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ARTICLE : Malavika Sarukkai
the following is an article i wrote for India Currents
magazine as a preview for a tour of the U.S. by
one of India's leading dancers: Malavika Sarukkai.
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A Rasika's Delight.
When the dance season in Madras is but a six month old memory,
when Valli, last december, has risen and set, when the rasika
in July languishing, having booked his air-ticket
impatiently waiting, hears (as I did last week) that
Malavika Sarukkai is going to be dancing: oh! what joy,
what pleasure, what excitement.
I remember reading about her in Sruti, and the reviewer had
said "wherever she dances, she generates an intense level
of excitement" and The Hindu had once said that "her adavus,
if frozen in time, are perfect geometry". Oh but they are
much more than that. And "excitement" alone does not do justice to her
dance. Many dancers create excitement, and they do it in
many different ways. Some through athletic prowess,
through dexterity, others through their theatre and
strong dramatic presence. And still others through their
fame derived from other sources: from being big names in
the movies, from their social prestige, through diligent social
climbing etc..
And then there are austere, dignified dancers like Urmila and
Meenakshi, whom the veteran critic T.S. Parthasarathy has
described as thrilling the rasika with their "broad sweeping
gestures" and whose restraint and sobriety I find bracing.
And yet others are shot through with a single
sweet strain of bhakti: Lakshmi Vishwanathan dancing
an unforgettable "Krishna Nee Begane" at Museum theatre
which has become the ultimate padam for me. Chitra I always
see dancing at Narada Gana Sabha, holding up three fingers
in front of her face as she began Papanasan Sivan's "Srinivasa",
to the Lord of the Seven Hills, and so on and so on.
But of all these dancers, beautiful in their own unique way,
it is Valli, foremost, and then Malavika, whom I go to see
without fail, again and again and again, for each and every
one of their performances. Whether I sometimes am annoyed,
at other times thrilled, whether I complain of this or that
in their art, I always go, as do so many others, for they easily
draw the biggest crowds in Madras when they dance.
To pin-point the quality in their dance that makes them who they
are is practically impossible. If I can hazard anything that
is unique about them at all, it is that they are not in the least
thwarted by their art. Perfect technique, great theatrical
skill, spirituality, scholarship, athletic prowess; through all
these portals a great dancer must pass to arrive at the presence
of the deity.
But while some arrive gasping after having battered away at the door
with the force of their art, while others look for chinks and slits
to make themselves narrow or flat enough to slide through,
these two come always in frolic and play, cavorting and
dancing whever they please, and arriving without calculation at
that sacred space, where the light of the deity falls upon
them and makes them incandescent.
But to pause from this for a moment; the program-notes from
when Malavika danced last year in Los Angeles said that she had
at first studied under Thanjavur Kalyanasundaram, but that
her main teacher was S.K. Rajaratnam Pillai and that she has
also studied with Kalanidhi Narayan. It also mentioned that
she had been asked to perform at places such as the Theatre
Du Rond Point in Paris and at Elizabeth Hall in London and
some other prestigious place in Washington; that she had
been featured in the PBS special on dance and that she was
visiting Los Angeles as part of the UCLA Dance Series.
All of which was quite superfluous to me since I knew
exactly what her stature in the dance world was. But why is
it that we did not somehow manage to have her come up here
for a performance when she came last year? And why not this
year? Surely given our number and collective resources we
should be able to have the very best dancers come and
perform here when they do tour this country.
Now Tanjore Kalyanasundaram lives in Bombay I believe, but
Rajaratnam Pillai of course was quite
well known in Madras. He is of the Vazhuvoor style, a disciple
of Vazhuvoor Ramiah Pillai, I think, and I have gone to many
of Srinidhi's recitals just to hear his nattuvangam, which I
like very very much. Two of his students, Srinidhi and Vidhya,
I have seen dance, and they are talented dancers with great depth
of character so naturally I had always respected his abilities.
Of course I don't know any of these people personally,
but still, as a rasika, his being gone was a very
sad thing, a big loss, and when I went to see Malavika dance
at Bharat Kalachar that December, and she dedicated her recital to
him, it was a very moving and emotional thing, and I felt
so sad at the dedication that I do not recall anything from
the recital itself.
If you are not receptive, of course, your nerves will
be frayed. You will become nitpicky and complain, as
I have done on numerous occasions that she is too much
a diva, too glamorous, too edgy. Which I know is just
timorous cowardly nonsense. But at other times: that
the delicate subtlety of Vazhuvoor is missing;
that she is wont to introduce a formless, shapeless
Krishna-in-the-various-seasons thing (Hemanth, etc.)
in the middle of her padams. You may
complain, as I did last december, of her sometimes
tampering with the precise symmetry of a classical
Thanjai Naalvar varnam and introducing a novel
interpretation which alas, completely dissipates the
tautness of the varnam for me. [The lyric
Magithalam Pugazho etc. was mainly interpreted as "Play me,
my body, as you play the flute" in an Anandabairavi
varnam. Oh dear.]
"What next?" I said to my god-mother as we were sitting
down to lunch the next day.
"Will she dance "Sami Ninne" and set it to episodes
from Krishna's childhood pranks?". My dear god-mother
said I ought not to be so narrow-minded and old-fashioned
and then calmly went on to pour sambar, rasam and
curd over her plate of rice and mixed it all up
together and began eating. But, dear Rasika, I am
not in the least conservative, nor am I old-fashioned
in any way. It is only that I like my sambar, rasam
and curd separate.
But let me set myself apart from the purists. The
purist's expectations of Natyam will be that rhythmic
compression of a sequence of alarippu, jathiswaram,
sabdam, climaxing in the varnam, pausing, and then
creating an entirely different languorous mood in the
padams or javalis, before finishing off in the staccato of a
thillana. And it is quite true that
in this format, there is such great symmetry,
so much counterpoint, such architectural elegance, that
no matter who the dancer or what her level, it is
always a thing of harmony and beauty. And I agree with the
purists that to tinker with this format is to break
a beautiful self-contained crystal. But nevertheless
it has been broken and there's no use crying over
spilt milk. For who performs an alarippu or a
jathiswaram in concert nowadays? And what will we achieve
if we expect Malavika to dance like Chitra or Valli to dance
like Meenakshi? And what is inherently wrong with a style of
dance that is more much pointed and sharp and that differs
from the style of the old-school of dancers? If we
are to judge and appreciate their art, it must only be
within the context and standards that they themselves set
in their performance.
Our great dancers generally start with a garish,
pretentious and complicated piece, and I
suppose this is so that after we have been made to
suffer a little we will better enjoy
the complete contrast in the Thanjai Naalvar
varnam which follows. And mercifully, Malavika being
a standard bearer, still performs a classical varnam.
And here I am in full agreement with the purists that
there is no varnam that can even think of standing beside
the varnams of the four Thanjavur brothers: Chinnaya, Ponnaya,
Sivanandam and Vadivelu, the Thanjai Naalvar, also called
the Tanjore Quartette. In a foreword to the "Ponnaya
Manimalai", the book that contains their compositions,
the legendary Bala herself writes and asks what penance
their mother must have done to have borne four such children.
[
And to appreciate the full height of these compositions,
one must compare them, not to the mediocre armor-plated things
that are performed as varnams sometimes, but to an accomplished,
beautiful, elegant and pleasing composition,
"Saami Naan Unthan Adimai" for example.
Now both Papanasan Sivan's (who is no ordinary composer)
"Saami Naan Unthan Adimai" and the Tanjore Quartette's "Sami
Ninne" are love-songs to Shiva. I saw the first, "Saami Naan
Unthan" performed by Chitra Visweswaran, Vazhuvoor incarnate,
at Bharat Kalachar on a very pleasant day. I had taken an
oil-bath, gone to Grand Sweets in Adayar and bought Paruppu
Podi and Adarsam, a friend had brought me a gift of some of
the Panchamrith from Palani. And, like the Adarsam from Grand
Sweets, like the unadulterated Panchamrith from Palani, like
the home-made made ghee with the scent of Murungakkai leaves
on rice mixed with Paruppu Podi, "Saami Naan Unthan" was sweet
through and through. It made me think of all the gentle and
nice people I've ever known. It was orderly and harmonious.
When they sang "Nataraja Deva, Saatchi Thaa" I thought of my
neighbor going for darshan at Thirupathi and waiting eagerly
for ... the big laddus and murukkus that Thirupathi is famous
for. And at the end of it all one goes away shaking one's
head and saying: "oh wasn't that just too sweet for words".
On September 1st, of 1993, I went to a recital by Valli at
Kalakshetra on a very sultry day. The program mentioned a
varnam in Ragamalika and Rupakam. "Sami Ninne Korura" were
the first few notes as Valli lifted her foot and stamped it
down and looked up into the face of Siva Peruman. I gripped
hard the arm of the chair, digging my nails in and felt
the gust that emanated blow the ceiling away. Without
looking up, I could feel the clouds scuttling. She was calling
the spirit of Brigadeesvara and the music amplified it.
Like the smell of an electrical wire burning, like the
faint vapor that rises from the ground when it rains after
a long time, the spirits of Siva Peruman wafted in.
I thought of the time I visited the Peria Koil in Tanjore,
when after leaving my chappals outside, I stepped onto
hot sand and beheld the temple at the same time. I
felt my feet burn, my skin burn, my eyes smart, my
scalp tingle, my throat parch and go dry. I was seized
with terror, I was full of gladness. When she held up her
hand to resemble the sun, and turned towards it to show
her love and longing, I recalled the evening when I went
to see a loved-one who was leaving. I recalled racing to the
station with my knees knocking wildly, knowing it was too late,
hoping it wasn't too late, wishing that I would be too late,
and then turning and seeing that face, and everything freezing,
trees shivering and leaves floating down,
a smile sending an excruciating pain into my chest.
Lacerated and aching, but happy down to the marrow in my bones,
I saw the splendor of Siva Peruman unfold in the sahityas and
heard it in the music. Music whose beauty and symmetry
are like the architecture of the Peria Koil itself.
Simple and grand, unassuming and sweeping, immensely dignified,
tenderly amorous, sombre, spacious. And when she
turns to portray the greatness of the deity in procession,
the spirit was present in full blaze. Like the demons depicted
in that wall painting in the back upper corridor of the Periakoil,
who came armed for war, when Siva Peruman refused to take
up any weapon, but only laughed a laugh which set their heads
on fire, I felt my own hair, head and face burning. Like
that rich man in the legend who beat Siva Peruman on the
back, when He appeared to him as a labourer, and which
beating was instead felt on his own back, I felt myself
clapped on the back by that giant wave of rasa that came
rolling out of the varnam. When it was all over, I crawled
back to my home and lay in bed, weak, numb and exhilarated.
]
But we rasikas are an unreasonable, fickle and overly
demanding lot. Having once tasted of heaven,
we expect the same result every single time, stupidly fogetting
that such sensations are not to be had like clockwork,
and are as dependent on the state of the rasika as
the dancer. But in any case, I have never been able to
seize the focal point of Malavika's varnams. All that brilliance is
lost upon me, I twiddle my thumbs, become annoyed at the
mosquitoes biting my ankles and curse myself for having
forgotten to wear socks, remember Valli's performances of the same
varnam and generally get distracted.
But then, after the interval, there are the padams.
It is here that I appreciate her best. Her padams
are everything that I wish a padam to be. Short,
intensely poetic, each saturated with its own mood,
they come and go as wispy clouds trailing across
a sky. They are languorous; they are wistful and
melancholy; they are intensely painful, tragic and
cathartic.
Although the theme sounds tragic, the intensity and
variety of emotions in these padams and javalis leave one's
heart in so many different places, the two padams I
vividly remember her performing in Los Angeles last
year, for instance. One was called "Indendu" and the other's
name I do not remember, it was about a dream the nayika
has, where she is in bliss with her lover, and all her
feelings when she wakes up and realizes that this lover
is imaginary, that this relationship was a dream.
In these angry and tragic padams, Malavika is in her
element. And anger and tragedy are simply too crude for
the range of emotions in her padams. She has taken all the
various bhavas in these padams and woven a multi-hued garment
that fits her perfectly and hampers her in no way.
Although the padam is about
the nayika's loneliness, it is not merely one kind of
loneliness. She is at first pained, next she complains
piteously, then she is nostalgic, almost as if the
relationship in her dream was a real one which she was
remembering, and she smiles fondly and with great
understanding at the tender memory of this imaginary
lover. And then she is somewhat amused at all this
to-do and melancholy over something that never happened
and by this time the viewer's own aches and dreams have
all been brought to life and when she is amused at herself,
one wants to laugh and cry over the same sort of things
in one's own life.
And the most scintillating of her padams that I have
seen are the ones where she tells her lover to go away
and never return.
When betrayed and humiliated by her lover, her nayika
speaks, and how! when she outright rejects her lover.
Is there any scene in all of art where a woman tells off
her man in as thrilling a way. Perhaps Elizabeth
Bennet scorning Darcy's first proposal of marriage,
but I know of no other. But in this javali or padam,
the nayika first hears that her lover has been seeing
another woman. She is waiting for her lover to come
when she learns this, and he keeps her waiting, the stupid lout,
during which time her anger rises to a boiling point. Then
the mridangam beats out a rat-tat-tat and Malavika gets
up from where she has been sitting still and opens the
door. He approaches her brazenly and is astonished when
she does not want him anymore. He tries to calm her
down and reason with her. He asks her why. And she gives
him a look of such eloquent scintillating scorn that if he
weren't so thick-skinned, he would have crumpled up and died. But
apparently he sees no great harm in his behaviour and clumsily
tries to state his case. She erupts in sarcasm and fury
at his arrogant assumptions. This is a magnificent sight.
She is splendid and glittering in her anger. He pleads, he cajoles, he
tries a few more times to get back in her good graces. And
here for a few very intense seconds you see the nayika
teetering between her anger, her anguish, her still-strong
love for this worthless man, and she pauses to look at him:
and sees him serenely, confidently waiting for her to get over
her outburst and capitulate to him. Infuriated, she sends
him packing, shuts and bolts the door, draws down the curtain
and leaves the stage.