Arun Prakash: More than an accompanist

The mridangam exponent, who is not constricted by any false sense of ‘purity’, is always open to multiple musical strains

Mridangam exponent Arun Prakash

As the screen goes up, his eyes begin to roam, scan the audience, spot every known face and sure enough smile at a friend. Within those few moments he has accessed the nature of the audience and performed a numerical check of its strength. All this while the rest of us are fidgeting, getting organised, checking our microphones, and at times, hoping that we can grab this mridanga vidwan’s attention just for a second. And finally, he happens to notice me, while I look at him with irritation, he gives me a nonchalant nod that seems to say, “I was ready all along, what were you waiting for?” Then as they say, the music begins. Within that split second Arun Prakash is tuned into every spec of music that falls and if we forget even one precious nugget, he will pick it up and hold it aloft for everyone to see.

The word that describes Arun Prakash best is ‘unusual.’ As a person and in his musical exposure, Arun is not the typical Carnatic musician. His father, L. Krishnan, was a student of G.N. Balasubramanian, but worked in the film industry for decades and was a music composer for incomputable numbers of semi-classical and devotional albums. And hence, Arun is naturally a person of melody, not constricted by any false sense of ‘purity’ and open to multiple musical strains.

He often says that he plays according to the ragas rendered, explaining that their context, texture, interpretation and mood influence his every stroke. I know many find this statement fanciful. But let us step back and listen. The Surati in ‘Gitarthamu’ and ‘Sri Venkatagirisam’ at first glimpse may seem similar, but they are not. Even if sung in the same kalapramanam the intra-working of Surati movements in ‘Gitarthamu’ are distinct and far more languorous.

The syllabic content in Sri Venkatagirisam is weightier and hence the sound of the Surati in it sharper. Gitarthamu’s Surati seems still while ‘Sri Venkatagirisam’ playful. According to the syllabic-raga relationship, the phrases of Surati are built, divided and restructured in each composition and the accompaniment must respond to this. Included in this response is the tonality, decibel strength and emotional intent of the melodic lead.

Arun enters the raga from the very first phrase of the alapana never to leave that space until its very last moment.

Excellent composer

Arun is one of those few mridangam artistes who can engage in a long discussion on raga lakshana matters. In his inimitable high-pitched voice he would argue about one phrase that I might have rendered in the concert.

Worse are the days, when during a concert, his expressionless face all of a sudden turns into a quizzical frownish smile when the undesired is heard. He is himself a wonderful composer, who brings to his compositions that very same unusualness with quirky openings, mysterious turns and unheard off glides.

An often heard complaint is that he hardly plays. But this presumption is itself largely false and based upon a habituated understanding of accompaniment. Arun’s force depends entirely on the artistes with whom he shares the dais and the collective music being offered.

On the days that he seems silent, he raises some very crucial aesthetic questions with his invisible presence. What and when is a mridangam artiste actually accompanying? Is he playing only when noticed unmistakably? What does it mean to enhance, highlight or position a counter point to a line of a composition, niraval or kalpanaswara? Does that one stroke that Arun plays per beat not amount to embroidery? Isn’t it magical that you forget that he exists ?

His yearning to find an individual voice comes from his guru M.N. Kandaswami Pillai, who urged Arun to think for himself. Arun Prakash does not have dexterous fingers that fly off the diaphragm per-forming huge tectonic shifts on its surface. It is what you do with your musical and emotional skills that matters, not the quantity of the stock pile. But in a musical world that is obsessed with physical strength and the virtuoso, it is not easy for Arun. His ability to realise music through the music itself is his greatest strength, his signature.

Arun by being who he is challenges another perceived dichotomy. In music, very rarely do we place softness, subtlety and nuance along with complex mathematics. Somehow the latter is seen as macho and masculine while the former feminine. But he straddles both constantly conjuring complex korvais, nadai patterns and kuraippus.

In this age of Whataspp all his friends are put through the arduous task of deciphering his calculations at least once a day! His laya nirnayam and ability to play kizhkala kandam or mishram with the finesse of a simple chaturashra is stunning, sheer grace.

In music, he hardly makes plans and executes ideas that are just taking shape in his mind. Needless to say that at times they crumble. This does not deter him, he will keep trying until he gets it just right.

Arun’s body language, speaking word and casualness belie the serious thinker whose only obsession is music. The now fifty-year old is truly a sadhaka, a vidwan who carries his vidwat lightly, at times to his own detriment.

But Arun is not an easy person, fanatically time conscious, consumed by everything that might or might not happen tomorrow and fearful of confrontation. Yet, in his musical conviction, he is unwavering.

We may love, hate or display ambivalence towards Arun’s musicianship but I am certain that his impact on the thinking process of laya artistes will be lasting.

For me, in my own travels, Arun continues to be that rare, blunt, objective voice.

(Carnatic vocalist, author, public speaker and writer on human choices, dilemmas and concerns)