BORN into a family of exceptional singers, I have always found
myself in the lap of morning ragas, sandhyavandanams and lullabys that kept
flowing out of each room in my ancestral home. The wooden walls between rooms
never stood in the way of celestial Carnatic raagas and keerthanas as they breezed
past in gay abandon every morning and night. I then regretted the fact that I happened
to be the only soul around who couldn’t sing or understand music.
Apart from the hushed bathroom croons that never came close
to what a song would be like, I never had my bit of stardom whenever there used
to be a family get together. Every year, when granny celebrated her birthday, all
uncles would drive in, families in tow, to celebrate the aging soul. After
lunch, everyone would sit together in one of those large rooms and sing. From the
broche va revaruaas, the harivaraasanams, the praanasakhi njan
and sangamams to the old time Mukesh and Salil Chaudhury numbers that
made their appearance one after the other, music turned out to be the flavour
of the afternoon, every year around. I, as a kid, slowly learnt to appreciate
good music not because I knew all about the ragas and the lyrics, but thanks to
the beauty of the voices that flowed around. After they all left by dusk, the
music lingered, making me croon putting my crude vocals into play, and at times
inviting the wrath of my Carnatic music-oriented mom.
I wanted to sing. I still do, but can’t even risk the ire of
those around. Tape recorders were rare those days, but one day Dad came home
with a brand new National Panasonic piece that belted out songs in the most
admirable voice. As if to add to the excitement, he unwrapped two cassettes
that had figures of two famous musicians on their covers. One was of course,
the one and only K J Yesudas and the other, totally alien.
The Yesudas tape started playing that night, and I still remember
the night I dozed off to Thaaye Yeshodaa and Adri Suthaavaraa. As
dawn broke the next day, the tape was still playing, but this time it was Ksheera
Sagara rippling down my soul in Yesudas’ melodious voice.
I wondered why the second tape never got a chance to demonstrate
itself. I didn’t have to wait too long. It
was a Sunday, and after lunch when everyone dozed off for a light afternoon
nap, Achan, plugged in the tape recorder and inserted the second tape. Unlike
the chaste Ksheera Sagara rendition by Yesudas, this one started belting
out Entharo Mahanubhavulu Anthariki Vandanamulu in a voice so unmusical.
I slipped in close to the easy chair where Achan reclined with a smile, which broadened
with each second. I too started to lend an ear, and that was a voice that
seemed too different coming out of the Panasonic piece’s speakers.
I started falling in love with the voice that flowed out of
the tape recorder, and Achan was happy to introduce me to the world of Dr M
Balamuralikrishna, even as the music grew in me, subduing me. Ever since, this
great man has been part of my inner soul.
Achan made it a point to bring home new cassettes soaked in Balamuralikrishna’s
voice, his experiments with the Carnatic way of singing and his soul.
The manner in which Achan, who never sang or had been
acquainted with the Carnatic stream of music in his early years, immersed
himself in Carnatic music’s stalwarts like Dr Balamuralikrishna, Chembai
Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar, K J Yesudas, and the like, every Sunday afternoon, was
encouraging for a lad like me who could never sing. And I joined in to listen,
but not sing, so as to feel the cold breeze of melody whiffing past the hot
afternoon.
Dr M Balamuralikrishna was always a staple diet dished out
on those Sunday post-lunch afternoons. From the Sri Ragam-enriched Entharo
Mahanubhavulu to the Abheri-straddling Nagumomu to the Saama laden Manasa
Sancharare and many more, the legend continued to enthral.
Years have passed, and this evening, the news channels brought
in the news of Dr Balamuralikrishna’s passing. Dr Balamuralikrishna has left
behind Carnatic songs and his unique experiments for me to stay captivated. Here’s
my Mangalam, to the legendary singer who infused a sense of love for music in
me.
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