For Malayali audiences, Vidyasagar is not merely a composer; his music has been woven into the fabric of everyday life. His songs have accompanied people through romance and heartbreak, filled lonely afternoons, and risen during moments of shared happiness.
They have lent energy to celebrations, warmth to milestones, and comfort in difficult times — whether it is the gentle ache of ‘Pranayamani Thooval’, the playful charm of ‘Vennila Chandana Kinnam’, or the emotional lilt of ‘Oru Raathri Koodi’.
Songs from films such as ‘Summer in Bethlehem’, ‘Devadoothan’, and ‘Chandranudikkunna Dikkil’ continue to echo long after their release. This enduring bond now marks a significant milestone for Malayali listeners, as Vidyasagar is set to mark 30 years in the Malayalam film music industry — a journey that began with his debut film, ‘Azhakiya Ravanan’ (1996), for which he received the State Award.
Vidyasagar was in Kochi recently to grace two occasions: the release of a new independent single, ‘Adobe, Abode’, which he has composed, and the re-release of ‘Summer in Bethlehem’.
‘Adobe Abode’, released in partnership with Saregama, marks another turn in Vidyasagar’s musical journey. Directed by Maneesh Mohan and produced by lyricist Vimosh Venugopal, the album brings together sounds and sensibilities that echo the composer’s long-held belief in intuition, collaboration, and grace.
TNIE catches up with Vidyasagar, who reflects on his childhood, entry into Malayalam cinema, his work with singers and lyricists, and the moments of faith that have shaped his music.
Excerpts:
How did the musician in you take wings?
I was born into a family of musicians. My grandfather was a court vidwan of the princely state of Vizianagaram — an ‘Ashtavadhani’ (master). My father was a musician who migrated from Andhra to Madras in the pre-Independence period, as musical activities and recordings were centred there. He was my first guru. He taught me harmonium and vai paattu (vocals) for nearly four-and-a-half years. He also introduced me to several instruments.
My father learnt these instruments by practising for 10 to 15 years. But I could grasp the basics within five or six months. I can only call it miraculous — God’s gift.
By the time I was 10 or 11, I had already become a professional musician, playing nearly 10 instruments, including vibraphone, santoor, xylophone, glockenspiel, guitar and keyboard. But even before that, from the very beginning,my dream was clear: I wanted to be a composer.
How did that dream take root?
I was about eight years old when that dream struck me. I used to accompany my father to recording studios. I would quietly sit and absorb everything. Amid one such recording session, I realised I didn’t just want to play an instrument. I wanted to be the person creating the music.
You assisted several masters early on. What did those years teach you?
I played with many composers, including Devarajan Master, Salil Chowdhury, A T Ummer, and M S Viswanathan, whom I consider my spiritual guru. He is like God to me. I worked with him for nearly five years. I also worked with Ilaiyaraaja for almost eight or nine years.
From Devarajan Master, I learnt discipline and the respect for music. There used to be pin-drop silence in the studio.
Everyone has/had their own speciality. There is no comparison. I observed everything: how a song is approached, how backgrounds are built, how orchestration is treated…. That observation itself was education.
At the same time, I was clear that my own style had to be different. This was a gradual process. In my early years, there was a time when I wanted to become a singer. Later, I assisted many people, and also worked extensively on what we now casually call ‘ghost composing’. That phase gave me enormous experience, not just musically, but in understanding textures and experimentation.
Parallel to all this, I continued learning piano, guitar with Dhanraj Master for nearly nine years. My learning and professional work went hand in hand.
Being trained in so many instruments must have helped you as a composer…
Most of the instruments I learnt were percussive or backing instruments. They help you understand rhythm, chords, range and texture. One does not need to master every instrument, but must understand how they behave.
Santoor is a melody instrument. I believe my santoor phrases are quite distinct. They appear naturally in my compositions. Understanding instruments gives you confidence while orchestrating — you know what will work and what won’t.
Could you recall your entry into Malayalam cinema?
It happened quite casually. I was composing for a Telugu film at that time. The film’s director, who was dropping me back home, suddenly stopped near a studio. He said he had to meet someone, and asked me to wait. He had gone to meet Mammootty, who was considering acting in a Telugu film.
Later, Mammootty wanted to meet me. He asked me about my work, and wondered aloud whether I had been composing for any Malayalam film. I said I wasn’t, but added lightheartedly that if he were the hero, I would love to do one. He laughed and left.
About six months later, I got a call from [director] Kamal’s office. There was a Malayalam film he was directing, and I was asked to do the music. And, as you know, Mammootty was the hero (‘Azhakiya Ravanan’). That was a big break.
Did you feel any apprehension entering a new industry?
Not at all. I never try to please audiences. My duty is to do what I know, what I have learnt and what I love. If, out of 100 people, 80 connect with it, that is success. My thought process is different. My DNA is different. My music is different.
I wanted my music to sound different. I never followed trends. I wanted people to accept me for who I was.
Your Malayalam songs are deeply nostalgic for listeners. Among them, ‘Vennila Chandana Kinnam’ remains a classic. Could you recall the making process?
For ‘Azhakiya Ravanan’, I chose to compose ‘Vennila Chandana Kinnam’ first. I was told about the situation that the song will be based on. When Kaithapram wrote the lyrics, and I sang along while composing, the tune itself began carrying a nostalgic feel. That emotion stayed.
I strongly believe in composing with the lyricists. It is always a give-and-take. In those days, songs were written for situations, not just as independent tracks. That grounding made a difference.
You are known for musical experiments with lyricists…
‘Pranayamani Thooval’ is a good example. I was inspired by older Tamil compositions where every line ends with the same word. This is something the Tamil lyricist Kannadasan often experimented with. I asked Kaithapram whether we could try something similar.
Within seconds, he suggested ‘mazha’. The rhyme and tune flowed naturally. Such experiments are possible only when you have strong poets beside you.
Sometimes, I finish the pallavi and ask the lyricist to continue in the same mood. Once the tune starts flowing, I step in again. It’s a very organic process.
‘Devadhoothan’, too, had some classics. The film found a new life through re-release…
Initially, the film didn’t do well because audiences expected more action from a Mohanlal film. But, I guess, the music slowly grew into people. Today, younger audiences understand its nuances much better.
During the re-release, the response was overwhelming. It felt like a concert. Seeing people celebrate the music years later was quite moving.
‘Entharo Mahanubhavulu’ remains unforgettable….
Mohanlal’s character is an internationally acclaimed musician rooted in Indian tradition. Western classical music represents the global idiom, while Carnatic music represents our roots.
‘Entharo Mahanubhavulu’ is about humility and salutations to greatness. That piece demanded attention. One cannot listen to it passively. It demands respect. Every time you hear it, it should give you goosebumps. That’s what I had in mind while composing.
Now, ‘Summer in Bethlehem’ has also been re-released. Any fond memories?
All the songs had already been composed and handed over. I thought my work was done.
Then, suddenly, (director) Sibi Malayil called. He said the climax song didn’t have enough energy. He wanted more pace, more lift. I said I would need a week. He wanted it the next day!
I had to reschedule everything. Girish Puthenchery arrived by the morning train. We were in the studio by 7am — without a tune, without an idea. M G Sreekumar arrived by 9am. He was ready to sing, but the song wasn’t.
We tried different ideas. Nothing clicked. Then instinctively, I said, “Let’s try ‘Shiva Shambho’.” That chant has immense power. I composed that line first. Girish immediately wrote the lines that followed. Everything fell into place. By evening, the song was recorded, mixed and sent for shooting.
For me, it wasn’t just a song. It was a prayer — to end confusion and save the moment (laughs).
You have introduced many singers to Malayalam cinema. How do you choose these voices?
The song decides the singer, not the other way around. I always look at the timbre of a voice. Whether it suits the emotion of the song.
Some voices carry tenderness, some carry weight, some carry joy. P Jayachandran, for example, sang ‘Prayam Nammil’ during a phase when he wasn’t much active. I loved the romantic softness in his voice. I wanted that.
While looking for a new voice, I genuinely search for something new, not a copy of what already exists. That is how it worked with young singers such as Abhirami Ajai, Nivas, Vineeth Srinivasan, and Rimi Tomy. Incidentally, many of their first songs with me became hits.
What about experienced singers like Sujatha?
That voice deserved independence. She had only sung duets till then. I don’t believe in such norms. Her voice has a unique emotion. When Sujatha sang ‘Pranayamani’, people assumed someone else had sung it. That’s how different voices can surprise you when given the right song.
There is always a special emotion for Malayalis when it comes to K J Yesudas…
That voice has a soul of its own. It doesn’t belong to any one generation. When he sings, you don’t feel the effort, it just flows. You don’t need to load the tune with anything extra. Even the simplest melody becomes complete in his voice.
I always say my songs don’t need heaviness. They need expression. And he gives that naturally. Working with him always feels effortless.
How do newcomers today differ from earlier generations?
Today’s singers are talented and classically trained. But many of them come from reality shows, where they practise someone else’s voice for years. When you give them a completely new song and ask them to interpret your thought process, it becomes difficult.
They have to understand what I am trying to say emotionally — not what they think the song should be. That experience takes time. Old songs, they can sing beautifully. New songs demand imagination.
How do you see music consumption today — reels, shorts, instant listening?
Anything good is good — whether it’s 30 seconds or 5 minutes. But when something is treated as a song, lyrics must express meaning. Music without expression is futile.
Audiences today are globally exposed. But the question is: Does it suit your intrinsic culture? Music has no language, but lyrics make it regional. And that is not a limitation. Songs must reflect people, emotions and culture.
You can always strive for innovation and freshness. But meaning should never be lost.
You have now worked on a new, independent track titled ‘Adobe Abode’ in Malayalam. How was the experience?
Vimosh (Venugopal) is the lyricist and producer of the song. He is very passionate. He has been following me for many years, and really wanted to do this song. Initially, the lyrics were written in old-style Malayalam, very heavy. I told him: ‘You are writing in today’s time; it has to be simpler.’ Good poetry is fine, but it should be easily reachable.
He understood that and made the changes. That is important. When someone is ready to listen, the work becomes easy. The singers, Jasim Jamal and Rakshita Suresh, are also well-trained and impressive.
As it was an independent project, it gave me freedom. There was no pressure of the situation, no commercial formula, no deadlines like in cinema. I could sit with a tune, listen to it again and again, and shape it slowly. That kind of space is rare now.
This album happened organically — from trust, from affection, from commitment to music. When things are done with that kind of honesty, it reflects in the final song. I am happy about that.
Looking back, how do you see your journey?
I feel deeply blessed. I carry no weight in my head. These songs could have been done by anyone. Why me? I don’t know. Maybe I was chosen to deliver them. That’s all that I believe.