Passion for numbers

SOURCE:
http://www.hindu.com/mag/2009/11/01/stories/2009110150060200.htm

Passion for numbers

SOUDHAMINI

Remembering mathematician P.K. Srinivasan, whose innovative teaching methods opened up a new world for school children, on his birth anniversary.

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However complex the concept he never prodded the students. Just waited patiently till they discovered it ...

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Numbers were never the same: P.K. S. in action.

P.K. Srinivasan (November 4, 1924-June 20, 2005) was an extraordinary person in the world of math education. I met him in 1998, while making a set of videotapes on innovative teaching methods in mathematics for the DPEP, the distance education cell o f the Education Department, Government of India. PKS became the chief protagonist of those tapes.

He had retired from the Muthialpet High School, Chennai but continued to work as consultant for schools as diverse as Rishi Valley, the TVS school in Mysore, and Corporation schools all over Chennai. I attended a conference with him at Rishi Valley and heard his exquisite clarity on concepts ranging from fractals to the Fibonacci sequence. But my favourite memory of him is teaching the Narikuravar (gypsy) children at the Corporation School in Saidapet, Chennai.

Unique way

He had a unique way of introducing numbers to Kindergarten children. He felt that because they learnt numbers mainly in sequence — as 1,2,3,4 etc. they never really grasped the concept of discrete quantities. So after first letting them rattle off the sequence, he would intercept by asking, “Now show me 3 in as many ways as you can”. Initially there would be consternation among the kids and he would smile, his eyes gleaming with a fiery excitement. Putting up one gnarled hand he would first show 3 fingers, and they would all chime “3”. Then he’d bend his fingers, put out 2 first, then one more and say “2 +1” and they would repeat, “3”. Next he’d put up four fingers and bend one - “4-1 = 3”. Then “2+2”, “5–2”, and so it would go on.

I have seen the excitement that erupted among those toddlers for whom numbers would never be the same again; nothing like the anonymous sequence that they began with. Soon all kinds of finger play broke out and PKS just stood smiling toothlessly, infinitely careful not to disturb that first moment of epiphany. Quite unobtrusively he’d introduced the concept of quantity, and also laid the foundation for the primary functions of addition and subtraction.

He had a vast collection of books in his house at Nanganallur, and once he showed me a World Encyclopedia on Mathematics to prove that it was not just the zero that India invented, but also the fraction. The world was afraid to break up numbers, he said, for fear the whole edifice would collapse, but Indian mathematicians proved that the concept of the ‘Whole’ was in itself quite relative.

Later, in the same school I was to see a wonderfully concrete demonstration of this abstract concept. Taking a long strip of paper he first folded it into eight equal parts. Then opening it out with the creases clearly visible, he pointed to the first part and asked the children, this time of 3rd standard, to name it. “1 by 8”. Yes, that was fairly simple. And so it would proceed till he reached the last part, to which in predictable sequence, the children would intone “8 by 8” and then like a magician he would close the paper and re-open it, pointing to the same whole again to which they would now exclaim, but with some thoughtfulness, “ 1” . And slowly the concept would sink in, that every number is merely a complete fraction of itself. From here, it was a small step to simultaneous fractions. Concept always came first for him, and only then the function.

However complex the concept he never prodded the students. Just waited patiently till they discovered it for themselves, and it seemed to me that they all did. I could barely shoot from excitement myself. Infinity lay right there within the interstices of the feeble chalk points on that faded blackboard and PKS helped us all to see it.

In the interview I recorded then he spoke passionately about his faith in education. “If a child falls sick, the doctor cannot blame him. It is his duty to heal the sickness. Similarly, the teacher has to find a way to clarify misunderstandings and release mental blocks about maths. He cannot blame the student.”

Committed

He had visited the U.S. on a Fulbright scholarship and Africa on a teaching deputation. He also travelled frequently to Delhi and other parts of India to attend conferences and workshops. But his real commitment lay with the under privileged. His son, Kannan Srinivas, explained recently that, to PKS, this was his personal form of patriotism, this abiding faith in children to “develop themselves under proper exposure”.

Another great area of fascination for PKS was the life of Srinivas Ramanujan. PKS was his first biographer, travelling every weekend after school closed for many years to Kumbakonam, in search of details of Ramanujan’s life. He discovered the house where he was born, the temple he frequented and the letters he wrote to his father from Cambridge. All later biographers from the West were to use these primary sources and acknowledge PKS in their works.

Here again the interesting insight from his son was that this interest in Ramanujan fed into his passion for math education. Rather than simply celebrating a genius, PKS strove to create a climate where more Ramanujans could flower. PKS will remain one of the most inspiring individuals of his generation.

Soudhamini is a documentary filmmaker based in Chennai

How to retire - premier bookshop

Sournce

http://www.hindu.com/mag/2009/03/15/stories/2009031550090300.htm

PAST & PRESENT

How to retire

RAMACHANDRA GUHA

Though many residents of Bangalore will mourn the closure of Premier Bookshop, after four decades of yeoman service, Mr. Shanbhag had earned the right to go out on his own terms…

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Mr. T.S. Shanbhag was not merely the most knowledgeable bookseller in Bangalore, but also the most likeable. But, taking our cue from the man, we would not display our emotions.

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Photo: G.G. Welling

End of a long innings: T.S. Shanbhag and his Premier Bookshop shortly before its closure.

It was a fellow writer, Achal Prabala, who called to tell me that Premier Bookshop was closing down. “Mr. Shanbhag seems quite determined,” said Achal: “The landlord is giving trouble again. He has to undergo an eye operation himsel f. And his daughter is keen that he come visit her in Australia. The nice thing is that he seems very calm about it.”

I claim a long connection with Mr. T.S. Shanbhag and Premier Bookshop, but Achal’s connection was deeper. Since he is some 15 years younger, he had known them all his life. (I was already a teenager by the time I made my first acquaintance with the bookseller and bookshop.) Anyway, like me and countless other residents of Bangalore, he had come to regard them as indispensable and immovable. When, after many years overseas, Achal had moved back to his home town, it was in the knowledge that Mr. Shanbhag and Premier would take care of at least one part, perhaps the most critical part, of his life. To see the shop close and the owner retire was for him as unanticipated, and as hard to bear, as the death of a revered family elder.

Considered decision

Fortunately, I was not due to travel anywhere in the fortnight after I heard the news. I went to Premier the next day, to find the owner almost as stoic as I had been told he would be. He rehearsed his reasons for retirement, but when I found a book to buy (Simon Winchester’s essay collection, Outposts) he said, with some emotion: “I will not let you pay for this.” When he insisted, I asked only that he inscribe the book for me.

When I went back the next day, Mr. Shanbhag had regained his composure. I bought some books and paid for them, and he made me sign some copies of a book I had written. He had, he said, a week more to run, before he put down his shutters and put himself in the hands of the eye surgeon. By now, word of his closure had spread. Every day the number of visitors grew. The great mound in the middle of the shop became shorter and slimmer. The top layers on the side-shelves were peeled off by paying customers, to reveal books published in the 1980s and before, that had lain buried, unseen and unsold.

Fine gesture

On the first Sunday after Mr. Shanbhag had made his decision known, a city magazine organised a photo shoot. Several writers were called to feature in the frame, among them the distinguished Kannada novelist U.R. Anantha Murthy. As he sat himself down among us, Anantha Murthy asked, “Why is Girish [Karnad] not here?” I knew the answer: that great patron of Premier could not come because his daughter was getting married the next week. I said that Girish’s wife sometimes told him, when he came home with the day’s loot, that their house had begun to resemble Shanbhag’s shop, with books on the steps, books on the window-sill, books on the kitchen counter, books everywhere including on one’s head. I added that my wife sometimes told me the same thing. There were laughs all around, the loudest from Mr. Shanbhag.

I went back several times the next week. Once I took my daughter along, so that she could buy her own last books from Premier, and also take some photographs of the shop and its owner. It did not look at all like a store that was soon to go out of business. Customers bumped into one another on the narrow walkways. Some faces were known to me — I had seen them, and they, me, in the same place for the last 20 years or more. But there were strangers too, as well as surprises. A lady peeked in and asked Mr. Shanbhag whether he bought old computer books. He quietly answered that he did not.

A void

In those last days and weeks at Premier, the friends and patrons of the shop gamely suppressed their own feelings. For them, as for Achal Prabala, Girish Karnad, my daughter, and myself, the passing of the shop meant a void in their lives. Mr. T.S. Shanbhag was not merely the most knowledgeable bookseller in Bangalore, but also the most likeable. But, taking our cue from the man, we would not display our emotions. We would see things as he, silently and by example, encouraged us to see them. A bookseller had carried out his calling with pride and integrity for four decades. Had he not earned himself a dignified retirement?

The very many individuals who have come to depend on Premier Bookshop will naturally mourn its closure. For, Mr. Shanbhag’s dealings with publishers, retailers, customers and strangers were always exemplary. Still, nothing became the man so much as the manner of his leaving. The last stages of the careers of our politicians, cricketers and film stars tend to be embarrassingly extended. Contrasting Mr. Shanbhag’s behaviour with theirs, we might be inspired to suppress our private sorrow in a public celebration for a career conducted with honesty and dignity, and always on its own terms.

Melody of the duck instrument

SUGANTHY KRISHNAMACHARI

Having learnt the oboe, Martina Leopoldt is keen on mastering the nagaswaram.

Photo: S.R. Raghunathan

unusual: Martina Leopoldt.

Ever since I dipped into our collection of records, to listen to the New York Philharmonic playing Prokofiev’s ‘Peter and the Wolf,’ conducted by Leonard Bernstein, the oboe has been, to me, synonymous with the duck. That’s be cause, it is the oboe that represents the duck in this piece. When I tell oboe player Martina Leopoldt this, she laughs, and says, “It’s not just you. Many of my friends in Germany call it the duck instrument too.’”

Martina is in Chennai to give finishing touches to her thesis for a post-graduate degree in Musicology. She is a student at the University of Leipzig, and the topic of her research is ‘Nagaswaram — ritual and religious connections in music — especially in connection with the Tiruvaiyaru Tyagaraja festival.’ She took the help of Prof B.M. Sundaram and Injikkudi E.M. Subramaniam for her thesis.

Curiosity kindled

When she was eleven, Martina decided to learn how to play the oboe. “An oboe teacher had just arrived in Ilmeneau, the small town in which I lived. Just out of curiosity, I enrolled for oboe lessons. My face would turn red when I played the oboe. My friends would tease me and say, “You are not only playing the duck instrument, you even look like a sick duck!”

How did she get interested in the nagaswaram? “When my grandfather visited Chennai in 2005, he bought a nagaswaram for me. I didn’t know a thing about it, until 2007, when I visited India, and learnt how to play it.”

She filmed the nagaswaram players at Tiruvaiyaru this year, and at the Tiruvannamalai and Chidambaram temples. “I even went trekking up to the Sorimuthu Ayyanarappan temple in the Mundanthurai sanctuary in Tirunelveli. This temple in a forest has a nagaswaram and thavil player, while many temples in more accessible places don’t have ritual nagaswaram playing. They say they lack funds. I also wanted to visit the Agastya temple, but the permission from the Forest Department didn’t come in time. So I couldn’t visit that temple.”

“In the West, we usually don’t use microphones for classical music concerts. But you have microphones in your sabhas, and that spoils the quality of your traditional music. Why aren’t your auditoriums designed keeping acoustics in mind?” she wonders. She’s a girl with very strong views on adhering to the traditions of music. Surprising in one so young. Martina is only 22.

In the 17th century the oboe made its way into concert halls. Today the nagaswaram too is heard in sabhas, a development Martina is not happy about. “The nagaswaram is the loudest wind instrument in the world. And your sabhas provide amplification for the nagaswaram too! Indians seem to have such a fascination for technology. I even heard an electronic veena. I didn’t like it one bit,” complains Martina.

She laments that in Europe, Hindustani music is known more widely than Carnatic music. “I couldn’t find many books on Carnatic music in our libraries, but there were many on Hindustani music.”

“Bollywood music is popular in India, and A.R. Rahman has used the oboe in a song in the film Jodha Akbar. That might make the oboe popular here!”

Martina plans to continue nagaswaram lessons under Balamurali, who studied in Annamalai University, and now lives in Germany. Once she submits her thesis, she’s going to come back to India, to train under Injikkudi Subramanian. And of course, there’s also that trek to the Agastya temple that she missed this trip, but is determined to do soon.

Comparative study

In a lecture recently organised by the Centre for Ethnomusicology, Martina spoke of the role of the oboe in every period in the history of Western music, and then of the similarities and differences between the oboe and the nagaswaram. Some highlig hts:

Like the nagaswaram, the oboe is a double reed instrument of the woodwind family. It’s made of a wood called grenadilla, which comes from Africa. “Of ten pieces of the wood, roughly one will be suitable for making an oboe. That’s why the oboe is expensive. An oboe costs 8000 Euros!” Martina explained. “Reeds have to be changed every week, and each reed costs 20 Euros, but I make my own reeds.”

The oboe too has a conical bore, but the reeds of the nagaswaram are thicker, which makes the latter more difficult to play.

Amazing ability

“No oboe player will be able to play for more than two hours at a stretch. And I am amazed at the ability of nagaswaram players who play continuously for more than six hours in temples,” Martina observed.

The modern oboe has 45 keys, and therefore one cannot produce gamakas on it. But the baroque oboe has only three keys, and is more like the nagaswaram, because you can produce microtones on it.

In the baroque oboe too sound is produced mainly with the oral cavity, as in the case of the nagaswaram. Both the nagaswaram and the oboe originated as outdoor instruments, although the nagaswaram was used in religious processions and the baroque oboe in military processions.

S.K.

Collector’s item: The Oxford Illustrated Companion to South Indian Classical Music

Source http://www.hindu.com/fr/2009/03/13/stories/2009031351370500.htm

Collector’s item

LALITHAA KRISHNAN

The second edition of ‘The Oxford Illustrated Companion to South Indian Classical Music’ by Ludwig Pesch is out on the stands.

Photo: R. Shivaji Rao.

Perceptive: Ludwig Peschm.

Ludwig Pesch’s tryst with the Indian classical arts began in the late 1970s. His long-standing association with Kalakshetra, merging with its sylvan ambience and imbibing from distinguished mentors such as S. Rajaram and D. Pasupathi deepened h is perception of the subtly shaded nuances and the philosophy underlying South Indian classical music and dance. Having familiarised himself with precept, it was inevitable that Pesch be drawn to practice as well, learning the flute from H. Ramachandra Sastri and graduating to performance.

In 1999, ‘The Oxford Illustrated Companion to South Indian Classical Music’ authored by Pesch was published by Oxford University Press.

Vast scope

Pesch’s latest offering is the second edition of this publication. Compiling his painstakingly acquired knowledge on the subject into a book could not have been an easy task as the vast scope would have posed a challenge even to the musician or musicologist born and bred in the tradition. Others had done it before, with many efforts sliding into a pedantic morass that invariably succeeded in intimidating the lay reader or summoning the Sandman.

Not so with Pesch. The author’s scholarship extends beyond formal study and comprehension to a tone of ready empathy with the aesthete, whose instinctive appreciation of art forms, both familiar and unfamiliar, is in response to an inner call. In art, there is much that cannot be explained. Only experienced. Pesch unerringly homes in on this truth, trusting in intuition to guide him into spaces illuminated by the spark of enquiry and the glow of discovery that transform mere sight into vision. And herein lies the book’s USP.

A worthy addition

Three reasons that make this volume a must-read and a worthy addition to a classical music aficionado’s collection - the scope is comprehensive, the content is meticulously researched and accurately presented and the tone communicative, striking an instant rapport with the reader. Spanning a broad spectrum ranging from basic concepts, dynamics of voice and instruments, musical forms and composers to complexities of gamaka, raga, tala and rhythm, Pesch employs simple language and lucid explanations to unscramble jargon and decipher technicalities. Sifting, seeking and analysing but never overwhelming, the author engages the reader in a conversation that grows progressively absorbing in its traverse through deftly interwoven past and present, fact and belief, tradition and zeitgeist. The text is richly layered with the musings and quotes of savants and musicians such as George L. Hart, Rangaramanuja Ayyangar, Rabindranath Tagore, Joap Bor and Yehudi Menuhin.

At 514 pages inclusive of a glossary-cum-index, this tome is substantive but not exacting. Certainly, a book that can be judged by its tastefully designed cover that has you running your hand covetously over the embossed gold lettering accentuating a muted olive background graced with a mural depicting a colourful procession of female musicians playing instruments. The layout makes for pure reading pleasure with its vision-friendly font size and apt illustrations that include paintings, photographs, sketches, diagrams and staves.

The inside pages…

• From basic concepts, dynamics of voice and instruments to musical forms and composers

• Complexities of gamaka, raga, tala and rhythm explained in detail.

• Simple language and lucid explanations

• Quotes of savants and musicians such as George L. Hart, Rangaramanuja Ayyangar, Rabindranath Tagore, Joap Bor and Yehudi Menuhin.

Sweet fruits of labour:Fruit Shop On Greams Road

Sweet fruits of labour

Salim and Harris tell PRINCE FREDERICK how they built up their successful venture Fruit Shop on Greams Road

Photo: R. Ragu

TWO IS COMPANY Harris (left) and Salim

Barely out of college, Mohammed Salim started a plywood business in Choolai. A few years later, Harris Abdulla joined him as partner. It was a successful enterprise and they had nothing to complain about. But slowly, boredom set in. They were getting tired of looking at plywood day in and day out. At that time, they learnt about someone who wanted to let out a 250 sq.ft. commercial space on Greams Road.

The two bored timber businessmen took the space but kept it under lock and key for a long time. “We could not decide on a new business. In this state of indecision, six months went by,” recalls Salim.

With friends, Salim and Harris often played cricket at New College, the Gopalapuram Corporation Ground or at Harris’ uncle’s spacious residence opposite Anna Arivalayam. After cricket, they invariably went to a shop on Richie Street, where fresh fruit juices were served. Casually, over glasses of sweet lime juice, they decided one evening to start a fresh juice shop. “Initially, we thought it would be a second business,” says Harris.

Their families were appalled at the idea. “What do you know about making juices?" they asked, considering it a bad investment. Harris and Salim failed to convince them, but nevertheless went ahead with their “hare-brained idea”.

How it all began

“We were hunting for experts to run the shop,” reminisces Harris. They cobbled together a three-member team, and ‘Fruit Shop On Greams Road’ was open for business on June 16, 1995. Fifteen days on, they were faced with the threat of closure. The three young staffers, Roy, Arif and Ali got hold of a bike and went for a spin, well past midnight. “ When they reached Spurtank Road, they rammed into a buffalo.” Having sustained serious injuries, the three had to stay in bed for a few months. “We had to either close down or run the shop ourselves,” says Salim. “We decided to give it a try.”

“Surprisingly, collections rose to Rs. 3,500 a day from Rs. 500! We realised it made better business sense to be more involved. We would be up at 5 a.m. to purchase fruits and would be the ones to lock the shop at 1 a.m. Between these hours, we also managed the timber business,” says Harris. Working two shifts was beginning to tell on their health. Starved of sleep, Harris crashed his vehicle. He crashed once more. Clearly, they had to slow down. They brought down the shutters on the timber business.

“With ten outlets in Chennai and one in Dubai run in a highly professional, corporate fashion, we might today appear as if we followed a well-devised formula for success. Nothing can be farther from the truth,” says Salim. “The only thing going for us was our determination to take ‘Greams Road’ to every part of the city. Fearing we would be diluting our efforts to make this happen, we even gave up our restaurant ‘Galloping Gooseberry’, which was doing well.”

“We were like two bumble bees that bumbled into something great,” says Harris.

During that trying period, when Harris and Salim were mixing fruits and cutting plywood, they made a few mistakes. But they were graciously forgiven. Probably out of fatigue, one of them put more pepper than was necessary in Sam’s Pick Me Up (pomegranate juice with a dash of pepper).

“The juice had taken on a dark hue. The poor gentleman’s face changed after drinking it, but he left without uttering a word,” says Harris. “He returned the next day and told us gently that we had put too much pepper in his drink.”

Customer is king

Salim says customers such as this have been Fruit Shop’s main strength. “They forgave the occasional lapses and gave us feedback that helped improve our service,” he says.

Salim and Harris kept working on all the important areas — hygiene, health, pricing, flavouring and service.

“We use spotless white sugar. Our customers ask us if we use mineral water. The fact is: water goes into only six of the 120 juices we make. Our juices are mostly all fruits. Where milk is required, we use treated milk. Our ice is also treated. We thought of setting up a plant for ice treatment, but finally outsourced the work. Treated ice is made under our supervision,” says Salim.

“The boys at Fruit Shop are low on flamboyance. They are definitely not the ‘Hi, dude’ types. But are very polite and self-motivated.”

Salim and Harris say their unique flavouring is a big strength. It is one of the factors that has ensured continued customer loyalty and given the company a presence on Facebook and Orkut.

“Fans of Fruit Shop have created these profiles. They have discussions about our various outlets,” says Harris. “This is not surprising to us. All through the 14 years, we have not spent much on advertisements. We have grown mostly through satisfied customers who spread the word.”

http://www.hindu.com/fr/2009/02/20/stories/2009022051200100.htm

Sculpting a success story

T.S. SUBRAMANIAM

Sculpture, architecture and Vaastu sastra… these are a few fascinating facets of V. Ganapati Sthapati, recipient of this year’s Padma Bhushan.

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Space is everywhere. If this space is confined by a four-walled structure, it becomes a living organism.

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Photo: M. Karunakaran

THE ARTIST and his creations: V. Ganapati Sthapati

The Tiruvalluvar statue. .

Meeting 81-year old V. Ganapati Sthapati is an interesting experience. He can dazzle you with his scholarship of Tamil, Sanskrit, Vaastu Shilpa sastra, architecture and mathematics. He is a practising sculptor and an architect with a quest for resea rch. Even at this age, his spirit for learning has not dimmed. He is not afraid to speak out his mind either. “Sanskrit and Tamil are one. Technically, they are the same. Only we are fighting over them (about which is superior to the other),” he says and lists out words that are the same in both the languages. For example, ‘moolan’ in both means source, ‘kalam’ denotes time and ‘gnalam’ is world. Ganapati Sthapati was among those chosen this year for Padma Bhushan award. “It is a matter of pride that I have been chosen for the award,” he says with humility. “It gives me a sense of satisfaction, for the award is a recognition of our tradition.” The tradition that he represents is that of Viswakarmas and the Vaastu science of sculpture and architecture, including temple building. He is a descendant of the long lineage of traditional sculptors and temple architects — Viswakarmas — in Tamil Nadu.

According to him, Brahmarishi Mayan is the progenitor of Vaastu science, and the science of Shilpa sastra and architecture are based on mathematics. While others have merely defined architecture as the science of material space, Mayan has described it as ‘the pinnacle of achievement in mathematics.’ This mathematics implies the use of a unique measure called ‘Space-Time Units.’ Ganapati Sthapati himself describes architecture as ‘frozen music’ in which ‘vibrations are important.’

Subject of study

For 27 years, from 1961 to 1988, he was the principal of Government College of Architecture and Sculpture at Mamallapuram. While there, Ganapati Sthapati raised the status of the art of sculpting “from a mere craft practised in thatched road-side sheds to the four-walled precincts of the college where the students learnt the science and technology of tradition and came out as graduates with a B.Sc. in Temple Architecture.”

“Also the age old technical literature on Shilpa and Vaastu (architecture) shastras, which were both in Tamil and Sanskrit, were brought into the curriculum of the institute, thus elevating its academic status.” He argues that vastu means energy and vaastu means matter. “Energy contains matter and matter contains energy. This is our Veda and we practise this theory in architecture,” he says, and continues, “Space is everywhere. But you cannot see it. It has no form which can be seen with eyes. However, if this space is confined by a four-walled structure, it becomes a living organism. It can breathe. In doing this, I use orderly measures. These are backed by a mathematical formula... This technology is called Vaastu shastra.”

Ganapati Sthapati has designed and built 600 temples in different parts of the world including India, the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, Singapore, Malaysia, Fiji, Sri Lanka and Kenya. He was the architect of Sri Swaminatha temple in New Delhi. He built the 133-foot tall statue of Tiruvalluvar at Kanyakumari, the Valluvar Kottam including its massive chariot in stone in Chennai, the administrative block of the Tamil University at Thanjavur and its library building, the Silappathikaram art gallery at Poompuhar, near Thanjavur, and many more.

When M. Karunanidhi became the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu in 1996, he specifically commissioned Ganapati Sthapati to build a statue for Tiruvalluvar on the rocky outcrop, surrounded by sea on all sides, at Kanyakumari. The 133-foot tall, free-standing masterpiece in granite is a testimony to the ingenuity of the architectural skill of Ganapati Sthapati.

The chariot at Valluvar Kottam

Granite masterpiece

“The Tiruvalluvar statue has no foundation at all. It is mounted on a rock. There are 7,500 pieces of granite in the statue. We assembled the statue bit by bit. All pieces are inter-locked. It is a great achievement to interlock 7,500 pieces of granite,” he says.

Sceptics asked him whether such a tall statue could stand on a rock, buffeted by winds from the sea on all sides. They also wanted to know whether the statue’s neck and head could be integrated into the torso. To them, his reply was, “If the statue does not stand, you can chop off my head. As long as ‘alai’ (waves in Tamil) and ‘malai’ (hillock) stand, the ‘silai’ (the statue) and its ‘thalai’ (its head) will survive.” And survive it did the waves of tsunami in December 2004.

Building the chariot in stone at Valluvar Kottam was another daunting task. (Temple chariots are generally made of timber). This stone chariot has three parts: the lower one in inverted pyramid form, the middle one made of pillars and the top one in pyramid form supported by these pillars. The chariot has wheels made of stones. “Building the chariot in stone was difficult,” he says.

After he retired as the principal of the Government College of Architecture and Sculpture, Sthapati devoted his time to research. “I never wasted 20 years of my retired life,” he says. “I did research and discovered my roots.” He has written more than 40 books including those on Shilpa Sastra in Tamil and ‘The Scientific Edifice of Brihadeeswara.’ He is currently writing his 41st book and building a temple for Mayan near Mamallapuram.

Some landmarks

* The Tiruvalluvar statue in Kanyakumari — 7,500 pieces of granite are interlocked.

* The Valluvar Kottam including its massive chariot in stone, in Chennai

* The administrative block and library of the Tamil University at Thanjavur.

* The Silapathikaram art gallery at Poompuhar, near Thanjavur.

* More than 600 temples across the globe including the famous Sri Swaminatha temple in New Delhi.

A mathematician’s passion

A mathematician’s passion

SUGANTHY KRISHNAMACHARI

Of Valavan Kumaran, author of ‘Lakshman’s Dream.’

I find that every drama troupe here has a format, a formula. I didn’t want to be strait-jacketed. I wanted to give free rein to my imagination.

Versatile: Valavan Kumaran

Valavan Kumaran loves all classical arts of India. In fact he listens to Carnatic music, when he wants to think of how to go about his next play. “It helps me to shut out distractions and concentrate on my play,” he says.

A French citizen, he left India at the age of 14, and finished his schooling and his University education in France. In 1997, he started his own theatre group in France, and travelled from village to village staging plays. In 2001, he joined the Theatre du Soleil, where he acted in two plays directed by Ariane Mushkin.

Kumaran has a Ph.D in Non-Commutative Geometry from Marseilles University, and he taught there for four years, before he took to full time theatre.

Mathematics and theatre – what’s the connection? “Both are beautiful,” says Kumaran.

Agreed, but Maths has a different kind of beauty. Austere beauty, without the trappings of painting or music, was how Russell saw mathematics. Why did Kumaran prefer the beauty of theatre to the cold and austere beauty of Mathematics? “Even as a child, I wanted to be a theatre person,” he says.

Then why didn’t he join a theatre group early on? “I find that every drama troupe here has a format, a formula. I didn’t want to be strait-jacketed. I wanted to give free rein to my imagination. That didn’t seem possible in any of the theatre groups in Tamil Nadu.”

In a conversation that ranges from Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle and the work of mathematician Alain Connes to Peter Brooks’ plays, Kumaran’s passion for a lot of things is evident. But it is theatre that has a special place in his heart.

Is he happy with the theatre scene in Tamil Nadu today? “ No,” he says. “There is no patronage from the Government. If we have to hire the Museum Theatre for an evening, we have to pay 25,000 rupees. Moreover, here audiences seem to be committed to certain languages. Some will only go to English plays, some only to Tamil plays. Not much importance is given to directing here. I find Indian classical arts moving, but I don’t like drama in Tamil Nadu, whether in English or Tamil.”

Kumaran laments the lack of theatre training in Tamil Nadu. “People think that it is only music and dance that need training, and they assume anyone can act, without training.”

How did he get interested in koothu? Kumaran staged his play “Midnight Traveller,” at the drama festival in Purisai.

“I was not sure of its reception in Purisai. The story is about a young man who dons the role of a woman in a village play. He is mocked and ostracised, and he leaves the village. He travels through India, and meets many women, each of whom touches his heart, and each of whom speaks a different language.” The play had seven languages in it — Hindi, Gujarati, Telugu, Khasi, English, French and Tamil. To his surprise and delight, the villagers liked the play.

His troupe attended a workshop on koothu in Purisai. Later, he met Purisai Sambandam, and was impressed by his method of transmitting the art of theru-k-koothu. It reminded him of his experiences at the Theatre du Soleil, and an idea for a play began to take shape in his mind.

Cheap gimmicks

“Not all performers of koothu stick to tradition. Some of them resort to cheap gimmicks for the sake of popularity. So I wanted to show the dangers to the tradition of koothu, through my play “Lakshman’s dream.’”

What are the gimmicks he is talking about?

“ I’ve actually heard some village artistes use double meaning dialogue.”

Double entendres? “No, ‘double entendres’ as you use it , is not correct French. That is an Anglicised usage. The correct French expression would be ‘double sens,’” he corrects. “ Anyway, to continue, it’s not just vulgarity, it’s the very tampering with the tradition of an art that I disapprove of.”

There are also innovations in Carnatic music and Bharatanatyam, that many frown upon. He might just as well have done a play on any art form. “That’s true. For instance in music and dance, I don’t like fusion. The marrying together of two different art forms is abhorrent to me,” Kumaran shudders.

Kumaran has made Chennai his home. Future projects? Dreams? “I want to do a play based on the Rig Veda. I want to learn Sanskrit and Bharatanatyam. I’m deeply interested in our religious literature and our mythological stories. The Bhagavad Gita offers invaluable lessons on coping with the ups and downs of life.”

Kumaran speaks French, Tamil and English, and that’s the order of his competence in the three languages too, he laughs.

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The comedian's tragedy - N S Krishnan

Source http://www.hindu.com/mp/2008/12/15/stories/2008121551290800.htm

The comedian's tragedy

S. MUTHIAH

There's one more centenary I must remember before the year is out - and that is that of N.S. Krishnan, whom film historian Randor Guy calls `The King of Comedy'.

NSK, as he was known, was born in Nagercoil in 1908 to parents too poor to send him to school. But even if he had gone to school, it is a moot question as to how long he would have stayed in it, for even as a child he was fascinated by the stage. NSK was in his teens when he started working with one of the most famous Tamil travelling theatre companies of the time, TKS Brothers. It was a warm and successful relationship that lasted 10 years.

During that decade, NSK, who knew every role in every TKS play and could step into any of them at a moment's notice, moved from serious roles and the occasional singing one to comedy quite serendipitously. When the troupe's comedian went missing one day, NSK offered to play his role - and did so so innovatively, he became the troupe's comedian thereafter.

In 1935, when the whole cast of the TKS Brothers' play Menaka was hired for a film to be adapted from it, Krishnan's success in it launched him as a film comedian who became a legend in Tamil cinema. Film followed film - and when Vasanthasena came along he found himself not only starring with a new actress, T.A. Mathuram, but also falling in love with her. Till his death in 1957, they were a couple on stage as well as off it. In his later years, it was she who did much to keep the home fires burning.

It was in the mid-1940s, heading out to qualify as an engineer, that I got fascinated with journalism after reading The Hindu's splendid and detailed reporting of the Lakshmikantham Murder Case. The only better newspaper report of a trial I've come across was the one in The Times, London, on what became known as `The Trial of Lady Chatterly's Lover', the famous obscenity case that followed publication by Penguin of the D.H. Lawrence story that had long been banned in Britain. (For the record, Allen Lane, after winning the case, published the entire trial as a Penguin title!)

A major figure in the Lakshmikanthan murder case was NSK, who was one of the main accused. Thyagaraja Bhagavathar and Krishnan were found guilty and awarded life sentences. But on appeal to the Privy Council, they were acquitted in 1947. Thyagaraja Bhagavathar was never the same again - and the matinee idol of the Tamil cinema called it a day after a few flops. NSK fared better - and that had a lot to do with Mathuram.

While the case was going on, she did what she knew best to make the money necessary to fight the case; she started a drama troupe and had the best in the business to help her with it. She then started a film company - and its first production was just getting underway when NSK was released. He came out of prison, addressed a public meeting that had the crowd in splits hearing him narrate his prison experiences - and then he was ready to appear before the lights in Ennesskay Films' first production, Paithiakkaran.

Several successful films followed. At the same time, NSK, once a Periyar follower, became one of the leading lights of the Dravidian Munnetra Kazhagam. Between the film world and the world of politics, the hangers-on and sycophants were many. But he and Mathuram not only became unwisely generous with their money but they also began to burn the candle at both ends. All this contributed to NSK's death - and Mathuram having to live in near poverty till she died 10 years later. In their good days, however, there was no one else in their class in Tamil, nay Indian, filmdom when it came to comedy. If he was the `King of Comedy', she was, as Randor Guy emphatically adds, `The Queen of Indian Cinema Comediennes

Devdas (1955)

Source http://www.hindu.com/fr/2009/02/20/stories/2009022050660400.htm

BLAST FROM THE PAST

Devdas (1955)

Dilip Kumar, Suchitra Sen, Vyjayanthimala, Motilal

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It was essentially Bimal Roy’s exceptional direction that earned the movie its rave reviews.

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Melancholy reigns supreme in “Devdas”, a heartrending story of a lover committed to self-destruction, a story penned by a legendary writer and given the shape of an all-time classic by a master filmmaker. The timeless Saratchandra Chatterjee novel has been treated impeccably by Bimal Roy in this 1955 movie starring Dilip Kumar, Suchitra Sen, Vyjayanthimala and Motilal, a film that grows on you and ultimately leaves you devastated by the tragic end of the protagonist.

“Devdas” is a moving tale that revolves around three characters: Devdas (Dilip Kumar) and Paro (Suchitra Sen) are childhood sweethearts who grow up in a village. Their association assumes the form of love when they become adults but Devdas faces opposition from his father, who rejects their marriage proposal. Paro is married to a man twice her age with a grown up son and daughter while Devdas is packed off to Kolkata where he takes to drinking and comes into contact with Chunni Babu (Motilal), who introduces him to Chandramukhi (Vyjayanthimala), a dancer with a kind heart.

The dancer falls in love with Devdas, who is by now an incorrigible alcoholic, unaware of a reformed Chandramukhi’s feelings. The drinking drives him to death, the end coming at the door of Paro’s mansion. Devdas and Paro fail to meet and in that sombre moment the writer succeeds in evoking sympathy for the tragic hero, so brilliantly portrayed by Dilip Kumar. He was at his best in the film.

seeped in sorrow

“Devdas” was Bimal Roy’s tribute to a story seeped in sorrow, a most sensitive narration of a man who drinks himself into oblivion. Having worked as cameraman for the K.L. Saigal starrer “Devdas” in 1935, Bimal Roy waited 20 years to stamp his class on one of the most mournful stories ever. You feel it when Talat Mahmood renders the soulful “Mitwaa laagi re ye kaisi anbujh aag” and “Kis ko khabar thi kis ko yaqin tha aise bhi din aayenge.”

Dilip Kumar reportedly read the novel a few times before coming to terms with the character and is said to have taken a while to come out of the role, so stunningly enacted that it fetched him the Filmfare Award for best actor. Vyjayanthimala went on record to say that this was the role that actually launched her film career, transforming her from an acknowledged classical dancer into a respected actor.

It was Suchitra Sen’s debut in a Hindi movie and she left a lasting impression with her controlled performance, her beauty leaving the audience in a trance. The three main actors were so sincere to their job and given Bimal Roy’s abilities as a director of rare quality, they were bound to give memorable performances. This was a film that also features the great Pran in his tiniest role – a ten-second appearance at Chandramukhi’s kotha.

The movie fared reasonably at the box office even as it earned Bimal Roy the Filmfare Award for best direction, apart from supporting role honours for Motilal and Vyjayanthimala. It was essentially Bimal Roy’s exceptional direction that earned the movie its rave reviews.

There are some unforgettable landmark scenes that only Bimal Roy and Dilip Kumar could have produced. “Kaun kambakht hai jo bardaasht karne ke liya peeta hai, mai to peeta hoon ki bas saans le sakoon,” Dilip Kumar captures the drunken stupor of Devdas like none could have. And then towards a depressing climax when he mumbles to the cart driver on way to Manikpur, “Arre bhai ye raasta kya kabhi khatam nahi hoga,” desperate to meet Paro before his last breath, Dilip Kumar leaves the audience in tears. You may silently find yourself praying the cart flies to Manikpur.

The spellbinding cinematic effort is heightened by S.D. Burman’s music and a young Sahir Ludhianvi’s enduring poetry, a rich variety so beautifully documented in the Manna Dey-Geeta Dutt bhajan “Aan milo aan milo shyaam sanvare ... aan milo”, a Lata Mangeshkar solo “Jise tu kabu kar le vo sadaa kahaan se laun” and the unforgettable Mubarak Begum number, “Woh na aayenge palat kar unhen laakh hum bulaayen.”

“Devdas”, the one by Bimal Roy, alone brings alive the Saratchandra Chatterjee story, thanks to a combination of artistes who signify the essence of pure cinema.

* * *

Meticulous master

Joy Bimal Roy.

Joy was born the year “Devdas” was released and he was ten when he lost his illustrious father but the movie has remained close to his heart. “Baba never spoke to me specifically about the movie but over the years I gathered a lot. It was a great movie no doubt,” says Joy Bimal Roy.

“Baba was obsessed with making ‘Devdas’. There was no compelling reason for him to make ‘Devdas’. He had assisted in the making of the K.L. Saigal starrer and always wanted to make his own Devdas. My baba was a man of literature. Most of his works, notably ‘Devdas’, ‘Parineeta’ and ‘Biraj Bahu’, were based on literature. And he always remained faithful to the novels,” remembers Joy.

There was an exception though and Joy is quick to point it out. “It was an artistic liberty that he took in ‘Devdas’. The scene where Paro and Chandramukhi cross each other’s path, not a word is spoken as they look at each other. The background music makes it a memorable scene as it features Suchitra Sen and Vyjayanthimala together for the only time in the movie, even if for a fleeting moment. In the story they never meet though.”

In Joy’s views, “Devdas” encountered some casting problems. “Minor problems but what a cast it turned out to be. No one but Motilal could have played the role of Chunni Babu. I also remember the movie for its fantastic audio details. Baba was very meticulous. I remember Baba draping a dhoti for Balraj Sahni during the making of ‘Do Bigha Zameen’. He was a perfectionist to the core.” Joy recalls, “Dilip Kumar went on record later to say that his problem was to ensure what not to do than what to do. In fact, so immersed was he in the role that he had to see an analyst to come out of it. Those were the days. People were so sincere.”

VIJAY LOKAPALLY

Lawyer who nurtured music -- Prof. Sambamurthi

Source http://www.hindu.com/fr/2008/10/31/stories/2008103150970400.htm

ENCORE

Lawyer who nurtured music

SRIRAM VENKATKRISHNAN

PIONEER Prof. Sambamurthi worked all his life to make musicology an integral part of Carnatic music.

INNOVATOR Prof. Sambamurthi

Prof. P. Sambamurthi passed away on October 23, 1973. The Hindu published a detailed obituary on October 24 in which it recorded that the end came about at the Royapettah Hospital, Madras, after a brief illness.

The article first listed his awards and stated that he was a recipient of Padma Bhushan. And it went on to say, “Prof. Sambamurthi was honoured with the title of Sangita Kalanidhi at the 46th annual conference of the Music Academy, Madras in 1972. He was elected Fellow of the Sangeet Nataka Akademi in 1963 in recognition of his services to music.” It was an unprecedented list of honours and the Professor, as he was always known, deserved every one of them. He had worked hard all his life to make musicology an integral part of Carnatic music. And he began his endeavours at a time when music was largely an oral tradition with very little support for theory despite the various treatises on it and the proliferation of printed works in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries.

By then, the gurukula system was fast fading and even in the 1880s, there had been attempts by the Madras Jubilee Gayan Samaj to train students in music en masse by the establishment of schools for this purpose. Though this effort failed, the idea caught on and sporadic attempts were made in the 1900s as well. The Rev. H.A. Popley ran a summer school for music in 1918 which taught music to Christians. By 1921, this had become an annual feature, the entire course lasting six weeks.

In 1924, Sambamurthi, fresh out of law college, but more interested in music and better known as a performer on the flute, was invited to give ten lectures on the “Musical Forms in South Indian Music” at the summer school.

He so impressed the Rev. Popley that he was immediately appointed as a lecturer in the school. With Popley returning to London in 1926, Sambamurthi became Vice-Principal of the school and by 1927, became the Principal.

Not content with carrying on what the Rev. Popley had begun, Sambamurthi set about creating a syllabus for the school. The course expanded to comprise Elementary, Intermediate, Advanced and Honours sections and soon became a full-day school for the summer months, functioning out of various buildings in the city.
Created a syllabus

There were classes on theory and practice and each Friday, the students had to present, by way of public performances, what they had learnt. To introduce a fun element, Sambamurthi organised weekend outings to places of musical interest in and around Madras city.

Not everyone was impressed with such group singing. The noted critic ‘Kalki’ Krishnamurthy panned the attempt as monstrous but it was generally welcomed as an innovation. Encouraged by the response, Sambamurthi enlarged the summer course into a full five-year course. In addition, a Teacher’s Training Course was also introduced which became very popular among the music teachers of the Corporation Schools. Students began coming in from all over India and soon a separate course for instruments was also added.

The Music Academy, Madras, was started in 1928, with Sambamurthy as one of the founding secretaries. This body lobbied with the Government to introduce music as a regular course in colleges and in the Madras University.

The Queen Mary’s College (QMC) was the first to do so and Sambamurthi was appointed lecturer. At around this time, he was also asked to teach music in many schools of Madras, so much so that he had to evolve a rota system of teaching in all the schools and still continue as lecturer at the QMC and serve as Principal of the summer school! He of course, never practised law!

The Madras University funded his travel to Germany in 1931 to study at the Deutsche Akademie. In 1932, when the Music Department of the Madras University was formed, he framed its syllabus. Later he was to serve as its head for 25 years. From then on, there was no looking back either for him or for musicology. He wrote innumerable books, framed syllabi for several universities, helped the setting up of the Central College of Carnatic Music (now Isai Kalluri), was Professor of Musicology at the Venkateswara University and represented India at numerous music conferences abroad. He was also Director, Sangita Vadyalaya, Madras, from 1961 to 64 where he worked on creating and improvising music instruments. Sadly, the summer school that he put on the map, closed down in 1941. But it had served its purpose as a launch pad for musicology and systematic teaching of music.

(This article owes much to inputs from Dr M.A. Bhageerathi, faculty member of QMC, whose doctoral thesis was on Prof. Sambamurthi’s contribution to music theory.)

(The author can be contacted at srirambts@gmail.com)

His art speaks for him - Burra Katha

Source http://www.hindu.com/fr/2009/01/23/stories/2009012351070100.htm

His art speaks for him

PROFILE Veteran Burra Katha artist Karnati Lakshmi Narasaiah talks about the folk form and its relevance today. Kausalya Santhanam

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The themes dealt with in Burra Katha stress the need to erase inequality and spread the message of universal brotherhood.

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PHOTO: K.V. SRINIVASAN

WITH SOCIAL AWARENESS: Karnati Lakshmi Narasaiah.

Folk arts are our traditional wealth. We should try to educate the common people through these arts because they were created by them,” says Karnati Lakshmi Narasaiah, the doyen of Telugu folk performing arts who was in Chennai recently with his troupe to participate in the Chennai Sangamam.

The energetic 82-year-old is a man of many parts — practitioner and promoter of many Telugu folk performing art forms, scholar in Telugu and Urdu, freedom fighter who responded to Gandhiji’s call and also fought against the Nizam’s rule, and an author of several books (in Telugu). You talk to him for an hour and come away impressed with his singing skills and his indefatigable energy.

“Talking about the various things I have done in these many years is like distilling the sea in a bottle,” he says without false modesty. “If I stay idle for even half an hour, I tire,” he says with the sprightly enthusiasm of a man in his twenties. “I’m still actively engaged in lecture demonstrations, and I sing, dance and act.”

In a career spanning 65 years, Narasaiah has tried his hand successfully at various forms. He lists them rapidly — Veedhi Bhagavatham, Kasi Kavadi, Pitaldora, Jamukulakatha, Pambakatha, Kolattam, Bommalattam, Tapeta Gullu and Oggukatha.

Early years

“By the time I was 16, I had learnt nearly all these Kala Roopalu,” he says in chaste Telugu while I can only look bemused and scribble rapidly to keep pace.

“Did you get it right, amma?” he asks from time to time while our hostess Shobhana Reddy seeks to assure him on the score. Shobhana, a member of FICCI Ladies Organisation, has worked to showcase the Telugu arts at the Chennai Sangamam and has got Karnati’s troupe to perform here through the auspices of the World Telugu Federation. Karnati’s involvement in the arts goes back to his childhood. His mother moved to Telengana, her native place, when he was just a boy. Her family owned property there and when he took the cows to graze, he learnt the many songs of the folk people that helped lessen the burden of their toil. Surprisingly though the family was quite comfortably placed, the elder members did not curb the wanderings of the boy. He was free to roam around and absorb whatever took his fancy; so passionate was he in the pursuit of these art forms that he even forgot sometimes to turn up for his meals! He heard the recording of the great master of Burra Katha, Doddavarapu Venkataswamy for His Master’s Voice and learnt the form. “I also learnt to play the Jamukku (a drum),” he says.

Vibrant art form

Burra Katha, an art form once known as Jangam Katha, among other names, has a strong presence in Andhra Pradesh. Traditionally, it was used to narrate mythological stories. It later began to mirror social change. Burra Katha comprises three performers — one who sings, tells the story, plays the tambura and also dances, another who acts as commentator introducing political elements, and the third who acts as a comedian. The form is at once effective and extemporaneous, traditional and contemporary.

“The timbre of the performers’ voices is such as to rouse even those who are asleep,” guffaws Karnati and launches into a rousing recital of a few lines in his baritone. “I have given 10,000 performances in all,” he says. “I used to also participate in radio plays on AIR Vijayawada.”

Social messages

Burra Katha has been adapted successfully to propagate social messages. Karnati worked with Nassar to spread awareness among the people. Burra Katha has been used with telling effect in Telengana. “The themes I have dealt include the need to erase inequality and spread the message of universal brotherhood,” says Karnati. He is also a firm believer in gender equity. “Burrra Katha artists should speak of the problems of the poor farmers who are the backbone of the country,” he says.

Burra Katha led him to the cinema. “My guru Garikapati Rajarao introduced me and other members of the People’s Theatre such as Allu Ramalingaiah (actor Chiranjeevi’s father-in-law) to cinema. I have performed Burra Katha in 20 films,” he says. But the veteran is unhappy about the dilution of Burra Katha and other folk performing art forms as he feels not enough attention is being paid to the traditional costumes and format.

“All the States have their own distinctive and rich folk art forms; I love them all. I’m eager to be present wherever service is being done to them. Shobhana called me and so I have come with my troupe to take part in this confluence of arts,” says this recipient of many awards who facilitated different troupes to present Burra Katha, Jamukulakatha and play the Dappu at the festival.

Saga of grit and success - Sarojini Varadappan

source http://www.hindu.com/fr/2009/03/06/stories/2009030651160100.htm

Saga of grit and success

SUGANTHY KRISHNAMACHARI

She’s a trained classical singer, got a Ph.D when she was 80, and is the president of Women’s Indian Association. Now, Sarojini Varadappan adds another feather to her cap — Padma Bhushan.

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I learnt that social service was not easy, and that accountability was important right down to the last paisa.

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PHOTO: V. Ganesan

WOMAN OF SUBSTANCE: Sarojini Varadappan.

The year — 1932. A pregnant woman, her ten-year-old daughter in tow, walked towards the Vellore jail to meet her husband, who was imprisoned there. The woman was Gnanasundarammal, the girl was Sarojini Varadappan, and the man in prison was M. Bhakthavatsalam, who later became the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu. He had been arrested for participating in the Civil Disobedience Movement. Her father being arrested, and policemen carrying out searches in her father’s house were all commonplace occurrences for young Sarojini.

Sarojini Varadappan, social worker, chosen for Padma Bhushan, says her father’s association with the Congress and her mother’s association with the Women’s Indian Association (WIA) were contributing factors in her zeal for social service.

It is a well known fact that Dr. Muthulakshmi Reddy, president of the WIA, was instrumental in starting the Cancer Institute in Chennai. Sarojini recalls what an uphill task it was.

An institute is born

“It was a time when doctors such as T.S.S. Rajan felt money spent on the institute could be used to combat other diseases, and Dr. Muthulakshmi faced a lot of opposition to her plan even from the medical fraternity! So, all we managed to get from the Government for the institute was a small strip of land. Pandit Nehru was supposed to visit Madras around the time we’d planned the inauguration, and Dr. Muthulakshmi wanted him to inaugurate the institute. So I called up my uncle O.V. Alagesan, who conveyed our request to Pandit Nehru. He agreed at once. After the inauguration, Rajaji patted me on the back and said, ‘The Women’s Association has won.’ Even now you can see the letters WIA on the board outside the entrance to the institute.” Just three letters, and what an inspirational story lies behind them!

Later, Sarojini became the president of the WIA. When she took charge, it had four branches in Chennai. Today, the number has increased to 76. Sarojini has also been with the Indian Red Cross for 30 years, and is the president of the Mylapore Academy. However, it was never easy for Sarojini to follow her heart. “I was a student of National Girls High School, now called Lady Sivaswami Girls School. When I attained puberty, I was pulled out of school. My teachers tried to persuade my family to let me resume my studies, but the request was turned down.”

Her father consoled a distraught Sarojini and arranged for Hindi tuitions. But when the time came for Sarojini to take the Prathmic exam, her great-aunt objected to her leaving the house to write the exam! “So my father spoke to Pandit Nataraja Sarma, who designated our house as one of the exam centres for a group of girls, including me. That’s how I took the exam!” The year she passed her Visharadh, Gandhiji was in Madras to hand out certificates to the successful candidates, but again her family would not allow an unmarried girl to be seen in public. “So I lost the opportunity of receiving my certificate from Gandhiji,” she says ruefully.

For Sarojini, marriage to cousin Varadappan meant liberation, for there were no restrictions on married women going out. So when Gandhiji visited Madras next and stayed at the Hindi Prachar Sabha, Sarojini, now married, served as a volunteer. She and her friends enrolled 1,000 women in the Congress. “In the evenings, Gandhiji would relax on an easy chair, and we would count the day’s hundi collections, and keep accounts. I learnt that social service was not easy, and that accountability was important right down to the last paisa. The Seva Dal put us through exercises and marches, and some of the volunteers came in madisars!”

Music lessons

Since she’d learnt music, Sarojini would sing the prayer songs at the Congress meetings. “Satyamurthy was interested in music. So the party always had a music wing. I learnt to play the violin, and my guru, Parur Sundaram Iyer, taught me more than 500 kritis of various composers. I learnt Kshetragna padams and Tamil padams from Mylapore Gowri Amma, who lived on Brodie’s Road. My favourite Tamil padam was ‘Ethanai Sonnalum.’ I learnt Bharatiar songs from E. Krishna Iyer, whose classes were held in Vanniar Chatram on East Mada Street. On weekends, Veena Visalakshi would teach me Hindi bhajans.”

Singing in Congress meetings ensured that Sarojini had no stage fright when she had to address the public later. “But I still had an inferiority complex about not having a degree. So I did my M.A. in Political Science at the Mysore University, under the Open University scheme. Later I did Master’s in Vaishnavism from the Madras University.” Sarojini passed M.A. with a first class, and at the suggestion of her professor Narasimhachari, she did her Ph.D on ‘The Concept of Social Service in Swami Narayana Philosophy.’ She went to Ahmedabad to do research, and got her doctorate at the age of 80!

An ardent devotee of Kanchi Paramacharya, she took his blessings when she assumed office as president of the Social Welfare Board, Delhi. “He advised me to continue to study Sanskrit, which I’ve tried to do,” says Sarojini.

Sarojini served for sometime as member of the Film Censor Board. She even got into an argument with S.S. Vasan over a cut she’d made in his film! Why did she not think of politics as a career? “My father said I wasn’t to enter politics as long as he was alive. In fact, when C. Subramaniam proposed my name for a Rajya Sabha seat, my father turned down the suggestion.”

At 87, Sarojini still thinks of herself as a student. “I recently bought a computer, because I want to know how to browse the Net. My grandson (politician Jayanthi Natarajan’s son) teases me as the only one he knows, who still writes letters!”

Political kolu!

Sarojini Varadappan describes the Navaratri kolu they had in those days. “In 1937, when Rajaji formed a Congress Ministry in Madras, my mother hired a carpenter to make a mini Legislative Assembly! We had celluloid dolls representing every member of the Assembly, dressed exactly as they dressed in real life. We even had a doll attired just like Bhulusu Sambamurthy, the Speaker, who wouldn’t wear a shirt. Another year, we made a scale model of the Ramapadasagar dam. In 1947, Lady Nye, wife of the last British Governor of Madras, came home to see our kolu. My friends used to jokingly refer to it as the ‘political kolu,’ because we invariably had a political theme!”

He turned the spotlight on Annamayya

Source http://www.hindu.com/fr/2008/11/14/stories/2008111451360600.htm
ENCORE

He turned the spotlight on Annamayya

SRIRAM VENKATKRISHNAN

Commissioned to retrieve the songs of Annamacharya, Rallapalli Ananthakrishna Sarma worked in earnest setting them to tune and publishing volumes.

Sarma was of the view that the sringara compositions of Annamacharya were not being given the same importance as the spiritual.

Annamacharya.

Sixty years ago, the Sri Venkateswara University invited a scholar who had just then retired from the Maharajah’s College in Mysore, to head its Department of Music. The personage, or sage as some would have averred, was the apt choice, for he had not only a sound knowledge of music, but also of Sanskrit, Prakrit, Telugu and Kannada. On coming over, he applied himself to the main task at hand, that of setting to music the songs of Annamacharya, the great composer of Tallapaka. This personality was Rallapalli Ananthakrishna Sarma.

Born on January 23, 1893, at Rallapalli in Anantapur District to Sanskrit and Telugu scholar Karnamadakala Krishnamacharyulu and Alamelumangamma, Sarma was initiated into Sanskrit, Telugu and music by his parents. Resenting unchavriti (ritual alms seeking) he ran away from home at the age of 13. Reaching Mysore, he placed himself under the guardianship of the chief of the Parakala Mutt. Guided by the seer, he studied Sanskrit and Prakrit at the Chamaraja Pathasala and became a master in both languages. He also studied music under the palace vidwans such as Chikka Rama Rao, Bidaram Krishnappa and Karigiri Rao. He could sing and also play the violin and the flute.

Loved teaching

Sound knowledge of music: Rallapalli Ananthakrishna Sarma.

When Sarma was barely 18, his talent in Telugu was noticed by Sir Cattamanchi Ramalinga Reddy, the Principal of the Maharajah’s College, who appointed him Telugu Pundit. His love for teaching and his mastery over his subjects ensured he received the love and affection of his students. During his tenure there, Harikesanallur Muthiah Bhagavatar, though many years his senior, often consulted him on the musical and lyrical aspects of the project that he was then working on – Chamundamba Ashtottara kritis.

Sarma joined the Sri Venkateswara University in 1948. The Tirumala temple authorities had the previous year begun retrieving the songs of Annamacharya that had been stored for centuries on copper plates in the temple. The work was headed by Vetturi Prabhakara Sastry, well-known scholar who passed away. Sarma was then brought on board to head the project. He had first seen some songs of Annamacharya in 1937 and had even then been enamoured of their unique imagination, independent flow of words and variety. Beginning with ‘Alarulu kuriyaga adenade’ which describes the dance of Alamelumanga for the pleasure of Srinivasa, Sarma worked in earnest on the songs, setting them to tune and helping in the publications of volumes seven and eight of Annamacharya’s compositions.

In 1949, the first Vardhanti festival of Annamacharya was celebrated by the Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam and from then on the demand for the composer’s songs grew. Between 1951 and 56, Sarma brought out five more volumes of Annamacharya’s compositions. He wrote the notation for 108 compositions and 87 of them were published in the Andhra Patrika Weekly.

Sarma continued working on Annamacharya’s compositions long after his retirement in 1962. He was of the view that the sringara (erotic) compositions of Annamacharya were not being given the same importance as the adhyatmic (spiritual) and argued that it was incorrect to associate only Kshetrayya with sringara as a theme. Sarma was in demand as an erudite speaker and also served as Vice-President of the Andhra Pradesh Sangeet Natak Akademi for some time. He wrote prolifically and collections of his writings were brought out as books. In the middle of all this, he also found the time to compose, becoming a fine vaggeyakara, though he rather regrettably did not bother to notate or teach them to his students. To him, they were only expressions of an inner urge.

In 1974, Sarma was conferred Sangita Kalanidhi by the Music Academy, Madras. He took the honour in his stride but it gave an opportunity for the citizens of Madras to meet, observe and listen to a scholar. His speech on the occasion of his being elected to preside over the Music Academy’s annual conference was a fine one, remarkable for its masterly summing up of the music scenario at that time and his arguments in favour of change especially in breaking free from the shackles of tradition.

A Spartan lifestyle saw Sarma remain healthy and active till the very end. He passed away in Bangalore in 1979. By then Annamacharya’s songs had become famous and several including M. Balamuralikrishna and Nedunuri Krishnamurthy had set them to music and were regularly singing them in concerts. That said, it must also be placed on record that it was MS Subbulakshmi’s rendition of them, released as a series of audio cassettes by the TTD that made the songs extremely popular. Sarma lives on, in the songs of Annamcharya that he set to music.

(The author can be contacted at srirambts@gmail.com)

He made waves with children

Source - http://www.hindu.com/fr/2008/11/14/stories/2008111451260400.htm

He made waves with children

SUGANTHY KRISHNAMACHARI

Koothapiran struck instant rapport with the young participants, who called him Vanoli Anna.

Children are unpredictable, and this provided the humour quotient.

CHILDREN’S COMRADE: Koothapiran. (Right) Vignettes from his album. The last picture shows Mandolin Shrinivas and Arun Prakash performing for Paappa Malar.

“My father, Vittal Iyer, was a mridangam vidwan at Kalakshetra. I therefore had the good fortune of listening to the arangetram of Mysore Vasudevachar’s compositions at Kalakshetra. As soon as a kriti was ready, MDR, Mani Perundevi (Mani Krishnaswamy) or D. Pasupathi would sing it,” says Natarajan. Attending programmes at Kalakshetra gave Natarajan a taste for the fine arts, early on. While his brother learnt Bharatanatyam, Natarajan was attracted to the stage. He would walk all the way from Adyar to Teynampet Congress Grounds to watch plays staged by Nawab Rajamanickam Pillai and T.K.S. Brothers. “A ticket cost only twenty five paise in those days,” he says. “Even a balcony ticket in R.R. Sabha cost only 50 paise.”

Having decided to have a shot at writing plays, Natarajan gave himself a pseudonym. “What better pseudonym than Koothapiran, the Tamil equivalent of Natarajan?” he asks. Although he started out as a writer, Koothapiran later began to act too. He trained under actor/director Paul Storm at Kalakshetra. Today, Koothapiran’s whole family is involved with the stage one way or the other.

The stage brought him into contact with writers such as Sujatha, Savi, Marina, Bhagirathan, Akhilan and with Poornam Viswanathan.

The stage also got him his job. All India Radio was looking for good voices. No formal qualifications were needed, said the advertisement. So Koothapiran, who had learnt voice modulation on the stage, attended the interview, and was selected. He was asked how quickly he could translate from English to Tamil. Koothapiran admitted that he did not know English, but was willing to learn. How long did it take him to learn English? “At first it took me 20 minutes to translate a weather bulletin. Later on, I just translated live, as I read the news!”

But Koothapiran is more famous for the children’s programmes he produced. How did he get involved in these programmes?

“I had always wanted to involve children in theatre. So I started a club for children called Adyar Siruvar Sangam. My first play for these kids was ‘Amma Sol Amritam,’ which they enacted in 1955 at the Kuzhandaigal Nataka Vizha, inaugurated by Rajaji. Our play was adjudged the best. Incidentally, the club still functions and is managed by my brother.”

“I joined AIR to assist in children’s programmes, besides announcing other programmes. AIR had four programmes for children — Siruvar Solai, Paappa Malar, Muthukuvial, and Mazhalai Amudam. The guidance of Ayyasamy, who was in charge of these programmes was invaluable. Of course, my stage experience also helped,” Koothapiran adds.

Paappa Malar

But wasn’t Paappa Malar the most popular? “Yes. That’s because it was broadcast at a convenient time — 2.10 p.m. on Sunday.” And it was Paappa Malar, whose signature song was sung by K. Jayashree, that made Koothapiran famous as Vanoli Anna.

“In those days even children’s programmes were live. Only towards the end of my tenure did we begin to have recorded programmes.” Children are unpredictable, and from Koothapiran’s recollections it is obvious that this added to the humour quotient in Paappa Malar. He tells of a girl who, during the rehearsals, did a song routine. But when the programme went on air, she changed her mind and said she would tell a story instead. “Once upon a time there was a king. He died,” she said. Koothapiran asked her to continue with the story. “How can I continue, now that the king is dead?” she retorted!

There were touching moments too. Koothapiran toured many villages so that children there could participate in Paappa Malar. On one such visit, a boy came for the rehearsal in a striped shirt. A little later another boy, who looked a lot like the first, came in the same shirt. “Now look here. You were here awhile ago. I recognise that shirt. You can’t have two chances,” Koothapiran said sternly. The boy replied, “The boy who came earlier is my brother. I too want to be in Paappa Malar. But we only have one shirt between us. So once he finished, he passed it on to me.” Azha Valliappa said in an interview, that it was Koothapiran who had written the maximum number of plays for children.

Children could send in their date of birth to Vanoli Anna, and he would greet them on their birthdays. “Even now, people in their fifties, who took part in Paappa Malar programmes, address me as Vanoli Anna,” Koothapiran beams. Koothapiran auditioned Sudha Raghunathan, Mandolin Shrinivas, Embar Kannan, S.P. Ramh, Arun Prakash, when they were child artists.

Unforgettable moments in All India Radio? “Many, but to me it is most significant that the very first announcement I made was for an Ariyakkudi concert, and my last was for a KVN concert,” signs off Koothapiran.