The legend is strikingly common. Upcountry, Miyan Tansen has been the protagonist, while below the Vidhyas the miracle is attributed to Muthuswamy Dikshitar. Both classical-era composers are said to have brought rain to parched lands by their musical prowess.
The reality quotient in both stories is debatable. One can question the traditional belief that it’s the thunder in their voice that led the skies to open up. Yet, one part of the tale sounds very believable: Tansen sang Malhar and Dikshitar recited Amritavarshini.
Now, both are wonderfully refreshing ragas. Different in their tunes, but common in their moods — sort of anticipation on the brink of celebration and then the freaking out. Just like waiting for those dark clouds to gather up — and then as the rain falls, dance. For the seasoned south Indian music buff, even with a shallow knowledge about the technicalities of Carnatic music, Amritavarshini has that ‘clung in the air up’ feel, much remindful of Kalyani, a celebrated raga in the Deccan. Malhar, on the other hand, is easily close to Brindavana Saranga, which many in peninsular India would like to enjoy as a romanticised version of the soulfully sober Madhyamavati (which, they say, has an equivalent in the north as Madhumad Sarang).
All these interconnections — whatsoever — apart, Malhar has been a major raga in the Hindustani idiom. In fact, there are several of them in the family, each with a shade of difference (thanks to the nuanced variation of a note or two) that makes it distinctive. If Megh Malhar is touted to picturise that kind of heavy rain in full form, Dhuliya Malhar captures more of the anticipatory mood where the pre-rain gusts kick up the dust (dhool). Composers too chipped in their bit, and etched their names to the ragas — you thus got
Miyan ki Malhar, Ramdasi Malhar…. You even have a raag simply called Megh, and another variety of Malhar that settles to focus on the more serene post-rain picture.
Not surprisingly, monsoon time is when you get to listen to a flurry of compositions in Malhar — if you are in the Hindi belt. Or anywhere along the stretch from Mumbai to Delhi to Kolkata. And even during autumn to summer, you could get a scent of this raga if an unexpected rain drenches the concert venue and the musician has the faculty of spontaneity. The raga itself would act like another torrent of shower, and surely a deluge during the rainy season when its appearances in the Hindustani concert circuits become invariably prolific. The festivity is evident, and understandably seasonal.
Down south, Amritavarshini is a more of a rarity. For all its appealing power, there are very few presenters who take up this raga at kacheris. Even if they do, the slot is seldom that of the centrepiece. It generally comes as one of those subordinate pieces ahead of the main item. Or, as one of those tidbits (thukkada) towards the end. And just in case it makes it to the main slot, it could be usually as a dash of swara passage in the ragam-tanam-pallavi of some ‘weighty’ raga.
This, when Amritavarshini has quite a few interesting kritis. Why, even the popular Dikshitar anecdote pins it on the famous composition Anandamritakarshini Amritavarshini. The 19th-century musician, it is said, was aggrieved by the plight of people of a certain Ettayapuram village which had been hit by drought. It is believed Dikshitar implored the goddess by singing this composition. The story goes on to say rain descended when he coasted to the verse ‘Salilam Varshaya Varshaya’ (‘let the rain pour’).
Forget the legend, forget even Amritavarshini. The Malhar-sounding Bridavana Saranga — equally exuberant — too doesn’t find many an opportunity to open up on concert platforms. Again, Brindavana Saranga too has some effervescent compositions; Dikshitar’s own Soundararajam ashraye is prominent in the luminous list.
Why has Carnatic music lost its romance with rains? Ettayapuram, where Dikshitar gave his ‘historic’ recital, is in present-day Tamil Nadu — the cradle of south Indian classical music. But then that’s also one state the southwest monsoon skips during its upward journey. So, when it rains almost across India, the land of Carnatic music grinds ahead with its prolonged summer. True, the Cauvery belt had been a rain shadow region even before Dikshitar’s time, but then Amritavarshini has always been a charming raga.
Finally, once the retreating monsoons brings some showers to the Tamil land in November, the state’s capital follows it up with the music-soaked Margazhi season in the year-end. Yet, Amritavarshini — along with Brindavana Saranga — would rather continue to play truant.
— sreevalsan@epmltd.com