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INFO : Malavika Sarukkai



MALAVIKA SARUKKAI TOUR DATES

Aug 3-11: Becket, MA
Aug 17: Washington, DC
Aug 18: Houston
Aug 24: San Antonio
Aug 30: Pittsburgh

For complete details:
Hema Murli (301) 657-8571


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the following is an article i wrote for India Currents
magazine as a preview for a tour of the U.S. by 
the dancer Malavika Sarukkai. 

she is easily among the most talented dancers 
in the world. Except for Valli, I do not know of anyone 
in India who can dance like her today.  Needless to say,
I do not know any of these people except as a member of the
audience, watching them perform on stage. 

=============================================================

	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 Papanasam 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
hampered 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
and make themselves narrow enough or flat enough to slide through, 
these two come always in frolic and play, cavorting and
dancing as 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 since her stature in 
the dance world is well known. 

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 an 
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 aunt 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 aunt 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 now?  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 create 
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 a
thailam-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 and it didn't register.  
"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 through the ceiling and away.  
I could feel the clouds in the sky scuttling.  She was calling
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 started to roll 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 overjoyed.  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, 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.  

Here is Siva Bhakti at its height.  The great Siva Peruman,
who is at once as fierce as a tiger, and yet with a heart
said to be softer than butter.  Who is holier than all the
sages, but who laughs and mocks all human holiness,
who is surrounded by ghouls, and smeared in ashes.

When she performs the sanchari bhavas in the varnam: the 
ones that are based on the lyric of wisdom greater than 
the four vedas, of love equal to that of a thousand manmathas:
what a model of love, what a definition of wisdom.  After
seeing and feeling rasa like this, how can one ever go back
to the tawdry learning in most books, how can one bear the
stuffiness and the coarseness of most scholarship, or the drabness 
and selfishness of what passes for romantic love ordinarily.  

The ideals of love shown in the sahityas of this varnam
are among the deepest, most powerful, most awesome
and most passionate I have seen or read or heard anywhere.
I tarnish it by even attempting to describe it.  The
saiva aesthetic, what a great force it must be to fuse
together such opposites:  intense and razor sharp but 
such melting tenderness.  Siva as Ardaneesvara, so virile
in his masculinity, and so feminine in grace. Every facet
that I can imagine: from ferocious, possessive intensity,
to yielding, intimate caresses; from mirthful camaraderie
to an oblique, mute smoldering.  How can so much spiritual
intensity, sexual longing, romantic sweetness, and others
that I am unable to name.  How were they all fused together
into this fountain of life?  I do not know. I do not know at all.
You must watch it for yourself.

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 terrible laugh which set their heads
on fire, I felt my own hair, head and face igniting.  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 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 takes all the 
various bhavas in these padams and weaves 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. 

But 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?  
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 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 scorn that if he weren't so 
thick-skinned, he would have crumpled.  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.  
 

		- F. Arul studies nattuvangam under 
		  Pandanallur C. Subbaraya Pillai
		  in Madras.
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