Children start their Carnatic music lessons learning the seven swaras—sa, ri, ga, ma, pa, da, ni. Some children would be musical while some would initially be unmusical and constant practice changing them. Sometimes their singing would turn out to be more of recitation than musical singing. No disrespect meant. Even when people recite shlokas as a community, they rush through them rather than recite it with rhythm.
I remember shlokas being tuned to Carnatic ragas, like the Soundarya Lahari or Abirami Andadi. The seventy-fifth verse—when the Abirami deity appears to the seer— is set to the Bhairavi raga. Even a lay listener will be roused and feel the presence of the goddess when he listens to it. What a great boon it will be if spirituality gets embedded in young minds through soulful tunes as these, I wondered.
While sorting out ragas and their emotional effects on listeners, I got confused. I needed a solution and so turned back to the Carnatic-tuned shlokas I had sung as a kid. But despite singing all the hundred verses again and again, I was not able to pinpoint the effect. It varied according to the mood my mind was in. Was there a one voice to all the tunes, to the ragas, and to the music? In other words, a complete vocal message to the listeners…
In other words, the voice of the Carnatic community…the soul of the music itself…?
An individual voice can easily be understood. A poem has a meaning. Individual expressions—the cuckoo song, the beggar’s begging, the bus conductor’s whistle, the carving on temple stones, the writing on the palm leaves, singsong yelling of the vegetable vendors, and the sound of music practice too have meaning. Some people can listen meditatively to the lingering sound of gongs played in temples and get into trance. The one voice Carnatic music wants to convey is tightly packed in its kernel—the Carnatic kernel. But can anyone comprehend it? Can anyone know the kernel—the soul of music?
I decided to find out.
I asked my husband first. He wore fine jeans and a casual cotton shirt, and tuft of hair knotted into a punk style swinging back and forth as he shook his head.
“Hubby dear,” I asked in a deferent voice. “What does Carnatic music say? It must mean something, must have a purpose. Does it say something to you? Is there a meaning and if so, how do you interpret it?”
“You mean, the songs in it?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “I believe every type of music has a voice, it is trying to say something beyond the music to the people who can hear it. Does it say something to you?”
“What voice? What saying? All music is the same. They trigger your feelings, be it happiness or sadness,” said hubby in a dismissal and magnanimous tone.
I sighed. Well, he was not a musician. What would he know? He was an ordinary sort of man and had never known music, forget Carnatic music. A common man, who tried to match an extraordinary and gifted musician that I was; so, to put him in place, I said, “There are lakhs of people singing Carnatic music; and more than twenty-five lakhs descend on the city for the music festival in December,” said I in a scholarly tone. About 2500 artists perform in the month long festival in concert halls all around Chennai,” continued I, “It goes well to say that it is a community—the Carnatic community—and has an identity, a homogenous identity that finds a common expression through a common voice. It is a consensus arrived at by crystallizing the meaning based on the purpose of the music that reveals itself as the voice of Carnatic. That voice has a crux—a kernel which you understand and you just know what Carnatic music is, just like that, in a whiff—the Carnatic kernel—the soul of music. Now that I have explained, can you keep that in mind and respond?”
Hubby became guarded. The dismissal look changed into thoughtfulness. He sat himself on the cane chair in the narrow balcony. The dull December morning light illuminated his face as he took a sip of that hot coffee in a large, modern stainless steel cup. But I was stubborn.
“Now is the right time. I need to go to the concerts and find out. What is the soul of Carnatic music? Other music has voices: folk music has various work-related and everyday-related songs and the meaning and direction is quite clear. Jazz stands for improvisation. Rock-n-roll stands for freedom. Pop music stands for tickets. Western classical stands for austerity. Now, Carnatic music –”
Hubby sipped more coffee. Then, he closed his eyes and fell silent.
“Fine,” I said. “I need to then go out and only then can I find out.”
I went to my usual joint—Orepylam Fine Arts with one of the finest caterers in the city. Backstage waited the famous singer, Chitra Vaidyanathan, who was also a friend.
“Chitra, you’ve been singing for more than twenty years. You also belong to a family of musicians. Music has been there in your family for generations. From the moment you wake up until the time you go to bed, you are soaked into it. You may be singing in your dreams too, I think. Chennai has given you a name and great fame. What do you think of Carnatic music? Do you think the music says something to you? Does it have any- “ I asked.
“One minute,” Chitra said. “Let me tune the Tambura and let the accompanists tune their instruments too.” She started tuning the already-tuned Tambura and signaled to the accompanists to tune their violins and Mridangams again. Then, they discussed the concert songs and the main raga she was going to sing.
The previous concert was over and the stage was vacated. Chitra stood up and lifted the Tambura. “So, what did you ask?” she said.
I took a deep breath and said, “No problem, I will wait till your concert is over and then explain.”
Her eyes widened with mild fear. Then, she said, “Well, Carnatic music is performing, it is singing and that is music.”
“Well, that is not the point,” I said. “What does it mean?”
She drew blank and then said, “songs, ragas…”
“Well, those are the elements,” I said.
“Ok I understand what you mean. All I can say is it is singing and not thinking.” She said triumphantly.
I made a mental note of it. What she probably meant was Carnatic music, according to her, was an activity—a physical activity—like yoga or exercise, that exhausts the performer and entreats the listener, thereby being part of the everyday cycle of input and output. It was an output or rather an expressive and emotional output—sounded worldly.
I listened to her till the thaniavarthanam and left. I took an auto and went to my teacher’s house for my music lessons. A teacher imparts knowledge. So I decided to put the question to her.
My lesson was for an hour, although the teacher would stop teaching after the fiftieth minute. A few years back, only failed performers would venture into teaching. But now, performers see more money in teaching—especially teaching Indian kids living abroad and earning in dollars—all online through skype. Teachers have never had better time as now. My teacher, who had taught me at a music school, now teaches me privately, charging two hundred rupees per session, that is, one hour. Familiarity had not brought any concession to the rate or closeness in bonding. But, her music was worth its weight in gold and I respected her for that.
After the lesson, when she was restlessly watching the clock, I put the question to her.
“Madam, you’ve been teaching all your life. You are in the sacred profession of educating students in Carnatic music—imparting the knowledge treasure—which otherwise would have been tough for them to know. Many of your students—now disciples—are front line performers. Teaching them advanced lessons of improvisation in ragas that are handed down from great masters to you, is a respected task, a notch above mere singing. I ask you humbly a question on what the soul of the music is.” I said.
The teacher became thoughtful. She said, after a while, “Carnatic music is devotional in nature.”
“The lyrics are devotional but the music has its own unique points—improvisation, ragas, talas…” I explained.
“That’s true.” She said and fell silent.
To clarify, I asked the question in another way, “How do you teach, madam?”
“I sing and they repeat,” she said.
“But, if the ear cannot catch all the subtleties?”
“I sing again and they repeat till they get it right,” she said.
“So you mean repetition is the watchword in teaching.” I responded.
“Yes. That’s the only way and if you cannot catch it even after trying many times, then, you just leave it,” she said.
Probably, like a mantra that gets power by repetition, Carnatic music has the voice and the power of repetition. Singing a song many times embeds it in the mind, to be specific, in the memory. So, it’s a memory game, I thought.
“See, I cannot articulate it well. I know a scholar who is just the right person for your questions. In fact, he is the teacher of teachers. He will surely provide the right answer.” She said.
I crossed the road and headed to the auto stand. The driver dropped me off at T Nagar, a very busy marketplace and the centre of all markets in Chennai.
I rang the bell and an attendant opened the door. She ushered me into the living room. The eighty year old man, Mr Ranganathan was very energetic and active for his age. Probably music gave him the zeal to live a full life, I thought.
“Your teacher called me and said you had a question,” he said in a strong and ringing voice. I greeted him and sat on the floor at his feet.
“Sorry, I’m taking your time and just came over without prior appointment,” I said.
“No problem, I’m free. In fact, I’m always free. You can barge in anytime.” He said.
I felt relieved at meeting a man who was easily accessible. Gone are the days when one could just walk into a neighbor’s house or a friend’s without any prior intimation. After half the Chennaites settled in the US, they taught the rest half all the formal and rule-bound lifestyle of the Americans.
It felt nice to be in the company of the old man, an experienced and wise old man who could shoulder one’s spiritual angst—not that I had spiritual doubts here to resolve. But in general, when one meets a wise old man, one feels daughterly or grand-daughterly towards him and that feeling itself rests whatever hidden burden you had been carrying till then.
“Sir, I am trying to find the meaning of Carnatic music. What does it stand for? A detailed and analytical response from various angles of the music will be helpful. You can’t say, Carnatic music is the swaras as the North Indian classical music too has the same. The talas or the ragas too are similar although not ditto. The concept of improvisation that sets it apart from other music in the world also cannot make it unique as Jazz has it. Westerners, although we don’t like it, equate our music with Jazz—which is all they can comprehend. So, what makes our music unique? What is that kernel that makes it unique? What is the soul of music” I said.
“It is a profound question.” He said. Raising his head as if to catch the answer in the air, he closed his eyes and focused.
“Our music comes from the Vedas. It has a historical background and context,” he replied.
That was not what I was looking for. These learned scholars would never talk about the present. They had to connect it to some historical text and make it sound very mystical, holy and reverent. Sensing my immediate displeasure at a long and boring lecture, the clever old man changed his point.
“Carnatic music is like concentrated acid that can be diluted and used for any music, say devotional, light or film music. It is the music of all music; and it is with that mindset that one should approach it.” He said. He was making some sense there.
“Can you explain it further?” I asked.
“You see, raga nuances and tonal modulation while rendering them in various speeds are unique to the music. While the closest that comes to it is the North Indian classical music, it, however, is made up of well-defined speeds in nuances, if any, and more of plain notes and tones. Music by nature is not well-defined and does not have a clear structure say like a square or rectangle that human minds can comprehend. It is the flow of nature, the flow of life with all its intricate patterns and is seemingly complicated but founded on simplicity.” He said.
“Ok, that gives shape to the question,” I said and thanked him for the enlightened response.
What he meant was that the music was complicated and simple at the same time, just like life. Carnatic music reflects life.
I tried to sum up the angles of all the three. The singer said the soul of Carnatic music lay in its everyday activity, my teacher said it was a mantra, the wise man said, it was life. But, the question remained, “What about death? What about negativity, sadness, emptiness or despair? They are also part of life—the worldly life.
I remembered the December month in the West where I had studied for some time. Although there were Christmas celebrations and snow fell, the winter season would be such a desolate one. Nobody liked it. They would rather switch their winter with ours. In the Scandinavian countries, people committed suicide during these times. The eastern part of the globe, particularly India was hot and active. There was no desolation, despair, or loneliness. There was always chatter, cheer and sometimes noise but full of life. But movement and sound is not life. If that were the case, why was death there? If nobody died, would we all be happy? So, death also is part of happiness and part of life, isn’t it?
My constantly questioning mind began chattering analytically. At one point, I got sick of analysis. It was leading me nowhere. Wasn’t the absence or opposite of movement (gamaka), plainness or emptiness? How does one resolve the opposites? My mind got more confused than when I ventured out to resolve my basic question. I needed some change. I needed to speak to somebody totally different than these practitioners. Who could they be?
After tucking in an evening snack and settling my stomach, my mind too got calmer. Why not try the organizers? They are on the other side of music—the creators of musicians, the patrons and more importantly, realistic people. They wouldn’t make idle analysis, I thought.
I went to the city’s most prestigious concert hall, the Gayatri Sabha. The secretary was a friend of my hubby’s. He sat in the room on the first floor of the building and was on the phone. I sat opposite waiting for him to finish. If he found a few minutes in between calls and I prepared to ask, my question would be unfinished; and he was getting endless calls. At one point, he simply switched off the phone; and I was thankful for that.
“So, what’s your question?”
“Well, you’ve been moving with musicians, decision-makers, and VIPs in the Carnatic community. You’ve been patronizing music for many decades. Can you tell me what it means to you? Can you tell me what the music means? What is the soul of music?” I asked.
“Well, there is no money in here,” he said impatiently. “It is charity work.”
“Yes, I do understand that. It’s not a practical approach that I am looking for. You are providing a platform for them and not survival, I know that. My question is why do you do it. You could be the secretary of a club. Why music?”
“My father did it. It runs in the family. More than that, at an individual level, I find satisfaction in it. Let the musicians grow well under our protection,” he said patronizingly.
The arrogance was difficult for me to take. So I struck at him, “Well, what about the allegations of biased decisions of offering chances to musicians whom you like? What about charges of swindling whatever little money that comes the hall’s way?” I said with a smiling face.
“Humbug,” he replied. I knew I could not continue sitting there and arguing when I had thrown poisoned darts. So, I hurriedly left. It was worse than asking the practitioners.
I was none the wiser after making all the rounds. It was growing dark. It grew dark fast—as soon as it struck five in the evening. The cool, Margazhi month was getting cold at that hour. Traffic was easing down. Normally, the congested roads would get overcrowded in the evening with no space left even for breathing. But, the cool, misty month has a calming effect on the city dwellers. In general, there is less rush, less running, less competitive spirit, less plotting, less violence and lesser stress. Unlike in May when the heat makes the mind go crazy, this month lets in certain pleasantness, sometimes to the point of going dull. When one had had enough of the moderate climate, one would seek energetic living that the changing seasons anyway bring about.
I rushed home and made dinner. We sat eating at the dinner table with the radio on. The All India Radio had music programme broadcasted at night. After dinner, we kept the radio in the balcony and sat on the cane chairs. The Margazhi moon shone one my hubby’s calm face.
After the music got over, I remained there and enjoyed the silence. Everyone was asleep by then. I took my hubby’s hands in mine and lay on his arms.
A few minutes passed. Silence continued. I didn’t feel like leaving the place. I didn’t feel sleepy, just silent. An engaging and rich silence. Hubby said with a smile, “Do you know you had not spoken in the last few minutes? And, you look peaceful?” He was not a musician or from a family of musicians.
“That, I realized suddenly, is the soul of Carnatic music. That is the kernel of Carnatic music. Yes, silence is the soul of music. I looked at my hubby with grateful eyes. “Thanks for letting me deduce it by myself; and thanks for pointing it out.” I gave him a tight hug.
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