4 The Only Light She Knew

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Some organisation in Mysore had arranged a concert of Gangu Bai Hangal. It had also arranged to honour her on that occasion. The felicitation function was almost over when a group of people belonging to an organisation of the community in which she was born ascended the stage and honoured her on behalf of that organisation, with a shawl and a bowl of fruits and so on. After all that and before her concert, she was requested to say a few words.

 Her few words were these. (I am hardly paraphrasing here)

 I am a musician and the only language I know is music. So, I will say very little in words but will say the rest when I sing.

 As a musician I believe that I have only one religion and community and that is of musicians. But still some people want to remind me that I belong to another community and want to claim me as belonging to their community!

 I gave a concert in Nanjangud. As usual I sang Khayals. Someone in the audience asked me to sing something light. But the only light I know is this, she said and pointed to the lights above the stage. So please bear with me when I sing what I know.

 She proceeded to give an excellent concert.

5 A Devi Kriti for Rama

 

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I was in Trichy on work. I had to troubleshoot and rectify a DC drive at BHEL. For some reason, which I don’t remember now, I had to stay over there on an intervening Sunday. I went to Srirangam and visited many temples. One of them was a small temple of Rama in an otherwise large temple complex. I entered the quiet dark temple and was mesmerised by a gentleman singing a devi kriti in Harikambhoji. He stood ramrod straight in a white dhoti and white, full sleeved shirt, with an angavastra tied around his waist, hand folded and eyes closed.

 

I stood at a distance and listened to the excellent singing in the temple acoustics which enhanced the sound quality. When he finished he did deergha danda namaskara to Rama. When he got up, I approached him and told him that I enjoyed his singing immensely and asked if it wasn’t Harikambhoji. He was overjoyed that there was a listener with some knowledge of music. He thanked me profusely. I told him that I was surprised that he was singing a devi kriti in front of a Rama in a Rama temple. Smiling, he pointed to an oleograph of a devi that hung from the wall above a door right in front of the garbha griha. “I wanted to sing something and when I saw that, I thought if Rama is looking at her, why not a song in her praise!” Why not indeed.

 

We walked out of the temple and I learned that he was called Tanjore Shankar and he was a teacher of music in a college of music in Tanjavoor. He insisted that I have a coffee with him at a street side kaapi kadai and we had a “metre kaapi” and went our separate ways.

 

Much later I looked for Tanjore Shankar on the net and came across Tanjore Shankar Iyer – vocalist, veene player, composer, teacher. I wonder if it was him I met and did not know? No way to know now.

6 The Gentle Giant

 

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It was a private concert and they needed someone to play the tamboori. It so happened that a few others who could play were busy with other activities connected with the evening’s function. So, the job landed in my lap. Though I could play the tamboori and was accustomed to sit on the floor cross legged for long periods of time, I had not done the two together in a long time. I had played the Tanpura for another artist at the Mysore palace’s Dasara concert but that was when I was much younger. I had no choice so I accepted with great trepidation though I deemed it a privilege because the evening’s musician was none other than Veene Doreswamy Iyengar – my Guru’s Guru.

The concert went on very well and after about an hour and half or so I started squirming resisting an urge to change position. The maestro turned back towards me and with a gentle understanding smile said, "ಒಂದೇ ತರಹ ಕೂತು ತೊಂದರೆ ಆಗ್ತಿದ್ರೆ, ಬೇರೆ ತರಹ ಕೂತ್ಕೊಳ್ಳಿ. ಪರ್ವಾಗಿಲ್ಲ" (If you are finding it difficult to sit in the same position, change your position. No problem.) I marvelled at the great man’s simplicity and concern. With great relief I changed my position and could play for the remainder of the concert. I bow to him in my mind whenever I remember this.

7 Can He Fill This Space?

  

 

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I was in Bombay at that time and there was a concert by Bhimsen Joshi at Birla Matoshri Sabhagar. It is a huge auditorium. It is said to have a seating capacity of some 1300. I had bought the cheapest of tickets and was in one of the last rows of seats. So the stage looked far away.

As the great man walked to the stage, he looked diminutive. I had this unbidden thought – “he looks so small, how can he fill this auditorium with sound?” He settled down and just sang the shadja in his inimitable style and the auditorium was really filled and I felt foolish to have thought that thought. Let me assure you, it was not just the electronic amplification. It was not just his ability to use the mic but the quality of his voice. He proceeded to sing Purya Kalyan. A delight.

8 Window Rattling Crescendo

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It was the year 1985 and I was in Rugeley, Staffordshire, England undergoing training at Thorn EMI Automation. I expressed my desire, to my host Alan McLean, to attend a western classical concert. He talked to one of his colleagues Keith Butler who was an aficionado of Western classical music. He took a couple of colleagues from India and me to a concert in a different town. The concert featured the Halle Philharmonic Orchestra. Unfortunately I don’t remember where the concert was held.

Among other pieces not so familiar to me, the main item was the “fate knocking on the door” symphony – Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in C minor – one of the symphonies I was most familiar with. So it was a great pleasure to listen to it live.

The concert hall was not one of the better ones or famous ones. When the symphony reached its crescendo the glass of a ventilator to my right rattled! It did little to reduce my enjoyment. On the contrary it is an incident that comes to my mind whenever I listen to the symphony again.

9 An Electric Moment

 

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In 1980 I was working in Bombay and there was this all night concert at the St Xavier’s college on 25th of January, with a N Rajam and Sangeetha Shankar concert followed by Ravishankar’s. I bought a ticket, weeks ahead, and went and listened to them. When Ravishankar came on the stage the organisers announced that that year’s Republic Day honours list had been announced and he was to be honoured with the Padmavibhushana in! An electric moment. The audience rose as one, cheered, clapped, and whistled for minutes. He was very gracious and he had this magical quality that created excitement wherever he went.

(I had written this piece on the death of Ravishankar and had posted it the next day, along with this drawing of mine)

10 Mother’s Love

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D K Pattammal was giving a concert at the Mysore University’s College of Fine Arts. She was accompanied on the mridanga by her son, I Sivakumar. Nearing the end of her concert, she started singing one of the tukdas she was famous for – naanoru vilaiyattu bommaya. When she came to the line “aruLamudaip-paruga ammA ammA-venraluruvadaik-kETpadAnandamA” which she always sang so emotively, and Sivakumar played beats to coincide with the words Amma Amma, the effect was magical. So much so that she was overcome by emotion and tears rolled down her cheeks and her voice cracked. She took a few minutes to recover and continued singing with her usual dignity and musical beauty.

11 Kannada Mridanga

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I don’t remember who the singer was but Umayalapuram Shivaraman was the Mridangist. When the concert was on for an hour or so, the singer started the next keertane, suddenly a member of the audience, who was Kannada activist, created a ruckus by loudly admonishing the singer that he was singing all keertanes in languages other than Kannada and that it was an insult to Kannada and the people of Mysore. Fortunately quite a few members of the audience shouted back at him and silenced him. The activist walked out and the concert continued.

Umayalapuram just sat there without playing. The singer gestured to him to start playing. Umayalapuram impishly said, “I have not brought my Kannada Mridangam. How can I play?” The whole hall erupted in laughter and applause at his cheeky response.

Then he continued in his inimitable brilliant way.

As a footnote, years later the same activist disrupted a meeting of the alumni of the Yuvaraja’s College of Mysore, held to formulate the plans for the diamond jubilee celebrations of the college. The meeting was being conducted, in English, by an esteemed professor of physics of the college who was also an alumnus. The activist’s demand was that the meeting be conducted in Kannada. The professor very calmly told the protestor that many of the alumni were from other states and did not know Kannada and hence, in order not to exclude them, it was pertinent to conduct the meeting in English and continued.

12 A Brief Break

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There was a flute concert by N Ramani at the Bidaram Krishnappana Ramamandira. The concert was in full swing when a house gecko fell on the stage from the ceiling. All the artists jumped up and the gecko ran way. While all the artistes were still laughing and joking about it, Ramani had already sat down and wanted to continue to play. He shushed his fellow artistes and started playing. The others had to sit down in a hurry and accompany him.

With his action, Ramani earned a lot of respect from the audience for his seriousness.

13 No Announcement for this Audience

 

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Mysore Music Association had arranged a concert of Halim Jaffer Khan’s Sitar concert in the CFTRI auditorium. He was accompanied on the tabla by Sheikh Dawood. It was a scintillating concert of Binkar ang Sitar playing. After a couple of hours of playing He took a break and we, the audience, went out to have some fresh air. I remember seeing Sheikh Dawood having a quick beedi and somehow the image has stayed with me.

By the time the concert resumed half the audience had disappeared. Mysore was a sleepy city where eight at night was very late and the streets would be empty. So, many people preferred to be home as early as possible.

Halim Jaffer had announced the two Raags he had played before the interval. In the same vein he bent toward the mic and said, “I am now going to play . . . I don’t think this audience needs me to tell them what raag it is” and started playing. He was paying a compliment to the aficionados. Little did he realise that there was at least one who did not recognise the raag – me. I did recognise the next one – Bhairavi with which ended the lovely concert.