Rewind:Chhaya Building, Parsi Colony, Dadar, Mumbai.
Every morning as the first rays of the sun streamed in through the window of our small apartment, I would look at the image of Kalinga Northana Krishna hanging above my bed.
His angelic form filled the room with a powerful and playful presence. I often found myself conversing with him, sharing my fears and joys. At times, his gaze seemed intense, almost overwhelming, but at other times, he looked like a naughty child, playing with a snake.
After I was fully awake, I would turn towards the beautiful shrine in a corner of the room, where Radha and Krishna were seated, their forms bathed in the soft light of the morning. My mother would take a glass of milk and sing Meera’s bhajan, ‘Jago bansi waale, jaago more pyare’. She would offer the milk to Krishna as a ritual of love and devotion, and leave it at his feet. I would wonder if he had drunk it or not, and I would keep checking.
Pt. Bhimsen Joshi’s rendition of ‘Teertha Vitthal Kshetra Vithala’ became Aruna Sairam’s favourite abhanga. | Photo Courtesy: The Hindu Archives
my first unbreakable experience
It was a Sunday. The house was buzzing with energy. That evening, Sri Mohan Pai and his abhang troupe filled our house with the divine sounds of Vitthal. We awaited the arrival of fellow devotees, kindred spirits who shared our love for Panduranga. I was particularly excited at the idea of ​​joining the chorus and chanting ‘Vitthal, Vitthal’. As the evening progressed, the name Vitthal reverberated in the room and captivated all of us with its energy. Years later, ‘Teerth Vitthal Kshetra Vitthal’ sung by Pandit Bhimsen Joshi became my favourite abhang.
A large painting of Shrinathji hangs on the wall of Aruna Sairam’s home in Chennai | Photo courtesy: R. Ravindran
Mid-week tunes
It was a Wednesday and my mother’s friends had come for their weekly Meera Bhajan Mandali session. When I returned from school, the house resounded with their voices. My mother gently gestured me to join them. I knew she would ask me to sing ‘Maadu Meikkum Kanne’ at the end, a tradition I cherish even today.
When I sing to Krishna there is some indescribable beauty in beholding His form, a feeling of connection that goes beyond music.
Divine Dance of Balamma
Balasaraswati mesmerized the audience with her rendition of ‘Krishna Ni Begane Baro’. Photo Credit: The Hindu Archives
I was in class five and we were at a dance performance by Bala Saraswathi, fondly called Balamma. We were eagerly waiting for her to sing ‘Krishna Ni Begane Baro’. As she came on stage, her eyes remained fixed just two feet above the stage. It seemed as if she was looking at baby Krishna. Her eyes did not move even once during the entire song. I was mesmerized by the love, music and dance that unfolded before me. Balamma’s performance was not just dance; it was a conversation with God.
Learn from Brindamma
Guru T. Vrinda, from whom Aruna learnt Dikshitar’s ‘Chetashri Balakrishnam’, which later became one of her favourite compositions. | Photo Credit: Courtesy: Aruna Sairam
As a youngster sitting among a small crowd of senior singers, I felt special. Vrindamma began teaching a new composition, ‘Chetashri Balakrishnam Bhajare’, and I followed along as best I could. Some of the phrases were too complicated for me, but I stuck to the words and the tune, especially the line that begins ‘Nalina Patra Nayanam’. I asked Vrindamma what ‘Vata Patra Sayanam’ meant, and she explained that it meant an endless expanse of blue water with a small banyan (Aalilai) leaf floating on it, on which little Krishna lay, fully curled up, sucking his toe, a smile on his bright and charming face. In Tamil, we call him ‘Aalilai Kannan’. When she described it, I was lost in the lyrics.
Gokulashtami festival
It was Gokulashtami and preparations were underway. Pictures of various leelas of Krishna were cut out and pasted on a cardboard, and carefully arranged around our little Radha Krishna temple. There Vasudeva is crossing the Yamuna with Krishna in a basket. I heard someone singing the viruttam ‘Nalliravil Pirandu, Naadi Kadandu, Valiya Pillai Endru Emmai Aala Vanda Tavame’, followed by ‘Karuttil Nirindai Kannil Maraindai Kanna’ (composed by Tiruvarur Ramamurthy Bhagavathar).
A chance encounter with God
A depiction of Krishna by Keshav.
Many years later, probably in 1994, during a visit to Tiruvarur, my father’s birthplace, we went to the Mammoorthigal Vizha, conducted exceptionally by Lalgudi Jayaraman sir. A fellow rasaika, Chandrasekhar Raja, spoke to us and gave us a priceless recording – a cassette of Kalinga Narthana Thillana performed by Needamangalam Krishnamurthy Bhagavathar. He wanted us to copy it immediately and return the original. Back home, when I finally played it, I was moved to tears. This was the song I carried in my heart since the age of ten. I had heard Needamangalam Bhagavathar sing this Thillana during his two-hour Nalayam. He would pause at each line and tell a story of Krishna.
Later that year, I went to Switzerland for a concert, where I found a cowshed that was near the home of my friends and hosts Eva and Oti. There, with a cassette player in my hand and surrounded by Swiss cows, I relearned the Kalinga Nritya Thillana. That weekend, I performed it for the first time, and from that moment on, it belonged to Krishna and all the devotees and rasikas.
Othukkadu Venkata Subba Iyer must have had a vision of Krishna on Kaliya. For me, this Thillana is pure sound produced from a clear vision and emanating from unconditional love for Krishna; a life in tune with Krishna.
