Opinion TM Krishna writes: TV Sankaranarayanan was my hero and my muse

I remember him as the artist who graciously invited all of us to participate in Karnatik music’s aural euphoria

Karnatik musician T V Sankaranarayanan. (Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

T.M. Krishna

September 24, 2022 09:11 AM IST First published on: Sep 23, 2022 at 07:58 PM IST

On September 2, India lost one of its most graceful musicians. A Karnatik musician who did not conquer music, T V Sankaranarayanan took care of her with kindness. Unfortunately, in the national news stream, artists whose impact is specific to a particular region or genre are irrelevant, and their passing is relegated to a few lines of obituary with statistics of their birthday, awards and death. This is true of T V Sankaranarayanan or TVS as he was known to all of us.

As a young teenager growing up in Madras (now Chennai), it was TVS’s voice that drew me to music. He was my hero and my muse. I ran from one auditorium to another and watched this man weave looms of musical tapestry and gasped during those moments of magic. With TVS, music was an unreserved waterfall. It kept pouring down with no drought in sight. Much like how we cannot track the trajectory of every falling droplet, you never knew how his raga passages or swara torrents would move. They would swerve, bend, leap and pause almost at will. We tried desperately to keep track, moving to the edge of the seats wondering how, when and where they would land. All of a sudden everything fell into place, bringing a smile to all, including him. TVS smiled through his music. At no point were we made aware of the level of difficulty. He danced with the ragas and talas, cajoling them to help him create beauty.

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He was a romantic, an idealist who wanted his music to always reflect playfulness and joy. TVS rarely sang ragas that could touch upon the morose and, even if he did, in his hands they would reflect merriment. One could critique him for this perspective and ask why he did not explore a larger canvas of emotional tones. But that is a personality trait. Music is, after all, a reflection of the person. His music in tone, pace and presentation seemed to celebrate creation. Every swara was a manifestation of this instinctive understanding.

TVS was the nephew of the musical genius, Madurai Mani Iyer. Someone who broke many preconceived notions about how Karnatik music must sound. He gave it a lilt, a sway that had never been heard before. TVS never thought of his family legacy as a burden. He revered his uncle and his music obviously had a strong influence of this heritage.

It is also true that, in our cultural traditions, the individual is always considered a carrier of the past and therefore any assertion of the “self” is seen as vulgar. TVS toed this line of thinking. But his music was not an imitation or an overt continuation of his uncle’s musicality. This was unfortunately missed by many, and his music was and is always referenced to his illustrious uncle, boxing him in the Madurai Mani Iyer mould. Every aspect of TVS’s music was his own. Strong influences exist in all of us but these are descriptive features, not our essential characteristics. TVS picked up the Madurai Mani Iyer style, but gave it a new direction, a verve, power, strength and flow, making it all his own. But his ancestry deprived him of this recognition. All of us spoke of his naturalness as a musician but failed to recognise the mind behind it.

Intellectualism in Karnatik music is unfortunately trapped within the four walls of arithmetic and permutational jugglery. TVS’s mind was not pinned down by this construct. But we were unable to break free of this conditioning and marvel at his mind. This might not have bothered him, but we should at least now remember him as much for his ideas as we do for his presentational panache.

As his career moved ahead, TVS was found to be singing the same songs and following a repetitive creative template. A critique that does hold water. TVS became predictable and all of us knew what to expect. But this is a struggle that every established artist is tormented by. Do I continue offering the audience what they have been used to, or should I challenge them? The risk involved in change often makes an artist stick to the old chosen course. I do not know if TVS even thought of changing his musical colours. Maybe he was just singing the music he loved and did not care if some people thought that it was ridden with sameness. But, the problem of stagnancy born out of comfort affects all artists. Sometimes it is not obvious in those whose music is full of somersaults and backflips! TVS was not of that kind and hence the stasis more obvious.

Among the many musicians of his generation that I have interacted with, TVS was the only one who would discuss the deeper questions of life. He was always curious about the education at my school, which followed the teachings of J Krishnamurti. We would spend just about five minutes in these exchanges but, in those fleeting moments, I always got a feeling that this was a man who wanted to probe further but something stopped him from doing so.

Many will not remember T V Sankaranarayanan as they do a Subbulakshmi or Bhimsen Joshi, but I will remember him as the artist who graciously invited all of us to participate in Karnatik music’s aural euphoria. His music has ended, and we still have a smile on our faces.

The writer is a musician and author of A Southern Music: The Karnatik Story