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Music & Dance
Thanjavur - not the cradle of music anymore
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Music is no more seen as a full time spiritual pursuit or a viable career option. The aspirants would rather go to Chennai where it is a market commodity, says GOWRI RAMNARAYAN on the situation in Thanjavur.
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Sri Brihadiswara Temple... art was nurtured here.
FOR THE Carnatic musician, Thanjavur is a name to conjure with, a matrix of knowledge, heritage and inspiration. It is the birthplace of musicians and composers including the Trinity — Thyagaraja, Muthuswami Dikshitar and Syama Sastri; of theoreticians like Venkatamakhi who codified the raga scheme. It nourished the bhajana tradition through saint poets like Sadasiva Brahmendra; shaped the multilingual, multigenre art of the Harikatha, or narration of myths through poetry, music and theatre. Splendid dance music was composed by the Thanjavur quartet who systematised Bharatanatyam, while imposing dance operas were created by Melattur Venkatarama Sastri and Saliamangalam Panchanatha Bhagavatar.
A drive through the district is to pass through villages associated with masters of music. The town itself bristles with memories. To go to the Big Temple is to recall Muthuswamy Dikshitar or Ponniah Pillai singing their tributes to Brihadisa. At the Bangaru Kamakshi shrine you are lost in remembering the magnificent gems Syama Sastri showered upon Her in Anandabhairavi, Chintamani, Manji, Saveri... You walk to his house behind the temple. Close your eyes and you see Sastri and Dikshitar on the tinnai, completing together the varnam left unfinished by the latter's father.
The twentieth century saw the migration of musicians from the banks of the Cauvery to the bustling streets of Chennai. Few were content to remain in Thanjavur, some returned only to spend the war years. Yet, up until 50-60 years ago the district was home to fine artistes, Kalyanakrishna Bhagavatar, Tiruvizhimizhalai Subramania Pillai, composer Sankara Iyer, Lakshminarayana Iyer, O. V. Subramanian (father of O. S. Tyagarajan), Mahalingam Pillai (father of T. M. Tyagarajan) and short-term residents like Palghat Mani Iyer and Papa Venkatramiah. Any visiting vidwan would be nervous to perform before such a galaxy.
T. K. Ramachandran
Today a few adamant artistes remain, paying the price of marginalisation. A Kamala Murthy and a Kalyanapuram Aravamudan may rue the waning glory of their art (Harikatha), but a Venkatesa Aiyangar and an Udayshankar Joshi face neglect even in this globe trotting age of Carnatic music. The former is a musician's musician, the latter an expert in rare ragas. Tirukkarugavur Srinivasaraghavan has to remain content to be known as a singer of Melattur dance operas. ``The arts flourished here as part of temple worship. With little money to maintain the temples, how can we find support for the arts? Nor is Thanjavur an industrial town with corporate sponsorship,'' says Prince Babaji Raja Bhonsle, a descendant of the Maratha rulers. He mentions a few efforts, like the annual festival on Rajaraja Chola's birth anniversary, the South Zone Cultural Centre's monthly concerts at the Big Temple, and its classes for the performing arts. ``Hardly enough, but it can grow,'' he says hopefully.
Local artistes do not share the hope. The seniors remember glorious recitals at Sivagangai Garden, the Hanuman Sannidhi Utsavam and the old Tyagabrahma Sabha. ``Everyday I sing, listen to music, and weep,'' sighs Venkatesa Aiyangar. ``Music has left Thanjavur. Why? Because no one sees it as a full time spiritual pursuit to invest time and energy, or risk taking it up as a profession. They'd rather go to Chennai where it is a market commodity.'' Teaching holds no great prospects, tuition fees do not rise above Rs. 400. Yet Aiyangar has trained fine disciples in Tiruvaiyaru Narasimhan, Venkatesan, and Melattur Prabhakaran. What he treasures are vignettes of Semmangudi telling him, ``Don't let go of Ghanta raga, it is your heritage.'' Or of Thanjavur Vaidyanatha Iyer making him sing in his mridangam classes for disciples like Umayalpuram Sivaraman to learn to accompany kritis. ``I won praise from Ariyakudi, Viswanatha Iyer and Chittoor Subramania Pillai for my Harikatha. Few mridangam players could accompany me when I sang in the usi rhythms,'' says T. M. Subramania Bhagavatar, kadukkan flashing to the tantalising rhythms he demonstrates. A world of petromax lit theatres and ``talkies'' awaited him where he found himself in Nawab Rajamanickam Pillai's theatre company. But Carnatic music was still an asset, as theatre tents echoed with shouts asking for ``Evarani'' and ``Vatapi Ganapatim''! Next came films like ``Hariharamaya.'' Anecdotes follow — about Natesa Iyer who partnered M. S. Subbulakshmi in ``Sevasadanam"; M. N. Nambiar who washed his seniors' veshtis in the drama company; C. S. Jayaraman who played Nandanar to Bhagavatar's brahmin; and of movies where the whole cast was male, shrill-voiced boys singing the ``stri part" female roles. In the sad present, not a single disciple among the 25-30 women he trained has taken up Harikatha as a profession. ``Boys don't come, even when the coaching is free." Veteran Kamala Murthy too rues the neglect of the Harikatha genre which fed the ripe music of her times. ``Titans like Mangudi Chidambara Bhagavatar, Sulamangalam Vaidyanatha Bhagavatar, my guru Annasami Bhagavatar, Tiruvarur Vamana Bhagavatar, Saraswatibai, each with a distinct style, established Thanjavur as the capital of the multicultural art of Harikatha. A question mark hangs over its future.''
Instrumental music seems to fare no better. ``Once singers absorbed the essence of melody from the nagaswaram artiste. Now pipers learn from vocalists.'' T. M. Kodandapani, disciple of Rajaratnam, has his own memories. Didn't he play among four sets of top notch nagaswaram artistes at a wedding in his guru's house with film stars N. S. Krishnan, Tyagaraja Bhagavatar, K. Sarangapani in the front row? He gives reasons for the downfall. Sabhas in the town opt for Madras performers rather than locals. At music colleges the students are taught songs but not trained in the profounder aspects of improvisation. Practice is minimal. Public interest has diminished along with discernment. No longer is the best nagaswaram sought for family weddings. Cooks (hired on contract) are left to engage the cheapest piper. Nobody listens to an expansive Kedaragowlai, at the most there is applause for ``Kurai Onrum Illai." There are fewer teachers for violin, veena or percussion instruments,'' agrees Dr. R. Kausalya, Principal, Tiruvaiyaru Music College. ``Students too don't stretch themselves, nor are there the rasikas to spur on achievements.''
One of the few younger mridangists who can meet the exacting standards of Harikatha, T. K. Ramachandran, says that he has a satisfactory career in and out of Thanjavur. But he too shakes his head over the current scene in his hometown. ``No sabha, no concert, no listeners'' is the refrain after years of struggling to make a go of Tanjavur Krishna Gana Sabha with an annual subscription as low as Rs 150. Even door-to-door ticket sales could not draw audiences. ``Can't afford to pay the artistes well, nor guarantee a crowd though there is a better response for Madras artistes.'' He is happier with training students, including disabled and disadvantaged children. ``We don't get Madras fees, but I am content to do my best. I insist that students must listen to good music. In fact that is one of the reasons why I persisted for so long with thankless sabha work.''
T. M. Kodhandaraman
Longtime rasika R. Rajaraman declares, ``When I settled here after retirement I never knew that apart from the annual Thyagaraja utsavam, the region would be so bereft of music. There is no infrastructure for the art to grow, no popular press or media to ensure publicity.'' The town has good teachers still, but research facilities are poor. Parents don't encourage children to choose music as a career because they feel it is a risk. They would rather pay for karate classes.'' More girls take music lessons than boys, but they discontinue after marriage. Her years as a Thanjavur resident have made vocalist Syamala Rangarajan realise the reasons for the dimming of Carnatic music in an ancient town where once the art blazed in splendour. Like the artistes, the serious students migrate to Chennai, as they have better recognition if trained by a Chennai guru. ``Youngsters believe that even in music competitions, small town residents are discriminated against.'' Besides, Thanjavur offers little scope for enrichment through listening. The artistes get little exposure. Whether sabha or temple festival, they have to wait years for their turn in concert schedules, accompanists have to come from elsewhere. The town has no forum for exchange of ideas. Any motivation to persist has to be self-induced.
Finally, you want to know what happened to the abhang tradition nurtured by the eight maths established in Thanjavur by the Maratha saint Samartha Ramdas. So you meet retired physics teacher S. Anantha Rao, who hails from a Killedar family, guardians of old Maratha forts. ``A hundred desistha (migrant) Maharashtrian families live in Thanjavur. Our culture and our language have become Tamilised. Our lavani tradition has vanished with the Maratha kings. We still sing abhangs, though in Carnatic ragas. There is little interest in old traditions today.''
Your last pilgrimage is to Varahappier Lane, to the images of Rama and Sita, worshipped by Thyagaraja, now in the home of his descendants. Such tiny figures triggering such colossal music! Are they to remain merely as memories?
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