Which came first, music or the Mylapore 'Mama'?

The second part of the gently ironic take on Mylapore Mama’s crucial contributions to Carnatic music

January 13, 2018 04:25 pm | Updated November 28, 2021 08:16 am IST

Illustration: Mihir Ranganathan

Illustration: Mihir Ranganathan

The Mylapore Mama can be all over the place. He will be at the noon concert in one sabha, a 2.00 p.m. concert at the other end of town, and catch the evening concert at Music Academy. In the course of these journeys, the Mama will change colour and complexion and thereby further substantiate his timelessness.

Govindan Mama enters Krishna Gana Sabha, a leading sabha in another locality that has always contested the dominance of the Mylapore Brahmin and pooh-poohed his sense of superiority. It’s a little after noon, and the concert has begun.

There are around 15 people in the audience, of which 13 are family members and friends of the young singer Prakash, unknown in music circles. But Govindan Mama is well networked. He was told by Ambujam Mami from Nanganallur about a talented lad who sang well at the local temple. Keeping track, Govindan Mama has decided to check the lad out.

Govindan Mama slouches down, nose up in the air and arms embracing the two empty chairs next to him. The face gives nothing away. Does he like the music? Does he think Prakash has potential? From the stage Prakash has seen Mama; he doesn’t know him but has noticed the stranger, noticed the air he has. Instantly Prakash knows that Mama knows! What? Carnatic music. Mama’s gnyanam (knowledge) floats around the hall like the little light seen leaving the heart of an enlightened soul in old Tamil movies. The only difference is that the flickering light doesn’t leave the concert space to merge with Maha Vishnu. Here, the jyoti ties Prakash with an invisible string to Mama. 

 

Then, all of a sudden, Mama moves forward, his hands on the chair in front, his body erect. Something is about to happen. And just when Prakash closes his eyes and renders a musical phrase with great passion, Mama exclaims ‘Sabaash!’ and raises his right hand in appreciation. The 15-member audience is startled; in fact, they are feeling guilty. They don’t know what they’ve missed. As for Prakash, Mama’s response has shaken and stirred him. He is filled with self-worth; Mama has approved. For the rest of the concert, there is only one rasika , one connoisseur, Govindan Mama.

The two meet

The concert ends and Prakash emerges from the back stage, hoping Mama will be there. Of course he is. He waits, leaning against a pillar (we call it thoonu in Tanjavur). Prakash puts his hands together, thanking Mama.

The man nods, pats Prakash’s waiting back and delivers a few lines of appreciation: “You sang well, keep practising, listen to the musicians of the 1940s. You know, I have been listening to music for the last 60 years? I never learnt music, it’s all kelvignyanam (“heard” knowledge). Call me later, I will tell you a few things.”

Prakash feels blessed; he senses the presence of Ariyakudi, Semmangudi, GNB and Musiri coming together in Govindan Mama. Mama is about to leave. As he walks away, he turns around and renders an extra sangati or embellishment to a line from a song Prakash rendered, and says, “Madurai Mani used to sing this.” With this, Prakash has seen god. He will hum that variation for the next two days, share it with his musician friends and incorporate it in his next concert. And, if Mama is at the concert, the sangati will be sung looking at him, and Mama will smile in appreciation.

Govindan Mama is not done for the day. He has to meet his fellow connoisseurs at the Narada Gana Sabha canteen for lunch. They were all together this morning listening to 75-year-old Kittappa, direct disciple of Madurai Pushpavanam. They revelled in his music; it reminded them of their younger days and the Petromax-lit pandal in Thipparajapuram. The music was divine, pristine, unadulterated: the real stuff. After the concert they had met Kittappa, who knows them, their fathers, brothers and sisters. The conversation was filled with bonhomie and nostalgia.

Old-music man

For Kittappa, it was a validation of his music when expectations are different and time seems to be running away from him. The crowd at his concert consisting of many from his own generation is invigorating. Kittappa not only represents old music, he also represents the music of his guru and, in fact, has become his guru. This environment is concretised because the Mylapore Mamas can connect with him and engage in a serious discussion about “those days”.

In the Narada Gana Sabha canteen, the conversation is all about evaluation. The canteen owner knows the Mamas and every season a corner table is reserved for them.

Govindan: “Prakash is not bad, you should check him out.”

Ramu: “I will. He is singing tomorrow at Indian Fine Arts Society. Sandhya was not good; she needs a few more years before she gets on stage. Parents and teachers are in such a rush to push youngsters to the dais.”

Krishnan: “I heard a violin solo by Pradeep. Good bowing technique, but he needs to work on his fingering, it lacks azhutham (strength) but the mridangam player — I forget his name — was excellent. We must watch out for him.”

Sundaram: “I heard Karthik… hmm… not bad but his vazhi (approach) is confused. He is listening to many artists and his style is messed up, but he has a lovely voice. I wish, as in the good old days, teachers didn’t allow youngsters to listen to all and sundry.”

Finally, it’s Balu’s turn. “You know, after listening to Kittappa this morning, nothing else would enter my head. So I just went home and immersed myself in a recording of Kittappa’s music.”

It is now 2.45 p.m. and the Mamas are heading to listen to 24-year-old Anirudh Ramanan. All the Mamas know him. He is their protégé. They spotted him, advised and encouraged him, and dropped his name to sabha secretaries. Today, his 3.00 p.m. concerts draw a full house, and soon he will become a star.

The Mamas always get seats at Anirudh’s concerts because his father ensures it. Anirudh sees and duly acknowledges them. Unlike at Prakash’s concert, here their reactions are animated, and they click their tongues, tchu, tchu, tchu, often.

Tchu, tchu, tchu, tchu ” is the most meaningfully appreciative sound one can produce in Carnatic circles. These syllables define not only the quality of the music, but its sensitive, authentic nature and your own status as a rasika. One good musical phrase and the mamas are tchu-tchuing and looking around for acknowledgement from the rest of the audience.

As they leave, Anirudh’s guru sees them. They rush to him and congratulate him on his student. He replies that it is all god’s gift and the blessing of real rasikas like them. He also adds that they should advise him on the real values of music, as they have lived with the greatest musicians and can separate the chaff from the wheat.

Singing for more

The Mamas feel as if it was they who performed the concert and amble along to the sabha secretary, their friend for over 50 years. They insist that Anirudh is ready for the evening slot and the sabha secretary must make it happen. The secretary says, “Yes, I think he will be able to hold a ticketed audience.”

Says Ramu Mama: “He is the future and must be encouraged.”

Krishnan Mama: “We have been hearing him for the last four years and he has improved tremendously.”

Sundaram Mama: “His alapanas bring out the essence of the raga... He reminds me of Semmangudi.”

The secretary is convinced, but won’t act unless the same information is repeated to him over the whole season, and you can be sure the Mylapore Mamas will do that.

It is almost 6.00 p.m. and the Mamas cannot agree on which concert they want to attend. Some of them don’t attend the ticketed evening concerts at all. After all, it is filled with well-dressed people who want to be seen rather than enjoy the music.

The problem is musical and non-musical. Some evening stars, according to the Mamas, are ‘popular’ artists with no musical depth. Mylapore Mamas will not be caught dead at such concerts. They may catch one song from the canteen, only to express their dissatisfaction at the level of the audience’s appreciation.

But there are some evening stars who the Mamas believe are outstanding (though not in the same league as the older generation). In fact, in their up-and-coming days, these evening stars had the same relationship with the Mamas as Prakash or Anirudh.

But today, they don’t have time for the Mamas, they don’t need them, and they hardly acknowledge the role of the Mamas in their life.

This drifting apart is not always intentional, but it is difficult for the Mamas to accept. They have lost one of their own to the larger crowd. But their love for music is greater than personal dissatisfactions. Some of them will go to see how their boy has emerged. They will remain anonymous in the audience, approving or disapproving of various musical renditions.

Unlike at the morning or afternoon concerts, the Mama’s role here is tremendously diminished. He cannot connect with an old artist about the past nor advise a young artist.

But this doesn’t matter. He will either derive great happiness from his protégé’s concert or be disappointed that a talented artist has gone astray. But he will move on. Mama is constantly on the lookout for the next talented youngster to nurture and help, to share musical tips, stories and recordings.

Eyes on her

He will be one of the 20 people in the audience when she is nobody. He will be among the hundreds when she moves to the early evening slots. He will again act as agent and see that she reaches the evening slots. After a few years, she may forget him but he will keep an eye on her from afar. But his interest once more will be on the junior slot where he hopes to find the next Pattammal.

Mami might have accompanied Govindan Mama to the evening concert. They will discuss the music and share a meal. And then, after many phone calls to upcoming musicians, parents, other Mamas and sabha secretaries, Mama rests for the day. He lies in bed, humming a raga, recollecting musical history, yet embracing contemporary artists.

Mylapore Mama embodies Brahminism and is proud of its ritualistic, classist nature. He seriously believes he is as good as or even better than the singers today. If only he had taken it up seriously.

But beyond all this, he is soaked in music. He views his whole existence as musical. He is an aesthete, a sensitive, discerning listener. For centuries, he has sacrificed time, money and comfort to hear his favourite artists. He doesn’t expect anything but good music. Even the musician doesn’t matter; it is that one line of beauty, that one rhythmic stroke of silence, that one moment of bliss he lives for. He will wait days, weeks and months, to relive that moment. And in that moment, it will not matter who or what he represents.

One may ask: Is Mama synonymous with Carnatic music? In the mind of Mama, it is music, music and music. But, significantly, in the world of ‘Mamapore’, it is Mama, Mama and more Mama. Which takes precedence is, of course, the million dollar question.

(concluded)

 

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