Long live the Republic, dear readers. Our national anthem is based on Raga Shankarabharanam, and I thought you might like to revisit some of the legends about it, deeply enshrined in our shared cultural history. Shankarabharanam corresponds to the Bilawal thaat in Hindustani music, and to the C Major scale in Western music.
Shankarabharanam means ‘the ornament of Shiva’. It is a healing raga in music therapy. Its vibrations are found to ‘cure mental illness, soothe the turbulent mind and restore peace and harmony’, which last feels most appropriate for our national anthem. Its healing power is considered a direct boon from Lord Shiva, who is the Vaidishvar, or god of doctors.
One hoary story from the Brahmanda Purana goes that Sage Narada wandered by Bhadragiri, the old name for Hosur in Tamil Nadu. There, he chanced upon a charming Shiv lila. The Lord had found great delight in the verdant beauty of Bhadragiri. Wanting to lure Devi Parvati there from Kailash, he turned himself into an iridescent iguana. She saw the beautiful creature sporting in the sunlight from afar. Whisking herself to Bhadragiri, Parvati began chasing the iguana. It teased her by running fast and slow. She managed to touch just the tip of its tail, and instantly her body was flooded with the beautiful green of ancient Bhadragiri.
She thus acquired the name ‘Maragatha Valli’, meaning the emerald-hued creeper or vine (valli, or vine, is also ‘lata’). Narada went to Lord Brahma to ask for an explanation. He was delighted to learn about this playful lila that further layered the presence of the gods in the land. He went back and played Raga Shankarabharanam on Mahathe, his divine veena. Hearing his favourite raga played so beautifully, the Lord blessed Narada, who went away ecstatic to have obtained a peep into this play of the gods.
Another tale holds that in the 1820s, Shankarabharanam produced such ecstasy at the royal court of Thanjavur that the king, Raja Sarfoji, declared that the singer Narasaiyer would be called ‘Shankarabharanam Narasaiyer’ from that day onward. So, everyone took to calling him that, to his great gratification.
Once, when Narasaiyer needed a loan, he went to Rambhadra Moopanar, the zamindar of Kapisthalam in the Kaveri Delta. Moopanar was a big-hearted and hospitable host to many musicians. But, puffed up with pride, Narasaiyer grandly offered Raga Shankarabharanam as collateral for eighty gold guineas with a promissory note not to sing it until he had redeemed his debt. Hurt by Narasaiyer’s attitude, the zamindar was equally businesslike and accepted his promissory note.
Soon after this unholy bargain, a powerful employee of the East India Company called ‘Wallis Appuraya’, after his English boss, invited Narasaiyer to perform at his home in the town of Kumbakonam. When Narasaiyer arrived, Appuraya requested that he sing Raga Shankarabharanam.
“But, I’ve pledged not to sing it until I redeem my debt to Moopanar,” confessed Narasaiyer.
“Bah, is that all?” said Appuraya and sent eighty gold guineas by a swift rider to Kapisthalam. The messenger returned with Moopanar hot on his heels, who not only returned the money to Appuraya but also chided Narasaiyer for not demanding the money as his cultural right.
These generous, diplomatic gestures by the two big men saved face all around and brought home to Narasaiyer how very silly and vain he had been to think that he owned the great raga. His heart smote him that he had demeaned himself and betrayed his music. He left the next morning and headed to the temple town of Kivalur.
An incredible story had rocked South India about Kivalur. The tale went that the 18th-century saint-composer Muthuswamy Dikshitar had gone to the Kivalur Shiva temple with a new composition. He asked the priest to let him present it to the Lord, but the priest was about to shut the temple for the afternoon and curtly said, “You can wait until we reopen, the deity isn’t going anywhere.”
So Dikshitar sat down calmly, facing the enormous carved wooden doors, and began to sing his new composition Akshaya linga vibho in Shankarabharanam. Passers-by were drawn at once to the music and sat down to listen as if under a spell. Dikshitar sang unhurriedly, each variation adding another rich layer to the song.
God, angels, and all humanity seemed to form a glorious company in the song. Every flowering plant seemed to bloom, and soft breezes to blow. The magical soundscape drew everyone into itself, and the people felt their sorrows fading. They began to feel healed, whole and happy, in that sanctuary of sound.
There was deep silence when the song ended, but before the people came out of their enchantment, the locked temple doors crashed open and swung heavily on their medieval hinges.
A collective gasp went up, and the priest, who had hung back to see what was going on, rushed forward in tears. He fell at Dikshitar’s feet and said how sorry he was. The story spread from coast to coast, and Narasaiyer thought Kivalur would be the right place in which to apologise to Shankarabharanam.
Arriving there, Narasaiyer prayed to the Lord and the raga to forgive him his presumption. He dropped his title and sang better for it. Remembering the legends that vivified the land and the close, powerful ties that its people had with their music, he felt cleansed and healed. May that loving, giving spirit of Shankarabharanam keep us all united and happy.
Renuka Narayanan | FAITHLINE | Senior journalist
(Views are personal)
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