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 15th 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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