 MS - Jewel of India
 M S
Subbulakshmi. Who doesn’t know this icon of Indian womanhood and her vocal music of unmatched fidelity? To Carnatic music aficionados, hers was a voice that reigned supreme through three generations of musicians, standing the test of time with its magnificent timbre and resonance based in absolute sruti alignment, perfect enunciation of lyrics in many languages, and eyes-closed devotion; steeped in tradition but never afraid to explore an eclectic, inclusive, pan-Indian spectrum of bhakti-laden songs. Guided by husband and mentor T Sadasivam, she developed a bani or school all her own, never wavering from the classical mould of Carnatic music despite the daring expansion of her repertoire beyond the offerings of the great southern composers. Quite apart from satisfying the purist in a lifetime of constant endeavour and magnificent accomplishments, her music touched the lives of millions of ordinary folk.
 A year after her death, the adjectives come tumbling forth in any attempt to describe the MS phenomenon, but words fail to capture the image of her that most of us carry in our hearts. For her admirers, who walked into her home ‘to be blessed by her’ no matter that they did not know her personally, the visit remained the high point of their lives. For millions of others, listening to her rendering of Vishnu Sahasranamam, broadcast by All India Radio, was the only way to begin their day. I remember walking through one of the poorer quarters of Madras years ago, and experiencing goosebumps as her voice rang out gloriously from every door on that crowded street.
If back in the 1940s, the simple folk of Rajasthan, where the film Meera was being shot, prostrated before MS believing she was the saint-poet incarnate, listeners after her concerts till the very end of her career, would fall at her feet as she sought to leave the auditorium, delaying her exit interminably. Frail and beset by health problems, she would never turn these devotees away, even though it meant tremendous physical strain. And when she breathed her last, on 11 December 2004, the thousands of mourners who thronged her Spartan home at Kotturpuram, Chennai, were again as diverse a collection of humanity. The grief of the many, many poor people who queued up for one last look at her was if anything as palpable, as deeply felt and as dignified as that of visitors from the more fortunate, more sophisticated sections of society. To all of them she was God on earth, no mortal singer.
 Her humility and concern for the less fortunate are well known. My wife and MS’s grandniece Gowri, who became her vocal accompanist after poor health forced the peerless Radha Viswanathan to retire from the concert platform, came across several instances of these wonderful qualities of MS. In an article in ‘Frontline’, she remembers a couple who arrived late for a concert at the small town of Ayalur in Tanjavur district, Tamil Nadu, after walking 30 miles. MS was about to retire to bed when the dust-streaked couple in crumpled sari and dhoti knocked on the door of the street house where she had been put up by the organisers. Having missed most of the concert, they wanted to offer their respects to her before returning to their village.
 “Drained by the two-and-a-half-hour performance and passage through the adulation of the packed crowds, the (then) 70-year-old musician had no thought but of rest during the early journey of the next day. But she would not, could not, send the couple away disappointed. "Let us sing at least one song for them." Gowri asked her, "Do you know it is midnight now?" “With a smile MS began to sing with the same earnestness and attention she had shown earlier on the stage.”
From early childhood, Gowri, like the other members of the extended family, adored her grandaunt. Once, entering her room, MS found Gowri there, listening to a gramophone record of Vande Mataram sung by Dilip Kumar Roy and MS. Enchanted by the song, the child said: “How beautifully you have sung, Kunjakka!” MS smiled and went on to teach her the first few lines there and then. “See, how nice it is to sing together!” she said. For the child it became a magical moment.
 MS extended this caring tenderness to people beyond the family circle. All her life, she happily obliged doting mothers parading their “gifted” daughters before her by actually asking, even prodding the young prodigies to sing for her. And in her wholesome praise that followed, there was not a trace of hypocrisy, only the firm conviction that it is a sacred duty to make people happy, and what better way than appreciating the talent of their offspring! On long train journeys, she would not only include perfect strangers in the audience while she and her troupe sang for practice or pleasure, but ask them to join in the chorus.
And how utterly human and innocent she was! She loved to talk of her various very real and distressing ailments, describing her aches and pains in great detail, and invariably concluding her litany with the categorical statement: “Nobody can understand the severity of my suffering and the intensity of my pain.” “Don’t ask Kunjakka (the name by which she was known at home) how she is. She’ll tell you,” Ambi, her favourite nephew would tease. Her invariable response would be: “This Ambi is such a rascal (romba pollathavan), always so witty.” Soon she would be singing his praises, and telling anyone who cared to listen, what a brilliant academic career he had enjoyed. “Never failed in a single class,” she would announce proudly.
 Who doesn’t know the wonderful part played by T Sadasivam, her husband, mentor, constant companion, in shaping her fabulous career? For all her complete “surrender” to him, as she herself put it, it was evident to anyone who cared to look beyond the superficial that the surrender was mutual. Sadasivam’s life revolved around his Kunjamma. The great acts of charity the couple performed all their lives were joint ventures of equal partners, and their dividends came from the joy they spread, the succour they provided for the deprived, the desolate, the sick. Finding jobs for poor relatives was a lifelong commitment. Especially after the Kalki establishment closed down in the early seventies, no one who knew the Sadasivams could escape being converted into an employment agency. He would not rest until he placed every displaced worker in a reasonable job. If you complained about one of his candidates’ lack of qualifications, he would silence you with the immediate response: “If he were highly qualified, why would he need your help to find a job?” A vigorous nod of her head would indicate that MS agreed wholeheartedly.
 My family and I have basked in the warm glow of the Sadasivams’ affection and blessings. Naturally, it took me a long time to pick up the courage to speak to either of them unless spoken to. To be seated in the same room as MS was the equivalent of being in the presence of Sir Donald Bradman or Sir Garfield Sobers. To listen to her concerts was a thrilling experience but something to savour from afar. It was unthinkable that I could walk up to her afterwards and compliment her on her performance. It was like shaking Sobers’ hand and telling him he batted well. After every cutcheri we attended, my wife would insist I meet Kunjakka and congratulate her, and I would refuse to do that. Over time, I shed my inhibitions and actually learned to mumble my appreciation of her music. The MS response to such compliments was the best morale booster a man could ask for. She would not only thank you with genuine warmth, she would ask you what part of the concert you liked most. And if you had the presence of mind to recall your favourite piece of the evening and it matched her own choice, she would tell her companions with triumph in her voice, “See, didn’t I tell you he knows his music!”
Like everyone else who had the opportunity to be of some service to her, my wife Gowri and I considered it an honour and a privilege that Gowri was able to assist her in her concerts in the last part of her career. But to MS and Sadasivam, it was a good deed worthy of appreciation. Even in the very last conversation I had with her, MS said: “I can’t tell you how much Gowri’s assistance has meant to me, and I can’t thank you enough for consenting to her accompanying me.” I have no doubt that everybody who came into regular contact with her will have a similar story to tell. Blessed are we all.
V Ramnarayan
(Earlier published in Eves Touch)
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