ILaiyaraaja - The Harmonious Musician

What happens when all the five senses combine together? Is there a fallacy in this statement? Is it not a fact that all the senses operate all the time for all humans?

 Yes, but these operate independently doing their respective duties as and when required. But my question is different. When all these combine together at the same time, what one senses will be different and is a unique experience difficult to describe. In fact, one even loses the sense of each organ. This happens during deep meditation. 

 One of the great poets in Tamizh, Appar-a.k.a. Thirunaavukkarasar, says something about the senses and let us see how it makes sense: 

 ஓசை ஒலி எலாம் ஆனாய் நீயே 

உலகுக்கு ஒருவனாய் நின்றாய் நீயே 

வாச மலரெலாம் ஆனாய் நீயே 

மலையான் மருகனாய் நின்றாய் நீயே 

பேசப் பெரிதும் இனியாய் நீயே 

பிரானாய் அடி என்மேல் வைத்தாய் நீயே 

தேச விளக்கு எலாம் ஆனாய் நீயே 

திருவையாறு அகலாத செம்பொன் சோதீ. 

  You are the sound, You are the Only one. 

You are the fragrant flowers(or the fragrance in the flowers). 

You are the son-in-law of the King of the Mountains.

 You are the sweetest(uttering Your name makes the words sweet). 

And you kept Your feet on my head. 

You are the radiance in everything. You are the eternal flame at Thiruvaiyaaru.

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 What I have given is the literal translation. But there is more to this than meets the eye and I shall deal with just some aspects. The very first line says ‘Osai’ followed by ‘Oli’. Don’t both mean the same? Superficially speaking, yes. Scratch the surface and you will find something more. In Tamizh, there are just a few letters which give meanings as stand-alone letters. For example- Aa, Poo, Maa- the first one meaning the cow, the second one the flower and the third one the mango. All other letters don’t give meanings on their own. And this is what the king of tongue(Naavukkarasar) means when he says ‘Osai’. ‘Oli’ is produced when the letters combine together. The esoteric meaning is that any sound-meaningless noise or meaningful sound- is You. 

 Moreover, in the temple at Thiruvaiyaaru( Shiva whose name is Panchanadeeswara), the western side at the third praakaara is called the ‘Sabda oli praakaraa’ and there is a small hole at the north west corner. It is said that if one places his/her mouth into that small hole and say something, the sound echoes and reverberates. Moving on, it can be clearly seen that the verse talks about hearing, smell, taste, touch and seeing- the five senses in our body. I shall stop here as the verse is deeper requiring further elucidation which in a way is beyond the scope of this forum. The bottom line- Five senses join together in a spiritual experience.

 Needless to say, Music is a spiritual experience as well, especially in the hands of geniuses. One such spiritual experience is the composition ‘Shiva Pujaku’ from Swarna Kamalam (1988). 

 The drone of the tanpura fills the ears, the heart and surrounds us. The bells sound twice in Tisram. The mrudangam sounds 'ta ka dhi mi ta –' four times(3 broken into 6 with the kaarvai at the end). Isn’t this enough to cast a spell? SPB sings the first line, first without percussion and then with percussion. The raga called Valaji gets sketched in the hands of the artiste now. SPB sings a line and the chorus renders ‘Siri siri muvva’(the bell on the anklet). The percussion which backed SPB remains quiet during the chorus section as if to suggest that after all, the anklets are as spiritual as silence.

 It is the turn of Suseela now and in a trice the complexion changes. This has to do with two things. First, the percussion instruments change though the time signature and the pattern remain the same. There are two sets of percussion, one sounding ‘ta ka dhi –‘ and the other sounding ‘ta ka’. As Suseela renders each line, the sitar sounds two notes in the gap and this seems like the crescent of top of Shiva’s matted hair.

 The second thing is interesting and it has to do with the meaning of the lines and in fact even the theme of the song. People who have watched the movie know that the protagonist (a.k.a. Hero) spots the beautiful dancer in the lady(a.k.a. Heroine). However, the lady does not want to be confined to anything and wants to be a free bird. In the Pallavi, the male voice hails the anklet, which he says blossomed like a flower for ‘Shiva Puja’, the female voice talks about the ‘ship of imagination’ which should not bow its head to the waves.

 Same raga; same tune; yet the mood is different!

 The violin plays with grace. The sitar responds with finesse. The violin plays again, this time a more nuanced melody. The sitar responds again, exquisitely but with a slight change of notes. This exchange of melody in the first interlude, gives some ornate and yet simple images of Valaji. Like the Godavari, the group of violins moves with elegance. The river then flows with ebullience finally playing the descending notes of the raga in a flash. 

 The lines in the CharaNams talk about the stars in the west which twinkle in the night and the brightness in the east, imploring the dancer in the lady to mould her heartbeats to make it sound like the Omkara. 

 The complexion changes yet again with the instruments led by the Shehnai and buttressed by the violins, turning folksy. What is to be noted is that the crux of Valaji is retained despite the improvisation.

 Beguilingly beautiful! 

 The CharaNam continues in the same melody in the voice of Suseela and it explores the wonders of nature and therefore the beauty of freedom. 

 ‘With the breeze of happiness guiding you, keep sailing. Let a new song and a melody wake you up everyday and let the moonlight drift alongside’. 

 The mrudangam and the ankle bells weave intricate jati patterns in two cycles of Adi taaLam. Five senses combine together. 

 You are the Sound.. You are the Fragrance..You are the Taste..You are the Feeling.. You are the Vision..

 It is the blossoming of the thousand petalled Golden Lotus!

PS: This post was written as part of the 8th Anniversary celebrations of 'ILaiyaraaja- The Master' Group on Facebook.

 
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ILaiyaraaja – The Natural Spring

 

Certain things happen by itself. One doesn’t plan nor does one even think. Yet such things come out perfectly and are even more perfect and precise than things which are executed as per plan.

How do these happen?

Before answering this or even trying to answer this, let us see a verse:

தீரப் பயோததி திக்கும் ஆகாயமும்
செகதலமும் நின்று சுழலத்

திகழ்கின்ற முடி மவுலி சிதறி விழ வெம் சிகைத்
தீக்கொப்புளிக்க வெருளும்

பாரப் பணாமுடி அநந்தன் முதல் அரவெலாம்
பதைபதைத்தே நடுங்கப்

படர் சக்ரவாளகிரி துகள் பட வையாளி வரு
பச்சை ப்ரவாள மயிலாம். 

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This poem describes the dance of the peacock. Generally, the dance of the peacock is associated with grace, elegance and subtleness. But here it is the contrast.

Great Seas and Oceans, Eight directions (Dishas), the sky, and the earth (bhooloka) rotate with force; Thousand locks fall from the heavy, fire-spewing hot hoods of the fear stuck Adisesha and the other serpents as they tremble with fear; The huge ChakravaaLa mountain breaks into pieces; All these happen when the peacock-with the green and coral hued feathers- takes its beautiful flight and dances.

 

Peacock and aggression? Peacock and anger? Peacock and temper?

Well, why not? - says AruNagirinathar, the 15^th Century poet who lived in that divine place called ThiruvaNNamalai and whose works are as vast as the Indian Ocean.

Why does this peacock dance?

Is it to tell the world that at times aggression is needed? Is it to show the world that even gracefulness can turn into aggression when the need arises? Or is to just say that things happen by itself and one just needs to admire it rather than questioning it?

I would say-all the three- though I would go with the last mentioned because of my propensity to take and view things as they are.

Certain things just happen.

Poetry happened to AruNagirinathar. Music happened to ILaiyaraaja.

When we see a magnificent waterfalls, do we ask ‘Oh, why is this falling?’

When we see a bird fly, do we ask, ‘Oh, why is it flying?’

When we feel the breeze, do we wonder, ‘Oh, why is it blowing?’

Likewise, poetry happens; Art happens; Music happens.

Take this song –  Maanami idi idikka from Unnai Nenaicchen Paattu Padicchen (1992). Based purely on Mayamalavagowla, a raga known for its classicism and divinity, the composition flows like a river from the mountain.

The beginning itself suggests this. The violins gush in higher octave and move with vigour. Even the keys which interject the violins, seem to have been awe-struck by the force. It just gives a mystic smile and disappears. The percussion too moves with the same momentum in Tisram. After a while, the chorus hums in its own inimitable way with the flute entering like a lightning in between and disappearing before we bat our eyelids. The percussion plays Tisram in mel kalam and guides us to the Pallavi.

If we saw the lightning in the prelude, we see the thunder in the Pallavi. Only difference is that this thunder is melodious in the voice of SPB and Janaki. The bass guitar is as subtle as ever and at the same time is resonant. Can subtle and resonance go together? If thunder and lightning can go together, why not these two as well- says the flute towards the end of the Pallavi.

The flute continues its journey calling out like a cuckoo in the beginning of the first interlude. After a pause, it responds to its own call and then starts going around showing us some myriad hues of the great raga. The strings back the flute now and then, but this backing is a little different. It is done imperceptibly and with precision, sounding as if ‘Ok, I am here too, but I give major space to you’. The sound from the keys too seems to suggest appreciation for the camaraderie between the two.

The chorus continues in Mayamalavagowla and the strings decorate it, showing flashes of brilliance towards the end.

The first segment of the CharaNam sees a mix of higher-octave swaras and the mid-octave swaras while the second segment sees the ascending and the descending notes. The third segment moves with fluidity touching the corners of the raga with finesse.

With satin like smoothness, the bells sound the swaras of the raga in ‘ta ka dhi mi/ta ka, in the beginning of the second interlude. Even as it plays, the chorus sings the akaaram and it sounds like a lullaby. The akaaram continues with richness as the percussion joins now. It seems like an undulating terrain with the bells entering now and then. We reach the summit along with the strings and are enveloped by the quiet stillness.

Stillness after ebullience? How did it happen?

Certain things just happen.. like the dance of the peacock!

 

 

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ILaiyaraaja- The Dazzling Musician

 

What makes a poem beautiful?

Is it the words used? Is it the way these are used? Is it the description? Or is there anything beyond all these?

Here is a poem from Kalitthogai, which is part of the Cangam literature:

ஒரு குழை ஒருவன் போல், இணர் சேர்ந்த மராஅமும்

பருதி அம் செல்வன் போல், நனை ஊழ்த்த செருந்தியும்

மீன் ஏற்றுக் கொடியோன் போல், மிஞிறு ஆர்க்கும் காஞ்சியும்

ஏனோன் போல், நிறம் கிளர்பு கஞலிய ஞாழலும்

தீது தீர் சிறப்பின் ஐவர்கள் நிலை போல

போது அவிழ் மரத்தொடு பொருகரை கவின் பெற

நோ தக வந்தறால், இளவேனில்

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The Kadamba(Oak) tree with clusters of flowers resembles Balarama with a single ear ring, the Cherunthi (Golden blossom) tree with its red buds resembles the Sun, with the bees humming, the Kanchi(Portia) tree resembles the one with the fish flag(Manmatha), the gnaazhal tress resembles Saama, the brother of Manmatha, the ilavam (Silk cotton) resembles the one whose flag has the bull(Shiva). With these 5 trees resembling the faultless 5 Gods, the shore looks beautiful. But alas! The shore is attacked by the waves. Early summer has set in.

The heroine who is filled with love and therefore filled with thoughts about her man, describes the different trees and compares each tree with a God(note that Balarama and even Saama, who is little known and who is supposedly the brother of Kaama, are considered as Gods here!). But unable to bear the separation, she says that the summer has set in just to trouble her.

While the beauty of the trees reminds her of the days when she was with him, the waves and the summer show the reality, that is the separation. Moreover, Manmatha and his brother are soft while the other three are aggressive. Can contrasts get any better than this?

What makes the poem beautiful- words, their usage, the description, the similes or the contrasts?

The answer is - all of the above plus that ‘something’ which cannot be described but which can be felt by the reader.

It is this ‘something’ which makes a work exceptional and matchless.

On this special day, let us look at one such work which though is not a poem, has that remarkable beauty. After all, isn’t great music, poetic and great poem, musical?

Without a trace of doubt, ‘Meenkodi theril Manmatha raajan’ from ‘Karumbu Vil’(1980) is musically poetic. It is a romantic song of course, but the very mention of Kaama’s name gives it a special complexion and must have made the composer tune it in Mohanam, a raga which is happy, romantic and classical. It also has an hidden poignancy which can be felt only by people who are ultra-sensitive.

Mohanam has always attained a very special status in the hands of the Maestro and this song is no exception.

The very beginning of the song is different. It starts with a thunder like sound as if to welcome the Kaamadeva. The bass percussion sounds ‘ta ka dhi’ leaving the last syllable ‘mi’ out. The chorus starts with flourish with an humming which sounds like tribal folk. In fact, this humming itself is the leitmotif of the song. Even as the humming reaches a crescendo with the percussion sounding the pattern seen in the beginning, the shehnai takes over and imperceptibly gives a perceptible auspicious feeling. The percussion now sounds ‘ta – dhi mi’ giving kaarvai between the first and the third syllable. The santoor follows and gives the sketch of Mohanam in a trice.

The Pallavi in the voice of Yesudas sounds alluringly beautiful with only two swaras -ri and ga- appearing in the major part of the first line and the individual swaras repeating themselves- gagagagaga/papapapapa/dhadhadhadha/ giving it a special sheen. The last line shows the brilliance of the composer with three swaras joining together and going in a descent-Sadhapa/dhapaga/pagari/garisa.

The eclectic electric guitar gives some ornate images of Mohanam in the beginning of the first interlude. The chorus follows and sings the tribal humming which covers Mohanam exhaustively with the tapering at the end, making it more enticing.

It is the translucent melody from the flute which gives a kind of tantalising effect, in keeping with the quality of Manmatha. How this has mesmerised even the other instruments is obvious from the way the guitar sounds towards the end.

The lines in the CharaNams are beguilingly beautiful and what gives this quality is the way the swaras are aligned with the higher-octave Ri and Ga making their appearance. Added to this is the bewitching melody from the santoor after the first line. The fact that the first two phrases in the beginning(and this includes the Pallavi as well) go without percussion cannot be missed.

The shehnai is the beginning of the second interlude takes us to empyrean heights and this is not just because it plays in higher-octave but also because of the softness and suppleness in the sound. The long flute which appears for the first time, is coruscating and spreads a divine light. There is that subtle sense of poignancy too which shows the contrast of life.

The chorus continues the journey in higher-octave with the santoor sounding with a sense of aesthetics.

What makes a piece of music beautiful?

Swaras? The way these are used? The instruments? The way these are used? The raga? The way it is used?

Or is there anything beyond all these?

Perhaps the five different trees might give an answer. Perhaps, they may not.

Beauty has to be felt.

When words fail, there is feeling. When words fail, there is Music!

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ILaiyaraaja – Musician with a light-hearted spirit

Sense of humour is a virtue.

People with a sense of humour are generally more creative though the reverse may not be true. Any speech or writing peppered with humour, has more chances of being etched in the minds of audience/readers. Examples galore, but I am not getting into that now. Suffice to say that any work which has implicit or explicit humour has more longevity.

There was somebody called Marimutta PiLLai( 18^th century), who along with Muttu Thandavar and Arunachala Kavi, is considered as part of the trinity of Tamizh Music. Just for information, the second mentioned (16^th Century) is known for composing padams, many of which are still performed by Bharatanatyam artistes now and the last mentioned is known for ‘Rama Nataka kritis’- entire RamayaNa in the form of different kritis- which are performed by Carnatic musicians in the concerts now.

What distinguishes Marimutta PiLLai from the other two, is that aspect which has been mentioned in the beginning. He sang mainly on Nataraja, the presiding deity at Chidambaram, but his songs bordered on sarcasm albeit in a positive way.

In Sanskrit, there is a concept called ‘Ninda stuti’ where the person(mainly God) on whom the song is sung is eulogised though it would seem as if He is being made fun of. Many songs of this composer border on this, but with a difference. While one cannot see the God ‘being pulled down’, one can see ‘the leg pulling’.

Let us look at a song where one sees this ‘leg pulling’ of the Lord who dances lifting one leg:

எந்நேரமும் ஒரு காலைத் தூக்கிக் கொண்டிருக்க வகை ஏதய்யா!

பொன்னாடர் போற்றும் தோலை, நன்னாடர் ஏற்றும் தில்லை பொன்னம்பல வாணரே!!

எக்கிய நெருப்பவிக்க தக்கன் வீட்டில் நடந்ததோ

யமனை உதைத்தபோது எதிர்ச்சுளுக்கேறி நொந்தோ

சிக்கெனவே பிடித்து சந்திரனை நிலத்தினில் தேய்த்த போதினில் உரைந்தோ

உக்ர சாமுண்டியுடன் வாதுக்காடி அசந்தோ

உண்ட நஞ்சு உடம்பெங்கும் உரிக் கால் வழி வந்தோ

தக்க புலி பாம்பு இருவருக்கும் கூத்தாடி ஆடி

சலித்துத்தானோ பொற்பாதம் வலித்துத்தானோ தேவரீர்!

 

Amused by the single-leg posture, the composer says – Why do you always keep one of your feet lifted?

He then comes up with his own reasons and starts bombarding the Lord with questions.

Is it because you walked on the fire to destroy the yaga of Daksha?

Or is it because when you kicked Yama(to save Markandeya), you sprained your ankle?

Or is it because you took the moon and crushed him under your feet and unable to bear the cold your foot was frozen?

Or is it because of the exhaustion after dancing with KaaLi?

Or is it the effect of the poison (you consumed during the churning of the ocean), with the poison being spread all over Your body affecting your feet in the process?

Or is it your continuous dancing as requested by Vyaghrapada(in the form of a tiger) and Patanjali(in the form of a snake) made you too tired that Your feet started hurting (and you had no other option but to keep one lifted to ease the pain)?

Why?

The song is best listened to in the original form to get the import, but I feel people who know mythology can still appreciate the humour even while reading the translation.

Unlike what is popularly believed, ILaiyaraaja is a person with a great sense of humour. One can see and feel his humour while listening to the background score in comedy scenes or even comedy movies. There are also many songs which can be quoted. People who follow my posts will remember the song and the post of ‘Bangalore Geetanjali’.

The song of the day is just one of the examples of his comical sense. As per the sequence, the son wants to teach a lesson to his father who is a Casanova. There is a ‘in-house classical dance performance’ in front of a guest.

So, the factors here are ‘classical dance’ and ‘sarcasm’, the former being staged to entertain a guest and the latter to teach the Casanova a lesson. The Genius that he is, the Master comes up with a composition in a pure traditional classical raga, with sarcasm running as the undercurrent. The lyrics of KaNNadasan do take care of the second mentioned , but the Maestro decides to tune it and orchestrate in such a way that even people who do not watch the movie(that is, the fortunate ones) are also left in splits.

Thus was born ‘MaappiLLaikku Maaman Manasu’(NetrikkaN- 1981). Based purely on Kharaharapriya- which in fact has been in existence right from the Tamizh Sangam period, being one of the ‘Paalais’ from which ‘PaNs’ were born. In Hindustani music, this raga is called ‘Kaafi’. Not surprisingly, this scale is Dorian mode in ancient Greek music and is part of the minor scale in Western Classical Music.

The composition starts with a free flowing akaaram of Suseela. The brief delineation itself is enough to firmly establish the raga. In fact, it gives the sketch of the raga in no time. The percussion which joins after 5 seconds sounds not in Indian classical style and not without any reason.

The Indian percussion starts now and it is a fusillade of sorts. The mandolin plays in Kharaharapriya, ably followed by the VeeNa and VeNu which repeat the same melody but in their own style. The percussion backs the melody with glee.

The Pallavi in the voice of Suseela is finely etched. But what brings a smile on our faces is the accompaniment of the western percussion throughout. The guitar repeats the second line making us simper. Technically speaking, the song starts with the descending notes- Sa ni da pa- not a regular occurrence. But it is the last line where one cannot but appreciate the brilliance of the composer. It goes like -pa ni dha/ma dha pa/ ga pa ma/ri ma ga- just a transposition of notes from their normal position and more than anything else, doesn’t this give us a different feeling?

The guitar in the beginning of the first interlude is powerful and yet soft. There is even a trace of nonchalance in the way it goes around. The Indian and Western percussion back the following melody from the bass guitar which even sounds as if it is tittering. The VeeNa enters with a sense of calm and plays a classic Kharaharapriya with panache.

Contrasts make a poem or a musical composition more beautiful. Here we see how contrasts make us giggle. This is because of the melody from the keys which responds to the VeeNa. Undeterred, the VeeNa plays yet again but a different melody this time with the keys following again.

It is a classical laugh riot!

The first part of the CharaNam moves smoothly and sedately in the voice of Suseela with the higher-octave notes peeping in now and then. The entry of Malaysia Vasudevan changes the complexion with the akaaram which touches the nooks and crannies of Kharaharapriya in a flash. The last line, yet again shows the Classical Raaja at his best with the swaras climbing up- rigama/ gamapa/mapadha/padhani/padhaniRi. The subtle synth in the background towards the end, does make one chuckle.

The synth in fact, plays a major role in the second interlude where the jatis are rendered. Though the fact that the way the jatis are constructed and rendered itself, makes one smile, the synth that follows the jatis, make one chortle, guffaw and cackle.

After all, sense of humour is a virtue. Sense of humour is musical. Sense of humour is rhythmic.

If you have any doubt, ask the one who dances with one foot lifted..

 

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ILaiyaraaja- The Adorable Musican

 

What makes certain people or certain things likable?

And what role does subjectivity play in this?

Let me park these questions for a while and take you all through something.

A young girl decorates the streets with fine white sand. She then lights a fire- literally and figuratively from a bundle of sticks shorn of thorns and invokes the God of Love- Kaamadeva a.k.a Manmatha and makes a request:

‘’Oh Manmatha. Brace your bow with honey-filled flowers, mentally writing the name ‘the ocean hued one’, and aim at me so that I unite with the One who killed the Demon in the form a bird, by tearing its beak’’.

 

வெள்ளை நுண்மணற்கொண்டு தெருவணிந்து வெள்வரைப் பதன்முன்னம் துறை படிந்து

முள்ளுமில்லாச் சுள்ளி எரிமடுத்து முயன்றுன்னை நோற்கின்றேன் காமதேவா

கள்ளவிழ் பூங்கணை தொடுத்துக் கொண்டு கடல் வண்ணன் என்பதோர் பேர் எழுதி

புள்ளினை வாய் பிளந்தான் என்பதோர் இலக்கினில் புக என்னை எய்கிற்றியே.

Here is a young girl just around 13, who after having decided that the Lord is her lover and that He will be her husband, invokes the God of Love to help her in her mission. Forgetting the mystical part, look at the way the poem sounds. White stands for purity. So does a thorn less faggot. So does fire. So do flowers. So does the ocean. Using all these in a single verse is called poetic beauty. But there is more too. Even if one has all the positives in a poem, it is the contrast which gives it that sheen. And this appears in the last line- ‘The One who tore the beaks of the Demon who was in the form of a bird’. See the line before that- Honeyed flowers- and you will know what kind of beauty this contrast offers!

This is precisely the reason for AaNdaaL, who incidentally composed 143 verses, is liked by many even after 1300 years!

Is this subjective or objective?

Before one breaks his/her head yet again in finding an answer, let us look at a gentleman who after composing 6000+ songs, is liked by many even after 46 years, which might sound too less compared to 1300 years but will sound huge when one takes into account many other factors, period being the major one.

Why don’t we look at yet another composition of his today and see how it sounds as likable as the poems of ‘Choodi Koduththa ChudaRkodi’?

‘Meenkodi Theril Manmatha Raajan’ from ‘Karumbu Vil’(1980) shimmers with exquisite beauty not least because of the raga it is based on.

Not many ragas evoke a sense of love and romance just by mentioning the name. In fact, the beauty of Mohanam lies as much in its name as in its sound. That is why, it is found in other forms of music, say, the South East Asian and Western Classical, Jazz and Blues as a scale. The five notes – sa ri2 ga3 pa dha2- give a special colour even when rendered plainly. One can then imagine the kind of feelings and emotions it would give if these notes were oscillated. It is not without any reason that Tyagaraja called Rama ‘Mohana Rama’ and that one of the names of Krishna happens to be ‘Mohanan’.

If I say that ILaiyaraaja has played around in this raga like no other film music composer has done, I will not be exaggerating. So much so that he has never hesitated to take many liberties with this raga by gently and brilliantly introducing some alien notes, enhancing the mood of the composition in the process.

However, in ‘Meenkodi Theril’, he chose not to do it. On the other hand, he used the appropriate swara combinations giving subtle oscillations of swaras wherever required, at the same time not making it sound too classical and most importantly used some beautiful instruments in the orchestration. What one gets to see and hear is Mohanam in its pristine beautiful form.

The song opens with a kind of mystical sound. Even as one is shaken up by this sound, the bass sound from yet another instrument appears like a rapier cut in chatushram and this alone is enough to give that spark. The spark becomes a huge musical fire, a kind of fire which is harmless and is a spectacle to watch.

What happen are many things. One, the chorus voice in pure Mohanam. Two, a kind of ‘kolaattam’ in the background. Three, the two sets of percussion which alternate with each other, with the first one playing only the first syllable-ta- and leaving the other 3 blank and the second one playing ‘ta – dhi mi’ and producing different kinds of sounds. Four, the humble and subtle bass guitar playing with a touch of nonchalance. Five, the sound of ankle bells which appears after every second beat.

As if to show the auspiciousness of the occasion, the Shehnai unfolds with great zeal and gives a sketch of Mohanam in its inimitable style. The santoor pitches in towards the end and guides us to the Pallavi.

The Pallavi starts in the voice of Yesudass. One cannot afford to miss the subtlety here as well. The first line has no percussion when it is rendered the first time, though the time signature remains the same. The percussion appears the moment the first line is rendered again and follows the same pattern as that of the Pallavi. The entire Pallavi gives a soothing touch not least because of the structure of the swaras and the rhythmic pattern. The descending swaras at the end- Sadhapa/dhapaga/pagari/garisa- shows the kind of grip the composer has on this raga.

The vivacity of the guitar in the beginning of the first interlude is striking. It just plays a few notes of Mohanam and that too without any oscillation and yet it makes us sway.  The chorus appears again and we continue to sway with the musical elegance. After a guitar melody which is full of grace, the flute enters with an ebullient swirl and goes around playfully enveloping us with a spiritual fragrance. It is left to the santoor again to complete the task and it does it effectively and efficiently, bespattering the swaras with a grin.

Without a trace of doubt, it is the rhythmic pattern- about which I have already written earlier- which is the leitmotif of this composition. In a way, it even defines this composition.

Now, the CharaNam starts sans percussion in the first line a la Pallavi, though there is that subtle bass guitar. The percussion-which of course follows the same rhythmic pattern- appears after the first few phrases, but it is the santoor which appears between the lines, that steals the show. The litany of swaras played with coherency and fluency, lights up the lines.

We are in for some abundant melodic phrases in the second interlude. The group of Shehnais play an amazing melody in higher-octave which is hauntingly charming. Suddenly and from nowhere appears that long Hindustani flute. Playing with alluring depth and with felicity, it goes deep inside the soul. The chorus takes over and sings in higher-octave showing us a beauteous bride.

A bride on a white sand who is as likable as the musician with the trademark Harmonium!