The air at the temple’s gopura vaasal is not merely still; it is thick and long before the visual spectacle of the deity appears. Then, a singular sound announces the shift from the mundane to the cosmic. A nadaswara vidwan, chest broad and eyes focused, zoning out the noisy crowd gathered with a yogic intensity, raises the long aacha wood pipe. As his cheeks puff like the bellows of a primordial forge, the first notes of the mallari in gambhiranattai pierce the dawn.
The mallari is not a mere performance. In the deep scholarship of the Carnatic tradition, the mallari is a structural command. The composition of mallari, appropriately in the form of solkattus (rhythmic syllables rather than lyrics), allows the deity to sway and glide majestically. Its rhythmic architecture in kanda jati triputa thalam fittingly mirrors the gati, the majestic gait of the deity, stepping out from the sacred to the social space. As the utsava murthi performs the nagara ula, the veedhi valam — the streets of the town is filled with the sounds of nadaswaram as if showering down from the celestial sky, and meeting it half-way carrying the vibrations of the earth is the reverberating thavil. What a sonic blueprint for a god’s promenade, ensuring that every step taken by the bearers is aligned with a cosmic harmony between Sky and Earth that transcends human time!
The nadaswaram, which was once called the mukha veenai, is considered auspicious for this critical reason. In the Indian construct of body and music, nada is not simply sound; it is a pulsation of the individual soul in harmony with nature and the beyond. It is the bridge between the unmanifest and the manifest. Maestros like TN Rajarathinam Pillai, Vedaranyam Vedamurthy, and Sheik Chinna Maulana have built the bridge between many seen and unseen realms with their elevated artistry for rasikas.
Nadaswaram’s very construction serves as a sacred symbol, the large flaring bell representing the Sun, the wooden body signifying Brahma, and the seven holes are accorded to the sapta matrikas. When the breath is forced through the seevali (double reed), it transforms. It ceases to be mere air and becomes mangala isai—auspicious music. This sound is believed to physically cleanse the akasha (ether), sanitising what resides sacred in the inner and the outer landscape. This is why it held the position as the periya melam within a Dravidian temple’s ritualistic tradition.
In this context, today’s connoisseurs of music must know that there is a profound difference between the nadaswaram and other modern wind instruments, both in technical and spiritual design. ‘Nada’ is not just a musical sound heard, but it implies the unheard cyclical movement of breath, inhale, exhale, and the transition in between in the form of silence. It symbolises the internal wave that includes thoughts and feelings, meeting the external tides of time: all pervasive, universal yet so common. The “effort” of the vidwan elevates the ordinary into the extraordinary, turning a physiological function into an uplifting experience; for, when a breath meets the mukha veenai, a transformation occurs. The instrument was never designed to be merely aesthetic; it has an underlying spiritual resonance, intended to kindle the higher perception. Many miss the unseen intent behind this aspect of the instrument.
Voices from the pandal
“The Nadaswaram relies entirely on the subtle manipulation of lip pressure and finger positions: a grueling physical feat, regulating circular cycles of breath where the sound never breaks. The prowess of a nadaswaram player comes when he can reveal the potential of the raga in the first blow itself, gliding through the fluidity of gamakas (oscillations), mirroring the vocal quality. This feat, other keyed instruments of the same family can rarely replicate”, shared the young and promising Mylai Karthikeyan.
“When I was taught the instrument, I was told, he is a vidwan who has made the shift from taking the function of breath that sustains life to cleansing of space that elevates the spirit,” shared ‘Kalaimamani’ KG Srinivasan. Given the eternal nature of nada, where the sound has no beginning and no end, this technicality is vital. In fact, through this lens, the presence of TN Rajarattinam Pillai accompanying the sengol must also be viewed. When India made her tryst with destiny, reclaiming her civilisational identity, the artist’s presence was no mere ceremonial gesture; it was the imprinting of a moment — the return of divine justice, and the sonic seal of a nation’s sovereignty.
Outside the temple walls, even today, the instrument is still highly regarded in ritualistic weddings. Without the nadaswaram, the ritual milestones of a South Indian wedding would sound acoustically ‘barren’. Having said that, the community doesn’t get its due in social gatherings. Although they are the first to arrive, both artistes expressed that they are the last to be acknowledged most often. While the practitioners use their meditative focus to cut out the mundane noise of a large gathering, there is a significant shift in the cultural outlook of the society. The raja vadhyam exponents reduced to being event contractors is a rather disturbing trend, as it is denting the socio-cultural status of the vadhyam itself.
The declining economic state of practitioners to the thinning of studentship are all the symptoms of a society losing its artistic class. As a society, are we trading the difficult, spiritually-charged “exclusive” for the easy, mass-produced “accessible”? When can the narratives on nadaswaram change and start looking at the rasika’s own lack of investment for the oral traditional forms?