional songs were telecast by Doordarshan, as at the time of Indira Gandhi’s assassination.

Princes and heads of state have bowed to her music, as when the (then) Maharana of Udaipur said to M.S. and husband T. Sadasivam: ‘In the old days I would have exchanged my whole kingdom for this Kalyani raga. Now I shall give you whatever help you need by way of horses and elephants in location shooting.’ The occasion was the filming of Meera, produced by Sadasivam with M.S. in the lead. Jawaharlal Nehru’s tribute to her, ‘Who am I before the queen of song?’ has been publicised widely as has been Mahatma Gandhi’s request, shortly before he was gunned down by a Hindu fanatic on 30 January 1948. A message had been sent to Madras that Gandhiji wished M.S. to render his favourite bhajan, ‘Hari tum haro’, and a response had gone from husband Sadasivam to the effect that since she did not know how to sing this particular bhajan, somebody else could sing ‘Hari tum haro’, and she could sing another bhajan. A reply had promptly come back on behalf of the Mahatma: ‘I should prefer to hear it spoken by Subbulakshmi than sung by others.’

Nearly half a century after this incident, M.S. and Sadasivam recall that she heard the news of Gandhiji’s assassination when she was listening to a relay of the Thyagaraja utsavam (festival) and immediately her own singing of ‘Hari tum haro’ came on the air. She swooned from the shock.

Had not Gandhiji called upon her at a prayer meeting in 1947 at Birla House in Bombay, ‘Subbulakshmi, Ramdhun tum gao’ (You sing the Ramdhun)? His choice of songs and his manner of recognition show that the Mahatma was thinking beyond music. It was that special quality she invokes of peace and bliss, not just with her voice, but from the depths of her own character – simple, devout and spirituelle.

Often lay persons with no liking for any classical music still play her devotional verses as an every morning ritual. The suprabhatams on the deities of Tirupati, Kasi, Rameswaram and Kamakshi of Kanchi thrill pilgrims at dawn in temples from Kedaranath to Kanyakumari. In the midst of roadside blasts of film songs, if an occasional ‘Kaatrinile varum geetham’ or ‘Chaakar rakho ji’ comes on, the pedestrian is arrested into paused listening. There are others who swear that listening to her recorded music helped them tide over troubled times, even traumas and tragedies.

More remarkable is her popularity outside the Carnatic belt. According to traditionalist stereotype, the North Indian is supposed to be indifferent to Carnatic music, but M.S. concerts draw large audiences in Jalandhar and Jaipur, Kanpur and Bhopal, Pune and Baroda, notwithstanding the predominance of heavy pieces in Telugu, Sanskrit and Kannada by composers ranging from Thyagaraja to Yoganarasimham. The initial recognition, of course, came through the bhajans in Hindi that she rendered for the film Meera in 1944.

Delightedly surrendering her title ‘The Nightingale of India’ to M.S., Sarojini Naidu introduced her in the film’s first reel. A slender M.S. with downcast eyes, corkscrew curls blowing, hands twisting her pallav, is overwhelmed as Naidu heaps tribute with this prophecy to her countrymen, ‘You will be proud that India in this generation has produced so supreme an artist.’

Since then, M.S. recitals have always included bhajans – of Meera first and later Tulsidas, Kabir, Surdas, Nanak and the abhangs of Tukaram. A few have heard her sing chhote khayals and thumris (‘Na manoongi’, Mishra Khammaj; ‘Neer bharan kaise jaaon’, Tilakamod; ‘Mano mano kanhaiyya’, Jonpuri), that she learnt in the 1930s from Dwijenderlal Roy in Calcutta and later from Siddheswari Devi of Benares. The latter spent some months in Madras teaching M.S. thumris and tappas. It was a lesson in assiduity to see the two great women seated on the mat, facing each other and practising with intense interest the Yaman scales over and over again, with Siddheswari Devi rolling the beads to keep the 108 count.

To many North Indian business barons, an M.S. recital at a family wedding is no status symbol but a blessing on the young couple. With excellent singers in Bombay who can sing bhajans with the greater ease of mother tongue spontaneity, why did they insist on a bhajan concert by M.S.? A Bombay-based industrialist’s reply to the naïve question was, ‘True! We can listen to good music from others. But no one else can create this feeling which takes us straight to heaven.’

Hindustani musicians themselves have never stinted praise. Veteran Alladiya Khan was charmed by her Pantuvarali (Purya Dhanashri); Bade Ghulam Ali Khan had announced she was ‘Suswaralakshmi Subbulakshmi’; and Roshanara Begum had been ecstatic over her full-length concert. Others from Ravi Shankar to Pandit Jasraj and Amjad Ali Khan have been unfailing admirers. Vilayat Khan folds both his hands and closes his eyes as he speaks her name.

This recognition first came in the 1930s in a Calcutta studio when M.S. played Narada in Savithri. (This film launched the nationalist Tamil weekly Kalki, a joint venture of husband Sadasivam and writer R. Krishnamurti). The M.S. recordings would gather other distinguished artists, K.L. Saigal, Pahari Sanyal, Kananbala, Keskar (the renowned Kesarbai’s brother, himself a musician) and Pannalal Ghosh (later to play Krishna’s flute in Meera). Dilipkumar Roy was another admirer who was later to teach her bhajans and Rabindra Sangeet.

‘They would make me sing again and again, especially the song ‘Bruhi mukundeti’, with its lightning sangati at the end,’ M.S. recalls happily (in Tamil). ‘In those days, we had no sense of competition or oneupmanship. We enjoyed good music wherever we found it.’ Old-timers remember that in the film too, as Narada descended from the sky in jerks, but still singing that enthralling song, the theatre resounded to applause. In the Bombay Studio where the Meera score was recorded, it was the same story. Artists who came for other recordings would stop by and become rapt listeners. A thin newcomer, two long plaits dangling behind, refused to record her song after the M.S. session. ‘Not now, not after that!’ She went on to become a legend in her own right as Lata Mangeshkar, while continuing to remain a devoted M.S. fan.

What is M.S. like in real life? The answer would be: except for the taut-nerved hypersensitivity of all great artists, no different from any other South Indian housewife, mother and grandmother of her generation. Fame, the approbation of the world’s haut monde and glitterati, the adoration of hundreds of thousands, have left her transparently untouched. Home needs and little chores are given the same attention that she gives momentous affairs. She is meticulous and neat in personal life, even in the delicate lines of the kolam she draws everyday. She excels at putting all kinds of visitors at ease, with a genuine interest in what they have to say of themselves. Gifts which please her most are strings of jasmine and mild French perfumes.

In appearance and lifestyle, she remains conservative: the long pallav of her handloom cottons or silks tucked round the waist, flower-wreathed ‘kondai’, diamond nose and ear rings, glass bangles between gold, not to forget the row of kumkum and vibhuti from many temples dotting the turmeric-washed forehead. Regular in the performance of puja and sloka recitations, she is a strict follower of all the prescribed rituals of the suman-gali householder. ‘My mother-in-law told me before she left for Kasi’, would precede these observances.

Owning no jewels beyond what she wears and quick to give away the silk sarees gifted to her by admirers, she has never tried to appear younger than she is. Thousands see her as the embodiment of grace and ancient tradition of Indian womanhood – kind, considerate, compassionate, soft-spoken, self-sacrificing and somewhat unworldly. She breathes the tenderness of the mother to the child, the bhakta to the god.

Looking at her self-effacing deportment, one has to remind oneself forcefully that she is a world-travelled artist, a globally-acclaimed career person who has changed the definition and image of Carnatic music in the 20th century. A first-time foreign listener at her concert was quick to note the ethereality of the M.S. image. ‘It is not right to describe her as the Maria Callas of India. Callas has fans, frenzied legions of them. But not devotees! M.S. does not sing, she makes divinity manifest.’

How did M.S. train this voice, develop grasping power, and learn to refract emotional colours through it? How did she absorb the aesthetics and the techniques of a hoary musical tradition?

Born in the temple town of Madurai on 16 September 1916, to veena player Shanmukhavadivu (her initials M.S. record the birthplace and mother’s name), little Kunjamma, brother Saktivel and sister Vadivambal grew up surrounded and filled by music. Grandmother Akkammal had been a violinist. Their tiny home in the narrow, cattle-lounging Hanumantharayan lane was close to the Meenakshi temple. Whenever the deity was taken in procession through the main streets, the nadaswaram players would stop where this lane branched off and play their best for Shanmukhavadivu’s approval. ‘My earliest interest in music was focused on the raga. I would try to reproduce the pipers as well as I could. My mother played and rehearsed constantly. No formal lessons, but I absorbed a whole wealth by listening and humming along with the veena.’ Much later, experts were to wonder at the way in which M.S. vocally rendered some of the rare and singular gamakas and prayogas of both veena and nadaswaram.

The family was rich only in music. Otherwise, for mother and children, and for the numerous uncles and aunts who crowded their home, it was a frugal existence. For the two girls it was confinement within the home, while the brother enjoyed a little more freedom.

Vadivambal died too early to fulfil her promise as a veena player. But for Subbulakshmi it was to be vocal music. The coconut was broken and offerings made to god and guru Madurai Srinivasa Iyengar. But the lessons could not go much beyond the foundations because the guru passed away. ‘I also learnt Hindustani music for a short spell from Pandit Narayan Rao Vyas. "Syama Sundara" which I sang in the film Seva Sadan was one of the pieces he taught me. I listened to a lot of good music on the radio (the neighbours’; we didn’t own one!) from the window-sill above the staircase. I loved to hear Abdul Kareem Khan and Bade Ghulam Ali Khan in the silence of the night.’

Her formal schooling was stopped in class 5 when a teacher’s beating brought on an attack of whooping cough. But she practised music for long hours, lost in the vibrations of the tambura which she would tune reverently. The M.S. hallmark of sruti suddham can be traced to a game she evolved in her childhood. As she sang, she would stop playing the drone at intervals and check if she continued to maintain the pitch with and without it. Throughout the day she would sound the shadja panchama notes and pluck the strings to see if she was still aligned to them.

This natural ability, consciously developed through a kind of yoga, is responsible for the electrifying effect her opening syllables have on the audience, whether she plumbs the depths (mandara sanchara) or scales the heights (in tara sanchara) of a fantastic voice range. Another little-known fact of her early life was her fascination for the mridangam which she learnt to play from brother Saktivel.

Intrigued by the gramophone records, Kunjamma would roll a piece of paper for the ‘speaker’ (as in the logo of His Master’s Voice) and sing into it for hours. This game became real when she accompanied her mother to Madras and cut her first disc at the age of 10. The songs were ‘Marakata vadivu’ and ‘Oothukuzhiyinile’ in an impossibly high pitch. In fact, it was through the Columbia Gramophone Company records that she was first noticed in the city – before she was 15 years old.

To balance and leaven maternal stringency, there was lawyer-father Subramania Iyer who lived a few streets away. In the faded photograph which hangs in her home today, his soft look and sensitive features bear an unmistakable resemblance to his ‘Rajathippa’ (princess darling). That is how he called his pet daughter. He was wont to saying that he would arrange her marriage with a ‘good boy’ who would love and cherish her music. Not a singer himself, he was a true rasika and bhakta. In the yearly Ramanavami festivals he organised, there would be puja, music and a procession each day. How wonderful it felt to the little girl when his strong loving hands picked her up and placed her next to the picture of Rama taken round the streets on a chariot! The recollection of such scenes from her childhood brings real happiness to her today.

The first stage appearance? ‘When it happened, I felt only annoyance at being yanked from my favourite game – making mud pies. Someone picked me up, dusted my hands and skirt, carried me to the nearby Sethupati School where my mother was playing before 50 to 100 people. In those days that was the usual concert attendance. At mother’s bidding, I sang a couple of songs. I was too young for the smiles and the claps to mean much. I was thinking more of returning to the mud.’

From regular vocal accompaniment in Shanmukhavadivu’s veena concerts, M.S. graduated to solo performances. Of her debut at the Madras Music Academy when she was 17, a connoisseur wrote: ‘When she, with her mother by her side (who played the tambura for the daughter), as a winsome girl in her teens, ascended the dais in 1934 and burst into classical songs, experienced musicians of the top rank vied with one another in expressing their delight in this new find.’ Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavatar came forward with loud hyperboles. Tiger Varadachariar nodded approval. Karaikudi Sambasiva Iyer was to say later, ‘Child, you carry the veena in your throat.’

At this time Thiagarajan Sadasivam entered her life as a dashing suitor. He became her husband in 1940. Kasturi Srinivasan, Editor, The Hindu, was instrumental in arranging their marriage at Tiruneermalai. He insisted on registering it and also witnessed it. He remained a lifelong friend and guide.

With that began Subbulakshmi’s ascent from being a South Indian celebrity to a national, even world, figure; and from a brilliant young virtuoso to the consummate artist she is today.

Her image, the course of her career, the direction of her music – they were all carefully fashioned by Sadasivam who, from the earliest stage, had a clear vision of what she was one day to attain. This freedom fighter, who himself sang nationalist songs in public while courting lathi-charge and arrest, introduced M.S. to the great Congress leaders – Rajaji, Nehru and Gandhiji. Sadasivam, who made an early mark in the advertising field and in publishing, was always the organiser.

To Sadasivam and M.S. the means have always been as important as the end. And therefore, though he persuaded her to act in a few movies with specific financial objectives in mind, they were on idealistic and chaste themes, with the accent on music. Sakuntalai featured songs still remembered today by M.S. and G.N. Balasubramaniam – ‘Anandamen solvene’, ‘Premaiyil’ and the sparkling ‘Manamohananga’. Sadasivam also inspired M.S. to sing lyrics steeped in patriotism such as those of Subramania Bharati (‘Oli padaitha kanninai’) and Bankimchandra Chatterji (‘Bande mataram’). Their ardour was such that they prepared to walk out of the then Corporation Radio, Madras, when refused permission to include one of these songs in the programme.

If M.S. is today regarded as a symbol of national integration, one reason is the inclusion in her repertoire of compositions in languages from many parts of India. This Catholicity was consciously developed at the insistence of Sadasivam who saw music not as an aesthetic exercise, but as a vehicle for spreading spirituality among the populace. For this reason he insisted on her giving predominance to bhava and bhakti in alapana, kriti and niraval, while minimising technical displays in pallavi rendition and kalpanaswara. Though M.S. had learnt pallavis from the old stalwart Mazhavarayanendal Subbarama Bhagavatar, she readily followed her husband’s instructions.

Believing that his wife’s wealth of voice should not be used for personal gain, Sadasivam channelled the proceeds of the concerts into charitable endowments. Starting in 1944 with five concerts for the Kasturba Memorial Fund, this has grown into a public service contribution of major proportions. Many causes and institutions (medical, scientific, research, educational, religious and charitable) have benefited from M.S. raising crores through singing.

What is responsible for the flawless presentation of an M.S. ‘concert’? Undoubtedly it is the shrewd programming masterminded by Sadasivam to suit each place and event. While this strategist designed the format and all the numbers from varnam to the lighter tukkadas, the combination of composers and languages, the main and ancillary ragas of the evening, he also allotted the duration for each individual piece. M.S. herself laid out and embellished the major pieces mentally, rehearsing constantly, even if outwardly engaged in other activities. She says: ‘We can only bring out a fraction of the thousand ideas we get at home. The stage is a constant examination ground.’ From his seat in front, Sadasivam signalled changes likely to please the day’s audience. But the couple also made experiments, propagated lesser known/unknown composers, and flouted hidebound conservatism by championing the Tamil Isai cause of the 1940s.

Recognising sahitya as an integral part of Carnatic music, M.S. has cultivated impeccable diction in the different languages of the lyrics she sings. She is known for attention to every detail such as breath control, pauses in the right places, voice modulation, changes in emphasis and breaking phrases into their proper components. These techniques highlight the meaning. Here her knowledge of Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Sanskrit and Hindi is of immense help.

To watch her learn a new composition is an experience in itself. For the Annamacharya kritis (five cassettes produced for the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam), the lyrics were read repeatedly with an expert in Telugu to explicate the sense as also methods of splitting the words and syllables for the musical score; the whole rehearsed until neither text nor notation was required at the recording session. Even more awesome was her mastery of that magnificent edifice, the mela raga malika by Maha Vaidyanatha Sivan, a string of 72 ragas mostly rare, with hair’s breadth variations between them. The Sanskrit libretto was equally taxing. But the finished product had natural ease and flow. When he heard it the Paramacharya of Kanchi pronounced his blessing: ‘This will last as long as the sun and the moon stand in the skies.’

The miracle of her performing full-length concerts at her age she attributes to the two gurus the Sadasivams revered all their lives: the sage of Kanchi and the Sai Baba of Puttaparthi. Even now, M.S. continues to increase in mellow artistry. Her commitment is evident in the ways in which she manages to overcome the handicaps of old age and physical frailty.

The warbles and trills of youth – the fine careless rapture of the song bird in springtime – gave way in course of time to richness of timbre, to chiselled, polished execution. The brika flashes and organised raga edifices with high note crescendos were replaced by longer journeys into less trodden ways in the middle and lower registers. These explorations were not undertaken with the freedom and ripeness of an autumn majesty. Retaining the sonorous sweetness and vitality through all these years of upward growth, ‘M.S. music’ now makes an even more ravishing impact on the mind. ‘As I grow older, I feel more and more overwhelmed by the music.’ One sees this happening at times on the stage. Then she has to exercise great control just to go on singing.

Towards the end of each recital M.S. sounds the cymbals in eyes-closed concentration for the Rajaji hymn ‘Kunonrum illai’ (I have no regrets). It becomes obvious that for all the splendour of her music, it is her image as a saintly person which will probably endure long after this century, just as in the case of Meerabai. For, in the highest tradition of the Indian way of life Subbulakshmi links her art with the spiritual quest, where humility and perseverance assure the sadhaka of grace.

THE MUSICAL GENIUS OF THE TANJAVUR QUARTETTE 
by Gowri Ramnarayan 
(Natya Kala Conference 2000)  
 

Aug 2001 

Ten centuries ago, South Indian music and dance had reached high levels of sophistication in Tanjavur, where royal patronage of three dynasties (Chola, Nayaka, Maratha) and the connoisseurship of the people, had nurtured the arts with love and discernment. 

Among the galaxy of poets, musicians and composers of that green belt, the Tanjavur Quartette of the brothers Chinnayya, Ponniah, Sivanandam and Vadivelu (early 19th century) stand out for their attainments in both dance and music. They are credited with having systemized the “margam” of what we know as Bharatanatyam today. 

Apart from the continuation of their tradition through natyacharyas in their own family, like the late Kittappa Pillai and Subbaroya Pillai, their unmistakable stamp is left on the entire genre through the two major (and contrastive) influences of Balasaraswati and Rukmini Devi. Their gurus Kandappa Pillai and Minakshisundaram Pillai carried the legacy of the Tanjavur Quartette. 

Born in a family of oduvars (temple musicians) the brothers inherited a sense of laya and raga, along with the spiritual heritage of a ritualistic art. This was strengthened when they became disciples of Muthuswami Dikshitar. With patronage from the Maratha rulers (Serfoji II and Sivaji II), the Mysore court, and from Swati Tirunal in Travancore, they established themselves not only as vidwans and nattuvanars, but also as composers of merit, mostly paying homage to Brihadisvara, the reigning deity of Tanjapuri, and to their royal patrons. Some of the songs express their devotion to their guru, and their pride in him. 

Their collective works span a variety of compositions for both music and dance – tana pada varnam, kriti, padam, javali, swarajati, daru, kavuttuvam, sooladi and tillana. Sivanandam excelled as a veena player and was an expert in abhinaya; while Vadivelu popularised the western violin in Carnatic music, and contributed to the growth of Mohiniyattam in Kerala. 
It is evident that the brothers viewed classical dance and music as allied art forms. This imparts a special glow to their compositions in both the rhythm and bhava aspects. The ragas are treated with imagination, depth and respect for tradition. The compositions offer tremendous scope for emotional interpretation, not only for the dancer, but for the musician as well. 
Carnatic musicians have not drawn as much from the heritage of the Tanjavur Quartette as the dancers have done, despite the fact that their compositions are steeped in ragabhava, reflecting many moods. There is variety here, for both expansive treatment and for lighter expressions. 

Nithyasree Mahadevan, who herself belongs to a tradition which excels in rendering compositions with their ragabhava and artha bhava intact, presented some of the treasures of the celebrated Tanjavur Quartette whose works are seen as collective creations. 

With their balance of melody and rhythm, and their mingling of a madhyama kala pace and softer touch to the grand Dikshitar School, these compositions make excellent concert fare for the Carnatic musician. 
 

Granddaughter of the legendary D K Pattammal (paternal) and mridangam maestro Palghat Mani Iyer (maternal), Nithyasree Mahadevan trained under D K Pattammal and Lalitha Sivakumar. She has been performing since 1987, her maiden performance being for YACM during their 2nd anniversary celebrations which won her the best main artiste award. She has given concerts for most of the major organizations all over India as well as abroad. She has received many awards notably Yuva Kala Bharathi, Sangeetha Sikhamani, Ugadi Puraskar, Nadabhushanam, and Kalaimamani. Nithyasree has received many awards for her film songs and has released about 40 cassettes and 3o discs to her credit on various themes.

Saving Private Ceylan

Gowri Ramnarayan, The Hindu Newspaper, 7 September 2003

Nuri Bilge Ceylan's "Uzak" is a slow but riveting film on urban alienation. GOWRI RAMNARAYAN talks to the filmmaker.

Spare-ribbed, close-cropped, tight-lipped, with stubble-chin gauntness, the sort who shuns crowds, he is a man you will pass by without a second look, as you smile warmly at the sweet wife beside him. But if you do catch his eye, you will feel the magnetism of a deep, leashed energy.

Turkish auteur Nuri Bilge Ceylan makes films like you paint, sculpt or write, with the control, precision and inflexibility of a private mission. He scripts, produces, directs, edits, handles sets and camera, with family and friends as actors. Just three films and a short, but his work is his own. (Shades of Theo Angelopoulos? "I prefer Tarkovsky, he moves his camera a lot more'').

Ceylan has admitted allegiance to Anton Chekhov, and Russian's broken chord echoes in his "Koza" (1995), "Kasaba" (1998, Caligari Prize, Berlin) and "Clouds of May" (1991, 18 international awards). This year "Uzak" (Distant) won the Grand Prix and Best Actor (jointly for Muzaffer Ozdemir and Mehmet Toprak), Cannes; Best Film, Best Director, Fipresci Awards, Istanbul International Film Festival, 2003; Best Film, Cinefan Festival of Asian Cinema, New Delhi 2003. Fipresci, the international federation of critics, has also awarded the Grand Prix to "Uzak" for "Best Film of the Year".

At the Cinefan screening, Ceylan's introduction to his film was cryptic. "My film is slow. Hope you are not sleepy." Definitely an art house film, its pace is torturous for those bred on Terminators, Matrixes and Crouching Tigers. Ceylan's earlier film "Clouds of May" had a poignant-genial humour. City man, Muzaffer, returns to small town Anatolia to make a video film with family and friends. The father is frantic about his legal battle to save his tract from being confiscated by the State, and denuded of trees. Failing college entrance exams, cousin Saffet gives up a lucky break of a factory job to help in the filming. Little nephew Ali wanders around with an egg in his pocket, which he must keep unbroken for 40 days to get the promised reward: a musical watch. The women have their own anxieties, alien to Muzaffer's film making.

Rarely have we empathised with innocence and folly as in this study of three generations of dreaming. The older characters are concerned with the larger good, while the younger are preoccupied with themselves. "Uzak" is bleaker, employs no musical score for emotional guidance, or cushioning. At one point, a bit of Mozart has a shock value. Orchestrated sounds heighten urban alienation — unbreakable and total. The squeaking mouse trapped in glue is the central motif ("Too obvious," Ceylan concedes) around which burgeon a whole nexus of oblique images. Despite the tortoise tempo, they demand acute attention. Seasonal landscapes and are linked to human inscapes. Falling snow and tossing waves become characters in their own right. No pathetic fallacy here, nature remains impervious to human crises.

Hick cousin Yusuf arrives from arid village to wealthy photographer Mahmut's city home, convinced that, as cabin boy on board, he will be paid in dollars to see the world. "Once you travel across the world, everything looks the same," grouches Mahmut, forced to welcome a clansman. How he hates the intrusion as he picks up shoes, clears the mess, switches off lights after his cousin, eavesdrops on his calls, and bans smoking indoors! Mahmut had once been an artist with ideals, now atrophied in couch-potatohood. No feminine comfort — S** is supplied by silent prostitutes, his mother is terminally ill, his ex-wife migrates to Canada with her husband. The most moving shots are when she is framed up-close; looking at Mahmut whose back is partially onscreen. The sparse dialogue flames when she says, "It's really hard when you don't have much to leave behind." You know they love each other — unbridgably. He lurks behind pillars to see her checking in at the airport; she almost, but not quite, glimpses him before walking away forever.

Mahmut is unable to connect with anyone; his disgust is palpable at Yusuf's glee over some toy soldier bursting into fusillades. Yusuf is forced to pretend he is on the brink of employment, hanging out all day at pubs and streets, trying in vain to make contact with the pretty girl who takes his eye. One day, he disappears as unexpectedly as he came, leaving a spotless house behind. Mahmut is back to total vacuum, sitting on the sea front, smoking impassively.

Ceylan's cinematography is as taciturn as his protagonist. It takes in visual expanses in sombre, almost monochrome shades, with scrupulous care for sudden details in what could have been a totally silent movie.The lighting fascinates - it also makes visible things going on within minds. Does the limited viewership bother him? "Have to accept reality. Can't change my approach, I'm not that kind of person... Not a film for everyone, I know. I made it instinctively. I tried to hasten the pace in editing. But the pace of my soul is very slow, maybe..." He pauses to add, "If you are slow, perhaps you can show something you can't, otherwise. A part of reality is hidden in the slowness of life."

Ceylan drew from personal experience for the character who is bereft of motivations to live up to his ideals. You interpose that Mahmut's friends had criticised his loss of ideals at the dinner table. "Too direct," Ceylan says. "Maybe you're right. Yes, like the image of the trapped mouse. There I wanted to show how the city guy who can't do any dirty work says let's call the janitor to take it away in the morning. The village guy says we can't have it squeaking all night, and kills it before junking the corpse to the alley cats. More compassionate."

But Ceylan does not blame Mahmut. By tradition, Mahmut has to welcome his relatives; he forces himself to do the right thing, but is hampered by his success and urbanisation. "I know this feeling very well — mind and body are at loggerheads. The body rejects what the mind says." You wonder: Is this the problem of Turkey? Wanting to identify with Europe but unable to abjure Asia?

"Uzak" is a story about Turkey today, where the intellectuals find that their relationship with the world, and with their own souls, is distant. No philosophy can give answers. Says Ceylan, "Many turn to religion. My own beliefs are not strong enough to find answers anywhere."

That is how filmmaking became therapy, not a way of teaching, but a way of learning about life, people, reality, getting out of the ivory tower. "I feel good when I confess, do something problematic through my films," says the man who believes that honest conversation begins when the tape recorder is switched off; and finds eavesdropping on strangers at the next table more interesting than watching a film.

Attendants stacking chairs now invade the empty seminar hall, where he has been talking quietly, almost to himself. All shadow play to Ceylan, who recalls how he had visited India 20 years ago, gone trekking in Nepal, stopped at the Everest base camp, stayed in cheap hotels, skipped meals, ate an apple a day, came to Delhi with an empty pocket, sold his camera to return home by train through Pakistan and Iran, all skin and bones. "I'm staying in luxury now, but that was an adventure. I learnt what it is to be hungry, tired, sick, stranded, lonely, everything! Maybe someday...''

Does he have to say more?

Sunday, September 26, 2004

Vijay Tendulkar. Mitrachi Goshta: A Friend's Story.

Gowri Ramnarayan,

SINCE THE APPEARANCE of cross-dressing male actors in Patanjali's Mahabhasya (ca. 150 B.C.E.), India's dramatic productions have been characterized by a fluid role-playing of gender. Of course, having all-women and/or all-men performances was intended to prevent transgressive heterosexual couplings. For others, however, it became a space where same-S** desire and couplings could flourish. In the play Mitrachi Goshta: A Friend's Story, preeminent playwright Vijay Tendulkar more than alludes to this long tradition of same-S** gender performing in theater; indeed, he uses it to foreground the coming-out story of Sumitra Dev-a fictional character based on a real woman whose promising acting career was stunted after her affair with a young woman turned into a great scandal. Tendulkar's three-act play fictionalizes the life-changing moments in Mitra's struggle to cope with being "different." Here, Tendulkar chooses not to focus primarily on Mitra's love affair but rather on her friendship with the central character and sometime narrator, Bapu. Their friendship goes through a succession of quick, dramatic growth spurts that reveal the complexity of friendship and show that which Bapu ultimately comes to represent: a homophobic society that keeps its blinders on to naturalize straight relationships as the norm, even if this should lead to a tragic end.

Like many of Tendulkar's earlier, Ibsenesque domestic plays (Ratra, Ghashiram Kotwal, Gidhade, and Shantata? come to mind), Mitrachi Goshta focuses on a human drama cut off from the world at large. The epoch is roughly set in the 1940s (the time when Tendulkar first spotted the biographical Mitra performing in a play produced at his older sister's college), and the scenes unfold within a variety of faintly textured private spaces in and around Bapu and Mitra's college campus. Tendulkar's diminishes the background details of place and setting to intensify Bapu's and Mitra's tense and often contradictory interior states. After Mitra comes out to Bapu, he asks at one point, "Do such women exist? Are they born like that or do they get conditioned as they grow to be what they are? Is it an ailment or a human trait of a particular kind? What would happen to Mitra? It was bizarre, repulsive and abhorrent." Bapu wants to be friends with Mitra, yet he is repulsed by her. He helps her but never considers her love normal. At certain moments Bapu tells her, "If you resolve to change, then everything can change." Mitra's frustrated desire for fellow thespian Nama-"the love scene was on, things came to a head. I lost control. Her touch... her very desirable body in my arms"-feels like a slow suffocation and ultimately leads to self-destructive acts. The friendship between Bapu and Mitra isn't completely insular. After Mitra rejects the Hindu-identified character Pande's advances, he calls her variously "frigid" and "lesbian bitch," thus revealing the deep hypocrisy embedded in a religious system that at once worships women deities and also cultivates same-S** (male) bonding and platonic love. Other male characters reveal the deep contradictions inherent in patriarchal society; they don't know what to do with their simultaneous desire and fear for an independent, strong woman like Mitra, so they violently assault and demonize her. In her vertiginous descent, the play reminds its audience that there is no place for Mitras in a violently homophobic world.

Unfortunately, while the friendship between Bapu and Mitra is central to the play, it often feels forced. Bapu's many audience asides tell too much and take away from the power that a more subtle showing might have realized. Bapu's asides unnecessarily sidetrack from a story already filled with complex psychological details that are apparent in the character's actions: hesitations, uncontrolled rages, and humiliations, to name a few. And, while Bapu clearly stands for that part of society that is more willing to understand a woman like Mitra, the audience is never sure why he really sticks around her. She constantly assails him with contemptuous words, calling him at different times a "worm," "Milksop!" and a "Chickenheart"; and after he has been beaten to a pulp defending her, she barely blinks, asking condescendingly, "Did the baby get beaten up?" Tendulkar never really shows why Bapu invests in a one-sided friendship, leaving the audience with a skeleton of a friendship that seems only to serve the purpose of reducing complex emotions to an essentialized critique of patriarchal society. Perhaps, however, Tendulkar only sketches the friendship precisely to show more dramatically Mitra's plight: no one, not even the person who is faithful as a friend, will understand her. Perhaps, too, Tendulkar's play must tell more than show to open audience's eyes more dramatically to a society that enacts violence against those deemed unworthy of belonging to it. Finally, Mitrachi Goshta's message is bold, but not overly rendered as an ideal. Whereas the real Mitra lived as a spinster into old age, the fictional and tragic Mitra reminds us that the world still isn't ready to shelter human life in all its diversity and complexit

Positive protest

Documentary films rejected at the MIFF found a parallel forum to draw an audience. GOWRI RAMNARAYAN writes on Vikalp.

"WE are too goddamn reasonable. I am all for being inflammatory," announced Arundhati Roy at an open forum in "Vikalp: Films for Freedom", Mumbai, a parallel festival of documentaries rejected by the Mumbai International Film Festival of Documentary, Short and Animation 2004 (MIFF), or withdrawn in protest against its selection procedures. MIFF is organised by the Films Division of India under the aegis of the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting. Vikalp found its hall strategically opposite the MIFF venue, to offer intimate viewing of the kind many have forgotten in more plush urban ambiences. "This was put together quickly with a tiny budget made up of modest contributions from the 275 film makers who had come together last year in a Campaign Against Censorship when MIFF threatened to censor the Indian entries. The condition was withdrawn, but MIFF's rejections showed backdoor censorship. Why else would Rakesh Sharma's `Final Solution' and Amar Kanwar's `Night of Prophecy' be rejected," ask Anjali Monteiro and K.P.Jayashankar, who are among the film makers spearheading Vikalp, as a positive, constructive means of protest. Nor could they find any reason for MIFF's dropping Arun Khopkar's "Narayan Surve", a national award winner. (Since then "Final Solution" has won two awards at the Berlin International Film Festival — the Wolfgang Staudte and the Netpac Jury awards.)

Says Sunil Shanbag who withdrew his "Aamakar" from MIFF, "Selectors didn't watch the films together, but in straggling groups. There could be no discussion or debate." Chennai-based filmmaker R.V. Ramani had earlier resigned from MIFF's organising committee convinced that "the selection committee had no empowerment, never knew the final selection, the then director had interfered with the selection process, manipulated the results." Filmmaker Aditya Sethi finds the process erratic, leaving room for tampering. The accountability and responsibility of the selectors became so debatable that, at a MIFF press meet, the selectors had to admit that they had the authority only to recommend, not select. They did not know which films they had selected. They did not protest when the then festival director D. Mukhopadhyay dropped Sanjay Kak's "Words on Water" from the final list, an action described by MIFF authorities as fine tuning'.

It was no use for Australian filmmaker Peter Wintonyck to explain that every festival in the world made some autocratic or arbitrary decisions. Many Indian and foreign filmmakers saw "fine-tuning" as a euphemism for censorship. The present director Raghu Krishna, hoisted to the post a few days before the festival, was in no position to answer questions about his predecessor's actions, but offered the defence that only "subversive" films had been deleted.

To watch Sanjay Kak's "Words on Water" and Rakesh Sharma's "Final Solution" at Vikalp was to know just what "subversive" meant. With sincerity and deep feeling, both document the horrors unleashed upon the mute and the destitute in a nation that boasts of making shining progress. Kak's film is a direct indictment of the State and the industrialists whose greed cannot be disguised by the avowed goal of "economic progress". The commentary is shrill and caustic, and you see why when the camera confronts you with the displacement of whole villages, of tribals on the Narmada shores stripped of their land, culture, and means of survival. We follow the Narmada Bachao Andolan in its non-violent resistance — the poorest and the weakest find the moral strength to defy the juggernaut.

Its subdued style and quiet narrative make the issue explode in "Final Solution". We relive the Gujarat carnage in the words of the men and women who have lost their families, property, and all hope of justice. You cannot forget the woman who says "What does justice matter when I have lost my child?" Macabre stories of torture, humiliation, rape and massacre parallel party rallies and ministerial bombast that either justify the carnage or pretend it never happened. The criminals roam free. The shocks are too much to bear — a woman describes watching her daughters gang raped, a man speaks of his wife flinging a child to him from the balcony of the house where she was burnt with the rest of the family. The nearly four hours documentary is not a minute too long. You are grateful that someone has compiled such an incontrovertible record for seekers of truth. Vikalp was flagged off with an excerpt from Motley's theatre production of "Kali Shalwar, Safed Jhoot" by Sadat Hasan Manto. This work not only defends freedom of expression but is also the author's response to a public outcry demanding a ban on all his works as they were "obscene" and corrupted minds. Manto's writings have survived to take their place among the classics.

The protest festival drew a full hall for all screenings through the day, and sparked vigorous debate. "We did not ask anyone to boycott MIFF, nor are we against the government festival. We just wanted people to see the rejected films and come to their own conclusions." Plans are afoot to take the festival to 20 towns in India. Monteiro continues, "MIFF is accountable to the public. It's our money that runs it. If they clean up the act and make the procedures transparent, we will certainly go back and support a festival that had once been a platform for innovative work and free interaction."

"Filmmakers are solitary people. We should thank MIFF, it has made us come together as a fraternity," say the Vikalp participants. "We shouldn't stop with this festival, or even with screenings of this package in other towns. We should develop a movement for freedom, for the right to criticise and protest through our films." In essence do what a young prizewinner at MIFF 2004 declared as she grasped her award, "Use the documentary to fight."

Cultural quest through tragicomedy

"Fish Eyes," which brings the curtains down on the Other Festival, looks at old values from a new perspective through jazzy lights and jaunty songs

PHOTO: SHAJU JOHN

ENERGETIC ALL THE WAY Anita Majumdar

It takes guts to stick your neck out to bring new, experimental, avant garde, sometimes plain bizarre work year after year to any city. That is what the Other Festival has been doing for the last seven years. This year too had its share of all categories, providing an opportunity to get acquainted with different genres.

The standing ovation for the closing show "Fish Eyes" was as much for the zany spirit of the festival itself as for the remarkable tragicomedy created by Anita Majumdar and directed by Gregory Prest.

"Fish Eyes" uses every element of comedy to look at the bewilderments of an Indian-born child growing up in America.

Forced by parents into heavy weekend doses of `Indian culture' in dance teacher Kalyani Aunty's basement, Meena shapes into a good dancer. Aunty dreams of proving to her `Guruma' in India that America too can produce fine dancers — like Meena.

Glittering backdrop

But Meena longs to be a normal school girl, dreams of a summer romance with a white schoolmate, who is in love with a blond girl. She refuses to go to `dirty' India to take part in a dance competition. Formidable mentor Kalyani Aunty ("She's not my aunt but in north America we call all Indians uncles and aunties, pretending that we're one big happy family") refuses to let her pupil reject her roots.

Paradoxically, Meena's India is Bollywood, and role model Aishwarya Rai, suggested by the glitter-glow backdrop and backscore.

Using Indian dance styles (Kathak, Bharatanatyam, Odissi and Bollywood) as a metaphor for her confusion, and her own acute powers of observation, Anita paints a picture of the adolescent torn between two worlds, trapped by multi-directional push-me-pull-you pressures in several directions. Yet she is unable to extricate herself from a nagging sense of racial alienation. She is at sea in both cultures. Her dance number "Nimbuda" (juice of lime and lemon) represents her dilemma.

Sense of community

With a single actor, Prest creates a sense of community on the stage. Sharply actualised guru and reluctant sishya are networked into a society of contrasts. Farce, caricature, spoof and slapstick are all part of the irreverent shots at our sacred cows.

Anita's physical energy in turning dance forms upside down results in something more than ribtickling humour. A new perspective on the old values emerges through the jazzy lights and jaunty songs. The imagery of fish trapped in the net and released into the happy river is linked to Minakshi-Fish Eyes in the final discovery of selfhood and identity in the midst of chaos.

Anita's script, uninhibited vigour and morphing skills triumph over the sometimes jerky transitions, and her voice of little range and less resonance. The gaudy hilarity often drowns the serious moments of emotional anchoring.

But "Fish Eyes" has something rare going for it: the protagonist sees the absurd not only in the two worlds spinning around her, but also in herself.

GOWRI RAMNARAYAN