Right until my formative years, I was a hardcore philistine, who had managed to carefully insulate himself from all music. I stuck to the other boys, climbing trees, plucking mangoes and playing football.
Growing up in Kerala, Carnatic music had a wide following, perhaps only a little less so than in neighbouring Tamil Nadu, where music was a way of life. But to my untrained ears, its frenetic pace and emphasis on technical virtuosity was unappealing. Concerts were held in sabhas or temples and in the ambient noise, the music was lost on me. Deep down, I was perhaps seeking harmony. That I found in choral music and, from there, I embarked on a Western classical music sojourn.
My resistance to Carnatic music crumbled one rainy August night under a gentle fusillade by Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer. Surajit Sen had read the 9’o clock English news on All India Radio. At its end, the announcer heralded the National Programme of Music, AIR’s flagship programme launched by B.V. Keskar, aimed to take classical music to everyone.
Earlier that evening, there had been a thunderstorm with occasional lightning and a stiff breeze. The radio antenna swayed like a vane and there was continuous crackle. But in a moment of magic, it all settled down. Semmangudi was rendering ‘Vatapi Ganapatim’ in Hamsadhwani. A dim moon floated over the coconut palms and the fragrance of wet jasmine and champa wafted in.
The cache of music
I became a believer and Semmangudi for me was the all-time Carnatic great. Later, I added M L Vasantakumari and Maharajapuram Santhanam to my favourites. One day, a flautist knocked on my senses and I warmly embraced him: T R Mahalingam. His brilliance was like spangled light. Along the way, I discovered the tonality in M S Subbulakhsmi’s unadorned singing, particularly the ‘Venkatesa Suprabhatam’ and ‘Vishnu Sahasranamam’, which have a deep spiritual quality akin to the monophonic Gregorian Chants.
BADE GHULAM ALI KHAN
The National Programme also hosted the Hindustani greats: Bade Gulam Ali Khan, Mallikarjun Mansoor, Vilayat Khan and Gangubhai Hangal. They all made nightly visits to our home and have stayed with me forever. Much later, I added to my cache of music, Ustad Rashid Khan, whose versatility in the Hindustani version of Hamsadhwani when he sings ‘Lagi lagan pati sakhi sang’ made me his ardent fan.
Soon I found myself travelling to the hill station, Mussourie. I reached there on a melancholic afternoon of low-scudding clouds and interminable rain. It was during my training days here that I discovered ghazal. Mehdi Hasan applied soothing balm on the fragments of our fleeting infatuations.
Classics on AIR
Soon, I was posted to a dusty town in Karnataka. Heat rose at first light and the nights gave no respite. By then I had acquired a Philips transistor for Rs. 400. To beat the afternoon heat, I hit upon a plan - I would reach home for lunch sharp at 2 p.m., and switch on AIR Delhi ‘B’, which would broadcast ghazals for half an hour. Yunus Malik, Mehdi Hasan, Begum Akthar, Jagjit Singh… I revelled in them all.
Sometime in the 1980s, Doordarshan telecast ‘Mirza Ghalib,’ and later I found the Delhi-Bombay Rajdhani Express playing from the serial during the journey. Between tea and dinner, it was all Ghalib ghazals, the music sometimes barely audible over the rattle of the train or when another train roared by on the parallel track. When I came back to Delhi on posting, I returned to AIR Delhi B’s ‘Classically Yours’ and indulged in hours of Beethoven and Schubert, Bach, Pachelbel and Tchaikovsky.
Yet, I find that the depth and range of Indian classical music, both Hindustani and Carnatic, are so pervasive that Western music hasn’t made a great impact on us. As for me, I continue to be eclectic. I listen to the London-based Academy of St. Martin in the Fields, and then rediscover the joys of Bhimpalasi the very next day. During the lockdown, music has been my great solace.
