Source : THE ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY OF INDIA - DECEMBER 30, 1962.

B. V. K. SASTRY

Unlike its counterpart in Hindustani music, where it is more or less ancillary, an accompaniment in Karnatak music is in its role and function regulated by long-established conventions. The accompanist here has frequent opportunities for individual expression - the violin, for instance, in those short solo turns following each movement of an alapana or sargam, or whenever the vocalist rests in the middle of a performance. Again, though the opportunities may not be so many, the percussion, too, has its solo turns, but of a longer duration. These come after the long elaboration of a passage in a kriti or a swara, or after the variations of a pallavi, when free rein is allowed to the percussionist's impulses and ideas. Unfortunately, however, as most mridangam players have to learn to their discomfiture, this is the time invariably chosen by the audience for an "intermission" - a philistine habit , no doubt, and one probably cultivated only in recent decades.

But the customary picture is reversed when Palghat Mani Iyer is the accompanist. In fact, a good part of the audience will take its intermission, if any, earlier, or even forgo this altogether, rather than miss his solo turns. And, of course, a large section of the audience will be there only to listen to the mridangam of Mani Iyer, which they do with all avidity, not missing even the subtlest detail. This becomes all the more interesting when we consider that Mani Iyer is an outstanding exponent of what is called the Tanjore style of mridangam art.

The Tanjore style is a very elegant version of the mridangam art. An important point about it is the convention that the mridangam should, in the main, be played as something accessory to the vocalist. The player is supposed to subject all his urges and ideas to enlivening and enhancing the beauty of the other's exposition. He must be unobtrusive and give expression to his individual urge only in his solo turns. even then, his playing is supposed not to overshadow the performance of the main artiste.

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When in spite of this self-effacing ordinance Mani Iyer remains the focus of attention, the quality of his art can be easily imagined. His name is a sure draw, guaranteeing the success of any concert. In fact, most of the eminent musicians earnestly desire, and indeed feel highly flattered, to have his accompaniment. They have nothing but praise for his playing. "There is only one Mani Iyer." they say, "and whatever he does can be matched only by Mani Iyer, and by none else!".

But what is the reaction of the master player himself to such universal praise? It is hard to say because by nature Mani Iyer, is very shy and retiring and perhaps even unsociable. It is difficult to read any reaction on his inscrutable face. When hard pressed, he says, cryptically: "Why discuss this . It is something which I feel should not be discussed. the facts, if any, are there before you. You may draw your own conclusions."

Obviously he is one who feels that music is something to be heard and enjoyed rather than talked about. This self effacing quality seems to pervade every aspect of Mani Iyer's life.

Away from the platform, Mani Iyer can be easily lost in a crowd. There is nothing to indicate either in his dress or talk or deportment, that he is a musician, a master of percussion. The picture of this man wearing a short sleeved khaddar shirt and a "single" veshti, with a towel over his shoulder serving the purpose of an uttariyam, has been familiar to music lovers for nearly forty years - from the time Mani, just entering his teens, shot into the view. Even today, except for the streaks of grey in his closely cut hair and the polish and refinement of his performance - indications of maturity - there seems to be no significant change either in his person or dress or demeanour. In fact, at the time he received the national Award from the President, Mani Iyer was in his usual dress. When asked why he did not change into more ceremonial apparel, he said: "I believe I was given the Award for such proficiency as I may have in the art of the mridangam, and not for my dress."

Despite his reticence, this ostensibly obdurate personality becomes a different man on the concert platform. It is true his impassive face does not reveal any shade of emotion except when he gives utterance to rare "Ah", overwhelmed by some stirring moment in the music of the vocalist or the violinist. But, as an interesting contrast, his ideas and impulses are projected vividly through that remarkably expressive pair of hands that he has. By their subtle manipulation, cultivated through indefatigable and imaginative practice, his mridangam speaks with a wonderful eloquence. His playing does not simply beat the pace or punctuate the movements. Through the peculiar vocabulary of the instrument, the modal framework is projected in all its pulsating detail. With perfect correspondence between the beats of both faces, Mani's mridangam speaks with a seemingly infinite and enthralling variety of tone, in complete harmony with the situation.

There are feathery flutters alternating with hollow metallic rumbles recalling a chenda; majestic rolls recalling a thavil jostle with a tiny soft patter reminiscent of the lyrical grace of dancing feet; subtle, fluid, whisper-like strokes, which strike one as remarkably human, are thrown in relief against thunderous waves reaching a crescendo. In brief, the instrument in this virtuoso's hands, besides displaying its characteristic qualities, seems to acquire a distinct human touch.

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Born about fifty one years ago in Pazhayannur (a village near Palghat in Kerala), Mani Iyer hails from a family in which music has been an avocation. His father, Sesha Bagvathar, and his grand father, Ramaswamy Bagavathar, were reputed musicians, but it was Mani who took up the mridangam first in the family. Gifted with an instinctive sense of rhythm which was perhaps nourished in those congenial environs (amidst the vigorous drums of Kerala), Mani was so fascinated by the mridangam that he missed no opportunity (very often playing truant) to practice on the instrument and give vent to his impulses.

The talents of the boy, running wild, were channeled in the right direction by the late Palghat Subbier, the eminent mridangam player, and by Kalpathi Viswanatha Iyer, another expert player. As a consequence, young Mani was invited to accompany Harikatha performances , which he did with enthusiasm and fluency. In those days, unlike at present, the road to the concert platform was not a straight one. The graduation was either through accompanying Harikathas or dance recitals.

As an accompanist in such performances, Mani was noticed by the late Tanjore Vaidyanatha Iyer, the mridangam maestro. He took Mani under his wing and shaped his talents to perfection. Though Mani had been performing in public even before he entered his teens, the real break, in a larger context, came when he accompanied Chembai Vaidyanatha Bagavathar at a concert in Madras, in the early twenties. this made him famous throughout the domain of Karnatak music.

In his rise, apart from intuitive gifts and an amazing sense of rhythm of rhythm and dexterity in the art of the mridangam, one other point that stood him in good stead was his remarkable courage and self confidence. Though Mani Iyer says that, like any other artiste, he was also subject to different stages of fear, knowledgeable rasikas aver that the above mentioned qualities it is that have mainly sustained him in many a concert which would otherwise have ended disastrously.

One such testing situation fondly remembered by old timers was when teenager Mani crossed swords with the great Nayana Pillai, whose mastery of tala and laya was proverbial and overawed even eminent accompanists. (When questioned by me about this, Mani Iyer became evasive, pleading that, because of its "remoteness", the incident had "slipped" from his memory.) One more such occasion was when he played on the same platform with the late Pudukkottah Daksinamoorthy Pillai (khanjeera), the eminent percussionist. Though there was a slight misunderstanding between the two at first, eventually they became good friends and developed an ideal partnership, which ended only with the death of Pillai.

Another such partnership then developed is still going strong-with the violin virtuoso, Chowdiayya. How wonderfully the instruments of these two vidwans respond to each other's ideas cannot be adequately described: it must be witnessed to be believed. the influence of Dakshinamoorthy Pillai in further enlarging Mani Iyer's perspectives and imbuing his already exquisite ideas with colour cannot entirely be ruled out - old timers often "feel" echoes from those times in his concerts.

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At first, one is not impressed by Mani Iyer on the platform. He sits smug and silent. when the musician takes up a composition, he becomes but slowly animated. Then gradually, blending his beat of the mridangam with the pace and the movements of the music, his real touch is seen when the sangatis come, one by one. sure of his command over the instrument, he underlines the engaging aspects of a situation and enlivens the programme in a manner that makes listening a rewarding experience. Apart from accentuating the rhythmic structure of the vocal rendering, Mani Iyer, thorough the nimble dexterity of his fingers , electrifies the sequences or impromptu improvisation of sargams with uncanny anticipation. Underscored by his touches, the nuances, phrases and whole passages spring forth with clarity and vigour.

When the musician seems to be lost, in the maze of his sargams and tends to drift aimlessly, the ideal accompanist in Mani Iyer is seen to excellent advantage. Playing with understanding, this vidwan, with his subtle strokes, gradually coaxes the musician into the right channel, buoys him up and tows him to the safety of the climax of a mukthayam. Even when he is following a composition, his performance, by his varying tonal shades, seems to stress the appropriate sentiment, producing a general effect which shows that he is not merely a master of percussion, but also steeped in the aesthetics of the modal and lyrical aspects of music.

His solo turns are an aesthetic treat in themselves. there is freshness and originality in each concert. Giving full vent to his ideas and feelings, he raises such an intricate structure of rhythm that the listener is lost in its labyrinth. Apart from the rich tonal variety, the diversity of those korvais, or rhythmic figures, is almost kaleidoscopic; and the way he coolly picks up a link and spins it out into an intricate mukthayam, running a vigorous and tortuous course to meet the eduppu (starting point of the theme) with a magnetic precision, is an enthralling experience. Above all, the precision of his laya even in the dizziest of impromptu improvisations is almost metronomic.

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It is natural that, by virtue of his close association with the art and concert platform for nearly four decades, Mani Iyer should be well aware of the problems that beset contemporary Karnatak music. He has possibly also given careful thought to the measures that could arrest any deterioration and preserve the pristine purity of the art. But he assumes a sphinx-like attitude when questioned on the subject. However, his reaction to certain things, when it can contain itself, like steam escaping through a valve.

For instance, his intense hostility to the microphone stirred up some acrimony a few years ago, and Mani Iyer, in a huff, withdrew from the scene for a time. It is true his bluntness in this matter irked the musical world. But we should not forget that Mani Iyer had a strong case of his own.

When I asked Mani Iyer the reasons for his opposition to this early established medium, I could discern that I had touched a sore spot. Visibly excited and slicing the air with his arms, he said, with some heat: "Do you know the harm that the mike has done to our music? first, it has corrupted the musician by reducing the vision, voice capacity and, more than all, including indolence. It has deprived our music of all its strength and vitality. We have degenerated to a stage when we have firmly begun to believe that without the mike there can be no music."

"But you must concede that the microphone has spread our music to wider circles and facilitated enjoyment of it by large multitudes," I interposed.

"Probably you are not aware that music performances attracted large numbers even in olden days," retorted Mani Iyer. "But you should also know how the mike has spoiled our listening habits. I can understand its probable necessity in dispensing music to the thousands. But how do you account for its presence at small gatherings of not even a hundred? Have our musicians become so powerless as to make themselves inaudible even to such a compact audience? No, I do not believe that the mike is indispensable. I feel that people have all but become slaves of this horror. Without the mike, they feel they cannot hear music.

"In the old days, when musicians sang with their natural and strong voices to audiences of thousands, there would be pin drop silence, and a listener even on the fringes was very attentive and eager to catch the niceties of rendering. In contrast, I see today that, while the microphone is dispensing music in big measure, many of the members of an audience whisper or chat or are engaged in something other than listening to the music. Possibly they have not understood what is nadasaukya (the thrill and enjoyment of tone). Their ears are probably conditioned to noise, and not to the niceties of nada, or the grace and subtleties of tone. This, I am sad to note, is particularly true of the younger sections of the audience (those in their twenties), who have had no opportunity of hearing the nada in its pristine form. Attuned only to such music as is dispensed by the mike, their ideas of classical Karnatak music may be derived not from the pristine form, but from the caricature presented through the amplifier."

Whatever the other aspects may be, you will agree that some of the subtleties that were denied, except to those near the platform, in the old days are now to be enjoyed by more people," I pointed out.

"Then why do you call them subtleties?" countered Mani Iyer. A subtle movement, nuance or grace has its right place, proportion and depth in the scheme of things. It looks incongruous if it is unduly magnified. You do not whisper to be heard all around. If such subtleties are magnified and music manifests itself in a uniform and unvarying tone, will it be pleasant to hear, or can it be called music?".

"What do you feel then to be the ideal situation or environment for appreciating the pristine and living qualities of music - a soundproof hall, a temple?"

"No, none of them," said Mani Iyer. "You can enjoy the tone in its pure and pristine form under a thatched roof, the living aspects of music in its resplendent form in the midst of a close circle of persons forming an appreciative audience, and in an atmosphere of intimacy and positive response."

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The above question apart, have you thought of any measures or means for the healthy development and promotion of this classical art, particularly the percussion?" I now changed the subject.

Mani Iyer was reverting to his original reticence, evading the issue with :"I am a professional musician, always busy with engagements. I have had no time to think about them." But, pressed further, he said: "In the light of my experience, I should say that the impact of inspiring music, dedication and hard practice in the time-honoured methods are the life-lines of art. The touchstone of the quality of an artiste who so cultivates the art is the people - not the dilettante or the sophisticated set who profess to be the arbiters of fashion, but the common people, nay the masses, who are delighted and thrilled by it."

" Are you confident that the masses have the ear for good and higher forms of music, uninitiated as they are into the intricacies and the beautiful elements of the art? Is not such an effort likely to be wasted on them?"

"I do not agree. If your music has that inspiring quality and persuasive power, it can move anyone. If, as you say, the people are so sterile as to remain unaffected and unmoved by music, I should say that its existence in their midst is anomalous. I would prefer that it fade away rather than face a living death in the midst of a boorishness and barbarity that do not conform to the nobler aspects of our culture."