Music at every turn of life

Vathsala Jayaraman

  

The Hindu Lullaby, the first music. File Photo: G.N. Rao

For the labourer, the sound of digging for a borewell is Bhupalam, concrete mixing is Mohanam

December brings with it musical events galore. Hundreds of sabhas in Chennai city are thronged by rasikas from all over the world eager to listen to the renowned musicians who vie with each other to get the prime slot.

Music is technically evolved from dwani which originates from ‘sound'. Many songs suited to locations, occasions and occupations existed even prior to the classification of ragas.

It is evident, therefrom, that every human being is a “born rasika” though he may not know to distinguish between Ritigowla and Ananda Bhairavi or the subtle difference between Shanmuga Priya and Simhendra Madyamam. Every street vendor has his own specific tune or un-named raga to market his product and the same can be identified correctly by one and all without any controversy.

There is music from cradle to coffin. An infant sleeps in a cloth swing hung from a bamboo pole fixed to the platform, listening to the mother's lullaby, since it listens to the music of her heart.

We are choked with emotion when we hear elegies. I am reminded of a strange incident that happened 60 years ago. My grandmother, aged 92, who had a good knowledge of music composed an elegy on herself to be sung on her death and taught it to all members of the family and neighbours. It was a soul-stirring experience to listen to the villagers singing the well-rehearsed elegy in chorus on the day of her death.

“The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;

The motions of his spirit are dull as night

And his affections dark as Enebus:

Let no such man be trusted,” says Shakespeare in The Merchant of Venice through Lorenzo.

For the poor labourer working at a construction site, the sound of digging for a borewell is Bhupalam, concrete mixing is Mohanam, and sawing by carpenter is Saveri.

A rasika experiences the above through music from a concert hall, whereas the fishermen at lakes and seas and the labourers at the mount gardens revel in the same delight from the natural surroundings. The elite enjoys nature from music and the peasant enjoys music in nature.

I know a young learner of music aged 7, who used to hide inside the bathroom and sleep over a heap of unwashed clothes just to avoid the music master, who tapped the door at 5 a.m. I have great admiration and regard for the musicians who might have had similar experiences, yet have risen to the top with dedication, commitment and severe practice. Their ability to transport the audience to an altogether different plane is amazing.

However, such rasikas form only a negligible percentage of the huge population. Most of the daily wage earners living ‘hand to mouth' have time to think only about their next meal. For them, the cry of their babies, daily shoutings with their drunk husbands and stone-cutting sounds are kritis. The breaking of bricks and cutting of steel rods form the rhythm.

As regards people running ‘fast food' shops, the ‘choing' sound from the dosa pan is musical. Rain, thunder and lightning are open air concerts for farmers. The transistor blissfully roaring all 24 hours has little impact on them.

Sabhas, academies and kutcheries are the prerogatives of the rich and the affluent. Even as the arguments on BPL norms continue unabated, the livelihood of persons who toil is always in peril.

Sotrukke talam, paattukku enge pozhuthu? is a saying in Tamil (When there is struggle for a morsel of food, where is the time for music?)

The poor have no time for the musician who delves in complicated, challenging ragas and comes out unscathed, since life itself is a big challenge for them.

The elite and the opulent NRIs have to wait for the music season in December. For the aam aadmi who live amid music, every day is a MUSIC SEASON.

(The writer's email ID is vathsalaj@yahoo.com)