It is like travelling on a time machine — listening to D.K. Pattammal’s family reminiscing about the legend. Nithyasree Mahadevan and Gayathri Sundararaman are still in awe of their legacy and can’t stop talking about their beloved grandmother. But it is their mother Lalitha Sivakumar, a direct disciple of many decades, who holds the key. She leads the conversation and has vivid memories of a special mother-in-law, whom she refers to as ‘Amma.’
“I was 18, when I got married,” begins Lalitha. DKP’s fame had reached the young girl’s ears. Daughter of Palghat Mani Iyer and disciple of KVN, she was no novice. But she was literally shaking when the boy’s family arrived to ‘see the girl.’ “The dreaded moment came; I was asked to sing, not by DKP but by my parents. I couldn’t proceed beyond the first line. There was a lump in my throat,” recalls Lalitha. Pattamma patted the girl reassuringly and turning to her parents said, “Don’t bother her. All this can come later.”
What followed not only blew away Lalitha’s misgivings, but laid a foundation for a unique bond. Pattammal would visit her prospective daughter-in-law daily and invariably carrying a gift. “It would be a sari, a hairclip, a jar of fresh milk, a handbag, etc. So when I walked into their house after marriage, I had none of the qualms new brides generally would have those days,” describes Lalitha. Music lessons started on the third day — April 29, 1966. So fresh is the past in Lalitha’s memory. “I really yearn for those days, a life filled with music,” she says wistfully and cheers up. “It couldn’t have been better. We had great fun, I was so fortunate.”
Tutelage began with Annasamy Sastri’s ‘Sri Lalithe’ in Bhairavi. “I was quite diffident. Such a stately kriti. What if I flounder? But Amma put me at ease and I learnt it without much fuss. And very early I realised what concentration was. I had to learn without writing on paper. ‘Make a note here,’ she would say,” Lalitha taps her temple. “She was right. I remember every syllable of what she taught me; can’t say the same of what I learnt after her demise,” she confesses.
Focus on bhavam
“She was like that,” corroborates Nithyasree. Till the end, she had that vairagyam — to avoid paper. In her eighties, when memory played truant, she would rather write the lyric again and again in order to memorise than carry the paper in her hand. Even if it was a concert for AIR. She believed that it was a distraction. “‘I will miss the bhavam if I keep looking at the paper,’ she would say,” recalls Lalitha.
It was bhavam that elevated DKP’s music to such great heights. Nithyasree picks up the thread: “Paatti was famous for her moving viruttam . Once amma was accompanying her and I was on the tambura. Paatti sang, ‘Pullagi Poondagi.’ When she completed it, I was fighting tears. Glancing up, I found Rukmini maami on the violin crying and so was the mridangam artiste. Paatti herself had paused. Absolute silence prevailed for a whole minute. Paatti was the first to recover and the concert resumed. The audience was in a state of trance.”
“You could feel the vibration when she sang,” says Lalitha. “Especially when she touched shadjam and stayed there, the stage would vibrate.” “Yes, all of us have felt it,” nods Nithyasree. “That was the power of her music. It was not a mere concert. For her it was tapas.” It was this meditative quality that Pattammal wanted her listeners to take away. Years later Nithyasree asked of her grandmother: “What gives you supreme satisfaction at the end of a concert, a thunderous applause?” Pat came the reply with a firm shake of the head: “Silence, which would mean that my music has touched the audience.”
Lalitha recalls her pre-dawn music lessons in this context. “At 4.30, the house would be dark but Amma wouldn’t want the light to be switched on. ‘In a few seconds, your eyes will get used to the darkness,’ she would say. Except the birds’ tweets and an occasional ‘moo’ from the cowshed, everything was still. She loved that pristine atmosphere.”
“We thought she carried this preference for being ‘natural’ a bit far,” laughs Gayathri, granddaughter. “Imagine both paatti and thatha relaxing without switching on the fan. The room would be hot like a furnace but she would say, ‘It’s all in your mind.’”
So sincere was her music bhakti that Pattammal’s singing was the same for everyone. Once, entering her house Nithyasree and Gayathri stopped in their tracks hearing ‘Pinnalai Pinninrizhuppan...’ “It was quite normal to have VIP guests dropping in and some of them would request paatti to sing their favourites. So we waited until she finished the song, which she had made iconic, and then entered. It was none other than Alamu, the woman, who came to pick up the fallen palm leaves from the garden. Wiping her tears, Alamu said sheepishly, ‘I wanted to hear that Pillai song, which everybody is talking about. Amma obliged me.’” Paatti responded with her characteristic smile.”
And that thirst for kritis. “She never stopped learning songs,” observes Lalitha. “Yes, any new song, she got excited.” Nithyasree sees this as a dimension of her simplicity. “She kept her music also that way. She was an expert in every department but never relied on complicated kanakku or swara grids to seek attention. The song, as she internalised it, was her soul, which she offered through her singing. This simplicity makes her music great just as it makes her personality sweet.”
“She was such a sweet person, everyone thought they were special to her,” continues Gayathri. “Thousands of people came to pay their condolences after she passed away and invariably they said, ‘She was so friendly but she always had a soft corner for me.’ That was how she touched all those who were fortunate to know her.”
Patriot to the core
Pattammal braved the Raj restrictions to sing patriotic songs. The spirit remained with her till the end. “Parukkulle Nalla Naadu... Engal Bharata nadu...” Amma would sing with the pride evident in her face,” says Nithyasree, imitating DKP’s expression. “It came from within. She instilled patriotism in our childhood. ‘Matrubhakti, Pitrubhakti, Gurubhakti... add Desabhakti,’ she would say,” remembers Gayathri Sundararaman.
“For the same reason, Amma never accepted remuneration for any concert related to national cause, be it Spirit of Freedom, Independence Jubilee or charity. ‘This is for my country,’ she would say,” adds Nithyasree.
Only kindness
“I don’t remember to have heard any harsh word from her,” says Gayathri. “So many people would come with young aspirants in tow. The wards would be asked to sing. Even if the quality was poor, Amma would bless the child with a kind word,” adds Lalitha. “She played with us like any grandmother would,” say Nithya and Gayathri. “Once, I made two plaits of her long hair and folded them up with colourful ribbons, like a school girl. She protested but yielded. In walked Semmangudi on one of his unannounced visits and an embarrassed Paatti bolted into her bedroom,” laughs Nithyasree. Gayathri’s favourite game was AIR concert — when Gayathri was grandmother and Pattammal was the announcer! Playing student to Gayathri’s teacher, Pattammal would stand on the bench.
She endeared herself to everyone in the family so much so that they feel DKP is still with them. “Not a day passes without remembering paatti,” says Lavanya. “From a song that may come wafting, to the menu of the day, she is still with us. She was so simple and casual, I never realised I was in the company of a legend,” she adds. Five-year old Thejasree said to the doyen: “Everybody says you are a great singer. Will you sing a song for me?” Not only she obliged, she asked, “Was it good?”
“She was a musician, who was universally accepted. We have the great task of keeping her legacy alive. Surely Pattammal as our guardian angel will take care of that,” say the inheritors, spanning four generations.
