On the 150th birth anniversary of the legendary musician and vaggeyakara Mysore Vasudevacharya, his grandson S. Krishnamurthy recreates for DEEPA GANESH the beautiful years he spent with his grandfather

Talking to S. Krishnamurthy is like opening the floodgates to a golden past, and this is a flood in which you feel fortunate to be washed away. At 92, his memory is razor sharp, and picks up even tiny details from as far as eight decades old. This musician, who is the retired Station Director of All India Radio, is also the author of the treasure-of-a-book Sangeeta Samaya and the more recent ones on T. Chowdiah and M.S. Subbulakshmi. Most importantly, he is the grandson of one of the greatest vaggeyakaras of Karnataka, Mysore Vasudevacharya, who was hailed as Abhinava Tyagaraja.

Invariably, any conversation with S.K. revolves around Vasudevacharya, the legend who shaped his life and music. The overwhelming presence of his grandfather in S.K. comes as no surprise considering the tall and influential persona he was, not just to the music fraternity, but to all connoisseurs of art in the Southern cosmos. In fact, for the Shraddhanjali gathering of Vasudevacharya (who passed away at 96 years on May 17, 1961), at the Adyar Kalakshetra in Chennai, there was a veritable galaxy who came to pay their tribute. Of them were Rajaji, T.L. Venkatarama Iyer, retired Justice of the Supreme Court and noted musicologist, musicians Musiri Subramania Iyer, Dwaram Venkataswami Naidu, Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer, K. Sankara Menon and Rukmini Devi. Dr. S. Radhakrishnan, C.P. Ramaswami Iyer. Prof. P. Sambamurthy and Ariyakkudi Ramanuja Iyengar wrote glowing tributes to the legend.

On the occasion of the 150th birth anniversary of this great musician, SK unfolds the story – this is at once the biography of Vasudevacharya as well as that of the Mysore kingdom’s deep commitment to the arts. You cannot miss the little boy who grew up into a young musician and an insightful adult, soaking and absorbing the musical resonances that more or less came to him on a platter. You see in him a faithful storyteller, a pious practitioner, an ardent and grateful student of music, who refuses to let go nothing from his warm past.

Excerpts from the interview:

Your grandfather is among the brightest stars of Carnatic music. Your father practiced Hindustani music and pursued theatre. Your brother Rajaram learnt dance and headed Kalakshetra. You are a student of Carnatic music, who also studied Western classical, but chose a non-performing career in AIR. Different kinds of choices co-existed in a family that one would expect to be strictly Carnatic. Can you talk about the nurturing of these various temperaments?

S.K.: My answer to this will be slightly roundabout. I first performed as a boy of nine. Bidaram Krishnappa and T. Chowdiah had given all their earnings to the construction of Prasanna Sitarama Mandira. Just before this happened the duo had toured entire Tamil Nadu giving concerts. Chowdiah had become a star and musicians were rushing to him with concert dates. My grandfather’s home was the meeting point in those days. Practically every musician, both Hindustani and Carnatic, would drop by. For us, me and my brothers, most learning happened by listening and watching these great musicians converse and sing to each other.

My initial lessons were under Channakeshavaiah, my grandfather’s student. I used to sing well and had become quiet famous in school. Once, when I was around 14, the school anniversary celebrations had been planned and I was asked to sing. But unfortunately around that time my voice began to break. I went and told my headmaster, he immediately retorted: “Are voices made of glass that they should break? Don’t give me lame excuses. You have 20 minutes, do what you want.” I was in a serious problem. I thought I would play the Jal Tarang and went and told my grandfather about it. He promptly went to senior artistes B. Devendrappa and Chikkaramarayaru and brought a set of Jal Tarang for me. Devendrappa guided me how to manoeuvre the instrument and the next few days, night and day, I did just that. By the end of it, I had developed fondness for the instrument. We ended up buying a set for ourselves, and my brother and I began to seriously practice the instrument.

Mysore in those days must have been truly wonderful…

Yes, it was a dream. We would wake up at 4 a.m., study for an hour, and from 5 a.m. onwards we practiced music. One morning, it so happened that his Highness, Nalvadi Krishnaraja Wadiyar was passing our house. We later learnt that he stood there listening to our music. He sent his staff to fix our concert in the palace. It was scheduled on the festival of Sankranti to the full view of all the asthan vidwans and learned musicians. My brother and I were a bundle of nerves. But the concert left the King so pleased that he immediately ordered that we be recruited in the Palace Orchestra. He told my grandfather that we both had to learn Western Music also and without any further delay got us enrolled in the Trinity College at Mysore.

My father, like my grandfather was a fine conversationalist, but short tempered. He was interested in theatre and had taken lessons in the mridangam. But later he expressed his desire to learn the tabla and went to Jalandhar on a Palace scholarship. He came back and accompanied Hindustani musicians. That however was for a short period. He was once playing for a Hindustani musician, and something transpired between them during the concert. The vocalist looked daggers at my father. “Why are you staring at me? I am playing properly. You need to sing properly though,” my father immediately shot back in public. My grandfather, who was in the audience, cringed with embarrassment. On returning home that night he told my father, “Henceforth, play for the happiness of your soul and not for concerts. You stick to teaching, which suits your temperament.” That marked the end of my father’s career as a performer.

Several Hindustani musicians came to Mysore as well…

Mysore was home to the best of musicians across genres. The Maharajas would often arrange Hindustani concerts and Ustad Vilayat Hussain Khan, Abdul Karim Khan and Barkatulla Khan were frequent visitors. They would come home and have extensive discussions with my grandfather. As a result, he even composed in several Hindustani ragas. My grandfather had such an open mind to music that he listened to film music also with great interest, and often remarked: ‘Look how beautifully they have captured the essence of the raga in three minutes!’ He loved the song “Maraindha” from the film Meera and I have played it for him repeatedly on the gramophone. He would sing ragas like Mand, Behag, and Bhoop in the Hindustani style and if you were to close your eyes and listen to him, you couldn’t tell if you were listening to him or a Gawai! I often practiced the piano, and at those times, he would sit right in front of me and listen. He believed that all music came from the same source, and that is probably why so many different kinds of music flowered in our house. He was a gentle and generous human being.

(This is the first part of a two-part interview)