Growing up with TMK

There are two of us. It is a warm morning, and all I remember is dust floating in the air as I see the rays of the sun, refracted by the glass in the car window, as it makes its way into the back seat. I am sitting with my cousin. As always, I am sulking wistfully while my cousin is characteristically upbeat and jumping more than I would like. I am about to start voicing my irritation to our respective parents in the front seat when, all of a sudden, without warning, my cousin starts to sing. And, suddenly, the sunshine takes an altogether different meaning and I understand, for the first time in my life, what it means to be transfixed. The composition is Gajavadana in Hamsadhwani. Of course, at the time, I do not know either the name of the piece or the raga. All I know is that my cousin has just won himself an undyingly loyal fan. What I do not realise at the time, and continue to marvel at, is that this talented cousin of mine would grow up to become TM Krishna, one of the most celebrated Carnatic musicians today.

Through the years, I have seen Krishna grow from strength to strength, gaining both in stature and vidwat. Starting with the Spirit of Unity concert at the age of 12, Krishna has gone on to perform in numerous concert venues across the world. The awards he has amassed are many, keeping pace with the rapid strides in the development of his musical expression. And my own musical journey as a classical pianist seems to have followed Krishna’s, slowing down a pace due to my other responsibilities as an academic and as a consultant, as though adding a staggered harmonic layer to a vibrant, sonorous melodic line. Through heartbreak, celebration and mayhem, we have tried to be true to a happy resonance we both discovered in the music of our childhood.

Another freeze-frame. My cousin is sitting on a tiny stool near my piano, barely reaching the height of the keys when seated. There is a party in progress and unmindful of anyone in the vicinity, he starts to sing the opening lines to Sujana Jeevana in Kamas. I start to play along with him, but stop soon enough. I am so fascinated by this composition, and I start to cry. Unknowingly, but keeping pace with the steady 3/4 rhythm.

We are now in the present. I am walking through a freezing blizzard in New York, engulfed by a hooded parka. The sidewalk is bare, framed by a winterscape that I can hardly see, inhibited as I am by both the north wind and the cumbersome attire. I naturally have my iPod to keep me company. I am listening to a raga alapana in Kamas sung by my cousin when I feel the warmth of my tears as they well up and caress my cheek. The delicacy of that Madras evening nearly two decades ago comes flooding back, and I weep at the legacy my cousin’s music has created.

Music is the earliest sensation I can remember. More than touch, sense or smell, the seductive drone of the tanpura and the magical movement of keys on the piano in the nursery have informed my processing of all things that have come to pass since then. And ever since I can remember, my life has been punctuated by music of different kinds. Snatches of a phrase from Sivan’s Srinivasa in Hamsanandi are among the first ‘improvisations’ I have attempted along with my grounding in early Mozart minuets. And no memory of childhood is complete without the music made by this very special member of the family. The awe continues. As do the pirouettes the mind makes when listening to particular phrases rendered with a tremendous amount of verve in his kutcheris wherever they may be. Indeed, growing up with Krishna has been one of the most significant influences in the development of my own sound.

Someone once told me that the word “Krishna” comes from the Sanskrit term for “that which draws everything in”, just like the colour black. With his swashbuckling style, grandeur of mannerism and vocal expression, Krishna manages to be the point of reference in any conversation he chooses to be part of. I have often heard him be described in similar terms with respect to his stage behaviour. His unbeatable levels of energy, zest for living on the edge and ability to provoke increase by the year, and I watch with quiet amusement at his ability to command centrestage in each endeavour he undertakes. To me, none of this is new. It began with a delectable rendition in Kamas many lifetimes ago, and I only see my cousin being himself. Brash, even arrogant, but overwhelmingly sincere.

Rather than view this article as a biased dedication to a cousin I admire, I think of it as a challenge to distinguish the good from the bad, and view Krishna’s legacy from a balanced perspective, however hard it may be to achieve. As a classical musician, I am able to observe Krishna’s clarity of thought. His concerts are examples of elegant classicism, with a balanced repertoire consisting of complex musical patterns framed by emotive power. Each note is well-rounded, rendered by a voice that is wholesome and sculpted to near-perfection. His exaggerated stage mannerisms notwithstanding, there is an electricity in the air when he is performing, palpable and overwhelmingly alive.

There are lessons in this to me, I believe, as I prepare to foray deeper into unknown territory. And these are lessons that I find applicable to anyone consumed with the desire to create. Like the need to take a risk with oneself. Boldly and sometimes in the absence of reasoned logic. And of course, the ability to surrender oneself almost single-mindedly to the process, trusting in it enough to take care of one’s raison d’etre. Or to stand by one’s beliefs in the face of daunting criticism.

Krishna has become the language with which I interpret many musical structures in my ongoing journey towards finding my own sound. Every so often I stop and pause, aware that my sound is transforming who I am, and absorbing varied influences that the conscious mind does not recognise. These are my moments of truth, ‘points of inflection’ in my musical trajectory. And each of these moments is a return to Krishna’s music.

As I write this, my feet automatically lead me to a concert by Krishna. And the experience of childhood and a return to musical innocence begins all over again. At the end of the concert, I find my identity returned to me. Emboldened, I step out into the cheery sunshine outside, aware that my music will be transformed forever.

Copyright New Indian Express