When the music maestro came home!

When Semmangudi had music concerts in Mumbai, he stayed in a flat in our building. He would make it a point to meet my father whom he knew from earlier years. I was too young to comprehend music, leave alone Carnatic music. Needless to say, Semmangudi’s standing in the musical firmament was completely lost on me.

He was just another “mama” who came home from time to time; someone who alerted my father from the ground floor and then, huffed and puffed his way up the flight of stairs. I recall running around the house like a howling cyclone, once coming dangerously close to knocking off the coffee tumbler in Semmangudi’s hand! He was forced to take evasive action and blurt out “Careful! Careful!” as he managed to keep out of harm’s way! With a name like “Semmangudi”, a pancha-kachcha dress, a tuft on the head and a walking stick, he had to be placed in a different category altogether! If I liked him, it was for a different reason- he called my sister by an archaic name. The rest of the day, I teased her repeatedly, while she seethed in anger! If he asked us questions, we found him funny and giggled. During this time, I recall attending a concert by Semmangudi. On coming home, I promptly mimicked his over-the-top mannerisms while singing. The music made no perceptible impact.

Classical Music’s calling came late in life. But when it came, it was irresistible and swept me off my feet. Suddenly, it opened the door to a new dimension in life, one of indescribable beauty. Ragas, whose existence was previously unknown, gatecrashed into my being and became companions for life. I listened to the recordings of all the masters, including Semmangudi. Now, I saw him in a totally different light and admired his expert treatment of ragas, his crisp presentation style, his alignment to musical tradition and above all, a lifetime’s commitment to music. The recollection of his animated mannerisms gave a different insight- he had effaced self-identification to the extent it did not matter to him how he presented himself. Once on stage, it was just him and his music, so total was the involvement. Ironically, other priorities led me away from Mumbai and with it, the opportunity to meet the maestro was lost.

Around this time, I met Hari, a classical music enthusiast to the core. To call him Semmangudi’s fan would be an understatement, he worshipped him. His shelf was stacked with the master’s recordings on gramophone records and cassettes. “Listen to his swara-jati in Bhairavi raga. Can anyone hold a candle to him? And to hear his elaboration of Kharaharapriya raga, in all its grandeur, in the pin-drop silence of the night, is such an experience! Semmangudi was the last of the Cadillacs. They do not make cars like this anymore!” announced Hari.

One day, I interrupted Hari with a childhood confession related to Semmangudi. “What do you mean Semmangudi came to your home?” Hari asked, totally aghast. After hearing my tale, there was a protracted period of silence. I was worried if Hari would punch my nose for treating his hero so callously! When he spoke, Hari’s face was creased with a gentle smile. “Life is all about timing, just like “taala”. When we are faced with the situation, the script is not ready. And by the time we get the script ready, the situation has slipped away! But you are lucky! Semmangudi gave us a lifetime of happiness through his music. We have seen him only from the distance of the concert hall. But you saw that master in your own home!”