Post by Amritha Varshini on Dec 5, 2014 14:45:30 GMT 5.5
Tyagaraja was his religion - GEETHA VENKATARAMANAN
‘Ramabhakti Samrajyam…’ this was the quintessence of SVK’s personality. His thoughts always centred on Rama, Tyagaraja and Valmiki, the last mentioned linking the first two.
A tall sprightly figure in impeccable white, there was a glint of mischief in those eyes. He always had a joke to share, many times at his own expense, the smile never leaving his face. The short stories that he penned for The Hindu Sunday Magazine were all laced with humour. He even published a collection recently.
Always humming a raga and tapping on the table to keep time, he came across as a connoisseur, who took the music more seriously than he did the musician. This enabled him to call a spade a spade. The opportunity to sing the 24,000 slokas of Valmiki to support the discourse of Sirkazhi Sundarachariar laid the foundation for SVK’s interest in Tyagaraja. Connecting the verses to Tyagaraja’s compositions, he compared the two and found striking similarities. He picked up Sanskrit in the process and learnt Telugu by constantly researching Tyagaraja’s songs. That in fact became his religion and way of worship.
He had read the 24,000 verses seven times, he told a colleague with whom he shared an episode. “One hot afternoon, I found a fakir at my front door. I gave him a small amount thinking he was seeking alms. My wife went in to get him a glass of buttermilk. He gave me a dollar and asked me to keep it in puja. I hesitated but he insisted. I turned to go in and my wife who returned with the buttermilk did not find him. The road stretched long and empty. When I cleaned the dollar I found the figures of Rama, Sita, Lakshmana and Anjaneya.”
The column, ‘Know Your Tyagaraja,’ was an effort to showcase the composer’s bhakti for Rama but in a way, SVK was paying obeisance to the Bard of Tiruvaiyaru. He published each volume with child like enthusiasm, the same happiness he showed when the series on Valmiki and Tyagaraja was published. It was poignant when he thanked the Friday Review team for providing pictures. “It is a document for posterity and you have embellished it,” he said.
Always eager to write a curtain raiser to the Tiruvaiyaru aradhana, he withdrew as he found few musicians attending the event. In a choked voice he once remarked, “They earn fame and name singing his kritis but stay away from the annual homage.”
According to him, a concert without the compositions of the Trinity was a futile exercise and one without Tyagaraja was absolutely useless. He had reached a point when he stopped attending concerts of musicians, whom he felt, were not on the same wavelength. Ironically, some of them, in their formative years, had been generously complemented by him. “They have all grown, their music not my cup of tea anymore,” he would observe ruefully.
He firmly believed in music as a vehicle of devotion, an understanding of the sahitya indispensable. Diction therefore was sacrosanct and melody crucial. Swaraprasthara, alapana and other technicalities did not matter to him. “Who wants pyrotechnics? Arithmetic is not music. Ariyakkudi, (Palghat) Mani Iyer and Semmangudi gave the essence of raga in a two-minute alapana. That’s all is required,” he observed.
“But you can’t blame the artist for indulging in kanakku-vazhakku. The audience erupts into applause after a long swara sally and an elongated alapana. It is heady,” he would sigh.
Sukanubhava was the word he often used. “Music should spread tranquillity, give the listener peace.” Anything else was dismissed as noise and gimmick. He kept going back to certain artists precisely for this reason – they showed respect for the musical values, which he cherished. Never mind if he was accused of bias. Most of his reviews had a preamble touching upon his pet philosophy. “Somehow accommodate the lines. If it moves one young aspirant I’ll be happy,” he would say.
Tyagaraja Rasanubhava, a monthly programme held under the aegis of Sri Krishna Gana Sabha was an extension of this thought. “Yes,” agrees Y. Prabhu, secretary of the sabha. “The programme was conceived to lay the accent on sahitya and bhava. He attended almost all the concerts, and reviewed most, of the series that continued for nearly two years,” he adds.
For the first time in six decades, The Hindu’s Music Season supplements will not have reviews by SVK. Prompt in delivering, his reviews arrived well before the deadline. Only they were hand written. What if we couldn’t decipher a word? “Call me or cut it out,” he would quip. As an allowance he wrote the songs in upper case.
To use a cliché, an era has passed. Devotion to music, Tyagaraja and his ishta devata and uncompromising standards of criticism, he stood for an extraordinary combination.
We’ll miss you SVK!
A forceful critic
BOMBAY JAYASHRI
I would like to talk from a rasikas’s standpoint, rather than a vidwan. SVK’s ‘Know Your Tyagaraja’ (4 volumes) and his recent book on ‘Valmiki Ramayana and Tyagaraja’ which I had the privilege of launching, are treasures that offer deep insights into the saint’s kritis. His reviews offered valuable inputs for rasikas, music connoisseurs and performing artists. He was a reference point not only for the music but also for his language. I feel blessed to have known him both as a rasika and a vidwan.
T.M. KRISHNA
I knew SVK Sir for over two decades. He stands out as one of those rare individuals who really understood the role of a critic. He perceived music experientially as a rasika and a singer, was in love with Carnatic music and hence, his views were strong and forceful. I did not necessarily agree with his thoughts on music or its practice. I had strong differences with him regarding his obsession with the Ariyakudi idea of a concert and his tendency to look at compositions only from within Tyagaraja’s prism. But this does not in anyway diminish my respect for his serious, intense and passionate involvement with Carnatic music.
As a human being, he was a wonderful man, a friend. I still remember one December morning when his review of my concert had appeared that day in The Hindu. We met, by accident, at the Music Academy, and had breakfast together. We discussed styles, ragas, compositions, musicians and composers. A lovely conversation with laughter, anecdotes and serious analysis. But we never discussed his review, not because either one of us was uncomfortable doing it, but we understood each other’s position. I was a young man many years his junior, but he never expected me to ask him about the review. This stays with me as an example of a person who could hold friendships beyond the barriers of generations and beliefs. A truly remarkable man!
K. GAYATHRI
SVK mama was definitely a critic par excellence. He had been reviewing my concerts quite regularly in the past six-seven years. Each review of his was perfectly judged, and impeccable. Whenever I wished him “Namaskaram,’ his spontaneous response would be, “Hmmm… Enna samaacharam?” It still rings in my ears. He had a soft corner for Tyagaraja. In one of my concerts, my main piece was not by Tyagaraja. At that point, he advised me to include as many Tyagaraja kritis as possible and also songs popularised by Semmangudi, Ariyakkudi and the likes. He was also concerned about how an artist’s career was shaping up. I will miss him a lot.
GAYATHRI GIRISH
For me, SVK’s name is synonymous with Tyagaraja kritis. He has often advised me to delve into Tyagaraja’s philosophy while singing his kritis. His reviews may have been scathing at times, but I feel they should be taken in the right perspective. His in-depth knowledge of Valmiki Ramayana and the way he could relate it to Tyagaraja kritis helped musicians immensely. I shall miss him a lot.
Epitome of simplicity
How did SVK come across to a young person? His nephew, D.M. RAMESH, marvels at his uncle’s simplicity despite his stature as the music critic of a leading newspaper. He recalls his uncle in his prime, travelling in crowded buses but making the journey pleasurable by singing songs unobtrusively. Excerpts from a tribute:
“Clad in veshti and shirt sleeves rolled up, Sivaji Ganesan style, can you imagine that he could not only sing but also play the veena and the violin? He had a deep understanding of Keynes, was well versed in Shakespeare and had great appreciation for Shelley.
“His favourite pastime was gardening, in which I was his partner. We knew that it was a lost cause - what with the warm weather, brackish water and poor soil conditions, but he wouldn’t give up. Such was his love for Nature.
“One thing I couldn’t understand was why the biggest room in his house was the bathroom. Perhaps, that was where he could launch into full-throated singing. Otherwise any place was his concert hall – the bus stop, a swing on which he used to spend hours or the barber shop.
“When it came to critiquing, we all know that his pen was sometimes dipped in acid. But what I can say with certainty is that nobody could influence him.
“In keeping with the SVV family trait, he never wore religion on his sleeve or across the left shoulder. But he knew a lot more of Hindu religion than all those who flaunted their faith. He was the one who influenced me and gave me the confidence that it was alright to go against the grain.
“It was a surprise to me when one day he told me that he had a wardrobe full of suits, countless shoes and ties while he was young. He discarded them all one fine day! A modern day rishi, not in ochre but in white.
“I failed miserably when he tutored me on the basics of vocal, exacting standard being one of the reasons. Yet I am happy that by merely observing him, I have learnt to appreciate English and absorb finer points of art and poetry. More than that, I have understood the true meaning of ‘still waters run deep’ and can recognise empty vessels. The wisdom of sifting the grain from the chaff is not given to all and I thank Periappa for giving me this ability.”
Courtesy - The Hindu, December 5, 2014
‘Ramabhakti Samrajyam…’ this was the quintessence of SVK’s personality. His thoughts always centred on Rama, Tyagaraja and Valmiki, the last mentioned linking the first two.
A tall sprightly figure in impeccable white, there was a glint of mischief in those eyes. He always had a joke to share, many times at his own expense, the smile never leaving his face. The short stories that he penned for The Hindu Sunday Magazine were all laced with humour. He even published a collection recently.
Always humming a raga and tapping on the table to keep time, he came across as a connoisseur, who took the music more seriously than he did the musician. This enabled him to call a spade a spade. The opportunity to sing the 24,000 slokas of Valmiki to support the discourse of Sirkazhi Sundarachariar laid the foundation for SVK’s interest in Tyagaraja. Connecting the verses to Tyagaraja’s compositions, he compared the two and found striking similarities. He picked up Sanskrit in the process and learnt Telugu by constantly researching Tyagaraja’s songs. That in fact became his religion and way of worship.
He had read the 24,000 verses seven times, he told a colleague with whom he shared an episode. “One hot afternoon, I found a fakir at my front door. I gave him a small amount thinking he was seeking alms. My wife went in to get him a glass of buttermilk. He gave me a dollar and asked me to keep it in puja. I hesitated but he insisted. I turned to go in and my wife who returned with the buttermilk did not find him. The road stretched long and empty. When I cleaned the dollar I found the figures of Rama, Sita, Lakshmana and Anjaneya.”
The column, ‘Know Your Tyagaraja,’ was an effort to showcase the composer’s bhakti for Rama but in a way, SVK was paying obeisance to the Bard of Tiruvaiyaru. He published each volume with child like enthusiasm, the same happiness he showed when the series on Valmiki and Tyagaraja was published. It was poignant when he thanked the Friday Review team for providing pictures. “It is a document for posterity and you have embellished it,” he said.
Always eager to write a curtain raiser to the Tiruvaiyaru aradhana, he withdrew as he found few musicians attending the event. In a choked voice he once remarked, “They earn fame and name singing his kritis but stay away from the annual homage.”
According to him, a concert without the compositions of the Trinity was a futile exercise and one without Tyagaraja was absolutely useless. He had reached a point when he stopped attending concerts of musicians, whom he felt, were not on the same wavelength. Ironically, some of them, in their formative years, had been generously complemented by him. “They have all grown, their music not my cup of tea anymore,” he would observe ruefully.
He firmly believed in music as a vehicle of devotion, an understanding of the sahitya indispensable. Diction therefore was sacrosanct and melody crucial. Swaraprasthara, alapana and other technicalities did not matter to him. “Who wants pyrotechnics? Arithmetic is not music. Ariyakkudi, (Palghat) Mani Iyer and Semmangudi gave the essence of raga in a two-minute alapana. That’s all is required,” he observed.
“But you can’t blame the artist for indulging in kanakku-vazhakku. The audience erupts into applause after a long swara sally and an elongated alapana. It is heady,” he would sigh.
Sukanubhava was the word he often used. “Music should spread tranquillity, give the listener peace.” Anything else was dismissed as noise and gimmick. He kept going back to certain artists precisely for this reason – they showed respect for the musical values, which he cherished. Never mind if he was accused of bias. Most of his reviews had a preamble touching upon his pet philosophy. “Somehow accommodate the lines. If it moves one young aspirant I’ll be happy,” he would say.
Tyagaraja Rasanubhava, a monthly programme held under the aegis of Sri Krishna Gana Sabha was an extension of this thought. “Yes,” agrees Y. Prabhu, secretary of the sabha. “The programme was conceived to lay the accent on sahitya and bhava. He attended almost all the concerts, and reviewed most, of the series that continued for nearly two years,” he adds.
For the first time in six decades, The Hindu’s Music Season supplements will not have reviews by SVK. Prompt in delivering, his reviews arrived well before the deadline. Only they were hand written. What if we couldn’t decipher a word? “Call me or cut it out,” he would quip. As an allowance he wrote the songs in upper case.
To use a cliché, an era has passed. Devotion to music, Tyagaraja and his ishta devata and uncompromising standards of criticism, he stood for an extraordinary combination.
We’ll miss you SVK!
A forceful critic
BOMBAY JAYASHRI
I would like to talk from a rasikas’s standpoint, rather than a vidwan. SVK’s ‘Know Your Tyagaraja’ (4 volumes) and his recent book on ‘Valmiki Ramayana and Tyagaraja’ which I had the privilege of launching, are treasures that offer deep insights into the saint’s kritis. His reviews offered valuable inputs for rasikas, music connoisseurs and performing artists. He was a reference point not only for the music but also for his language. I feel blessed to have known him both as a rasika and a vidwan.
T.M. KRISHNA
I knew SVK Sir for over two decades. He stands out as one of those rare individuals who really understood the role of a critic. He perceived music experientially as a rasika and a singer, was in love with Carnatic music and hence, his views were strong and forceful. I did not necessarily agree with his thoughts on music or its practice. I had strong differences with him regarding his obsession with the Ariyakudi idea of a concert and his tendency to look at compositions only from within Tyagaraja’s prism. But this does not in anyway diminish my respect for his serious, intense and passionate involvement with Carnatic music.
As a human being, he was a wonderful man, a friend. I still remember one December morning when his review of my concert had appeared that day in The Hindu. We met, by accident, at the Music Academy, and had breakfast together. We discussed styles, ragas, compositions, musicians and composers. A lovely conversation with laughter, anecdotes and serious analysis. But we never discussed his review, not because either one of us was uncomfortable doing it, but we understood each other’s position. I was a young man many years his junior, but he never expected me to ask him about the review. This stays with me as an example of a person who could hold friendships beyond the barriers of generations and beliefs. A truly remarkable man!
K. GAYATHRI
SVK mama was definitely a critic par excellence. He had been reviewing my concerts quite regularly in the past six-seven years. Each review of his was perfectly judged, and impeccable. Whenever I wished him “Namaskaram,’ his spontaneous response would be, “Hmmm… Enna samaacharam?” It still rings in my ears. He had a soft corner for Tyagaraja. In one of my concerts, my main piece was not by Tyagaraja. At that point, he advised me to include as many Tyagaraja kritis as possible and also songs popularised by Semmangudi, Ariyakkudi and the likes. He was also concerned about how an artist’s career was shaping up. I will miss him a lot.
GAYATHRI GIRISH
For me, SVK’s name is synonymous with Tyagaraja kritis. He has often advised me to delve into Tyagaraja’s philosophy while singing his kritis. His reviews may have been scathing at times, but I feel they should be taken in the right perspective. His in-depth knowledge of Valmiki Ramayana and the way he could relate it to Tyagaraja kritis helped musicians immensely. I shall miss him a lot.
Epitome of simplicity
How did SVK come across to a young person? His nephew, D.M. RAMESH, marvels at his uncle’s simplicity despite his stature as the music critic of a leading newspaper. He recalls his uncle in his prime, travelling in crowded buses but making the journey pleasurable by singing songs unobtrusively. Excerpts from a tribute:
“Clad in veshti and shirt sleeves rolled up, Sivaji Ganesan style, can you imagine that he could not only sing but also play the veena and the violin? He had a deep understanding of Keynes, was well versed in Shakespeare and had great appreciation for Shelley.
“His favourite pastime was gardening, in which I was his partner. We knew that it was a lost cause - what with the warm weather, brackish water and poor soil conditions, but he wouldn’t give up. Such was his love for Nature.
“One thing I couldn’t understand was why the biggest room in his house was the bathroom. Perhaps, that was where he could launch into full-throated singing. Otherwise any place was his concert hall – the bus stop, a swing on which he used to spend hours or the barber shop.
“When it came to critiquing, we all know that his pen was sometimes dipped in acid. But what I can say with certainty is that nobody could influence him.
“In keeping with the SVV family trait, he never wore religion on his sleeve or across the left shoulder. But he knew a lot more of Hindu religion than all those who flaunted their faith. He was the one who influenced me and gave me the confidence that it was alright to go against the grain.
“It was a surprise to me when one day he told me that he had a wardrobe full of suits, countless shoes and ties while he was young. He discarded them all one fine day! A modern day rishi, not in ochre but in white.
“I failed miserably when he tutored me on the basics of vocal, exacting standard being one of the reasons. Yet I am happy that by merely observing him, I have learnt to appreciate English and absorb finer points of art and poetry. More than that, I have understood the true meaning of ‘still waters run deep’ and can recognise empty vessels. The wisdom of sifting the grain from the chaff is not given to all and I thank Periappa for giving me this ability.”
Courtesy - The Hindu, December 5, 2014