In the 1970s, when reports about civil strife in Sri Lanka raising its ugly head were published, vocalist M.L. Vasanthakumari was touring that country. I remember accompanying my father to the house of his friend, Chandramouleeswara Iyer then. As we entered the house, Iyer’s wife rushed to us and said, “I hope nothing will happen to MLV!”
One could question her priorities. But such was M.L. Vasanthakumari’s reach and popularity that Iyer’s wife could only think of the singer’s safety.
My basic lessons in Carnatic music and politics began at their residence. They had subscribed to Vaanoli — a magazine covering the programmes of All India Radio (AIR) — and that was where I came across names such as Alathur Brothers, G.N. Balasubramaniam, Madurai Mani Iyer, Madurai Somu, Palghat Mani Iyer, Palani Subramania Pillai, Vilvadiri Iyer and the present generation of musicians. She also kept a veena, shorn of all adornments.
Again, it was at their residence that I first heard the word Isai Vizha, or the December Music Season, and listened to concerts broadcast by the AIR. My father kept a transistor in case of a power shutdown. The music, the name of the musicians, and the anecdotes about them stayed with me and came handy when I started my career as a journalist. Music critic Subbudu’s tongue-in-cheek writings were both amusing and educative.
Visiting sabha after sabha to cover inaugural functions as a junior reporter (only rookies would be sent) and seeing in blood and flesh the musicians I had heard and read about offered boundless joy. After the functions, I would meet the musicians on the pretext of clarifying my doubts about their speeches. I also enjoyed the free concerts in various sabhas in the mornings and afternoons.
If listening to music is one kind of experience, watching people enjoying it is an altogether different one. A head of an old rasika would sway like a snake in tune with the Raga Alapana in progress. Someone would cry ‘sabash!’ when a beautiful phrase was produced. A number of rasikas together would make a sound that sounded like a hundred lizards were in the room. A teacher would correct exam papers stopping in the middle to utter a few words of appreciation. Another would give running commentary about the concert to someone abroad much to the indignation of others. A lot of drama unfolded before my eyes during these concerts.
“Bhatkavatsalama? Kokka? (He is Bhaktavatsalam and not a person to be taken for granted),” I remember a woman rasika saying when mridhangist Thiruvarur Bhaktavatsalam played a brilliant thani during the violin concert of Ganesh and Kumersh.
Then of course there was the food. The taste of a crisp dosa that I ate with white vegetable kurma instead of sambar and chutney in one of the canteens still lingers in my mouth.
But COVID-19 has taken away from rasikas all the finer aspects of the music season. Even though modern technology has made it possible to switch over to virtual concerts, the immediate rapport that a musician shares with a rasika during a physical concert is not available online. The only solace is that Chennai is able to uphold the tradition without a break. But this December will be remembered as a cruel month in the history of Carnatic music.
