A consummate performer rarely makes a good teacher, each requiring different skill sets. Imparting knowledge requires customising instruction and ‘coming down’ to each student’s level, simultaneously motivating and, above all, demystifying what seems opaque and shrouded. Lalgudi Jayaraman, whose 90th birth anniversary falls on September 17, embodied all these qualities, making him a notable exception in Carnatic music. His legacy is carried forward by not only his children G.J.R. Krishnan and Vijayalakshmi, but several others who are active performers and/ or adept teachers themselves.
Jayaraman’s advanced pedagogy was particularly noticeable in how he incorporated manodharma into every class (unlike most teachers who insist on several kritis being mastered before initiating the first kalpanaswaram). Vocalist Saketharaman recalls singing kalpanaswarams for ‘Maha Ganapatim’ in Nattai in his first class, at the age of nine.
Maragatham Ramaswamy, an award-winning Virginia-based teacher, learned the violin briefly from Jayaraman in the 1970s. “Ending kalpanaswaram sequences can be onerous for beginners. He came up with the unique approach of asking students to write down and practise various endings of their own in different counts – 6s and 4s, for example – then to remove one note from each, making the ‘harder’ odd-numbered endings easier to concretise.”
Vocalist and teacher Vidya Subramanian, who joined Jayaraman as a 12-year-old, adds, “Every round had to finish in that particular ending, even if something else came to talam. He was teaching us to be in total control.”
He made the abstract alapana easier to grapple with by pictorialising it as a narrated story, comparing and contrasting ‘pidis’ with allied ragas to avoid any accidental veering, explaining which phrases would work and which wouldn’t, and referencing kritis. Some students were given detailed templates in swaram format, which they could write down.
Lalgudi Jayaraman with son Krishnan and daughter Vijayalakshmi
Jayaraman taught the meaning of all songs, with the instruction that niraval be done only with suitable lines that made sense by themselves. He preferred the phrase ‘sanchari bhava’ as one was not merely filling but rather infusing the selected line with different shades of the raga sensibly.
Harikatha exponent Vishakha Hari says, “In ‘paluku palukulaku tene’ in the Kharaharapriya song ‘Rama nee samanamevaru’, he would add the word ‘sodharulu’ at the end — to make clear who was uttering the honeyed words. The melody had to befit the word’s meaning too — ‘tene’ here should ideally sound like dripping honey.”
Pallavis and layam were part of class, removing the anxiety both frequently elicit. Students had to compose pallavis as homework. In group classes, each attempted the other’s pallavis with niraval and tri-kalam, which he corrected and refined.
Lyrics were sacrosanct, and students who learnt an instrument too were taught through vocals. “Only after we learned the lyrics could we play it on the instrument,” says violinist Vittal Ramamurthy. He and Padma Shankar, another violinist, explain that Jayaraman opened their eyes to the soundscape. “Earlier, I could not imagine using certain fingers for certain ragas — the grammar shackled me. He broke it down, showing me how to ‘take a photo with the ear’,” says Padma. Vittal agrees, “He demonstrated that while the notes might be the same for some ragas, how we play them would be very different.”
If a student struggled, notation was used to clarify the phrase. S.P. Ramh, vocalist and vainika, would notate many pieces himself. For others, either Jayaraman would write it or ask them to copy it down.
Teachers always ask students to listen to the recordings of masters, but exactly what one should listen for is frequently unclear. Jayaraman would play concert recordings in class, encouraging students to identify notable aspects while guiding them. Riddles and puzzles, kite-making and telling jokes were part of class — he wanted to expand the mind to receive the nuances of music. Ramh remembers listening to ghazals and Hindustani music in class. There were excursions to other towns, beach visits on full-moon nights and magic shows. Maragatham and Vidya recollect Jayaraman’s own beautiful line drawings, particularly of elephants. The maestro appreciated all art forms and was a constant learner.
He took keen interest in his students’ careers. Vittal recollects his AIR audition and how Jayaraman trained him for success. He would analyse their concerts in the minutest detail; with criticism always coming first but appreciation unfailingly conveyed. Says Padma Shankar, “He had more belief in us than we often did in ourselves.”
Jayaraman taught his students concert ethics, advising violinists not to show up co-artiste(s) on an off day and advising vocalists to keep their accompanists informed if anything unconventional was being planned.
Says Ramh, “Sir would ask us to analyse our own performance as a third party and insisted we take notes of every mistake or it would literally be ‘gone with the wind’, he said.”
Jayaraman gave his all to students and expected the same from them. Vittal Ramamurthy says, “It always had to be 100%. The question of 99% did not exist.” From punctuality to hand-holding to academic rigour, Lalgudi Jayaraman demonstrated total commitment to every aspect of holistic teaching.
The author writes on classical
music and musicians.
