Section Synopsis (February 2006)

NEWS & NOTES

VISHNU DIGAMBAR JAYANTI IN NEW DELHI- S.K. SAXENA

Two outstanding items press for immediate attention as I begin the present write-up on this year's Vishnu Digambar Jayanti held from 12-14 August at the Kamani Auditorium in New Delhi: * the level-headed quality of the opening announcement by Pramod Chandra, the capital's venerable compere; and * the sweet and opulent finale provided by the vocal recital of Ulhas Kashalkar, regarded by many as our leading classical vocalist today.

To begin with, however, only the first of these may be dwelt upon at some length; for the other one has to be valued aesthetically, rather than from the viewpoint of its relevance to facts and happenings. Pramod Chandra began by referring to 1901 when the patron saint of Hindustani music, Vishnu Digambarji, established the very first Gandharva Mahavidyalaya at Lahore-- a landmark of far-reaching significance. He paid due verbal homage to two departed souls-- Gargi Gupta, a tireless worker in organising such functions and the tabla maestro Shafaat Ahmed Khan, who had been a regular participant in such jayanti-s for more than twenty years. Chandra thanked the participating artists and rasika-s very warmly; and finally, did not fail to say a good word about the organisers who just keep working self-effacingly to create the necessary conditions for this fascinating annual conference of musicians and their devotees.

This does not, however, mean that the jayanti had nothing else to commend itself to the rasika-s. The very opening session presented a young vocalist, Kumar Mardur who was new to most of us, and who surely did not disappoint us. It was his maiden appearance in the capital, and (I am glad) it was quite well received. His voice is blessed with both range and power; and his two khayal-s in raga Pooria Dhanasree made it clear that though his nimble, rippling taan-s-- some of them dripping from above (so to say) but all quite articulate, were more readily likeable-- he is by no means allergic to demands of the vilambit idiom. Yet, I may add, the chhota khayal was more likeable, partly because the gaiety of its text chimed with its quicker pace. To me, however, the most appealing detail of his total recital was the gentle, winsome way in which he tapered his closing Shahana composition. A feeling for fineness is by no means out of bounds for serious classical singing.

The next artist, the sitarist Neeladri Kumar, also made his presence felt. His alapa in raga Hemant was both sweet and serene; and I am happy to say that his playing is now more self-possessed than it was a few years back when I heard him on a similar occasion. It is no longer ruffled with bursts of impetuosity. However, young as he still is and so quite capable of making a mark, (also because of his impressive technical competence), he would do well to take note of a point in respect of the very structure of a (musical) gat. A gat is not any kind of passage, but a targeted one; and the more extensive-- and so more compelling-- the look of this orientation, the greater is its title to be regarded as a gat of music. If it does not show any inner dynamics, a perceptible orientation towards the sam, and if it arrives at the focal beat simply in the way of a mukhada, it is not aesthetically a gat at all, but merely a phrase. In that case it may not look wanton, for, after all, the sam will be duly arrived at; but it will not appear as a self-directed and self-completing passage either. This needed passage can easily get constricted where the rhythm chosen is a seven-beat one-- as it was, initially, in the present case-- unless very great care is taken of the inner configuration of the melodic run.

The close of this opening day's programme was provided by Mashkoor Ali Khan's impressive vocal recital, accompanied by the following three artists: Amjad Ali (vocal), Nissar Ahmad (tabla) and Delhi's own Mehmood Dholpuri (harmonium). The maestro sang a Jhap tala composition in raga Meend, which added to my knowledge of raga-s; a Tri tala bandish in the same raga; another, in Sankara (Ek tala); and finally a piece in Khamach. The most striking features of his recital, taken as a whole, may be listed thus: admirably steady and sonorous treatment of tara swara-s in open akara; distinct articulation of the text of songs, all alike meaningful and all relating to the rainy season and the numberless occasions it provides for merry-making; a liberal use of sargam-s all along and above all, a variform, studied unfoldment of the raga being sung within the ambit of the sthayi's text itself. The last two of these have made me wonder, a little sceptically. In a raga (such as Meend) which may be unfamiliar to many, the frequent use of sargam-s may be justified by the need to make the raga's format unmistakably clear. But how is the practice warranted in singing a raga like Khamach or even Sankara, specially if the note-names as uttered do not make for any new and pleasing effects? Further, in so far as the very word sthayi means changeless, steadfast, how is it proper to invest it (the first line) with so much of varying tonal linkages as Khan Sahib on this occasion did? My answer, on his behalf, could be that the form of a sthayi, which is a melodic flow, is not rigid like the shape of a static object, and that, after all, the variations introduced do nothing to damage the grammar of the raga-tala matrix. Rather, they only bring out the aesthetic potential of the matrix in question. What, however, I am more definite about is the promise of the vocal accompanist. His voice is not only firm, but delightfully resonant, and he is surely shaping well under the wing of his mentor. The other accompanists also added to the concert's likeableness.

The next evening's programme began with a vocal recital by Ram Deshpande who presented three compositions in raga Bheempalasi. The first of these opened a little unimpressively, partly because of the slight shakiness and hoarseness that disturbed his voice initially. But a little later-- that is, when he turned to the second composition set to madhya laya Teen tala-- he appeared to warm up and delighted us with some sweet and steadfast singing in the tara region, relieved by some very winsome up-and-down pacy patterns, all duly articulate. In the following piece, however, some tara notes struck us as mere squeals and continued to ruffle our relish in spite of the livelier pace and amorous text of the song. Such minor irritants were, however, wholly put to nought by the next composition-- an essay in raga Sree. Here the very opening rishabha struck me as the most captivating individual accent of beauty in the whole session, equalled perhaps only by the following panchama. The very structure of this raga is such that even a mere sketch of its outline suffices to evoke an aura of high seriousness, provided the voice is sweet, steadfast, and sonorous as it surely was in the present case. The brief alapa here done was immaculate; and, in spite of its brevity, the whole presentation of the raga chosen was to me the best specimen of a raga-form's intrinsic appeal so far. The closing dadra was only a kind of anti-climes; and, in my view, unnecessary. Deshpande need not doubt that he is capable of charming listeners with sheer classicality; but what he does need at present is a greater measure of stylistic homogeneity. Instruction from different sources should not show up as mere diversity.

The artist who followed Deshpande was Delhi's own Ayaan Ali Bangash. His participation was a delight not only from the viewpoint the way he wielded his sarod but from that of the manifest elegance of his prefatory remarks; and I here feel impelled to add that his father, Ustad Amjad Ali, has contributed to our culture not only by virtue of his own acknowledged excellence as a musician, but by imparting not mere artistry, but an excellent sense of values to his very promising sons. As for Ayaan's own playing on the occasion, it surely impressed me because of its following clear feature: consistent tunefulness, dexterous alternation of powerful playing with touches that just seemed to whisper and so to evoke a semblance of emotive tenderness about the raga being played (that is, Jhinjhoti); a well played jhala that duly created the needed melodic ambience; and a disposition of tonal emphases that brought the playing quite similar, at places, to some jati-s of laya. The only thing which I could not approve of was his choice of a rhythm of 9-1/2 beats. It of course evidenced his hold over rhythm; but it also detracted from listening ease for a greater part of the audience. Where the average rasika cannot hold on to the rhythm effortlessly tadatmya is prevented, and so is the requisite evenness of aesthetic relish. Luckily, Sandeep Das, the tabla accompanist, did not wobble noticeably, and even gave a good account of himself. Let him hold on to his mentor as closely as he possibly can. I wonder if he knows that Kishan Maharaj has been an 'accompanist' of surpassing excellence.

The final performer on Saturday, the well-known Prabha Atre, somehow could not appear. The Sunday morning session began with a Carnatic vocal recital by Vasumathi Badrinath, accompanied by Prem Kumar (mridanga) and Chakrapani (violin). I am already quite innocent of the subtleties of this importantly sastriya half of our music and unluckily, the artist herself added to my discomfiture by presenting, after the opening varnam, as many as six compositions in such rapid succession that, except while listening to the Keeravani composition, which gave me sometime to adjust my attention and to relish the brief bits of violin and mridanga 'accompaniment' a little restfully, I hardly got any chance to contemplate the music properly. Almost every composition was ascribed to some composer of acknowledged repute; and though I may not complain of irreverence on the artist's part, because I just do not know if the very structure of the compositions demanded such inordinate brevity of presentation, I sure feel justified in complaining that Vasumathi did not give us enough time to follow the music restfully. In quite a few previous jayanti-s I have certainly seen our rasika-s not merely attending to, but actually relishing fairly long presentations of Carnatic music.

The closing concert of the Sunday session was a sarod recital by Rajeev Taranath, a leading pupil of one of our best known instrumentalists of modern India, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan. I may straight away say that it was, on the whole, a very mature recital. The instrument's typical boldness was all along manifest; and it was as much an index of the surety of touch as of sheer power of handling the instrument. True, the intrinsic character of the raga chosen, Natbhairav, was also a source of the overall appeal; but the varying accesses not only straight to the sam, but also to the point where the gat appears to upgather itself for gaining access to the focal beat, must be regarded as marks of the musician's own artistry. The brief bit of alapa in Bhairavi that came next felt like a balm after the hectic pace of the way in which drut playing of the Natbhairav gat ended. Akram Khan provided a full, clear and steadfast theka even at its ati drut laya; and, at places, I was very happily struck by his effective use of 'the left one', which is exactly as it should be, for the 'baya' is called nar or masculine.

The evening programme on Sunday began with a vocal recital by Mani Prasad. To all appearances, he is a thinking, even scholarly musician. But this should not make us undervalue his ability as a performer. Two compositions in raga Suddha Dhanasree, which I had never heard before; one each in Des and Tilak Kamod; and finally, a fascinating melody-- mode, bihangini from Rajasthan-- this is the total fare that he served to us on Sunday evening. Of all these raga-s, Suddha Dhanasree was treated at length. But here, whatever be its grammatical warrant, the approach to the sam of the first composition, located at the tonic, was so executed that the focal beat appeared as the mere terminus rather than as the climax or self-completion of the melodic run, producing a look of sheer inertness, rather than of coming-to-rest. I could also see some other oddities. The first marking of tara shadja was done by means of 'oo' sound, this being the first letter of the text of the sthayi itself. It struck us as patently odd. However, this little irritant was soon neutralised by some of Mani Prasad's vigorous and fairly tuneful taan-s. He also revealed, on purpose, an impressive range of voice. On the other hand, whenever his two vocal accompanists sang along with him, their voices seemed to insist on appearing plural, which saddened me. Luckily, the following compositions in raga-s Des and Tilak Kamod were, by and large, free from this defect and positively, they bore some touches of emotive charm. The most appealing piece was however the closing one-- a song characterised as bihangini. The aesthetic riches of Rajasthan are surely not confined to architecture; and one cannot but wonder at the vermiform, creative and in some cases, very subtle use of swara and tala freely made in this largely arid land.

Mani Prasad was followed by the sitarist, Joya Biswas, with Akram Khan as her tabla accompanist. Her entire recital took only fifty minutes. Obviously, as she herself told us, she was pressed for time, may be because the artist to follow, Ulhas Kashalkar, was expected to provide an opulent recital. But this restriction surely did not justify the artist's lack of care in tuning the instrument, because of which the greater part of the opening alapa in Mian ki Malhar did not look quite upto the mark in respect of tone. It was only before beginning the first gat that the error was rectified. What is more, the alapa could not quite bring out the implicit depth of the raga. Nor did the sitarist try, at any point, to bring out the beauty that can issue from what may be called the deliquescing adjacence of the two nishada-s. And if she was pressed for time, why did she choose to play two gat-s in Khamach, instead of just one in Mian ki Malhar, which would have done something to temper the look of flippancy about the way the Malhar mode was treated? As for the first gat in Khamach, how was it warranted to characterise it as tappa style? To me it appeared a plain Tri tala piece. Akram Khan played well, but unluckily it only served to overshadow the main artist's playing. An artist of her maturity and acknowledged excellence was expected to provide much better music.

To turn now to the 'finale', I think it was very rightly ascribed to Kashalkarji. The word put in italics does not only mean 'conclusion', but 'crowning glory' too; and this appellation surely befits the way the maestro sang on this occasion. Every great vocalist, of course, has his (or her) own style and conception of good music. One cannot replace the music of Bade Ghulam Ali with that of Amir Khan. Nor can any one of them be made to see the need to turn to the art of the author; and the artistic singularity of one is necessarily some imperviousness to the art of the other. Kashalkar is no exception to this aesthetic necessity of individual grasp and performance, and concomitant exclusiveness. His way of singing is very far removed from that of Prof. L.K. Pandit though both of them can fairly claim to represent the Gwalior gharana. So, with all his masterfulness, the artist under review cannot be said to comprehend all the graces of music in his art. But on the track he was chosen for himself, and in the way he traverses it, there is nothing which one could fairly find fault with. Even where he has to turn to the sam after a brief bit of rhythmic abandon, there is absolutely no oddity about it.
Positively, the graces of his singing on this occasion and their implications for aesthetic theory were so many that I can pick only the following few for mention: pinpointed, yet full-throated accuracy of sur ka lagao throughout the recital which lasted for more than ninety minutes; no weakening of tone anywhere, not even in the uttaranga of the scale or in the tara region; perfectly intelligible utterance of the text of songs; abounding variety of taan-s which were all along a perfect blend of fluency of flow and discreteness of constituent swara-s; and of course an unmistakably clear portrayal of the raga-s chosen, namely Sankara, Mian ki Malhar and Khamach, at places in the tarana-form too. Further, so far as I remember, the sam of every khayal composition was located at 'a' or 'e' sound, a device which permits tarrying of voice at the sam-bol with the result that not only is the requisite centrality of the focal beat duly heightened, but the swara in question comes to look beautiful-in-itself-- and so to square with the traditional definition of a swara as swameva rajate-- an important aesthetic semblance which khayal gayaki, with its emphasis on rapidity of the successive in the form of taan-s does not easily admit of.

This, however, is not everything of theoretic value that I have gleaned from the recital in question. As I have already said, all the khayal-s sung had a meaningful text which was all along quite clearly spoken. Yet nowhere was any conscious effort made to represent any thought, feeling, or happening by means of an accordant tonal configuration. Here, I at once see the inadequacy of the categorical thesis that all good classical singing is necessarily expressive of some feeling, or that it must move us to tears. How can any one refuse to acknowledge the ravishing charm of sheer sweet sound varyingly configured in terms of raga and rhythm? The call for 'purity' in vocal music, we may note, also means that the matrix of melody and rhythm should nowhere be subordinated to the merely semantic, though it may well be made to vivify, effortlessly, the import of words.

Above all, the two vocal accompanists, Dr. Ojesh Pratap Singh-- a direct pupil of Kashalkar-- and Ravi Joshi who is learning under the watchful eye of Principal Madhup Mudgal, both sang so well throughout that, instead of causing any problem to the main performer, they only added to the overall charm of the recital. It is a relief to see that there is at least one budding musician of the capital who is shaping so well under Panditji's blessed tutelage.

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Harikesanallur Muthiah Bhagavatar was born on 15th November 1877. Vidwan S. RAJAM shared with Sruti his memories of the great man, in conversation with GAYATRI SUNDARESAN. Excerpts:

Harikesanallur Muthiah Bhagavatar was related to our family. The place where there is now a shop selling brass utensils on Sannidhi Street in Mylapore used to be the house of T.L. Venkatarama Iyer, who was Bhagavatar's cousin. Bhagavatar lived on the ground floor and TLV upstairs. I was then in the First Form in school, and as I cycled past that house on Sannidhi Street on my way to school, I would get a whiff of a heady fragrance!

Once, Muthiah Bhagavatar hailed me, "Sundaram Iyer's son, come in." He taught me Valli nayaka nee. He stressed some fine nuances of the song that are indelibly imprinted in my mind. He explained to me that Valli should be pronounced not as the name of Muruga's wife is pronounced in Tamil, but with the la sound as in Malligai. This was because the pallavi had to rhyme with the anupallavi which began "Talli tandri". He used hand movements while singing, which would be in tune with the sangati-s. His whole body would move, in fact! He created sangati-s that progressed beautifully from swara to swara.

[Rajam demonstrates the pallavi of Valli nayaka nee where the sangati-s progress step by step, the final one encompassing the entire scale of Shanmukhapriya].

A dash of rosewater would be added to Bhagavatar's hot bathwater. His applied 'swahu' on his forehead, which cost a full rupee in those days-- equal to a hundred rupees today! When he applied it, the fragrance would waft down the whole street! He applied sandal paste all over his body. He lived like a king.

He was also patronised by kings.

He lived like a king and died like a king.

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...As Vedavalli steps into her seventy first year on November 9, 2005, it has been more than six decades of a life in music. The old order of musicians has given way to the new. With this change have also come fresh trends in performance music. While she is a researcher, she is not one for innovations as far as music is concerned. Her focus is to discover the old and, more importantly, get back to it wherever practical. Words like 'mass appeal', artist assessment yardsticks like performance charts (that count the number of times an artist has performed in a season and thus rate his/her popularity) make no impression on her whatsoever. She is a convinced sampradayik performer who steadfastly refuses to incorporate even bhajan-s in her concerts. She has her own select audience and as she says, "I have always sung for those who come to my performance and have never fretted about those who don't."

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Narsi Mehta-S. SANKARANARAYANAN

The Dept. of Indian Posts & Telegraphs issued a stamp and First Day Cover on Narsi Mehta-- the name is spelt as Narasinha Mehta-- on 30 May 1967. The stamp, printed at the Nasik Security Press, is in the denomination of 15 P., perf. 14 x 13-1/2, is blackish brown in colour, and is printed on un-watermarked adhesive stamp paper.

Vaishnava jana to tene kahiye je peedha paraayee jaane rey. Which devout Hindu has not heard this bhajan? It is Narsi Mehta's. The opening lines of the song are printed on the First Day Cover.

His name was Narasimha Mehta (also spelt as Narsimh Mehta. He however signed his poems as 'Narsi', and hence he is popularly known by that name.

We are fortunate to have reliable accounts of most of the events in Narsi Mehta's life from his autobiographical poems. Works of later poets on him also throw light on many incidents in his life.

Life of Narsi Mehta

Narsi Mehta (Narsee Mehtaa) was born in 1414 AD at Talaja, a town near Bhavnagar in Gujarat. Krishnadas and Dayakor were his parents. He belonged to the orthodox caste of Nagar (Naagar) Brahmins.

Narsi lost his father when he was barely three. He and his mother then moved to his paternal uncle's house.

He learnt Gujarati at the local village school. His parents and grandparents were devout Vaishnavites from whom he learnt the stories of Bhagavata and other Puranas.

As a boy, Narsi evinced little interest in studies. He preferred to spend time in singing the praise of Sree Krishna, his beloved God, or in meditating on him.

Narsi's mother died when he was eleven years old. After about three years, Narsi's grandfather got him married to Manekbai, a Nagar girl. Not long after the wedding Narsi's grandfather also expired. As Narsi did not have a house of his own, they moved to live with his cousin, Bansidhar.

His life in Bansidhar's house was anything but happy. He had no vocation or calling, and therefore had no earning even to sustain a bare livelihood. Bansidhar and his wife thoroughly disapproved of Narsi's way of life. They insulted, ridiculed, and harassed him. Unable to bear the cruelty and humiliation, the Narsi couple left the house.

They reached an almost uninhabited village. Narsi took shelter in an old Siva temple and decided to do penance. After a week or so, he grew thin, became pale and weak and almost lost his consciousness. What happened next is vividly described by Narsi himself. He went into a trance and in that blissful moment Lord Siva appeared before him and blessed him by placing His hand on Narsi's head. The touch of the Lord enabled Narsi to have a wondrous vision of what he was longing to see, namely, the Rasa Leela of Sree Krishna in Brindavan.

In a moving song Narsi has described the world of ecstasy to which he was transported on witnessing the divine dance. That vision completely changed his life, to a life of composing hundreds of keertana-s/pada-s on Sree Krishna and His playful sports, and singing them to his heart's content. It is no wonder, therefore, that a large number of his songs are on the Rasa Leela theme. They are all sringara pada-s.

He left the village, moved to Junagadh and settled down there. A daughter, Kunvarbai, was born in 1434 and a son, Saamaldas, in 1438. It is believed that the ruler of Junagadh provided financial support to him.

In 1447, when Kunvarbai was 13, she was given in marriage. His son's marriage took place three years later. Narsi says that for the expenses of the marriages and subsequent ceremonies, he trusted God and God alone. In his celebrated poem Maamerun, Narsi describes how his relatives humiliated him during the ceremonies (because he had no wherewithal to meet the expenses), and how his Sree Krishna saved his honour by providing timely help in the form of presents and gold. The legend goes that Krishna Himself came in disguise as a wealthy merchant and honoured a hundi (similar to a present day cheque/draft) issued by Narsi.

Altogether, Narsi led a happy life in Junagadh. Then a chain of tragedies struck in quick succession.

A year after his son's marriage, his wife expired. Narsi thought that he had been freed from all family responsibilities and that, thenceforth, he could devote his entire time in the service of his Lord. But fate had something very harsh in store for him. In a span of three years he lost his son and his son-in-law. A widowed daughter and a widowed daughter-in-law were thrust into his care. He however remained serene as ever, and managed to run the household with the help of a few well-wishers.

Narsi's own Nagar community was very orthodox. Its members did not approve of his conducting bhajan-s in the company of all castes. They also opposed his allowing women in the group-singing of keertana-s. Gradually their hostility grew violent. Narsi says that God unfailingly rescued him from all those miserable situations. (A good many stories of miracles are woven around those incidents. They are part of folklore in the Saurashtra region.)

He left Junagadh before it was annexed by the Sultan of Ahmedabad in 1473.

As Narsi grew old he turned more introspective. His poems had more philosophical and spiritual overtones; no more sringara pada-s.

He spent his last years in a place called Mangrol. He joined his Maker in 1480, at the age of 66. The place where he was cremated is known as Narsi's 'smasaan'.

Narsi's works

Narsi's works are broadly classified into four groups. They are: (1) those based on the 10th Skanda of the Bhagavata, (2) those inspired by Jayadeva's Geeta Govinda, (3) autobiographical, and (4) philosophical.

The Bhagavata-related works are: Krishna Janma, Bala Leela, Naga Daman, Daan Leela, Rasa Leela, Rasa Sahasrapadi, Sudama Charit, Maan Leela, Rukmini Vivaha, and Govinda Gamana.

The poems inspired by Geeta Govinda are sringara pada-s. These include: Chaaturi Chhatreesi, Chaaturi Shodasi, Surat Sangraam, Sringara Mala, Sringara Na Pado, and Dasavatara Na Pado. The sringara pada-s are symbolic of the yearning of the devotee for communion with his God. Narsi maintains a fine balance between the sensual and the spiritual and never allows them to descend into eroticism.

Maamerun, Saamalsa No Vivaha and Haar Mala are his autobiographical songs. They contain vivid descriptions of a number of events and incidents in his life, trials and tribulations that he had undergone and how God came to his succour in all those testing moments.

Narsi's philosophical songs, which he composed during the last years of his life, are collectively known as Jnana Ane Bhakti Na Pado.

Narsi's poems are known as 'pada-s'. He seems to have employed many metrical forms. Some of them have been set to classical tunes, and some adapted to Garbha dance.

In the opinion of knowledgeable critics, Narsi's poetic imagery amply reflects his love of nature and knowledge of human relations.

He was well-versed in Sanskrit but, like many saint-poets of the mediaeval period, he chose to compose in Apabhrashta dialect. But, because he wrote in simple and unsophisticated language, interpolations have crept in, and several words have been changed to later-day Gujarati.

Narsi's bhajan-s are quite popular in Gujarat. Though Carnatic musicians sometimes sing a bhajan or two of Meera, Kabir, Surdas or Tulsidas, we rarely find a Narsi bhajan in concerts. (Incidentally, this writer has an HMV recording of an Ariyakudi concert, in which he has rendered Vaishnava jana to, in Sindhubhairavi.)

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BOOK SHELF

KRITIMANIMALAI-- Sri Tyagaraja Svami's Compositions. Vols. I & II (English Adaptation based on the late R. Rangaramanuja Ayyangar's Tamil Magnum Opus). By daughter-disciple Padma Varadan. [Vipanci Charitable Trust - 20 Kasturi Buildings, Jamshedji Tata Road, Churchgate, Mumbai - 400020, India. < vipanci@vsnl.com > Hardbound. 2005. Pp. 940 & Pp. 1021. Rs. 1600 per set].   - RITHA RAJAN

With the growing worldwide interest in Carnatic music, there has also been a simultaneous need to adapt various musical material written in vernacular languages, and translate them into English.

The two volumes of Kritimanimalai are English adaptations of Rangaramanuja Ayyangar's Kritimanimalai in Tamil, containing the notations for Tyagaraja's compositions. As these volumes indicate, there cannot be a more suitable person than Padma Varadan to do justice to such a venture. She has thoroughly and successfully imbibed Rangaramanuja Ayyangar's music and has rightfully inherited all his musical wealth. The volumes have been published as a homage to the late Rangaramanuja Ayyangar, twenty-five years after his demise. The original volumes of Kritimanimalai of Rangaramanuja Ayyangar in Tamil, with notations for almost all the available compositions of the Music Trinity and other composers, are very well known and popular among musicians. Although generally considered to be a little complex, the notations in the Tamil volumes have been sought after by many musicians who are interested in learning good versions of the compositions, with the intention of acquiring more musical details. The lyrics, with simple pronunciation marks and meanings, are very helpful for both readers and musicians.

Another interesting feature of the Tamil Kritimanimalai is the inspiring introduction given by Swami Sivananda, which in fact recurs in all the volumes. In the volumes of Tyagaraja compositions, a detailed biography of the great composer and other interesting articles on music by eminent personalities like Yogi Suddhananda Bharati and S.Y. Krishnaswami are also included. The famous photograph of Rangaramanuja Ayyangar with Veena Dhanammal (whom he reverently called "Siddha vidyadhari") and his tribute to the great lady in the form of befitting verses in Sanskrit and Tamil, are some of the highlights of the Tamil Kritimanimalai. Added to this, the fine raga lakashana descriptions and the photographs and pictures of famous deities and artists make the works more interesting and attractive.

Having served as the co-author of all the Tamil volumes, it is no wonder that Padma Varadan had the inspiration and the desire to write the English adaptations with certain modifications and changes, and has published the first two volumes of the original Kritimanimalai of Rangaramanuja Ayyangar, containing the compositions of Tyagaraja, in English. Bringing out such adaptations is perhaps more challenging than writing something original. For readers who are familiar with the Tamil volumes, the expectations will be very high. The author has taken this into account, and has, at the same time, made the work equally modern and contemporary. By going through the pages of these volumes, one experiences the nostalgia for the Tamil editions, although it is necessary to get used to certain changes the author has introduced in the notation, including some of her own interpretations and ideas.

One of the valuable additions is the application of diacritical marks, wherever applicable, throughout the work, along with a detailed description of these diacritical marks. The texts of songs are given with English transliterations alongside the text in the Devanagari script. There is free English translation for the lyrics, and the raga lakshana is crisp and has all the relevant information. The most noteworthy aspect here is the notation for the songs, which is enhanced by using signs for indicating gamaka-s and anuswara-s. Ten gamaka-s are identified and signs are given respectively, with the gamaka explanations being simple and easy to follow.

This adaptation has been carried out keeping in mind the original spirit of the Tamil version, by giving the same title Kritimanimalai, and keeping the notation, intact, thereby endorsing Rangaramanuja Ayyangar's strong views on the value of notation system, and also by bringing out the importance he placed on knowledge of solfa musical notation. At the same time, all efforts have been taken to improve the presentation by introducing additional features and by taking the utmost advantage of the computer and other facilities. We should agree with the author that skill for learning from the notation has to be developed, as it makes learning more serious and worthwhile.

The author pays her tribute to Rangaramanuja Ayyangar entitled "A Salutation". This is followed by Rangaramanuja Ayyangar's tribute to Veena Dhanammal in Sanskrit and Tamil verses from the Tamil source, reproduced with an apt English translation, along with the famous photograph of Rangaramanuja Ayyangar with Veena Dhanammal. A brief description of the entire English volumes is given, in order to give us an idea about the books on the whole. ....

..... On the whole, these volumes are products of many years of hard work, commitment and sincerity, and the author has approached the task as a true disciple rather than a loving daughter. This adaptation will be of immense value to aspirants of Carnatic music

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