ANECDOTES ABOUT MUSICIANS
Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer
Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer’s Guru Maharajapuram Visvanatha Iyer was very strict. Read what Semmangudi wrote of a train journey with the Guru—“Picture me on a train with a tambura on my lap, my guru’s steel trunk, silver betel-leaf box and water-jug roped together and fastened to my waist. I couldn’t sleep when he was asleep and he wouldn’t let me sleep when he was awake”.
Semmangudu’s maiden appearance was in 1926.Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer had given a performance at the Nageswara Swami temple at Kumbakonam. The accompanying mridangam vidwan Azhagunambi Pillai requested that Srinivasa Iyer should be given a chance to sing solo. Maharajapuram readily acceded and Semmangudi sang during the late night puja. Azhagunambi Pillai played the mridangam. Undoubtedly it was an impressive debut. According to Srinivasa Iyer no sooner he started than the heavens opened up and torrential rain blessed him with a captive audience. Semmangudi stated that he could not hear his own voice!.
Semmangudi underwent two operations, one to remove a block in the nose and the other to remove the tonsils. The result was a wayward voice. One casualty was his pronunciation, inviting the comment of the most carping, acerbic critic of the 1940s, “Karnatakam”, the pseudonym of Kalki Krishnamurti that he pronounced “Siva Siva enarada ” as “ Jiva Jiva enarada".
While arranging marriages it is customary for the bride-to-be to display her musical skills before the boy’s family. After Semmangudi rendered Chakkaniraja in Kharaharapriya for the first time, it became the song that was to clinch marriage deals. The charanam starts with the words “ Kantiki Sundara “ describing Rama’s beauty. If the girl repeated that line three times, it was taken as consent !.
Despite being a junior, Semmangudi affected the manners of senior vidwans emulating them in matters of dress, sporting the tuft, liberally smearing his forehead with the sacred ash and tying his dhothi in the traditional panchakaccam style. This created an impression of his being elder compared to his real age.
He was noted for his great sense of humour. A few days before he died, he told a friend, “Actually, the God of Death did come calling for me last week. But with the muddle of old houses given new numbers on the street, he made off with a neighbor ”. One more anecdote. The location is the Shanmukhananda Hall in Mumbai, overflowing as they celebrated the centenary of Kalki. Among the speakers was Semmangudi. Even as his turn came and he stood before the mike for two minutes someone sent a chit. He read it and asked the audience, “Do you know what this is ?. I am advised to restrict myself to three minutes.” He exploded with feigned anger and said, “ I have come all the way from Chennai to speak about my good friend Kalki and no one is going to short-circuit me !.”. He spoke for full ten minutes crackling with wit and humour. “ Kalki taught me History of the Kingdoms of South India but I taught him and Sadasivam how to platy Rummy !.”
His last bow was to donate his eyes to the Eye Bank of Shankar Nethralaya, Chennai.
It was a serendipitous coincidence that on the morning of Semmangudi’s passing away, Chennai Doordarshan broadcast a seven-year old hour long concert by him, ending with the incomparable rendering of the Shankaranharanam masterpiece of Dikshitar, addressed to Sri Dakshina Murthi.
I conclude with an anecdote with a personal bearing. It was February 16, 1999. Semmangudi, who had turned 90 was being felicitated in the prestigious Y.B.Chavan Auditorium in South Bombay. Kishori Amonkar was there to adorn him with a Gold Bracelet—aVeera Sringala. The Hall was jampacked. After the bracelet was presented to him Semmangudi was requested to sing one or two songs by the artist of the evening Sanjay Subramaniam. He did and the audience was spellbound. After this he was lead to a seat in the first row. During a short interval I dived to the first row and prostrated and told him, “Sir, I am one of your million unknown admirers and have heard you for over five decades. I want your autograph.”. He said “O.K. What is your name and where should I autograph?”. I pulled out a copy of “Frontline” issue dated November 6, 1998. This carried a wonderful analysis of “Semmangudi looks back—at 90” and had several valuable photographs, including two in gorgeous colour. He saw the entire article and pictures and commented that I have brought a very good foto and signed on the colour picture. I thanked him. Then he gave a toothless smile and said, “ Ramachandran, there is a charge for the autograph. Rupees Fifty”. I pulled out a crisp new Rs Fifty note and gave it to him. “Don’t think this goes to Semmangudi. I collect for an orphanage in Thanjavur”. I said, “I shall not demand to know where the amount goes. I am supremely content that I could have your blessings and autograph. I shall cherish both as long as I live.
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