A lawyer and a gentleman

A casual call yesterday with Mohan Raman reminded me of this book. I had written a brief article about it for Madras Musings some time back which I am reproducing below:

This picture is taken from The Hindu dated Nov 2nd 2003 – http://www.hindu.com/mag/2003/11/02/stories/2003110200430400.htm

S Govind Swaminadhan was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth. His father was Dr S Swaminadhan, a leading barrister of Madras who specialised in Criminal Law. He also served as Principal of the Madras Law College. Govind’s mother Ammu was a leading social activist later becoming a member of the Constituent Assembly of India and an MP. Govind was born on 9th October 1909. Govind had two sisters one of whom is the eminent dancer Mrinalini Sarabhai. The other sister is Capt Lakshmi Sehgal who actively participated in Netaji Subash Bose’s INA and was more recently the Presidential candidate of the Opposition parties in the year when Dr APJ Abdul Kalam became the President of India. Govind’s brother S Krishna Swaminadhan was a senior corporate executive.

Educated initially at St Paul’s, Darjeeling, Govind was sent off to England at the age of 12 where he later took his Bachelor’s degree from Brighton College, his Masters from Christchurch College, Oxford and the Bar at Law from the Inner Temple, Inns of Court, London.

Returning to India in 1935 he practised under the eminent lawyer VL Ethiraj, who had interestingly, begun his career under Dr Swaminadhan. Soon Govind Swaminadhan set up independent practice. In 1939 he married Sulochana Santhanam in Lahore and the couple had four children. Till the 1950s, Govind Swaminadhan was engaged in very many criminal cases and also held the office of Crown Prosecutor. One of the early cases in which he appeared as defence counsel was in the trial following the murder of Lakshmikantham. Some of the trials where he officiated as Crown Prosecutor included the Alavandar Murder Case and the City Gardner Murder Case. In later years his civil and constitutional law practice became substantial.

In 1965 he became Senior Central Government Standing Counsel. In 1969 he became Advocate-General of Tamilnadu and held that office till 1976 when he resigned in protest against the Emergency. He resumed private practice and was active in it till the 1990s. In recognition of his work in the legal sphere, the International Bar Association in 1994 conferred on him the title “The Living Legend of The Law”.

An active life in law did not mean lack of other pursuits. Govind Swaminadhan gave cricket commentaries over the AIR, was involved with the Madras Race Club, the Madras Riding Club and was Commandant of the Home Guards. He was an active member of the Madras Players in its initial years and was Founder of the Consumer Action Group. He was also President of the Bala Mandir and Chairman of the Vidyodaya School for Girls.

This eminent personality of Madras passed away on 30th September 2003.

A tribute to him, in the form of a book titled “A Gentleman Lawyer”, edited by well known lawyer Sriram Panchu and Aparna Mukherjee Vasu has recently been released. The book is a compilation of reminiscences by Mr Swaminadhan himself, several of his speeches, recollections by friends, colleagues and acquaintances and tributes from judges and juniors. The book is a delight to read and a very interesting feature is a collection of drawings by Justice V Balasubrahmanyan, which take a humorous look at life in law. This collection had been presented to Govind Swaminadhan and adds colour to the book.

Proceeds from the sale of the book will go to the Bala Mandir.

Balasaraswathi by Douglas Knight

I enjoyed reading this book immensely. A review that I wrote for Madras Musings is given below:

Bharata Natyam today is an art form well understood the world over. And yet, less than a 100 years ago, the dance was considered contemptible, practised by women who were equated with prostitutes and comprising songs that were said to be morally corrupting. Ironically, the dance had for several centuries been considered worthy of the Gods! It had originated with the Devadasi tradition, a temple-oriented practice and as times changed it had moved to secular spaces. The last century witnessed the separation of dance from the Devadasi, who was prevented by law from practising her traditional art. As the art grew to international stature, the Devadasi became a term of ignominy. And with time they faded out. One woman alone stood firm, remained proud of her past, practised her art, got the world to see its beauty and grew to gain fame all over the world. That was T Balasaraswati.

As the princely courts declined in stature, modern cities such as Madras gained prominence with several wealthy men residing in them. The Devadasis and musicians naturally gravitated to these metros. One of these was Tanjavur Kamakshi, a woman who was known as a dancer and singer of great repute. Kamakshi came from a hoary lineage, her ancestors had danced in the Maratha court of Tanjavur. Kamakshi’s talent and repertoire passed on through her daughter Sundaram to her granddaughters Dhanam (1868-1938) and Rupavati. Though both the girls were trained in dance, thanks to the virulence of the anti-Devadasi campaign, they abandoned the art and took to music, a migration that most of the community were attempting to escape public censure. Dhanam became a star, but entirely on her own terms. She took to the veena and became an expert on it. Though she acquired a large repertoire of songs, she rarely performed in public, practising her art instead at her own narrow home in the congested George Town district of Madras. Moody in temperament and taciturn and sarcastic in speech, Dhanam did not seek adulation or popularity. And yet it was this Garbo-like attitude that enhanced her fame and to be at her Friday evening performances was to be seen as a connoisseur of the arts. Dhanam was never well-to-do but her musical worth was beyond estimation.

Dhanam had four daughters and the third was Jayammal (1890-1967). And her daughter was Balasaraswati (b1918). In a music-drenched domestic atmosphere, Bala, wanted to take to dance, despite being a gifted singer. But the circumstances were hardly propitious for hardly any Devadasi family was contemplating dance as a career option. Imperious Dhanam was dead against it but such was the insistence of the child Bala that soon family opposition was won over. The talented Kandappa Pillai, was roped in as guru and Bala’s dance training began in right earnest. The training process was tough for the gurus of those days rarely expressed their appreciation and Kandappa was tougher than most. And by 1925, Bala was ready for her formal debut.

This took place in a fairly hush-hush manner at the tiny Ammanakshi Temple in Kanchipuram, for by then a dance debut was equated with dedication and could excite public protest. And two years later, the Government acted. In 1927, Dr Muthulakshmi Reddy piloted a Bill in the legislature, demanding the abolition of the practice of dedicating women to temples. The Bill became Act V of 1929. The equating of Devadasis with prostitutes hit the community hard and from then on most members began to move away from the hereditary arts. Huge chunks of musical and dance repertoire simply vanished. It was a massive loss to the world of Carnatic music and classical dance.

Bala was then a much-in-demand dancer and her skills were praised by the cognoscenti. But those who continued practising dance were criticised sharply in the Press by Dr Reddy, who believed that dance being the most visible element of the profession, was as evil as everything else in it. A reaction to this was inevitable and came from people like E Krishna Iyer, a successful lawyer who had trained in dance and was a champion of the arts. EK, as he was known, began a campaign for saving dance from extinction. In 1931, the Music Academy, largely at EK’s insistence, organised the first public performance of classical dance. It continued to stage several more in the succeeding years and the common public had an opportunity to see what had hitherto been witnessed only in the homes of the rich and at temple festivals. Several appreciated the beauties of the art and upper-caste women wanted to train in it. The biggest breakthrough came when Rukmini Devi Arundale of the Theosophical Society began learning dance. She was to stage her first public performance at the Society in 1935.

But those who championed dance were not for its Devadasi background. The art had to be therefore recast. What had all along been referred to as Sadir was now rechristened Bharata Natyam, with its origins being traced from the 2nd Century work – Natya Sastra. With Rukmini Devi as the newfound arbiter of aesthetics, several hand movements, gestures and songs that were found ‘unsuitable’ were excised. On the positive side, improvements were made to stage décor, the positioning of musicians and the artiste’s costumes. Those from Devadasi backgrounds now found a new opportunity, albeit briefly – as teachers of the art. With time, even this slowly faded away and several practitioners vanished into the darkness of poverty and want. As the number of upper-caste performers increased, engagement opportunities for hereditary dancers reduced and almost stopped.

This was Bala’s darkest hour. To compound the situation, she had health problems that made her gain weight. With several nubile young things prancing about on the Bharata Natyam stage, Bala, her background already working against her, lost out further. A bigger blow came when her tutor and conductor of her performances, Kandappa Pillai, went away to Almora to join Uday Shankar’s troupe. Rather ironically, Uday Shankar had been a great admirer of her dancing.

And yet it was at this time that Bala chose to make a shift to what would make her stand out – abhinaya or the mimetic interpretation of padas, the love-soaked musical pieces that were her family’s treasures, songs that had been garnered painstakingly by grandmother Veena Dhanam. Bala’s mother Jayammal, like her sisters, had a seemingly inexhaustible repertoire of padams and with her singing for Bala’s dance, the performances acquired an ethereal quality. Bala had an inherent talent for mime and benefiting greatly from the tutelage of Vedantam Lakshminarayana Sastry, a Telugu scholar, she became an expert at it. At a time when speed, dancing to conventional kritis and a uniformity in presentation had set in as far as the other dancers were concerned, Bala’s performances were different. Here you got to see a different dance and a select few continued to remain ardent champions of her style.

In 1947, the Madras Legislative Council passed its Devadasi Act which banned the performance of dance by any woman inside a temple, a religious institution or procession of a Hindu deity. It brought back to the fore memories of the 1920s and that meant a further setback for Bala, a woman who had always taken pride in her background. It meant a further cut in performance engagements and she did not dance through 1946 to 1948. In 1949, there was one solitary dance performance and from then on invitations gradually increased, coming in from Bombay, Delhi and Madras. At this time, Dr V Raghavan, one of India’s foremost Sanskrit scholars and an admirer of Bala’s began encouraging her. He was a Secretary of the Music Academy and in this capacity he encouraged Bala to set up a dance school under the auspices of the institution which began in 1953. Bala could not disseminate what she stood for. Another supporter was the Tamil Isai Sangam, where Sir RK Shanmukham Chetty, businessman, public figure and independent India’s first finance minister was an important functionary. He was also Bala’s consort, the two having come together in 1936. Their daughter was Lakshmi Shanmukham Knight, who would later emerge as the torch-bearer of the Bala style. Sir Shanmukham passed away in 1953.

National recognition was slow in coming though it did happen in fits and starts. In 1955, Bala received the Sangeet Natak Akademi award instituted in 1952 by the Government of India. The Padma Bhushan came in 1957. It was international recognition however, that would turn the tide in Bala’s favour. That began from 1956, when thanks to the US consulate, Bala performed for Martha Graham’s troupe when they visited Madras. Graham was to become a lifelong admirer. Even then, a proposed visit as a representative of Indian art was scuttled thanks to Babus in distant Delhi objecting to her background. It was left to the formidable Kapila Vatsyayan to fight for Bala.

Beginning from 1960, Bala began travelling frequently abroad. In 1961 it was to Tokyo where she was received rapturously. In 1962 she was at the prestigious Jacob’s Pillow in Massachusetts. And in 1963 she was performing at the Edinburgh Festival. Between 1962 and 1981 she was to teach during twelve residencies at the Wesleyan University. Western audiences could understand all that she conveyed thanks to her abhinaya which transcended all language. In a flash she was Krishna, Radha, the Gopis and many more. Her vast knowledge of Indian legends enabled her to mime impromptu and there were no set movements for her performance. In short, no two dance presentations by Bala were the same. Back home there was to be great acclaim too and in 1973, she became the only dancer to receive the most prestigious award in Carnatic Music – the Sangita Kalanidhi of the Music Academy. Bala was a talented musician too and her dance had the added attraction of her singing for her own abhinaya. In 1978, she received the Desikottama award from Santiniketan. Tagore had once admired her dance and this was but a fitting expression of that. Audiences were however always limited but as Bala herself would have been the first to admit, the classical arts were not meant for everyone.

Sadly, hardly anything of Bala’s dance was captured on film, barring a fairly mediocre documentary by Satyajit Ray. He could not be entirely faulted for Bala and he did not see eye-to-eye on several issues.

From the late 1970s Bala’s health became indifferent. But though she had to give up performing, she continued teaching, her last disciple being perhaps Aniruddha, her grandson who took the first steps under her guidance. He was all of three! The end came for Bala in February 1984. Among the first to pay their respects was the Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi, who sent a wreath by way of her tribute. From being ostracised, Bala’s art and all that it stood for, had gained recognition.

It had been a life of struggle. But well worth it. She had stood firm by her ideas of the tenets and aesthetics of her art and shown that there was a different, older and more traditional form of presentation. And the critics had been gradually silenced.

Balasaraswati, Her Art and Life is a recent biography of the legend, written by her son-in-law and scholar, Douglas M Knight Jr. An extremely well-written account, it makes for easy reading, with even the most esoteric aspects of Bharata Natyam explained well. It also brings forth the struggle that Bala went through. The book does suffer from a few errors in a larger historical context but that does not in any way detract from the intensity of the core story – the life and times of Balasaraswati.

The art … of spitting in public

Who knows? This may become a running column. My first example is of the Triumph of Labour Statue

and its stained base

Remembering Alathur Srinivasa Iyer

My tribute to this musician whose centenary was on 21st January, appeared in The Hindu – http://www.thehindu.com/arts/music/article2923799.ece

This year (2012) is a year of Carnatic centenaries. One of these is that of Alathur Srinivasa Iyer, the elder among the two musicians who teamed up as the Alathur Brothers. His birth centenary happened to fall January 21, and perhaps it is entirely in keeping with his self-effacing personality that it passed unnoticed.

Srinivasa Iyer was born to Angarai Sankara Sroudigal and Lakshmi Ammal at Ariyalur village as one of 12 siblings. His younger brother A.S. Panchapakesa Iyer was to make his name in music too, as a teacher and publisher of numerous primers.

At a young age, Srinivasan was apprenticed under the multi-faceted and irascible Alathur Venkatesa Iyer, where he teamed up in training with the guru’s talented son, Sivasubramaniam (born 1916). In time, Srinivasan was to emerge as Venkatesa Iyer’s favourite disciple, by no means an easy task, for, his teaching standards were known to be exacting to put it mildly.

The famous male duo

As per the guru’s wishes, the two teamed up as the Alathur Brothers and became the most well-known male duo in Carnatic music, the distaff honours being taken by Brinda-Muktha. Of the two, Sivasubramaniam or Subbier was the more outgoing and effervescent personality. Celebrated for his acerbic tongue, stories abound about him — his battle against establishmentarianism, his legendary friendship with some musicians, his run-ins with others and his up-down-and-up again relationship with Palani Subramania Pillai. It was Srinivasa Iyer who brought about balance and continuity in relationships.

Given their contrasting natures, it was a wonder that they performed together at all. But as veteran critic K.S. Mahadevan wrote, “The understanding between them was total.” On stage too, it was Subbier who dominated, as he had a more powerful voice. But such was the sense of proportion in the performances that Srinivasa Iyer stood out too. Perhaps the best analysis of his share of the music was penned by NMN, The Hindu’s critic, when Srinivasa Iyer passed away on October 9, 1980, in Tiruchi. Titled Assertive Vidwat with Small Voice, it was published on October 17. And here is what NMN had to say:

“The hefty voice of Subbu and the thin voice of Srinivasa Aiyar made a fine blend. Though small-voiced Srinivasa Aiyar was far from the junior partner and invariably took charge of ragas like Nayaki. Kannada and Devagandhari which call more for sensitivity in interpretation than strength while the virile-toned Subbu naturally took over ‘gana’ ragas like Thodi, Sankarabaranam and Khambodi. In technical exposition, Srinivasa Aiyar’s neraval skill was particularly sharp and striking…

In his music, Srinivasa Aiyar at times revealed how the small voice can even get thinner and acquire a new dimension of clarity and serene communicative force. This was possible on account of his deep involvement in the sruthi.

His repertoire was vast and comprised many compositions of the masters. His laya vyavahara discipline was ever well within the confines of the dignity of classical music. Many are the moments to remember that Srinivasa Aiyar has provided in the course of his illustrious concert career. An unforgettable alapana of Harikhambodi at the Mylapore Fine Arts Club and an excellent rendition of the less known Durbar kriti of Tyagaraja, ‘Endhunti Vedalithivo,’ sung at the Srinivasa Sastri Hall are pieces of music which this writer particularly cherishes.”

The passing away of Subbier in the prime of his life in 1965 was a great shock to Srinivasa Iyer and he refused all performance invitations for a considerable period of time. When he received the Sangita Kalanidhi from The Music Academy, he penned an article for the institution’s souvenir in which he expressed his sense of loss. It was left to close friend and another of the 2012 centenarians – Palghat Mani Iyer, to gradually convince him to return to the concert platform. It was at one of Srinivasa Iyer’s early solo concerts in Bombay that Mani Iyer famously launched into a tirade against mikes, espousing mike-less concerts thereafter. Though the ‘Brothers’ magic was absent, the talent of Srinivasa Iyer came to the fore in his solo performances. As K.S. Mahadevan wrote in his Musings on Music and Musicians, “…he maintained his reputation for shuddha patanthara of kritis as well as complex laya patterns in pallavi etc.”

It was left to Mani Iyer to add his voice to the chorus of tributes that came in when Srinivasa Iyer passed away. The end came a day or two before they were to perform together at the Navaratri Mandapam in Thiruvananthapuram. NMN was to remark that Mani Iyer would sorely miss Srinivasa Iyer.

Nine years later, an admirer was to recall in a letter to The Hindu that Srinivasa Iyer’s Natakurinji remained unsurpassed. Such is the stuff of great legends.

The origins of the Sri Ramakrishna Math in Madras

I wrote this article for The Hindu to coincide with the 175th birth anniversary of Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa.

When Swami Vivekananda returned from his US trip in 1897, he was given a tumultuous welcome in this city. After all, the citizens of Madras had been at the forefront of organizing his overseas tour. When he left Madras after nine days, it was with a promise to send a fellow disciple of his guru Sri Ramakrishna, to be entrusted with the task of continuing his work in the city. This was Shashi Bhushan Chakravarty or Swami Ramakrishnananda. Madras was to refer to him as Sashi Maharaj. He was first housed for a short while at Flora Cottage, a bungalow no longer in existence, on Ice House Road in Triplicane. It was there that he first enshrined a photograph of Sri Ramakrishna, signaling the commencement of the Math.

The Ice House or Castle Kernan as it was then known, was the residence of Bilagiri Iyengar, a lawyer and ardent devotee of Swami Vivekananda. And it was at his invitation that the latter had made Ice House his place of stay when he visited Madras. Iyengar offered the ground floor to the Math and Sashi Maharaj moved in, in 1897. When Iyengar died in 1906, the house had to be auctioned and the Math moved out.

That year, a small piece of land on what was then Brodie’s Road, was gifted to the Math by Akul Kondiah Chettiar. With the foundation being laid by Swami Abhedananda, one of Sri Ramakrishna’s disciples, the building, was ready for occupation 1907. This was demolished in 1917 to make way for a two-storeyed edifice that is still preserved and used.

An interesting visitor in the early years was a Western disciple of Swami Vivekananda’s — Laura Glenn. Named Sister Devamata when she joined the Order, she stayed in Mylapore in 1910 and left behind a fascinating account of life in the area then in a book titled Days in an Indian Monastery. Among other things, she describes the annual festival of the Kapaleeswarar temple with Sashi Maharaj pulling the holy car or Ther. The birth anniversaries of Sri Ramakrishna and later, of Swami Vivekananda, have been occasions for mass public feeding at the Math. Sister Devamata writes of one such event in 1909, when about 5,000 people were fed at the Tanneer Turai Market (recently demolished).

Sashi Maharaj began the publication department of the Math in 1908. Today that is a busy bookstore selling several of the Math’s titles.

Over time, the Math became such a landmark that the road itself changed its name to become RK Math Road. Dwarfing both the old Math building and the publications division is the Universal Temple, completed in 2000.

What is heartening is the way the old and the new co-exist in the campus. The heritage structures are tended to with the same care as the new buildings. That is a principle that the rest of the city would do well to follow.

http://www.thehindu.com/news/cities/chennai/article2921100.ece

Ad hoc traffic arrangements

Those in charge of traffic planning, if indeed such personnel exist, did not exactly cover themselves with glory in the last couple of weeks. Two major initiatives were undertaken to ease congestion in Adyar and George Town and while the first was an instantaneous failure, the second was seen as a half-baked exercise at best. What was common to both was that they focused only on vehicle users, ignoring the interests of all other stakeholders – local residents, hawkers and above all the pedestrian, who it would appear, does not even figure in such plans. To what use then these schemes and their flawed execution?

The first of these was a high profile idea. Based on the advice of a well known cinematographer, who it would appear had based his calculations entirely by flying over the land and not bothering to set foot on the ground, it concerned the Lattice Bridge Road and its environs. A series of one ways and a major circular route were at the core of the system, all focused at ensuring “smooth vehicular flow”, to the exclusion of everyone else. This was implemented without any consultation with those who would be affected by such an arrangement – residents in the area. What emerged was a major gridlock and spirited protests from at least the residents of one of the streets who found that what was at best a narrow thoroughfare had overnight become a major arterial road. It goes without saying that the street was in no way equipped to handle the suddenly increased traffic volume, the noise and the congestion. To make matters worse, there were no signboards at any place to inform commuters well in advance of the new arrangements, causing several to reach particular junctions and then being made to take several diversions. A series of gridlocks ensued and the plan was withdrawn almost within a day of its implementation. The impact on the pedestrian was of course completely overlooked. Continuously moving traffic meant no traffic lights and that meant the pedestrian had no place to cross. This in fact is a common feature across most of the one ways, some of which have been in place for years now. But nobody appears to have woken up to the plight of the pedestrian who has to commend his/her soul to God and take the plunge amidst traffic in case he/she needs to cross.

The second instance was on NSC Bose Road, where following a High Court directive, hawkers were evicted to ensure smooth traffic flow. That these hawkers were not authorised to occupy the roads is a well-known fact. But what is noteworthy is that each time it requires the intervention of the Court to make our civic body wake up to this reality. The eviction this time was ostensibly to clear the space to ensure smooth traffic flow in an area that has become severely congested thanks to the ongoing Metro Rail work. But hardly had the hawkers been evicted when cars and buses came to monopolise the spaces cleared, converting the area into an irregular parking lot. The hawkers are now demanding alternative space, something that nobody has in their powers to give, for George Town simply does not have any open space. By nightfall the hawkers were mostly back. Congestion was the end result once again, with pedestrians having to compete for space with vehicles.

In fact, if there is any one variety of road users who is exposed to the maximum risk in connection with the Metro, it is the pedestrian. In several places, people walk in between protective but fairly ineffective railings, often under the nose of heavy equipment. And as the pace of work increases, it does not look as though matters are going to become any easier.

Traffic arrangements it would appear have become ad-hoc exercises. Someone has what they think is a workable plan or some authority cracks a whip and action is taken on this basis. There is no thought given to what impact it is likely to have on multiple stakeholders and there is no attempt at an ongoing dialogue with all those who are likely to be affected. There is moreover no effort in involving the local resident and sensitising him/her on how he/she can contribute. Can a city hope to operate on such knee-jerk reactions without any long-term policy or plan? Or is fire-fighting to be our only policy?

Short and Snappy dated 16th February 2012

Chennai’s best face!

Over the last few weeks, The Man from Madras Musings has been taking overseas visitors on heritage tours around the city. Having done this several times over, MMM ought to be somewhat immune to variations in interest and enthusiasm levels of his little flock but, unfortunately, he still remains sensitive to response and reaction. On some days he soars and on other days he just glides along. But when faced with a patently uninterested specimen, MMM is flummoxed. He stammers, stutters and the muse flees from him. One such was a celebrity who was recently here and, early one morning, MMM was asked to take the celeb, the celeb’s good lady and the fruits of their union on a tour. While the mere et fils were enthusiasm personified, the celeb couldn’t care less and barely managed to conceal his lack of involvement. It remin ded MMM of Sir Harcourt Butler taking Lady Willingdon to the source of some great river and waxing eloquent, only to have her complain that it was rather smelly.

But leaving aside the lukewarm response, MMM must admit that our beloved city does not make the conduct of such tours in any way easy. On this particular lovely January morning, MMM was taking the enthusiastic, the indifferent and the plain bored around Mylapore and what should greet the visitors but a blocked sewer on South Mada Street. A manhole was open and, out of it, slowly emerging, inch by inch, black, smelly sludge, making its way surely and steadily to the temple tank. MMM, hoping that nobody had noticed, was just beginning to speak of the temple tower (taking the eye as far away as possible from the ground), when the youngest among the brood piped up in a reedy but clear tenor. “It is rather niffy isn’t it?” And that was that. Conversation from then on veered towards drains, in sickness and in health, and when MMM tried to divert attention to what he claimed were the pristine waters of the tank, nobody appeared interested. By then the sludge was reaching the steps of the tank and that may have been a reason. When it came to breakfast, MMM was rather pointedly offered a drop from the bottle of hand-sanitiser, which, inci dent ally, no migratory bird travels without in our country. Understandable under the circumstances.

A couple of weeks later, MMM was leading a band of highly enthusiastic, young and energetic Americans. We were looking at sites in Madras that were in some way connected with the US of A. And those of you who know your Madras Rediscovered (p 287 of the book in case you missed it before) will immedia tely realise that the YMCA building on NSC Bose Road is an important stop on this trail. And so MMM got off the van opposite this stately edifice only to find that several fellow citizens had also decided to stop there. Only some of them were squatting while others were facing the High Court wall. And this being early in the morning, MMM need scarcely tell you what they were up to. Scattered across this stretch were vestiges of what earlier squatters had been up to. Those who had the misfortune to walk along this way were doing so with handkerchiefs pressed against the nose. How was MMM to speak of David McConaughy or anyone else in such an environment?

From there we went to the Triumph of Labour statue, which was after all inspired by American troops landing at Iwo Jima. MMM was reason ably confident that this part of Chennai would be clean. And sure enough it was, after a fashion. The base of the statue was a bright red, thanks to hundreds of betel-leaf chewing mouths having decided to expectorate at this very spot. It was some small satisfaction that the plants around the statue, no doubt brought up on an exclusive diet of betel juice, appeared to be flourishing. There was enough plastic littered around to choke the planet. MMM had just opened his mouth when he was drow ned out by several beggars who clearly pre ferred US AID. The tour went steadily downhill from then on.

Air turbulence

January is hardly the season to fly anywhere. Even the birds know this, for they complete their migration well in advance. But human kind, and among it The Man from Madras Musings, cannot afford to be so season specific. So it was that MMM had to fly several times over the past few weeks. And on several occasions, he was faced with delayed flights. Twice the delays were due to technical failures and it is these that MMM is now writing about.

MMM’s view of technical snags in aircrafts is that they are better off detected on the ground than in mid-air. But in that he appears to be in a minority. The dominant voice is that of people who think that by yelling and screaming at the hapless man/woman at the counter, such snags can be rectified in a jiffy and all will be well. “You don’t know these damned crooks,” said one such passenger to no one in particular. “They have delayed the flight because all seats are not filled up.” This explanation was clearly based on mofussil buses that keep hovering around a terminus till every seat is taken up. But can the same be said of flights? Another passenger went up to the counter clerk and demanded to know what arrangements had been made for spending the night. And this was for a budget flight whose entire flying time was an hour at most! A third was asking an airport official as to what contingency plans were in place for such situations. There must be at least three alternatives, he said, little pausing to reflect that our city operates without any plan, leave alone alternatives, on most counts. A fourth was shouting and asking for a spare aircraft to be brought in immediately. A couple of NRIs were damning all things Indian and were, in fake accents, saying that ‘back home’ such things were unheard of.

All voices were silenced when refreshments, compri sing dry-as-dust cake, oily vadas and syrup water dis guised as coffee were served. After that was consumed, by some in enormous quanti ties, very few had the energy left to walk further on, leave alone shout. But one or two indefati gable spirits kept the crusade going, much to the amuse ment of everyone else in the airport.

Eventually, the aircraft, cured of its illness, made its appearance. We took off. Shortly thereafter, the flight ran into an air-pocket. Every one was bumped about and slowly a rumour spread that all was not well with the aircraft. MMM turned around to see the leaders of the pack that had bayed for the airline’s blood while on ground. They were all quiet now. Lips silently moving, they appeared to be praying for an early and safe landing. When we did touch ground, there was a delay in the baggage getting on to the carousel. MMM found his bag, but, last seen, the shouting and yelling was back in full strength. There was a growing body that wanted to claim compensation.

Tailpiece

‘Tis the wedding season again and The Man from Madras Musings has drawn first blood so to speak by way of an invitation that “cardinally” invites him and his good lady. Watch out for more.

The Patnam Temples

Madras was founded on 22nd August 1639. Among the natives involved in that event were Beri Thimmannan (or Thimmappa), agent to Francis Day and Naga Battan who was a gun powder maker for the East India Company.

Within nine years of this event, Thimmannan executed an endowment to a temple of the city in favour of one Narayanappa Ayyar. The document is dated the “28th of Chitri month in Sarvathari year of Salivahana Era, 1569” and reads as follows:

“Whereas at Chenna Puttanem I have built the Chenna Casava Perumaul Covil, and have endowed it with Manyam, a piece of ground, and other privileges, which all I do (hereby) transfer now to you, and which you are to hold and enjoy from son to grandson, as long as the duration of (both) the sun and moon performing the divine service to their utmost extent. Should any one act prejudicially towards the charity, he would incur the guilt of having massacred a black cow on the bank of the Ganges. It is the gift to Narrainappyer by Bari Thimmanen through his consent.”

There is also a record of Naga Battan endowing the same temple two years prior to Beri Thimmannan.

Did the temple give the city its name or was it the other way round? Perhaps the former is the correct explanation for Chenna Kesava was a common name for Vishnu in temples of south India. Whatever be the correct theory, it cannot be denied that Chennai and the Chenna Kesava Perumal temple grew in size together. The temple that Thimmannan built was located where the present High Court premises stand. A visitor to the city in 1673, Dr Fryer penned his impressions of the shrine, most of which is unfortunately in completely unintelligible English.

By 1710, the temple was referred to as the Great Pagoda of Madras in city maps. The French invaded and occupied Madras in 1746 and left in 49. The British on their return felt the need to reinforce security and among the first steps was to relocate Black Town which grew up all around the Great Pagoda, further inland. The temple itself was demolished in 1757 and much of its debris went into the construction of a protective wall of the town.

However, the Company, realising that it was offending religious sentiments, gave the natives of the city, an equivalent parcel of land in new Black Town for building the same temple. This plot of around 25000 sq.ft, a rough trapezium formed by present day Gengu Ramiah Street, Devaraja Mudali Street, NSC Bose Road and Nainiappa Naicken Street is where the new temple came up and stands today.

Closely involved in the construction of the temple was Manali Muthukrishna Mudaliar, the last Chief Merchant of the East India Company and dubash to Governor Pigot. Muthukrishna Mudaliar opened a public subscription to rebuild the temple in its new location and contributed 5202 pagodas (the prevailing currency) as his mite. The Company gave 1173 pagodas and the rest came from the public making the corpus 15652 pagodas in all. It was decided that the new location would have two shrines, one for Shiva and the other for Vishnu and so, the Chenna Malleeswara Swami Temple came up along with the Chenna Kesava Perumal Temple. Muthukrishna Mudaliar endowed the temple with lands and the Company gave an annual grant of 500 pagodas for maintenance. The deities were consecrated in 1766 and work continued till 1780. Together the twins came to be known as the Patnam (Town) Temples which is how they are referred to even today in George Town area.

The temples must have still been under construction when Arunachala Kavi (1711-1779) came to Madras to meet Muthukrishna Mudaliar and be rewarded by him. Carnatic Music lovers of course remember Mudaliar for his contribution to the art by bringing the family of Ramaswami Dikshitar to Madras in 1790(see Sangeetha Sthalams article on Manali House, Sruti issue?). When the Dikshitar children, Muthuswami, Baluswami and Chinnaswami must have come to the city with their parents and sister, all wide eyed at the bustling metropolis, they must have seen the temples in all their glory. Muthukrishna Mudaliar died in 1792 and then his son Venkatakrishna (d 1817) became the trustee of the temples. In 1831, a civil suit recognised the grandson, also a Muthukrishna, as the hereditary trustee and the Manali family continues to remain involved with the temples till date.

An endowment made by Juttur Subramania Chetty, a patron of the 19th century ensured that a nagaswaram player was honoured each year at the Chenna Kesava Perumal temple. During the Periazhwar festival each year in the month of June, the nagaswaram artiste would be invited to come and perform for ten days. He would be expected to take up one raga each evening and perform elaborately on it, finishing off with a pallavi, a ragamalika and some lighter pieces. Writing about this event in the Madras Tercentenary Volume (1939), Prof Sambamurthy says that “all the leading Nagasvaram players of the past like Sembanarkoil Ramasami, Mannargudi Chinna Pakkiri, Sivakolundu and Madura Ponnuswami and of the present like Tiruvidamarudur Viruswami were recipients of this honour.” In his biography of TN Rajarathinam Pillai, Tumilan writes that the maestro’s second nagaswaram performance in the city happened in 1917 at the Chenna Kesava Perumal Temple during the Periazhwar festival. Rajarathinam Pillai was surprised to find that some of the city’s leading lights preferred to stand outside the temple and hear his performance, Sir S Subramania Iyer being one. On enquiry, he found that they felt that the shrill Timiri Nayanam was best heard from a distance. That is when the maestro thought of switching over to the heavier and deeper Bari and later mastered it. The nagaswaram tradition continues even now at this temple. However owing the diminishing returns of the original endowment, local nagaswaram artistes are employed during the festival. Big names do not come here anymore.

The Chenna Malleeswara Swami Temple had a strong Devadasi tradition and from the appeal filed with the Government on 5th December 1927, protesting against the proposed move to ban the system of dedication to temples, we can see that at least 14 women were attached to this shrine. The senior most was Apithakuchambal and then in descending order of seniority were Rukmini, Rupavathi, Nagamma, Rajamma, Kuppamma, Kanagarathnamma, Nagarathnamma, Kuppamma (jr), Rajamma (jr), MR Thannammal, MR Kamatchiammal, Balambal and Gnanambal. There were evidently songs that were composed specially for Chenna Mallikeswara Swami, for in the Banni Bai Collection, now with the Music Department, Madras University, there is song book titled Chenna Mallikeswara Swami Padalgal.

The first thing that strikes any visitor to these temples is the high standard of cleanliness. Dr Fryer in 1673 wrote of the floor of the old temple “stinking most egregiously of the Oyl they waste in their Lamps and besmear their Beastly Gods with”. But even that nitpicker would not have found anything to cavil about if he were to visit today. The two shrines share a common compound wall and there is a door let into this wall through which it is possible to access one temple from the other. The entrance to Chenna Malleeswara Swami Temple is from NSC Bose Road while that to Chenna Kesava Perumal Temple is from Devaraja Mudali Street.

Architecturally there is nothing spectacular about the temples. The two share a common teppakulam (tank) in which there is always some water. Chenna Kesava Perumal used to have spectacular utsavam each year when He would go on various mounts around the George Town area. Now congestion has forced Him to remain indoors and observe all festivities from within the compound. In the old days, the spring festival would see Him going on horseback to the Manali Charities Hostel on Govindappa Naicken Street, where enthroned in the Vasantha Mandapam, He would be entertained by music. But now all that is over and done with.

Chenna Kesava Perumal is a small deity in stature and is flanked by Sri and Bhu Devis. There is a separate sub shrine for Shengamala Thayar and also for Rama en famille. The Azhwars all have shrines on side of the temple at right angles to the main deity. Andal has a separate shrine. Chenna Malleeswara is in the form of a linga and the Goddess here is Bhramaramba as in Srisailam. There are separate shrines for Ganesha, Subrahmanya, the Navagrahas and the 63 Nayanmars. The utsava murthis are small and wonderfully embellished with fine details.

The temple is a must for all those who value the history of this city.

My latest, 80-year old, acquisition

It was love at first sight. There it stood, all 150 kgs of it (as I was to learn later), looking coyly and enticingly. Sarada was naturally upset. And it took me quite a while to convince her that we could all live together, without impinging on each other’s space. But before you run off with other ideas…

We, Sarada, Sanjay Subrahmanyan, his wife Aarthi and I, were visiting a friend’s bungalow. The head of the family had passed away and the old home was being vacated. Furniture was being sold and we were asked if we were interested in anything. Sanjay and Aarthi picked up a cupboard and my roving eye fell on what I learnt later was called a Compact. It was anything but compact, for it was a huge wardrobe in rosewood. On opening it, I stumbled into another world.

A marvelous piece of craftsmanship, it was made by Curzon & Co in 1930 as a metal badge at the base testified. After so many years its doors still swung open without pressure having to be applied at various places. Inside, it made very intelligent use of space. The door on the right had shelves on it where you could keep handkerchieves, cologne bottles and card cases. The door on the left had fishbone pattern tie racks which folded upward on to the door thereby preventing ties from sliding off. Below this was an umbrella and walking stick rack.

The main cupboard had a mirror with space behind it and a wardrobe space where rather uniquely, the rack was perpendicular and not parallel to the cupboard body. You could pull the rack out to inspect your clothes and select the attire for the day. On either side were pegs for hats. And below this, was shoe space. In short, this cupboard was named a compact because it was meant to carry in it all that the well-dressed man was wearing.

I was still wavering when my friend pressed a wooden panel and out came a secret chamber. In fact the compact had two of them and such was the level of finish that unless you knew where to press the chambers would not be visible. That decided me. All that was left was convincing Sarada. Money changed hands and the compact arrived home.

I use the term ‘arrived’ rather loosely. First of all it had to be transferred from the first floor of the old bungalow to a tempo traveller below. This was done via the verandah which was large enough to accommodate a modern flat. But back home things were not so easy. My parents were safely away. (My father in particular hates these acquisitions of mine and frequently grumbles that the house is more a museum). Lifting the compact to the first floor was more than we had bargained for. An army of labourers was pressed into service. With plenty of ropes an attempt was made to lift it from the tempo onto the verandah. A whole host of passersby added to the chaos, each giving his own instructions. One or two were of the view that this is typically the idle sport of some well-to-do freak whose blood will certainly run in the gutter when the revolution came.

After two hours, the compact had moved by ten feet or so and was suspended midair with its head down, rather like Trishanku. The neem trees in the front yard had been roped in as well and looked as though they were ready to snap. The army of labourers had vanished to have tea and refreshments after which a renewed assault would be made. It was then that Kuppan, our electrician, had a brainwave. Why not unscrew the doors he wondered. That would make it a lot lighter. And so we lowered the compact and had its doors removed. They weighed 75 kilos together. These were quickly brought in via the stairs and then the compact, a lot lighter, made its journey via the verandah, into the house.

The carpenter took his time in polishing it and getting it ready. I of course gave it quality time, speaking to it often and ensuring that it settled in well with the rest of the household. It appears to have taken the migration well. Not bad for an 80 year old who is 150 kilos in weight.

Remembering Musiri

For some reason, he is stuck in my head from this morning. Perhaps because I listened yesterday to his singing Dikshitar’s pAhi mAm ratnAchala (mukhAri)

I have therefore fished out this sleeve note I wrote long ago for Charsur:

Musiri Subramania Iyer

- The human face of bhava

It is not often the fortune of an artiste to draw tears from listeners’ eyes, even as he or she performs. But to endow even replays and recordings with such an ability, is almost an impossibility. Musiri Subramanya Iyer, or simply Musiri as he was called, had perfected this art to such an extent that till date his feats in bhava, especially in neraval, (an imaginative exposition of lyrics, within the limits set by Raga and Tala) have never been matched.

The voice was high for a man. In his youth, it was even higher (F Sharp) and as he aged, it did drop to D Sharp, but the high voice, in complete unison with the drone of the tanpura, created a mesmeric effect, often likened to a bee flitting about in garden of music in springtime. The body was often frail, but it scaled Himalayan heights when it came to musical tourneys. The combination spelt dignity, a dignity of art, of accomplishment and achievement, from which he never lowered himself. Ayyarval (respected one), he was called and he remained true to that name till the very end.

Subramanya Iyer was born on 9th April, 1899 to Sankara Sastry, a Sanskrit Pandit and his wife Seethalakshmi, at Bommalapalayam Village, Trichy District. Whether he had formal schooling in the three R’s is a matter of debate, but the fact remains that he was an erudite and scholarly speaker and writer in the English language, one of the earliest Carnatic Musicians to have that capability. An ardent admiration for Charles Dickens was his hallmark, amidst a variety of reading interests.

In music, he came under the spell of SG Kittappa, the singing stage star, like many of his generation. In fact his usage of a high pitch is attributed by many to this. This admiration, added to a musical disposition, led him to begin learning music at the age of 17 from S Narayanaswamy Iyer, a music teacher in the princely state of Pudukottah. Three years later he apprenticed himself with Sangita Kalanidhi Karur Chinnaswami Iyah, the ace violinist, of the Garbhapuri family and Guru to many stars in the Carnatic firmament. At Chinnaswami Iyah’s own suggestion, he moved to Madras and sought the tutelage of Sangita Kalanidhi TS Sabhesa Iyer, a vocalist par excellence and a disciple of Maha Vaidyanatha Iyer himself. For nine years, Subramanya Iyer was to learn from Sabhesa Iyer, a period which saw him absorb his Guru’s greatest asset – an incomparable style of rendering neraval.

In 1920, Subramanya Iyer made his debut at a Sabha in Triplicane, Madras. It was then the practice for most artistes to prefix their village names to their own and the Sabha organizers, perhaps thinking that Bommalapalayam did not sound impressive, announced his name as Musiri Subramanya Iyer. And that was how he came to be known for the rest of his life. This is one of many similar versions, but the name stuck. His career took off in the right direction and he was soon famous. Crowds flocked to hear his emotion packed renditions of such songs as “Tiruvadi Charanam”, “ Nagumomu”, “Entavetukondu”, “Viritta senjadai” and “Pahi Ramachandra”. He left an indelible stamp on them, causing audiences to judge any other artistes rendition of these as inferior. His fame further grew with the introduction of 78 rpm gramophone records, for which industry he was a money spinner.

In 1932, he undertook a visit to the Federated Malay States (then including Singapore), Burma and Ceylon, for raising funds for the Sri Ramakrishna Mission. It was a brave decision in times when it was taboo to “cross the waters” and his impressions of that visit, as written by him are a touching memoir. In 1937, Musiri was invited to act as Tukaram in the film of the same name, produced by business magnates of Coimbatore. Though the film was not a commercial success, its songs were very well received and Musiri added some more emotion packed pieces to his repertoire. His health however received a setback at around this time and he was to remain a victim of lung trouble till his very end.

Till the mid forties, he was a busy concert artiste. The great concert Halls of Carnatic Music, such as the 100 pillared hall, Rockfort, Trichy, the Gokhale Hall, Armenian Street, Madras and the Nellai Sangeetha Sabha, echoed to his voice as thousands gathered to hear. It is said that when he rendered Taye Yashoda or Teyilai Tottatile , there would not be a dry eye in the audience. Packed with bhava, he alone amongst his peers had the magic of portraying multiple emotions in a single line of a song, while still remaining within the contours of a raga. Who could forget the way he interpreted the line beginning “gagana” in Nagumomu?

He was a pioneer in bringing dignity to music as a profession. He broke the superior patron – beseeching musician scheme of things and moved among his admirers as their social equal and not someone to be called and made to perform at will. Senior advocates, lawyers, judges, business magnates and ICS and IAS officers were all his friends, who sought his company for his art and also for the person he was. The former Under Secretary General of the United Nations, CV Narasimhan was his disciple. He was all for dignity as a performing musician. His social graces, his clean lifestyle, the high standard of his English all added to his image.

Many were the honours that came his way. In 1939, he became Sangita Kalanidhi, one of the youngest in terms of age, ever to have got the Music Academy’s prestigious title. In 1963, the Tamil Isai Sangam awarded him the title Isai Perarignar. In 1957, he was given the Sangeeta Nataka Akademi award and in 1968, its fellowship. From 1939, he involved himself in the Tyaga Brahma Mahotsava Sabha, one of the three bodies that govern the worship at Tyagaraja’s Samadhi in Tiruvayyaru. He was also Asthana Vidwan of the erstwhile princely state of Travancore.

In 1949, the Central College of Music, now located at Brodie’s Castle, Madras, was inaugurated and Musiri was appointed its first principal. He came into his own as a tutor and administrator and given his popularity in the field, used his good offices in recruiting some of the very best talent as part of the teaching faculty. With his felicity with language and his experience as a teacher, he was able to bring out the best in his students. Some of the lecture demonstrations that he has given, when heard on tape now, show that he had a sense of humour, that like him was dignified and yet pointed. His simple and lucid explanations on tricky aspects of Raga and Tala, are valuable treatises in today’s environment. Musiri retired from this assignment in 1965.

Musiri was married to Nagalakshmi at the age of 14. They were childless, but lavished their love on an extended family, that comprised near and distant relatives, fellow musicians, aspirants and sishyas. He led a contented and happy life, in the then sylvan surroundings of Oliver Road, Mylapore. He had bought a house there in the 1930s and this is where some of his students such as KS Venkataraman, Sangita Kalanidhis TK Govinda Rao and Mani Krishnaswamy, Smt Suguna Purushottaman and Smt Suguna Varadachari, came to be tutored by him till his demise. He passed away, after a lifetime of achievement, on 24th March, 1975. As a singular token of respect, the road where his house is located is now named after him. A fitting honour for a musician of superlative talent and rare class.