Thespian of the Tanjavur bani

The last few days have signalled a spate of final departure for many figures in music. Tiruvarur Krishnamurthy passed away on Saturday. He was well past his prime when I first came into contact with him during my visit to his home in Pondichery. He was my husband Badri’s mridangam guru. The guru would come jauntily on his bicycle from Raja Street to Swamimada Street in Tiruvarur, looking for his chela who, in the confines of his sprawling country house that provided ample refuge, remained concealed from the searching eyes of the strict guru. When the disciple would be successfully retrieved from the near-infallible hideout of the haystack, the lessons would begin — in the rigorous way that teaching pedagogy of those days commonly espoused. That was how  next-gen musicians were then made — of strict gurus they were petrified with, but growing to appreciate the altruistic, human touch that coated the authoritarian and uncompromising teaching values, as they grew older. It was a different age of masters, disciples and learning. It was the age of the ‘giving’ guru — those who wanted to pass on what they knew best, in the manner they knew best, and in the best possible interests.

Tiruvarur is veritably the seat of music. The halo of the Mummoorthi, the Trinity of Carnatic music envelopes the town in its special cocoon. The musical poetry of the ancient Nayanmars, the music of the Trinity of Tyagaraja, Dikshitar and Shyama Shastri who lived in Tiruvarur, the grandiose Tyagaraja temple with its breathtaking Kamalalayam or the temple tank and its stupendous temple festival all make Tiruvarur a wee bit more special than many other towns. The reigning deity, Tyagaraja, represents the cosmic dancer, the very repository of music and movement. Such is Aroor, land of Tyagesa, immortalised in many unforgettable compositions, home to religious and spiritual mysticism enshrined in music and this was part of Krishnamurthy’s heritage. Later he settled in Pondichery, now Puducherry.

As I discussed with him, I sensed in his discourse the fondness of old memories, a hint of bitterness, a tinge of regret, a medley of many emotions but also an unquestionable pride that comes with communion with his art. He recollected with much love and intimacy his own guru Tanjavur Kunju Iyer. He spoke passionately about the Tanjavur bani and demonstrated the soft strokes that belied the complexity of jathis that were woven within. Mathematical intricacies were discretely embedded into the playing that made it sound melodious and effortless, but at the same time performed its primary task impeccably and remarkably well — enhancing the concert.

Surrounded by his many mridangams, Krishnamurthy, despite age and health concerns was in his element. Vidwat or the word for scholarship that is so loosely used in the current day, shone through Krishnamurthy’s being. His notes were scattered around that he painstakingly prepared for his disciples. He was teaching, he was grooming, he was sharing. He welcomed many learners from far and wide into his home for what we today call as residencies.

Krishnamurthy remained in the side wings of Carnatic music, accompanying for concerts and simultaneously preparing generations of great mridangists.  Like many great musicians, destiny did not chart his path to the forefront. There would be many questions, answers and arguments to this. The virtuoso has passed but the bani endures, probably manifesting itself in modified ways. But prevails, it does.