Konerirajapuram Vaidyanatha Ayyar (1878-1920)

It was a small room in Mint Street, Madras. Kancheepuram Krishna Bhagavatar lived in it. Late one evening the door of the room flung open. A short, swarthy youth, with downcast look and clad in simple attire, entered. “Krishna” he said, as he hurled himself on the bare floor, “at the close of today’s Harikatha, Bhagavatar paid me off and said glibly, ‘Vaitha, you are too good for Harikatha background. Seek your fortunes as a platform singer’. True, my intractable voice let me down rather badly. But his sarcasm, well, I retire to my village with my mind touched to the quick. Ere half a year rolls by, Krishna, you will hear one of two things — that your friend grappled with a raucous, unmanageable voice till his arteries burst and left him dead, or that he tamed it and brought it under perfect control and overnight shot into fame as a matchless singer. May the gods bear witness to this grim resolve!

Lo! A Hercules

The Bhagavatar who gave the youth short shrift was Tirupazhanam Panchapakesa Sastriar. The youth who fell from grace was Vaidyanatha Ayyar. Marathurai Vaitha, as he was known then found a heaven in Konerirajapuram. He shut himself up in a small house in West Agraharam. Thereupon it was blood and toil for the determined youth. The goal was clear and definite. His mind was set on it. He would pay any price. With single minded devotion he practised day and night. At last he had tamed and seasoned the turbulent voice. Eureka! His dream had come true.

Emergence of a Genius

A virile, high pitched voice (4½ Kattai, according to common parlance), registering two octaves with supreme facility, clarity, uniformity and tremendous carrying power, vibrating in perfect unison with Sruti, now sweeping like a tornado and now flowing calm and smooth, a ready well set conduit for a perennial spring of creative art, emerging from a sophisticated aesthetic imagination — a voice answering these criteria was in itself a passport for success. His meteoric rise as a brilliant singer cast a magic spell over his name. He eclipsed popular idols like Namakkal Narasimha Ayyangar, Poochi Ayyangar and Pushpavanam. Manpundia Pillay, the greatest Laya exponent of the century, initiated him into the mysteries of rhythm and invested his music with discipline and integrated dimensions. Sathanur Panchanadam Ayyar and Talaignayar Somu Ayyar imparted to him the technique of Tanam and Swara Prastaram.

Presently, he was the acknowledged leader in the field. Tirukodikaval Krishnaier who had poured ridicule on his cackling voice now hailed him as a hero. Mayavaram Subbier and Govindaswamy Pillay, Dakshinamurthy and Azhagunambi and Palni Krishnier and Konnakol Pakiri, deemed it an honour to accompany him. Pushpavanam, who was frequently in his audience, was so overwhelmed by the music that he was seized with a fear that he could never open his mouth again and sing. He would, therefore, rush out of the music hall and check his voice and then return to listen again. This happened so often that his friends who were at first annoyed at his curious behaviour were at great ado to ascertain the fact of the matter.

The Enigma

Vaidyanatha Ayyar soon found himself at the crest of popularity. Yet he retained his old simplicity of dress and deportment. Totally absorbed in Nada Yoga, he was a man of very few words. He seldom indulged in conversation or so much as a hearty laugh. Even when he slept, one could hear a low, humming sound hovering around him, though his mouth was closed and his vocal apparatus had gone to roost. Having observed him closely for years, the writer was always confounded by his enigmatic silence and apparent indifference to surroundings. His absorption in Nada Vidya was so complex that his domestic affairs and professional matters were entirely in the hands of his life-long caretaker, Coimbatore Vishwanathan.

Music

It is now fifty years since Vaidyanatha Ayyar was gathered to his fathers. Those like writer, who were privileged to listen to the great music of the Colossus, have dwindled in number with the passing of years. The standard of music and the atmosphere at the present day have no relation to what obtained then. Consequently, it is very difficult to attempt a word picture of his music.

The majesty, carrying power, flexibility, tunefulness, and range of the voice were most impressive and thrilling. The elaborate, soulful delineation of Raga was vivid, expansive, imaginative, recondite, ever fresh. The Tanam had a deep, reverberating movement of voice that went hand in hand with an elegant balance, symmetry and juxtaposition of choice musical phrases. This marvelous procession of sound waves made a profound impact on the listeners. It transported them to a lofty level of superconsciousness. Vaidyanatha Ayyar was the last exponent of this grand technique known as Ghanam. It is a far cry from this mystic experience to the current, cheap gimmicks of crude clatter and cacology utterly devoid of any music. The veteran violinist Govindaswamy would get lost in the cascade of sound and lose hold of his violin and bow, as the writer had witnessed again and again.

His repertoire was not considerable. However, the “Chitta” of his songs was the last word in perfection. It has been preserved intact in the writer’s series, “Kritimanimalai”. The Swara Prastara, be it for song or for Pallavi, was at once replete with Raga Bhava and dexterous and colourful festoons of rhythm. The delectable Ragamalika, Javalis like “Tsalura E Mohamella”, Tirupugazh like “Vangara Marpil” and “Seer Sirakku Meni” and the Tillana that preceded “Nee Nama”, maintained to the very end of the concert the high seriousness, emotional uplift and subtle, spiritual elan that kept the audience spell-bound during the five hour Geetanjali.
Having written thus far, the writer is overwhelmed by nostalgic memories, rendered the more poignant through a sense of totally inadequate expression to what to him was a significant landmark in his career as a dedicated votary of the celestial art.

Dakshinamoorti Pillay

In the early years of the present century, Manpundia Pillay, the Lion of Pudukottah, sent out a batch of his proteges into the arena of the music world. The foremost of them was Dakshinamoorti, a spirited youth who combined genius, stupendous energy and industry. A good physique nourished on plain, frugal fare, spotless private life and a stoic indifference to luxury and style of deportment, disciplined both mind and body for the rigours of a Hata Yogic pursuit of Laya.

Advantages such as these might not carry one very far. He was happy in the company of two other veterans who had the benefit of Manpundia Pillay’s tutelage — Karaikudi Veena Subbaramier and Konerirajapuram Vaidyanatha Ayyar. Besides these, he drew his inspiration from Tanjore Krishna Bhagavatar, Mridangam Tanjore Pakiri and Narayanasamiappa. The last named was the leading Mridanga Vidwan in those days. The name of “Appa” has become a legend.

Dakshinamoorti once told me in a reminiscent mood. “For aught we know, our Pudukottah Anna is the greatest figure in this century. He and I were listening to Appa’s Mridangam for Sarabha Sastriar’s flute. The recital was over and we all stood up. But Pillay sat like one in a trance. When I pulled him up, he rose and knocked his head against a window. Obviously, he was so absorbed in Appa’s Mridangam that he mistook the window for the doorway. Such was Appa’s genius!”

Dakshinamoorti was a favourite with all musicians who had a flair for rhythm. He invariably accompanied Karaikudi Brothers on the Mridangam. For he could handle both Mridangam and Kanjira with ease and grace. He was everywhere in demand and had a phenomenal income, which, however went almost entirely to charity. He had a wonderful spirit of tolerance and accommodation that baffled even those who envied him his success.

He was a great Muruga Bhakta. Shrines on hills and mountains are the prerogative of Lord Muruga, as a matter of ancient tradition. Dakshinamoorti stayed in every one of the six shrines in South India for forty five days. Giripradakshinam, vow of silence and incessant practice for the period ended with a grand festival in the temple, poor feeding and music performances. It is in this way that he gathered spiritual strength. There was a majesty and imposing grandeur that flowed from this Sadhana and made him the cynosure of all eyes wherever he went.

Between the Kanjira and Mridangam the former was his first love. The astounding speed he accomplished in his Kanjira play was the despair of many artists who had to jump with him in concerts. The bold sweep and jocular ease, however, were not in evidence when he tackled the Mridangam. I have his own admission that his memory of Appa, Azhagunambi and Tanjore Pakiri made him diffident whenever he took it up.

But his shrewdness and thorough mastery of rhythm enabled him to strike a path all his own and prove his genius. The deep, reverberating Humkara of the left face of his Mridangam, known as Toppi in common parlance, and the clear, ringing “Chap” of his Valantarai were strokes that electrified the atmosphere.

After the twilight came the pall of darkness. The hand of death struck down the great masters. The philosopher that he was, Dakshinamoorti put on as good a face as he could and exerted himself to the utmost to get along with mediocrity and charlatanry. A cloud of uneasy melancholy descended on the beaming face. The smart, dashing gait was seen to halt. The deep penetrating gaze often changed into a vacant stare bespeaking a heavy mind. The impact of changing times and values, strange developments that boded ill for the art and the inroad of sectional and parochial predilections into its sacred precincts weighed on his sensitive mind. He made no secret of his grief that he outlived his generation. It was but fitting that his piety and religious zeal led him to enter Sanyasa and take the name of Chinmayananda Guru.