The charm of music

In the serene surroundings by the river Cauvery, we walked into a tiny structure that was a memorial built by in honour of the great saint musician Thyagaraja

Though I consider myself an amateur in the world of Carnatic music, nothing has ever stayed close to my heart more than South Indian classical music. I believe that only this can bring me peace when I want it. I have paid my dues, too, somewhat. When I was done with my college degrees and waited for a teaching job to surface on the bleak horizon, I decided to make use of the gap time by learning to play the flute. I enrolled in the Ayyanar College of Music, freshly started by Vidwan T Chowdiah, and was assigned M R Doreswamy as my teacher. Wrong timing. Wrong instrument. A teaching job materialised after a few months, and I had to stop. My teacher, however, was very disappointed, for after teaching me the first Thyagagaraja kirthana, he had planned a few adventurous voyages in the field for me.

I pursued my interest in the art by attending katcheris by amateurs and masters alike whenever and wherever possible; Gayana Samaja programmes and Ramanavami performances were excellent sources for this. As a result, I also honed my skills enough to recognise ragas, talas, and everything in between. When it was time to get married, to my great joy, my husband was equally dedicated to listening to Carnatic music and had an appreciative taste.

In the year 1975, when we came to India on vacation with our three young children, we decided to go on a south India trip by car. We stopped at many temples until the children complained that they were coming out of their ears! We covered Thiruvallur, Thiruvarur, and Thiruchendur and found ourselves heading to that famous music centre, Thiruvaiyaru.

Once here, in the serene surroundings by the river Cauvery, we walked into a tiny structure that we were told was a memorial built by Bangalore Nagarathnamma in honour of the great saint musician Thyagaraja. This was an open monument that we could walk into. The walls all around were inscribed with the first two lines of many compositions by Thyagaraja. There were still some blank spots for more entries, and we were told anyone who paid a certain amount of money could have their favourite songs recognised there permanently.

Excited over the opportunity, my husband and I launched into a discussion on the songs we should choose. We moved on to the favourite songs of our mothers. “Kuttima always liked to sing Kalaharana,” he said. My mother liked Kanugontini, you know, that lilting song with dance-like steps.

Our nine-year-old son interrupted our argument, asking, “What is it now?”

We explained to him how we could inscribe our favourite songs forever for a little money. He looked up and around at the walls and looked puzzled. “If you guys like some special songs, why don’t you learn and sing them any number of times, whenever you want?” he added.

I noticed my husband had already started walking away!