Chennai
A young girl in Kanchipuram sings at her school-day function. That is as much her orthodox father would allow in terms of public recitals. And anyway, Alamelu had no guru or tutelage in Carnatic music except her mother who had a smattering knowledge of the art form. Even if she had been tutored there was no one to welcome her on the Carnatic stage, for she had no lineage or the right gender.
When Carnatic music was freed from the fetters of private sponsorship within the four walls of a king/zamindar palace or a temple and entered the public forum, it became predominantly a male bastion, many of whom claimed their direct lineage from the Carnatic trinity. But fate has its ways. That this young girl should storm the Carnatic bastion, braving all odds and dominate and influence it for 70 years, would be unthinkable then. Technology can never be opposed.
When an art form needs to accept change, either in content or performer status, it is usually technology that gives it the thrust. In the 1930s, the gramophone had changed the music industry. With no electricity required, it penetrated the nook and corner of the Presidency and made the audience multifold. The Columbia Records company, looking for new and fresh voices, was tipped off about the schoolgirl and all hell broke loose.
With the company and the headmistress pleading for the girl to be given a rightful chance, her orthodox schoolmaster father was aghast. Finally, after a sleepless month, he agreed and Alamelu, also called Pattammal, took the first step in a pivotal role in defying precepts and reserving a slot for women in Carnatic music. Pattammal had no formal guru and modelled her style after ace musician Naina Pillai whom she thought as her ‘manasika guru’. The concept was quite common in Indian culture, starting from Ekalayva in the Mahabharata, where one who could not get trained by a guru had him as an inspiration. Pattammal’s father soon had a total change of heart. He swayed to the side of his daughter, willing to bear any snide remarks his orthodox community would offer him. He even moved to Madras to get her better chances (both Pattammal’s father and husband Eswaran would go all out to help her progress in her career, which was very fortunate). Her father even accompanied her on stage with a tambura to show solidarity. Pattammal was a woman in a hurry. After giving her radio performance for Madras Corporation Radio, at the age of 13, she gave her first public concert at the Madras Rasika Ranjani Sabha.
But Pattammal could not have succeeded if this had happened half a century earlier. Two socio-political developments were happening in the background — the freedom struggle and the Dravidian movement. The freedom movement encompassed liberation and equal rights to women, making orthodox communities more liberal to women. If it was Pattammal’s resonant voice and delicate diction of lyrics that got her attention, so did her choice of songs. The inclusion of patriotic songs in her concerts in the pre-Independence times won hearts. Any incident of the ’30s finds it tough to alienate itself from the Dravidian movement.
The Tamil Isai movement’s revolt against the Music Academy’s obsession with Telugu songs was slowly morphing into Brahmin and non-Brahmin camps. MS Subbalakshmi, the upcoming female face of Carnatic music, had tagged herself with the Tamil Isai group. And Pattamal became the mascot of the Carnatic. Though both ladies smilingly posed for pictures together, there was an underlying rivalry in ideology. Soon peace was established. But though MS would come to the Music Academy in the early 50s, it took DK Pattammal a quarter-century to sing in the Tamil Isai Manram. Ironical because she gave a fillip to Tamil Isai by tuning and popularising Bharathi songs.
When cinema spoke in 1931, actresses had to be singers too. With some versatile experimentation, when very beautiful actresses landed in the studio with voices rivalling chainsaws, playback singing was introduced. Pattammal’s first cine song ‘Desa Sevai Seyya Vaareer…’ (Come, serve the country…) written by Kalki for Thyagabhoomi was banned by the British. Not an auspicious start. And true to it, Pattammal slowly withdrew from the cine industry and concentrated on the Carnatic stage. And while she was involved, though the industry longed for more of her songs, she was specific about devotional or patriotic themes. But in that short career, Pattammal was the voice of Bharathi. No Bharathi song arguably had been heard by so many people before as hers in the AVM movie Naam Iruvar. (Aaduvome Pallu Paaduvome..., and Vetri Ettu Dhikkum...) AVM honoured her by mentioning her name before the song sequence began. Interestingly, after a gap of 50 years after she moved away (in 2000), Ilaiyaraaja would take recording gear to her home and had her sing Vaishnav Janato for Kamal Haasan’s Hey Ram.
Ironically, the singer who had been denied formal training would go on to train many promising singers and left in her wake a lineage of committed pupils. Pattammal, who sang till she was 90, broke many glass walls. She was a self-made artist in a field where proper coaching and a plethora of patrons could only help one survive. Along with ML Vasantakumari and MS Subbulakshmi, she is included in the Female Trinity of Carnatic Music.
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