Thiagaraja

Very little indeed is known of the details of the life of Thiagaraja, the musician saint. But, today, we are sure of the date of his demise. It was in January 1847 (‘Pushya masa Bakula Panchami day’). That is to say, we have yet to celebrate the centenary of the death of this great man.

Muthuswami Dikshitar lived from 1775 to 1835, and Shyama Sastri from 1763 to 1827. All the three were born in Tiruvalur.

Thiagaraja’s date of birth has been differently stated by various authors of his life, and after a full enquiry, the latest writer, Mr. M. S. Ramaswamy Iyer, has fixed it as the year 1759. So Thiagaraja lived up to the grand old age of 88 years. For the purpose of the boy’s education, when he was barely six, Thiagaraja’s father shifted to the village of Tiruvaiyar, six miles from Tanjore, the seat of Sanskrit learning, ‘Pancha nada Kshetra’ as it is commonly known.

To let us know what he looked like, there is just one painting of his, painted during his life-time, about the age of fifty, hung in the Jagmohan Palace, Mysore. He had an only daughter and a grandson. They did not survive him, and his direct line is now extinct. It may be said he was the last of the galaxy of the ‘Bhagavata’ Saints of India, like Kabir, Ramdas, Namdev and Tukaram. His native tongue was Telugu, but his progenitors had lived in the Tamil land for three generations before his birth. Thus, Thiagaraja had, from early childhood, fully imbibed the traditions and the musical culture of the Tamil land. The Telugus today claim Thiagaraja as their own, because most of his songs are in Telugu, though much of it is written in broken Telugu. Nay, the provincial Telugu is generous enough to thank the Tamils, who, though "they had no creative genius," have preserved for the subsequent generations such fine pieces of melody. Provincialism does not stop here. The extra-radical Tamil insists that we should discard these Telugu songs, because they are in a foreign tongue. What sheer madness in the field of art!

We ought, then, to ask ourselves the question; Why did Shyama Sastri, a Tamil, and also Doraiswamy lyer, the great-grandfather of Vidwan Sabhesa Iyer, the composer and court musician of Tanjore and contemporary of Thiagaraja, compose their melodies in Telugu? Why did generations of songsters preserve by oral tradition these Telugu songs? The reason may be immediately stated. Tamil melodic genius found its best expression in the medium of the Telugu language. For then the recitative stage of music had passed into the lyric stage, though mostly in the hands of Thiagaraja; the bondage of the words of a song has ceased to exist and the progression of vowel sounds has poured into the melody. Telugu words with their vowel endings, absence of harsh conjunct-consonants and abundance of soft letters and semi-vowels, with all these features of the Italian of the East, preserved and enriched Tamil musical culture, which indeed arose out of a confluence of the Kannada, Telugu and Tamil art.

Some, however, of Thiagaraja’s songs and ‘divya nama sankirtanas’ are not fitted for violin and veena music, because of too many words which go to spoil the ‘raga bhava.’

With the renaissance in India, our interest in his life has been roused, and the story of his life has apparently been drawn up recently from the anecdotes and incidents left in the memory of his direct musical pupils. I too have heard a version of these incidents from my own music teacher, Vidwan Sabhesa lyer, the first Principal of the Annamalai Music College.

He is a great-grandson of Doraiswamy lyer, as already alluded to, and the grandson of Sabhapathy Sivan, who was a pupil of Thiagaraja. Doraiswamy lyer’s other son, Govinda Sivan, was another pupil of Thiagaraja. These two names are omitted in Ramaswamy Iyer’s book.

I shall mention the main incidents of Thiagaraja’s life. While very young, Thiagaraja lost his father, and was subject to harsh treatment by his elder brother. Some time later, he was left with a half of a small house in Tiruvaiyar, besides the golden image of Sri Rama, an heir-loom.

It is also told that the elder brother threw the image of Sri Rama into the Cauvery, and in his grief Thiagaraja sang the melody ‘Endu daginado’ in Thodi; during his search, he burst into another song, ‘Nenendu Vedakudura’ in Karnataka Byahag.

He later found in his dream where the image lay buried and commemorated its discovery.

He met Govinda Marar, a musician of Travancore, when Thiagaraja’s pride as a musician was perhaps slightly humbled, when his disciples sang the song ‘Entharo Mahanubhavulu Andariki Vandanamu’ in Sri raga, one of his five gems.

He travelled to Kovoor, near Poonamallee, Madras, where he composed five songs in praise of God Sri Sundareswara of the temple.

The call sent by the Raja of Tanjore to Thiagaraja to compose songs in his praise and his spurning of the same request, are commemorated in the song, ‘Nidi chala Sukhama’ in Kalyani raga.

He was given the burial of a saint–a ‘samadhi’–in Tiruvaiyar, where, even now, an annual music festival takes place.

Nor have we any direct evidence of the order of his compositions. We may, however, follow the growing maturity of his mind as exemplified in his Kritis and Kirtanas, and separate them into different periods so far as his art developed.

I shall deal with the subject of his melodies and their musical character. We can sum up in one word the subject matter of his melodies as entirely mystical. The Oxford Dictionary defines a mystic as one who seeks by contemplation and self-surrender to obtain union or absorption with the Deity. Religious mysticism has also been stated to have that peculiar intensity of emotion in which it is sometimes hardly possible to distinguish between ecstasy and agony, for they are subtly interfused. It is a matter of easy inference that the subject matter of his songs completely stands the test of the two definitions.

Vows of poverty are generally taken by such mystics, as taken, for instance, by Francis of Assisi. Thiagaraja himself lived by ‘Unchi Vritti.’ It is said he merely went out with his disciples singing on the road, when charity poured forth from the citizens of Tiruvaiyar. It is only when his stock of rice, etc., was exhausted, meant for the ‘simple’ feeding of himself and his pupils, he went forth again for such begging of alms. The Brahmins of South India in the social organisation of that day felt nothing wrong in that way of life, for they were contributing in their own way to the moral and spiritual development of the community at large; and society paid its debt in the shape of charity to those who embarked on a purely intellectual life of ‘poor living and high thinking.’ It will suffice, therefore, to cite sentences illustrative of the two definitions which I put forth of mysticism, Hindu religious thought refers to ecstasy in three forms: Samipya, Sarupya and Sayujya, meaning respectively, proximity, similarity and union. Thiagaraja himself says that ‘Sangita Sastra gnana’ (knowledge of musical art) brings the happiness of ‘Sarupya,’ in his song in Mukhari raga. To one who has felt this ecstasy or transport, life itself takes on a new meaning and purpose. Thiagaraja has been called ‘the Beethoven of India.’ Rightly so, for Beethoven said, "God is nearest to me in my Art…..I am a God-intoxicated man." This ecstasy is transient, and no amount of the desire to re-capture the experience, it is said, brings afresh this experience of higher consciousness. It is during these moments of the separation from a higher self or a larger consciousness, there pours forth a cry from the soul, like that of a child for its father or mother, or the beloved for her lover. Sometimes, the soul pours forth music, lost in the awe of its vision. Most of Thiagaraja’s songs are directed towards the worship of Sri Rama, as a ‘Purna Avatar’ of Vishnu. He has also composed a few songs on Mahadeva and Vinayaka.

To my mind, Thiagaraja’s songs exhibit this separateness and represent his anxiety to be saved from ‘samsara,’ or the round of births and deaths, as the Hindu law of Karma enunciates.

A few songs even will illustrate this feature.

(1) ‘However much I request Thee, why this obstinacy of keeping away from my vision?’

(2) ‘Why do you not listen to my wailing?’

(3) ‘O Vishnu! Why give me cause for anxiety?’

(4) ‘What do you lose by standing before me?’

(5) ‘Do not lose the grip of my hand.’

This human touch in his songs differentiates his subject matter from that of Dikshitar and Shyama Sastri, which is more or less pure stotra (praise of Iswari or Iswara).

I was indeed wondering–when I understood the meaning of the songs–why he should absolutely represent to us that the world is a ‘vale of tears,’ which one should fly away from. Is this all the ethical teaching he has to impart to us? Is Bishop Gore’s indictment of Hinduism true that "we must leave out India in our survey of the ‘idea of the ‘Good-life’as being disqualified by a fundamental pessimism or moral indifference? But fortunately for us, Thiagaraja is rational enough to teach us, in the words of George Santayana, that religion should cease to be superstitious and become a rational discipline, an effort to perfect the spirit rather than to intimidate it. In these days of self-realisation and self-expression, which really means a want of all self-restraint, Thiagaraja’s words have a lesson to convey to us. For me at least, where the priests have failed in their mission, his songs have succeeded. A few extracts are given.

(1) Is contemplation or is a bath in the Ganges better for a spiritual life?

(1-a) We have to banish from our minds our selfish desire for another’s wealth or wife, and be above cruelty and censuring others.

(2) Is there any need for all the chants (mantras) and ritual (tantras)?

(3) What avail these sounds of cymbals in worship for one who has controlled his mind?

(4) Can a bath in the Cauvery or the Ganges save the evil-minded man?

(5) Can penance (Tapas) save one full of passion and who gives vent to anger?

(6) Who can differentiate you from Siva, Madhava or Brahma?

This stresses the need for religious toleration and brings out the lesson of the Gita that "all paths lead unto the Lord." The lesson has been lost on us, for even today the Vaishnavite Brahmin will not enter a Siva temple for worship, while the Saiva Brahmin enters a Vishnu temple for prayers.

He has lessons to give us, even for the married life of man and woman in India. I refer to the song "Ma Janaki chetta Pattaga" in Kambodi: "O Rama! You became great only after you took Sita’s hand in yours in the marriage ritual," which he goes on to explain thus:

"It is in the event of her marriage with you, you became famous as the over thrower of Ravana and of evil-doing in this world. She could have burnt her enemy-persecutor by her own fire of chastity, but it was only with a view to your own fame and that you ‘should cross the seas to redeem her, that she restrained herself."

I have, however, a cause of complaint against Thiagaraja. He has given us no songs to impart to us even the joy of mere living. I do not deny the problem of evil and of pain in human life; but if there were no joy ‘ananda,’ however little in life, as the Upanishads tell us– ‘Anandat Khalu imani Bhutani jayante’ etc.–we may be driven to commit suicide.

I was indeed overwhelmed by the fact that this man should be so obsessed by the need of his individual salvation, by composing countless songs in praise of Sri Rama or God-head as conceived by him. I do not know whether there was not too much of egotism in this man’s life. For, my memory is haunted by the story of Yudhishtira in the Mahabharata. He did not want heaven, but wished to stay in hell (‘naraka’), with his brothers and wife, whom he had loved on this earth, when Indra was leading him towards Heaven.

Recently, my perusal of Mr. Ramaswamy Iyer’s book brought to my notice the fact that the very last song composed by Thiagaraja was "Aparadhamula" in Rasali raga. In this song he did feel the enormity of his fault, ‘aparadha’ or blindness, I should put it, in seeking his own salvation, as Thiagaraja says that he knew God stretches indeed his hands of protection for all unto their needs and deserts according to their Karma. But K. V. Srinivasa Iyengar has, however, in his "Thiagaraja Hridaya" differently interpreted this song by changing the word ‘Teluyu’ to ‘Teliyada,’ meaning thereby Thiagaraja need not fear his own salvation when God offers protection unto all. What a vast change in its meaning! Surely Thiagaraja meant differently.

I have been impressed by his musical fervour in his praise of Sri Rama as a child or an adolescent. His song ‘Rara ma intidaka’ (Come up, please, as far as my house), his description of Rama’s graceful curly hair (‘alaka’) and of Rama’s gait (‘Oyyarapu Nadalu’), to my mind, disclose his deeply suppressed desire or wish to fondle a son, which God had denied him. I may perhaps be pardoned for this statement, but I do so as I particularly realised his attitude towards the divinity of childhood, his reverence for the human babe with its potentialities for good and evil and with its latent powers for the conquest of nature and service of man. His opinion regarding the salvation for non-musical persons is noteworthy. He doubts whether there is salvation for them! Even for the musician, who sings for filling his belly, he has sneer and contempt, and he says in his Dhanyasi song, that without true faith (‘Sad Bakti’) knowledge of music (Sangita gnana) by itself is of no avail to secure salvation.

In Thiagaraja’s music there is an immediacy of appeal and he himself compares true music with ‘Draksha Rasa’ (grape juice). Others have found in Dikshitar’s music ‘Narikela rasa’ (the milk of the cocoanut). A lot of effort is required to understand Dikshitar’s music with its majestic and elephantine slow movement. Before I pass a whole bow on the violin, the ‘raga bhava’ is felt in Thiagaraja’s song, while it takes the whole ‘pallavi,’ even the whole song, to appreciate the ‘bhava’ of a ‘raga’ in Dikshitar’s.

Lastly, unless we conserve the music of these composers, a woeful day is before us, as we shall lose our worthy heritage. In Economics there is Gresham’s law that the bad coin will oust the good coin. So also, the Hindustani style of music will oust Carnatic music. The graces and curves in our music I can only compare with the graces of the outline of Grecian statuary. All cannot be Greek sculptors in marble, and there is, therefore, the greater need to retain our modes of music intact, for music can be retained only in the voices or the fingers of our children. ‘Swara’-singing or knowledge of ‘swaras,’ according to Thiagaraja himself, is very necessary.

When I compare for instance, the life of Socrates, who had the cosmic consciousness, as Bucke puts it, with the life of Thiagaraja, the following train of thoughts suggests itself to me. While Socrates would continue his life as his daemon would direct him, suffering all and caring not for the persecution by his Grecian fellow citizens right up to his drinking hemlock, it seems that the illumination of cosmic consciousness came with the song "Aparadhamula" over Thiagaraja, when this separatist feeling from the whole of humanity left him. That consciousness perhaps came too late in his life for a moral uplift of, and a dynamic effect on, the generation of the people round him. Of course we should be thankful that this separatist feeling, however, gave us the glorious gems of South Indian melodic art.