Ilaiyaraja gently shakes his confidante Sriram awake. “Let’s have coffee and leave for the venue,” says the maestro, adding that they have to check the sound and call the orchestra for rehearsals. Still battling jetlag Sriram realises it’s just 6 a.m. It takes some convincing for the monarch of the seven musical notes to realise that event centres in the US don’t open till 10 a.m. partly for security reasons . But that encapsulates the man’s single-minded commitment and work ethic. All but one of the seven concerts takes place inside covered stadia where basketball, volleyball and ice-hockey are played. The security is uncompromising. If you’re not wearing the ‘all access’ wrist band you’re not allowed backstage even if you’re the organiser himself. An actor turned politician who’s settled in the US tried to throw a tantrum but to no avail. The security personnel don’t recognise the music, but were often caught swaying involuntarily. The Curtis Culwell Center at Dallas, the venue for the fourth concert had witnessed a random shooting in May and was now a virtual fortress.
I’m Sadhana Sargam’s cab mate to the airport in San Jose en route to Seattle. Sadhana requests the driver to tune the radio to a Bollywood channel. The driver, an elderly Afghan taps his temple and says, “Hey, you’re the lady with the sweet voice.” He remembers her name and claims he has videos of her performing on stage with Mohammed Aziz and even mentions a few of her songs. Sadhana struggles to appear unaffected. “I’m a great fan of Rafi saab,” says the man. As we alight he helps with the luggage but doesn’t seek a selfie or an autograph. “Keep making great music,” he says, before driving away. Raja has diehard fans at various venues waiting for a word, a picture or just seeing him in close proximity. There’s Qi Mi a Chinese software engineer in Seattle who’s given a chance to express his adoration for Raja on stage. The man speaks in chaste Tamil and you can find him on Youtube singing a Raja hit. Many bring stunning sketches and paintings but have to be content with hoping the organisers will pass them on. Some just want to carry his bag from the green room to his car. A lady breaks down when she sees him at close quarters. The swarthy security guy asks her what’s wrong. “He’s my God,” she says between sobs. The man shrugs. Well, what does he know? A couple have bought front row tickets for most of the shows and could be seen applauding loudly. The CEO of a company wants the privilege of serving the maestro food.
Most of the musicians accompanying the maestro have been with him for ages. They don’t share an easy bonhomie with him but deep mutual respect, musically. They are at his beck and call for recordings sometimes at very short notice. Some like Sada, Jerry and Napolean are recognised and selfies are sought. “He has a sharp mind and a hawk’s eye,” says a percussionist with a smile.
It is while the chorus recite ‘Guru Brahma, Guru Vishnu’ that the diminutive musical giant would stride on stage to deafening applause. The song list for each of the concerts has been prepared months in advance and rehearsed too. They are mostly Tamil and Telugu with a sprinkling of Malayalam. Some songs are repeated but believe me, you can never get enough of them. There are many gems you feel were left out but so does everyone. The wish list of Ilaiyaraja songs is endless. The maestro is in good spirits throughout, agitated only when there’s untimely applause and whistling. He urges the audience to appreciate not only the singing but the intricate musical interludes too. He engages them in light banter and addresses them in all the four South Indian languages nearly effortlessly. The recently deceased Panchu Arunachalam is mentioned fondly. "He wrote a script just to introduce me to cinema," reminisces Ilaiyaraja. He appreciates the singing but doesn’t hesitate to halt and correct a mistake. Mano is mostly the butt of his anger, in jest. He narrates interesting anecdotes and says he doesn’t take more than half an hour to record a song. “Chitra refused the first song I offered her. She had to write an exam. I told her to pass this one. The other she could write anytime,” says the maestro. Chitra won the national award for the song in ‘Sindhu Bhairavi’. Her rendering of the Malayalam classic “Thumbi Va’ from ‘Olangal’ give you goose bumps. The singers when not on stage wouldn't slink into the greenroom but sing along, encourage and applaud their colleagues. Karthik, another crowd favourite is a bundle of nervous energy, bouncing around before being summoned on stage. Just before the last concert at Washington DC he approaches excitedly and asks if I’d heard a particular song. It happens to be ‘Naguva Nayana’ from ‘Pallavi Anu Pallavi’. When I tell him it’s a cult classic he exclaims, “No wonder!” We huddle into a corner trying to polish his pronunciation. He belts it out effortlessly with Chitra. Most of the concerts are sold out well in advance with a minimum of 4000 fans cheering. The Dallas concert draws 6000 fans. Other than the honour of hosting the maestro it's a brand building exercise for the organisers while making money too. Thyagarajan, a priest who's built an Anjaneya temple in Washington DC wisely hires an event manager. After the last concert a party is arranged by Manish who's known for organising Shahrukh shows. He's floored when the maestro graces the hall. The musicians quickly hide their glasses. Ilaiyaraja calls all of them along with the singers when Manish requests him to cut a cake. It's been hectic but everyone is happy and relieved with the success of the tour. The deafening applause resonates.
Ilaiyaraja's world now revolves around his harmonium, a spacious, sparsely furnished room where few are allowed. I spot him at Dubai airport, trudging alone in a queue awaiting security clearance. What will the X-ray machine show when he passes but a jumble of musical notes waiting to be sewn seamlessly into timeless tunes...
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