singer thyagaraja

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The Singer by the River

(an historical novel aboutSouth Indias greatest composer)

by William J. Jackson


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Tuning up at the Beginning

Massive dark clouds crowded the night sky and went rumbling over the

Kaveri delta like immense elephants, trumpeting their thunder and stirring thesleeping countrysides restless energies. Lightning and thunder commanded

everyones attention. The earth shook as the clouds churned above the Tiruvarur

temple. Every leaf trembled on its stem and every heart skipped a beat and hurried

faster in the sudden silence. Lightning kept flashing on all the frightened faces that

night, and the air was filling up with raindrops now.

Lightning flashes shot down again and again, and darkness kept returning.

The wind was whipping around, flinging big tufts of hay from hay stacks in to the

air, and soon pieces of palm mat huts were sailing over head, flying as high the

palm trees, which swayed and bent like delirious dancers. The loose debris swirled

and smacked against the trees loudly. One stiff old tree groaned and then cracked

in the relentless wind. It teetered precariously, but then stood atilt instead of

crashing down. All the villagers were safely under cover, in their huts and homes.

A British explorer traveling with ten servants carrying his wardrobe,

luggage, and other supplies, including three cases of Madeira wine, had taken

shelter in a wealthy landowners home, and watched from the veranda. He was

glad to have escaped the storm, and to be able to watch and listen from such a cozy


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place.

Muslim soldiers were running around, shouting back and forth, trying to

secure their tents which were pitched among the mangrove trees outside the

village. It seemed like a tent catching an especially fierce gust of wind would lift

off and fly into the sky.

All the while, newborn baby Tyagaraja slept, while his parents,

Ramabrahmam, and Sitamma huddled together in the Praharam of the great

Tyagaraja Shiva temple in Tiruvarur. The hand-carved stone walls and pillars werethick and secure, but the noises outside were harsh and ominous. The parents

wanted to keep their baby safe. Their one-year old, Jalpesh, was noisily snoring. A

young priest slammed shut the temple doors, which appeared to be immense to to

the startled eyes of little Tyagaraja. Jalpesh stopped snoring when the door

slammed, but then yawned and began snoring again. The young priest propped a

pair of ox-cart shoulder bars (nugathadi)up against the doors to buttress them

against the stubborn wind. Baby Tyagaraja did not cry, but watched with curiosity,

and listened intently to the whistling wind and the percussion of debris slapping

and scraping against the slick surfaces.

Warm in his mothers arms, the baby hummed and gurgled along with the

sounds of the storm, accompanied by the rhythms provided by Jalpeshs snoring.

Ramabrahmam was surprised and laughed a little, and then he turned to the babys

mother. Good, he said to the child. Good! Sing! Slap the flanks of your

imagination-horse! Let your it gallop and fly away, fancy free! Make music out of

a noisy bone-chilling storm! I hope you do! Yes, keep on singing, my child! We

want you to! Sing on, and we will listen to you!


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The beady eyes of little Jalpesh peeped out from his blanket. He burped and

drooled and groaned, not bothering to wake up.


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CHAPTER ONE

Ears Cocked At the Threshold of Music

1.

In the rainy night the fertile Kaveri delta earth was drenched and refreshed,

and the sleepers were entertained by dreams till dawn. As always, waking to

sunshine felt like coming to life, being born in a new day, to people of all ages.

Except for Jalpesh as usual, he woke up grumbling, feeling nasty, zigging when

everyone else was zagging. But for nearly everyone else on the face of the deltaearth, all was sparkling and full of playful light, free and new.

Tiyagas consciousness glittered with the drops of shining water on the lush

green leaves and it sang out in echo to the birds which had been nudging the sun up

with cries of "Sing Sa Sa! Sa." It was fine to awake from swirling dreams into the

whirling day. It was time.

The birds were singing, and already the women and girls were preparing

their homes' thresholds, wetting the earth with water, smoothing it out with

auspicious cow-dung paste, drawing precise labyrinth designs. Letting the fine rice

powder slip through their fingers, they decorated their doorsteps with silent prayer.

They made simple and elaborate lotus flowers, mandalamicrocosms, which two-

headed peacocks guarded, to greet all who would go in and out that day.

In the distance, thunder grumbled a final remark from the gloomy night-blue

clouds which not long before had showered the village, causing the thatched roof

above the Tiyagas bed to drip. "Sa!" The rhythms of the drip from the early

monsoon rains had started out slowly. Evenly the tempo had increased, as the

patter on the thatch continued. How cozy to awake and hear the wind and rain. The

drips happily called. "Ram!" they said. "Ram! Ram!" Good king Ram and his


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brave brother Lakshmana were strong. They had bows and arrows, to win back the

beautiful princess Sita. Then they would return home to their kingdom, where

everyone loved them. They were perfect, pleasing to think of and sing to,

especially with drumming rain. "Ram!"

The pouring blue cloud had passed... Now the Brahmin boy stood at the

doorway, as his tall father began to chant his solemn Sanskrit prayers in the

background, and his mother bent over the vegetables she was preparing. The boy

watched the graceful rhythms of the white bulls pulling at the cart. Their heads

were bobbing and their legs were moving in a rolling gait. Their eyes were

peaceful, and there were little tinkling bells on the tips of their horns. The boycould hear a distant music calling... silky flowing slinky chains of notes, their links

ringing each to the next, a delicate jewelry of sound...

The rhythm of the bulls' gaits was the drumbeat, the turning of the wheels

over hill and down valley, rolling past flowers and pottery shards and shadows of

busy peasants -- that whole flow of change -- was the melody, the ragawith its

distinctive shape and flavor.

The old man who sat in the bullock cart had ash-streaks across his forehead.

He was like Shiva, the great dancing God, in the boy's imagination. The old man's

turban had folds which flowed like the Ganges river. A shadow in the folds looked

like a crescent moon. The old man's forked-stick goad was like the trident Shiva

carried. The boy smiled as the old man coughed and spat. The stained towel around

his wrinkled neck was like serpents; the dirty dhoti-cloth wrapped around his waist

and thighs was grey like an elephant skin. All these were the emblems of Shiva in

disguise. The boy he ard the faint music still...

Smack! Surprise clapped his ears from either side -- older brother Jalpesh

had crept up behind him and slapped his head from both sides. How it hurt! Their

father went on chanting his sonorous Sanskrit prayers in the background. The


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passing cows looked up with shiny dark eyes, and the little boy's shock and anger

subsided and his heart stopped racing. He thought how the heartbeats are like

drumbeats, and ideas passing through the mind are like ragas. The wind rose and

rustled leaves and flowed to cool his face, and he sighed, while at the nearby well a

girl bent over and spilled joyously splashing waters from an earthen jug. It sounded

happy, like friends calling in the future. Splashes and tinklings sounded good, like

laughs and birdsong...

Then cranking and cranking the water up again, the girl giggled as she filled

the vessel. "Ayooo!" Again small-chinned Jalpesh slapped Tiyaga's head. "Hey!"

And as little Tiyaga went out, away from Jalpesh and toward the finer song, outthere, he wondered who was thrumming and strumming on the distant strings, and

who was behind the way everything churned with singing, if you listened closely

enough. But like the chanting of his father in the background, the music from

beyond grew fainter. At the well the last drops dripped: "Ram... Ram... Ram..."

Run, run all the way to the river. Go!

How Tiyaga loved the smooth and steady Kaveri River. She was a Goddess

who gave green life to the world around, making the province of Thanjavur the rice

bowl, the grain bag, the rich granary of the South. The Kaveri delta was lush,

waving with an ocean of green leaves watered abundantly with auspicious rivers of

fertility. Pools of sky-mirroring water with red lotuses in their midst were shining

near the river, and marshes of purple flowers, with colorful parrots and trees full of

mangoes and date-fruits. His father once told him " The origin of the name Kaveri

is the Tamil for tumeric, muddy ochre color. Kavimeans reddish ochre, eru

means river, er-Imeans a sheet of water. So Kaveri, the 'Yellow-river' is also

known as 'The Golden Lady.' Goddess Flowing Brightly." The Goddess Kaveri

was pure energy coursing over the earth.

At the river Tiyaga stepped down the stone stairs for his morning bath.


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Standing already in the water was weird old Narayanarupee. The curious old man

was amusing himself, catching in his cupped hands the small fish which nipped at

his legs as he stood in the water. He kept setting them to wriggle and flipflop on

the stone stairs, giggling all the while, to see then squirm and worm their way back

down into the water, so they could softly nibble at his calves again.

Tiyaga's brother Jalpesh would sometimes run errands for this man.

Narayanaru pee was quite fond of Jalpesh. Jalpesh had earned more than one odd

coin minted by the British and Dutch East India Companies, as well as occasional

sweets and foreign novelties. Tiyaga could not say he liked the 70 year old man,

who was deaf and grotesque of chin and belly. He always seemed weatherbeatenlycynical and interested in trade alone. Villagers joked that centuries ago, during the

glorious Chola dynasty, when there was a tax on begging, this man's ancestors had

been beggar's tax collectors. His grotesque chin and nose somehow made the story

seem possible. Narayanarupee was a Niyogi Brahmin. Niyogis were often village

accountants, and were not averse to working as administrators for Muslims and

Europeans. He spoke Telugu, as Tyagaraja's family did. But Tyagaraja's family

belonged to the Vaidiki branch of Brahmins, who chanted the ancient scriptures

and avoided the powerful foreigners. Both Telugu Niyogis and Telugu Smartas had

come South generations before, w hen Telugu Viceroys of the Vijayanagara

Empire governed Thanjavur.

Narayanarupee's toothless mouth said, "Have you noticed? There've been no

stars at night for four nights." His eyes were squinting. He had a small growth on

his forehead and a crooked grin.

Tiyaga thought he had seen stars at least two of the four nights, but he said

nothing. He thought of how Narayanarupee muttered the numbers of money he was

counting like a mantra(a holy spell) with profound joy, with strict regularity and

the utmost sincerity. Narayanarupee was a purveyor of British merchandise, which,


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according to certain people of Thanjavur, including Tiyaga's father, did not suit

Hindu people's needs-- shiny shoes which were hot and stiff, brandy, guns,

cosmetics and the latest fashions from far off England... The deaf businessman's

worship of the elephant-headed deity Ganesha, and Lakshmi the Goddess of

Prosperity, always seemed to Tiyaga to be all external religion, a part of his

business, public relations transactions for the gods. A bribe for Ganesha the god of

auspicious beginnings and alms for Goddess Lakshmi, giver of material goods.

"His prayer is to nurse on Lakshmi's purse!" villagers joked. It all seemed

concerned with seeking good luck and riches, with no regard for inner feelings.

Jalpesh with his small chin and bitten figernails eagerly followed this old man andhis ways, and the old man fondly showered favors upon him, calling him softly,

"Jall-peh-esh," and calling him "Little Squirt!" too. Jalpesh also learned to chant

the numbers of money, like a Vedic verse of larger and larger figures.

One day Narayanarupee gave Jalpesh a lump of lead, as a curiosity. Jalpesh

gnawed on it for several days, before his mother took it away from him and threw

it into the Kaveri.

Another time, the old man ridiculed Tiyaga when some new coins had

dropped at the boy's feet. Tiyaga stood listening to the ring they made when they

hit the stones and rolled in all directions. The ring of the small change had inspired

him to hum a few notes, rather than stoop to collect the coins. Jalpesh dived and

gathered them all before Tiyaga came to his senses. The old man said: "A fool will

not recognize opportunity when it stands before him." And he said with loud

confidence that Jalpesh would always do well, because he was so smart and quick.

Now, standing in the river near the bank, Tiyaga felt the nibbling of the

fishes mouths at his calves. They tickled and he brushed them away, but they kept

coming back. Although Narayanarupee was a Telugu Brahmin, Ramabrahmam did

not feel very comfortable with Jalpesh's apprenticeship to the old man.


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Narayanarupee's eyes seemed lacklustre, and Ramabrahmam distrusted his ways.

But at least he gave Jalpesh something to do. Now Tiyaga poured the holy Kaveri

water over himself and prayed the Sanskrit prayer he had heard from his father.

As Tiyaga left the riverside he heard peasant children singing a song listing

varieties of Thanjavur paddy-- ten, fifteen, twenty names of rice, from poor

quality-- kar-- all the way to the best--samba. Some he recognized, some he did

not. He passed by the graves of the wanderingsannyasins, the renunciate holy men

who many years ago had been buried near the bank of the river. Ordinary

householders were cremated on the banks, but holy men were buried, in sitting

posture, as they had done while alive, in meditationsamadhi, the trance state ofpeace beyond understanding. Wind brushing distant branches, was that cause of the

far off song he heard? The wandering holy men had lived absorbed in thoughts of

the divine King Rama, they had identified themselves with the formless Shiva,

beyond all this flux, his father had said. The holy men had repeated the holy name

and thought of the Supreme all-joyful infinite consciousness-- until, like a river

running into an ocean, they were lost in it; their names remained, immortal, though

their forms had now perished.

As he did every day, Tiyaga collected flowers in the dew-besprent

feathergrass for family worship, at which he sang and recited. On his way home he

saw little Parvati, Ginger Venkataramana's daughter. Ginger was a respected

Thanjavur Court musician and music teacher. "There will be music today," the girl

told Tiyaga. "And special worship." Tiyaga loved to listen to her father play the

vina;his hands caressed its strings like wild birds flying through clouds. Parvati

liked Tiyaga's shy face and his politeness. Though his brother Jalpesh had that

same fine wheat-colored complexion he was a great troublemaker. But Tiyaga was

gentle and respectful, she thought. He had sensitive hands and a pleasant voice. He

seemed to be kind.


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Tiyaga entered softly with the flower offering, and worshipped at his father's

altar, singing a song to Rama. Having had the breakfast idlis, those small fine

steamed rice cakes his mother had set before him, he began to think of Ginger's

home across the street. There would be fresh garlands strung on strands of fiber

from plaintain tree bark, circling around the necks of the decorated deities. There

would be music. There would be a smiling row of deep green mango leaves

decorating the lintel of the doorway...

2.

Suddenly he was there on the threshold and he stood listening to the song

phrases being taught by the master, the tones of strings weaving intricate tunes,made all the stronger by the lively thudding pulse of the drums. Feeling on the

threshold of the world that mattered most to him-- the world of song-- he closed his

eyes, immersed in the elevating intangible power of euphonious sounds.

The painting of Ganesha, the elephant-headed deity, was heaped with

flowers. There was a festive mood in the air, and special holiday foods with

tantalizing spicy aromas were being cooked around the corner.

This was the annual day of Saraswatipuja-- it was Vijayadasami day, the

climax of the "Nine Nights" festival celebrating the victory of light over darkness,

wisdom over ignorance. This was the day when the instruments would be honored.

Before the household shrine, on clean mats the students of music arranged their

stringed instruments -- tamburas and vinas -- and their percussion instruments --

mridangams and tamborines and cymbals, and all the other instruments of musical

performance in neat rows, to be worshipped representatively, as though they were

the very body of Saraswati, Goddess of learning. They had been daubed with

sandalwood paste, decorated with red, yellow, orange and green leaves. The

palmleaf music manuscripts were stacked carefully and red flowers were placed on

them, and they were daubed like the door with three horizontal stripes of


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sandalwood, and honored with a brightly colored kumkumdot in the middle line's

center. All the instruments were offered flowers and incense, fruits and cloth, red

kumkumpowder and vermillion, broken coconut and waving camphor flame;

lighted oil lamps burned steadily before the Saraswati image. All the musical

instruments were garlanded lovingly.

"It is a cosmic instrument. The staff or dandaof the vinarepresents Shiva,

the strings represent Parvati, the dragon oryarlihead, Vishnu; the bridge is for

Lakshmi, the balancing gourd, Brahma, the connecting metal cone Sarasvati-- the

vinais the abode of all divinity, source of joy... The mridangamwhich keeps the

time of a song is the "queen of percussion instruments, very ancient. In SaundaryaLahariParvati the divine mother is the first mridangamplayer pounding out the

rhythm of the cosmic dance of creation. The sound of this drum gave power and

support to bring forth creation. After Parvati Nandi, the bull was the court

percussionist of Shiva -- drumming away with his hooves. The front face of the

drum is the sun, the back the moon, the ropes tied are Vasuki the cosmic serpent,

the wooden part is cosmic Mount Meru, Nadam or vibration is the nectar of

immortality, amritam. The drum can depict the nine rasas, the essential flavors of

emotional moods, and the tenth: bhakti's sweet peaceful heartbeat." The teacher

was explaining as he arranged each instrument.

Full of wonder, the boy folded his hands and offered reverence to those

celestial instruments. He gazed upon the magnificent carved wooden peacock

which formed the tambura's stem.

On their neatly arranged mats the students sat and performed for their

master, singing the great South Indian saints' songs. Tiyaga knew some of them

from his mother's singing: songs of Purandaradasa, the roaming minstrel of

Kannada country, who had composed thousands of songs. They were lively pieces

mocking hypocrites' religion used "for the belly's sake," and praising complete


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dedication to the Lord who had taken birth as Rama and Krishna. There were also

lively songs of Ramadasa, the saint who had lived two centuries before, famous for

spending the money of his employer, a Muslim ruler, on glorifying Rama. Rama

rescued Ramadasa from prison. Ramadasa composed songs in Tiyaga's own

language, Telugu.

A singer sat directly in front of the tamburastrummer and from the angle of

Tiyaga's view the arm strumming the tamburaseemed a third arm of the singer. He

smiled. Tiyaga closed his eyes and floated with the eternal cricket drone as if

immersed in the mooncloud night beyond...

Worshipping the instruments, honoring them; worshipping music,worshipping the supreme, worshipping silence. How to worship the instrument of

your own voice? Apply cool sandalwood to your throat and sing of the delight of

Rama in your heart. The endless ocean waves of the tamburadroned, echoing

eternity; the rising and falling ragaof voices singing together was everywhere.

Tiyaga felt in his own element in this atmosphere, which seemed to him the holy

headwaters of music...

3.

Saraswati puja satisfied him because it was a recognition of the power and

grace in learning and playing and mastering mus ic. This ritual expressed wonder

at the marvel of musical instruments and the whole magical process of sweet song.

Vijayadasami, the "day of victory" when Saraswatipujatakes place, is the most

auspicious day to begin learning-- the young are inducted into the mysteries of

music with the singing of the seven notes. The ragathe students were practicing

evoked a mood of excited cheer. How Tiyaga yearned to begin. In his mind he

practiced and sang with them. Auspicious leaves strung across the threshold

fluttered above.

After the instruments were worshipped and played, a green gourd the size of


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a human head was cut open and red powder was put inside it. The eldest student

carried it out and smashed it in the street. Tiyaga mentally threw himself at the

mercy of Rama, when the gourd broke and the red was dashed, thinking, "Let me

become an instrument, singing songs to Rama."

Again the rains poured, as he stood on the porch alone listening to Ginger,

the master musician, play and play.

How could he ever learn such art? In the imagination's dream-town of music

he wandered, wanting orientation, drifting up this street and that, enjoying the flow

and rhythm, music within him and without, dizzily bewildered... All the students,

dressed in their fresh new clothes, were given sweets and treats. The wind throughthe doorway was refreshing.

Ginger turned toward Tiyaga during the celebration, and walked over to him.

"Very good, I'm very happy; like the silent chameleon you listen well, and wait

patiently, this is the way to catch." His hand went out and closed in the air.

Knowing Tiyaga's sensitivity, Ginger laughed, "No, I'm not calling you a lizard.

You are a Brahmin-born and -- what is more -- a Brahmin-become. You listen with

full attention, and you are a sincere young man. You are most welcome here. I do

not think your family has come to Tiruvaiyaru by mere chance. No. It is by God's

will. Come, take some sweets. You too are welcome. Here." He offered laddus,

sweets rolled in a ball made of lentil flour, sugar and ginger. "Let me hear you sing

that note, 'Saa!'" And Tiyaga sang the "Saa" clearly and sweetly and sincerely.

"Tsalabagundi! Manchadandi," Ginger smiled, "That's very good, very good.

Tiyaga's voice is tiyyaga-- sweet!" he punned.

No wonder Tiyaga felt attracted to this home. He sensed he fine vibrations,

the happy affection. And Ginger's daughter Parvati understood him, she could

sense he was able to hear things in the silence which the noisy types like Jalpesh

did not. The celebration was fun, and soon the rain stopped. Parvati knelt, helping


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her father give out consecrated fruits from the puja. "Have someprasad," Ginger

smiled, handing Tiyaga a mango offered to the deity during the worship.

4.

Navaratri celebrations meant nine days and nights fasting, eating only milk

and fruit dishes. They meant nine steps set up in the puja room, with images of

Goddesses, and Siva and Visnu, and other forms of God. There was Rama and

Sita, with Hanuman kneeling nearby. Saraswati, and Durga. There was a story

about Goddess Chamundeshwari in a battle against the Buffalo demon. After the

victory, the tenth day was dedicated to Lakshmi, Goddess of prosperity, a day to

start new ventures. It was the custom to write out the Goddess name Shri.Tyagaraja wrote it in flowing Telugu script, and it felt good, like being blessed,

strengthened, nurtured. He learned a new prayer and music, honored the teacher.

He got an idea, the impulse to sing a little melody of words, a little lyric of notes,

and it kept dancing through his mind, teasing him to give voice to it, to try it out...

After a dinner of rice and vegetable curry with snake-gourd, which was

Tiyaga's favorite food, the boy went with his mother and father to the riverside

bhajan hall, and with great absorption they sang soulful tunes glorifying Rama's

names and deeds.Bhajans, enthusiastic songs of love celebrating divine names,

were well-attended in Thanjavur; sometimes they were sung in homes, sometimes

in halls like this one, sometimes in temples where the celebrations of Rama and

Sita's marriage and reign were enjoyed by people of all ages. The leader would

sing a line, and the people sitting cross-legged on the floor, men on one side,

women on the other, would respond. Wonder at the magnificence caused everyone

who partook to become children in a magical kingdom. Waving bright flames

before the images, bathing them, giving them fresh clothes, offering food, music,

flowers; swinging them on swings, and other ritual acts and offerings made with


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accompanying songs. With the men on one side and the ladies on the other, full-

bodied singing filled the hall, chiplas, fish-shaped clappers jingling, drumbeats

pulsing keeping time, to keep the joy aloft.

Tiyaga's long neck with good vocal cords vibrating, his strong lungs and

tough little yogi-like body, and his subtly conscious ears able to detect pitch

perfectly, made him an excellent singer. His mother was a wonderful singer, her

electrifying voice could grow delicate and flutter like a leaf in the wind and it

could do curlicues of song like a leaf falling fancifully from a high branch to the

earth. She was a true singer, she knew the trills and felt the essence of the music.

She had taught Tiyaga many Purandaradasa songs. She could bring the past to lifein stories, and she had a great sense of humor. She taught Tiyaga about wit's power

to burst pretense and pomp like bubbles. The humorous muscles around her mouth

were often active and her big jaw was strong. To be with her was fun. She had

unflagging energy.

After bhajans, in the peaceful quiet, his father stayed to speak with a friend,

and Tiyaga and his mother began to walk home in the moonlight, enjoying the

simple deeps of the cool night.

Tiyaga asked his mother "Tell me about the place we lived before we came

to this village."

And his mother said, "Thiruvarur too is a very holy place. There is a story

telling why. One time, Indra the rain-god needed Lord Vishnu's help in fending off

the demons. So Vishnu gave Indra a magical talisman-- an image of God which

was very powerful. The name of this form of God was Tyaga Raja -- the King of

relinquishment, the ruler of renouncing-- Shiva as the ascetic dancer. (You are

named for him, you are our'Prince of letting go', Tyaga Brahmam.) Anyway,

Vishnu gave this image of God to Indra, and said, 'Never let go of it-- don't let it


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out of your sight.' Indra agreed. As time went on, Indra, still battling demons,

asked help from the King of Thanjavur, whose kingdom included the village

named Tiruvarur (where you were born). And to the Thanjavur King, Indra gave

the sacred image of Tyagaraja, which he had promised not to let out of his sight,

and naturally the King was victorious over the demons. The king had artisans build

a temple in Tiruvarur village and had Brahmins consecrate and install the image he

had gotten from Indra. The holy temple and image still stand there at the center."

"But what happened, since Indra broke his word?" Tiyaga asked.

"Oh yes. Too bad, too bad. Poor Indra, having forgotten his word, fell from

his position in the sky and was born as an outcast, an untouchable pariah, to payfor his negligence. Ever since, a pariah goes ahead of the processions at Tiruvarur,

to lead the annual festival, holding a royal umbrella of pure white, symbol of Indra,

his pariah ancestor," she explained.

Tiyaga said, "Father told me about the cosmic person; from his eyes came

the sun and moon, from his blood the rivers. Brahmins are from his head, warriors

are from his arms, and the serving class from the feet -- all are part of the cosmic

person at the beginning. It is in the Vedas. But if Indra can become a pariah,

pariahs might someday become Indra. So why should Brahmins keep away from

other castes?"

"Your father will explain. I am telling you about the village, remember?

There is a Tamil saying: 'Good souls born in Tiruvarur attain deliverance, good

souls dying in Kasi attain deliverance from the rounds of reincarnation.' Tiruvarur,

where you were born has been famous for centuries as a spiritual center, Nayanmar

saints worshipped there, and it is the spiritual capital of the present Maratha rulers

of Thanjavur. It is well known for the music and dance flourishing in its precincts.

Tyaga Raja the dancing Lord and cosmic yogi inspires musicians there. Learn from

that -- we already have one family-member going to the pariahs."


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"How is it our family, Telugu-speaking people, came here to Tamil land?"

the boy asked.

"Your grandfather Giri Raja Brahma migrated from Andhra when other

Brahmin scholars and artists took up the Telugu Nayak rulers (before the coming

of the Marathas) on their offer of patronage, and moved south. Your other

grandfather, Subramanya Swami was also from the region north of here. But wait,

I haven't told you the most important part. Our connection to the dancing Siva is

very deep. Before you were born, I dreamed Lord Tyagaraja came to me, saying,

'A son will be born to you, embodiment of Narada the world famous musician-

sage. He will be a reincarnation of the epic poet Valmiki, singing Rama's story.Call him by my name. The Prince of Letting Go of Attachments: Tiyaga Raja.

Tyagaraja."

Tiyaga silently stared at the darkness, thinking of his mother's memories,

and of le tting go, flowing like a river, going beyond.

"You remember when you were five years old, you came down with a

serious ailment; we were very afraid for your very life. Your younger brother

Panchanadayya did not recover... But the saintly wanderer Ramakrishna Ananda

came and assured us you were born not to die young but to live long, and sing

God's many glories. He said all would hear your voice, as we hear Jayadeva's and

Purandaradasa's. And you recovered then," his mother said.

Beyond the lush layers of waving dark green a manmade mountain-- a holy

temple -- loomed high in the velvety blue, a living landmark orienting lives.

Hearing a distant flute Tiyaga's imagination flew up to the gate tower (gopuram)

crest and gazed at the stars shining down, happy and mystified. It was said that the

gopurams stood astride mountains which mortal eyes cannot see, heights which

link them to heaven. Thegopuramstood beside underground streams flowing to

the realm of the serpents and subterranean spirits, the sages said.


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"After you got well, your father decided we should go on a pilgrimage and

so we did. Visiting sacred shrines we came to the banks of the Kaveri here. It was

festival time and your father took part in bhajans. And in a dream the Lord

Tyagaraja came again, this time looking just like a Brahmin, telling your father

'Stay in this sacred spot.' A Brahmin neighbor reported this divine dream to King

Tulasinga, and when the king heard of it he was happy. He had our house on

Tirumanjana street built and then gave it to your father as a gift. Fifteen others

were also given to Brahmins around that time, and we were welcomed by our

neighbors with gifts of silk and rice... In the beginning was the dream."

The mother and son stood and spoke beneath a neemtree, waiting forRamabrahmam, Tiyaga's father, to catch up. Tiyaga's mother broke off a branch,

and snapped it into smaller pieces, to take home for toothbrushes.

"You know, last year, when you were eight, and you were initiated," his

mother said, "your father, knowing how serious you always are at worship, showed

you the deeper ways of devotion to Rama, and gave you charge of our daily family

worship, didn't he?"

Tiyaga nodded, remembering the day the mantraof light's inspiration was

whispered in his ear. That day he had put on the Brahmin's thread, symbolizing his

caste, and having the meaning that his head was poked through now, he was

halfway into a realm of light. He was thus "twice-born," a fledgling bird out of the

egg, born again to fly in the sky.

"When we listen to you sing, we have high hopes for you," his mother said.

"The Muslims may invade, the British East India Company and Dutch and French

may come here, but you can sing our tradition, keep it alive."

Tiyaga had wondered if any had heard him sing the little songs which came

to him. Now his tall thin father came up from behind. He had a yogi's intensity in

his eyes and voice. But he seemed worried. He said, "I'm here at last. Tiyaga, will


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you run on ahead and see if you can find Jalpesh? I don't see him."

The mother said "But--" and Tiyaga was gone.

5.

In the night of cricket chirrups and baby cries he ran alone looking for his

lopsided brother. Shouldn't be hard to find him, Tiyaga thought. His brother often

drew attention to himself, clapping loudly, mocking, jeering, laughing roughly. He

would be noticeable wherever he was.

Tiyaga's father, Ramabrahmam, a thin man with a narrow face and

intelligent eyes, said to his wife Sitamma: "The pundit thinks Tiyaga would make a

good teacher, given his talent in Sanskrit, and his love of the Ramayana.""Tiyaga is going to be a teacher, alright," Sitamma smiled. Ramabrahmam

marvelled at how bright her smile was, even in the dark. She had a pleasant face,

with dark eyes and braided black hair. At the foot of the old plantain tree the new

plantain sprout grows, she said.

"We have one son who swings from the trees like a monkey making

mischief, and we plan for our other son to be a great teacher. I hope we don't have

our hearts broken."

"I'm only saying what I see so far and hope for. The dream which brought us

here was no illusion. I sense spiritual power in the boy. It was in him as a baby --

when the music would begin he would stop nursing, and listen, full of wonder at

the song. What other baby does this? What other worshipper do you know with the

concentration this nine year old boy has? Let him study music and sing so all can

hear. Let him sing the songs of old, but also the new ones in his soul. A child

knows things an adult does not know. A mother knows that."

"But he's just begun to become a scholar. Let him become a great scholar,"

his father said.

"He's a born musician, its obvious. He's sensitive, able to listen very deeply;


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my grandfather was like that. He'll be a great musician," insisted his mother.

"His voice may change. Let him have education to make a solid mind and

character, a secure life," his father said.

"But where's the soul food he longs for? Where's the adventure and joy in

that? Memorizing grammar doesn't feed a hungry heart," his mother frowned.

"Jalpesh is the adventurer. I'd rather we be quiet Brahmins comfortably at

home," his father answered.

"How can you compare Tiyaga and Jalpesh? Tiyaga immediately repents at

the slightest rebuke. Jalpesh resents the slightest hint of much-deserved criticism.

Tiyaga's adventure will end in peace. Let him follow his best intuitions like a path.Purandaradasa reached his destination, so will our son reach his; Ramadasa wa s

protected by King Rama, so will Tiyaga be," his mother said with certainty.

"They're like those two stars, one the steady polestar and the flickering unreliable

one near it, there," she said, pointing.

"The world isn't always so simple. Haidar Ali and his forces are creeping

South; the British and the French traders are digging footholds on our soil. They're

settling in the port towns. Missionaries are learning Tamil. Our people need strong

leaders with knowledge. I learned the scriptures by heart. Let Tiyaga learn the

Puranas, the classical Telugu of Potana, as well as Sanskrit," his father suggested.

"I suppose. But deep inside I still hope he becomes a composer, rather than a

dull pundit. He's something special. I still believe the dream I had-- it's still vivid in

my mind," his mother said.

"My dream too is still alive. But after our disappointment with Jalpesh I

can't feel too secure in my fond hopes. Tonight as always in bhajans we sang of

surrender; well let's be surrendered. We'll leave it in God's hands. Maybe Tiyaga

will be a comfortable pundit; or maybe another Purandaradasa," his father

shrugged. "In the end is it up to us?"


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6.

Tiyaga's father thought of his son Jalpesh, then fought the depression which

that thought often brought.

While Ramabrahmam was a dharma-doer, who read from the Rama epic

daily, and followed the upright way of Rama, his son Jalpesh was a wild and crazy

boy, whom no one could tame. In school in Tiruvarur Jalpesh's dwarfish teacher

punished him before, after, and during each offense, but that had only made

matters worse. Jalpesh would see the cruel red eyes of the teacher, who was also a

cardplayer, astrologer, money-lender and priest. This man gave teachers a bad

name by hurrying lessons when he had a funeral to perform, and by always actingas if teaching was a constant irritation or a burde nsome chore he hated to perform.

The teacher didn't really care if the pupils knew their lessons, but he had

ways of causing them pain if they didn't keep in line. He took his little stick and

gave a fixed number of whacks for each offense. And when he was tired he had the

boys administer punishments to each other, so Jalpesh hated all his peers.

"Jalpesh is a quirky boy with many a nervous disorder; he doesn't seem

happy unless he is in mischief, dragging a dog through dust with a choking noose

till its tongue hangs out," the elders complained. "We fear he is a sign of the times

coming upon our whole community."

His father looked down, and then up into their faces. "I will see what I can

do," he promised. Jalpesh has trouble sleeping, that may be a cause of his

disturbed mind.

Ramabrahmam added prayers each day onto the hours of prayers a Brahmin

must say. He chanted to the divine power behind the golden sun: "Purify my son!"

He looked for ways to change his son's behavior. Jalpesh always seemed glad to

disobey and cause dismay. He slouched and slumped, and Ramabrahmam prayed:

Please straighten him out, Lord!


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Ramabrahmam waited for the right moment to speak with his son. Jalpesh,

I need to have a serious talk with you.

It sounds serious. In fact you sound like a grumbling goblin, he smirked,

running his nervous fingers through his almost, but not quite, black hair.

Are you trying to be rude and reckless, or does it just happen?

Yes. Well, well... Thats a deep subject... Get it? Well... deep. Deep

well?

"Jalpesh, we're Brahmins!" he would say, but this made no impression. You

are so pitiful. Always the underdog, never having the wherewithal everybody elsehas, why can quote t you be more like your brother? Must we punish you in public

even more?

The more you try to shame me, the more Im going to shame you, Jalpesh

threatened.

Ramabrahmam said, Why do you act like a stray dog roaming aimlessly,

when we are Brahmins? Do you feel you are a dog, a scavenger?

Maybe I am a ruler-- a ruler also scavenges, doesnt he? He takes booty

from a neighboring kingdom, isnt it? Brahmins are scavenging too, they go here

and there for meals.

How dare you insult me, how dare you insult our community. What is

wrong with you?

Im just a victim of my times. The right stars when I was born were not

aligned.

"Jalpesh, if you lose everyones respect, it will be difficult if not impossible

to win it back again.

Maybe youre right and maybe life is stranger than you think-- like me.

Well, everything passes, and we are all changelessAtman,sharing in the


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highest Spiritual Self," Ramabrahmam philosophized.

Blah blah blah, Jalpesh said, and Ramabrahmam was unable to go on

talking.

Jalpesh ran wild with a fierce energy, a manic explosion of confused

sensations and desires, chaos rupturing and forces spilling uncontrollably.

Thundrous belch, runny nose, stye in the eyes, drool and expectoration. Old men

would say, when he'd spit in public places, "Never used to see that in the old days."

Jalpesh goofily acted like a baby, without the least self-control. In fact sometimes

Jalpeshs parents traced his troubles back to birth. When he was born the umbilicalcord was strangling him. He was very blue and then pale as a ghost. He had gone

for a long time without breathing when he was delivered-- so long that everyone at

first thought he was born dead. When he was two or three years old he fell into the

river while his mother was washing clothes. He was under water for a long time

before his frantic mother could locate him and fish him out. Sometimes they

attributed his disturbances to those early events. Who can deny our vasanas from

previous births determine much in our lives-- for good or bad! But knowing this

did not solve the problems of how to deal with the problems Jalpesh caused.

"Dharma's rectitude must guide us, righteousness must guard us from our

enemies. We must follow the rules, Jalpesh," his father would argue, after an

offense. "Or all will be a mess." But Jalpesh differed, delighting in doing things

backwards, upside-down and inside-out. When people complained he said, Your

voice is shrill, be quiet.

Jalpesh played the devil's advocate. "Blah blah. My friends are desire, wrath,

envy, greed and delusion! Life would be boring without them."

When his father brought up the justice of the law of God,Dharma, Jalpesh

would say "I've nothing to do with the invisible-- it doesn't exist for me." He


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wandered aimlessly, ogling ladies, mooning around, getting kicked out of sweet-

stalls and bazaar lanes. Everyone knew him all too well and couldn't put up with

too much of him. He went from one wild joke to the next, getting to know the

toddy maker, getting sick as a dog, eating meat, going hogwild any way he could

imagine. He'd laugh loudly and grossly for no good reason and people had to put

their fingers in their ears and hurry away. "What a guy! He follows his impulses as

if he is unaware of any consequences!"

Jalpesh admired ruffians and rowdies, bullies and musclebound scallywags,

but feared he could never be one, because of his inferior stature and slightness of

build. He spouted a steady stream of invectives, and he bothered random people,wheedling and cadging from them. Hes a perfect lout-- except nothings perfect.

Jalpesh had no fixed routine, plan or profession; he made no commitment, having

no fixed way, he broke into many different situations, intruding wherever he felt

like it. He interrupted people by the river with his demands, blurted his every

thought, burped, slurped and chirped without inhibitions. The Brahmins of my

community seem trapped, he observed. They angrily denied it. He yelled at them:

You wont trap me, Im running free. Im gone when you want to stifle me. He

watched the iridescent fisher-king bird dive to the surface of the pond, grab some

small creature and fly off with it. Jalpesh grinned his lopsided smile, admiring the

way the fisher-king bird surprised his prey.

Jalpesh was drawn to ruined lives. He liked to mock and joke and fool with

messed up people. An insane man dressed in an assortment of colored rags, who

bummed around the village for a while, repeatedly had the rags stolen from his

tired old withered body, and he would find trash piled up on his head when he

awoke. Guess who? There was Jalpesh laughing nearby.

Jalpesh would be Eve-teasing a deaf and dumb girl down by the river -- she


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couldn't speak though she gestured-- and villagers would be all the more suspicious

of him. He would tap a blind beggar on the shoulder and hand her a stone. He

would look into homes at night, lurking behind trees, making weird noises. He was

a night prowler looking for dangerous laughs. A noisy nuisance by day, always

looking for trouble, a trickster riding the quickened pulse of contrariness by night.

The drummer to whose beats he danced was a wild and crazy one, and the full

moon always seemed to make him worse.

Like the song of pleasure he repeated mechanically without reason or

meaning, the rhythms of his nerves carried him forward, unsatisfied but looking for

the next sensation. And after every thrill there echoed his father's reproachingvoice, to which he would not listen, and his mother's rebuking eyes, into which he

would not look.

The way he pulls so many stunts, everone says his mind is stunted, she

said.

Nothing he does seems to stun us much anymore, Ramabrahmam

answered. Today someone called him a Brahma rakshasa and a moron.

Tyagaraja said, No, my brother is no rakshasa or moron. Hes just working

out his karma--we talk about karma, right?--well, this is his karma.

Even as a child Jalpesh ignored all warnings. He rammed himself through

life at breakneck speed, running himself ragged. He never stopped to muse on his

actions or their results. When he was being chased for misbehaving he would run

to any nearby garbage heap and stand atop it. Because it was unclean, smelly,

ritually polluting, his father would never climb onto the decaying mass of rotten

fruit, leaves that had been used as plates, rags and dust, excrement and sometimes

even the swollen carcass of a dead dog, rat, bird or cat. Jalpesh would step on the

dog and it would pop, emitting an odor that made passers by turn and hurry away.


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Jalpesh laughed as his father went home.

Jalpesh at night ran with the hot-to-trot dogs, twisted by heat, their tails and

tongues curled up and panting. When Jalpesh mocked and teased these yellow-tan

and cream colored dogs he made a face that looked like a comical caricature of

their faces with their lolling tongues. He harassed the dogs, barking at them,

chasing them and running from them, inciting them to bizarre behavior. His

somewhat misshapen face gawked dumbly at royal glamour when the retinue

passed in the distance, the lights, gold and silksaris of wealth. He followed in

fascination odd assort ments of travelers, gypsies, jugglers, thugs and poor

transients, halfway to the next village, or until they shooed him away. "Keep thatcrazy tatterdemalion away! We don't need one more mouth to worry about feeding!

Here comes the lunatic rowdy!" they would shout to each other.

But thats just what Jalpesh was after-- more food. He was always hungry.

When no one was looking he would take a handful of rice from Tiyagas leaf plate,

and when caught he would deny it. Insatiable Jalpesh seemed to eat for his tongue,

his eyes and his nose, his belly and his status. At every feast he found a place to

sit-- crashing weddings, ancestor feedings, prasad distributions, feedings for

brahmins; he was there receiving the kings gifts, and temple gifts, and missionary

gifts. But nothing filled his yawning emptiness. He was always chewing on

something, yet he remained thin as a rail. Did his nervous energy burn it all up, or

did a tapeworm of the soul swallow it? He didnt know. He belched and hurried on

to the next feeding. He was a stomach with a human face and beady eyes,

wandering aimlessly as a random parasite looking for opportunities, improvising

with whatever came along.

Jalpesh would watch a stranger's family in a thatched hut lit by an oil wick

lamp -- shattered faces of flames like facets of rock crystals; he'd howl demonic

sounds and run away.


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Being an outsider, Jalpesh tried to make his younger brother one too, by

telling lies about him.

"He claims to be the holiest soul in all Thanjavur province!" Jalpesh would

lie to neighbors. Jalpesh at home looked on Tyagaraja praying and turned with

disgust, after spitting on him. Random and unpredictable like a monkey in his

actions, he was a youth of low tastes -- sometimes biting and snarling like a dog,

often noisy as a crow, routinely scrounging in the night like a mouse or rat. People

sometimes called him "the Bandicoot."

Jalpesh nevertheless had a kind of luck and success. He had beginners'

luck in gambling, and seemed to get away with wild things."You'll pay for this outrageousness!" his father would warn.

Jalpesh saw the threat as idle. "How much will it cost?" he smirked.

Jalpesh, we Brahmins are above that. We do not stoop to that.

Hey, Im starvin here! Jalpesh exclaimed.

Nevertheless, no. And furthermore--

Empty stomach, dizzy brain! Jalpesh yelled.

But--maybe you have a tapeworm, because the rest of us are not always so

hungry.

Skinny butt! Jalpesh replied. Bag of bones.

You must be good.

Lets just accept that Im no good, and we can all go on from there.

Yet, when he wanted to, Jalpesh could settle down enough to run errands for

deaf old Narayanarupee, the East India Company purveyor. Jalpesh had a Dutch

East India Company coin, which he kept on his person as a talisman. He would rub

it for good luck, and feel the embossed V design over a C and an O. Smooth

round good luck, exchangeable for pleasure-- the coin made him gloat. It promised


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him a future. "Little Squirt, Little Squirt," he muttered.

And in a way Jalpesh was popular among the bored and news-hungry; they

liked to hear the sour notes he played and they encouraged his jarring disharmonies

as a source of tittering folly. He was the kind of madcap gossip who causes

confusion among friends and acquaintances and stirs up trouble for enemies.

Giving misinformation, "repeating" words he'd never really heard, implying

intentions never intended by innocent parties. When Tiyaga gave things away,

Jalpesh would say: "He stole them in the first place, clever boy!"

"Tiyaga is a simpleton," Narayanarupee was convinced, in large part

because of Jalpesh's skewed reports. And Jalpesh made lots of clownish noise sohe wouldn't hear his own conscience, and he attracted everyone's attention to

distract them, too, from serious concerns.

"How shameful that such a dolt as Jalpesh should be the firstborn of our

excellent Rama epic pundit! The Age of Strife, Kali Yuga, strikes again," weary

Brahmins said to each other. And they repeated the Telugu verse composed by the

wandering yogi Vemana: Much like a worthless wife is an idiot son; much like an

idiot son is a jeerer whos always a nuisance-- so says Vemana. While Jalpesh

was still a youth he was written off as a lost cause, an idiot son.

7.

Tiyaga looked for Jalpesh in the night, as his father had asked him. Listening

with all his senses receiving subtle vibrations. In the bells of his ears rang a note

sweet as a golden papaya. Tiyaga was alive to all the sounds and sights around

him, drinking them all in. He knew that when he found Jalpesh the percussion

would be raucous, the quiet would be jangled, he would feel irked as the nerves of

his face twinged with pain when Jalpesh hit him. The anger would rise up and he

would have to concentrate harder to hear secret songs.


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He ran along the road that led outside the village beyond the turnoff to their

home singing "Rama Rama Rama." Some commotion bustled up ahead -- some

organized disturbance of the night's quiet. The closer he approached the clearer it

got: fanfare and drums resounding, the glittering king astride caparisoned horses

prancing and parading with festive glory. "Jai! Jai!"

It was the Dance of the Horses with false legs,poikkal kuthirai. The dancers

were wearing stilts, with horses' heads and fl anks attached to their waists. And

yes, Jalpesh was there, his hair in a top-knot shaking like a little palm tree in a

storm. He was seated precariously on a shaggy earth-colored goat chomping on

leaves.The dancers turned and pranced, their gemmed turbans flashing with the

light of the torches which helpers held. The drumbeats in the crisp Shruva tala

rhythm led the horsemen through their stately paces. "Yay!" The whole wedding

party, and villagers who'd gathered there were enthralled. Drummers jumped and

reared up, prancing and dancing while they beat their drums. Tiyaga kept up his

song to this new rhythm. The dance enacted the bravery of a noble king,

celebrating the beauty of the loving princess. The goal of the players was rollicking

fun and with all their bells and horns and cries of triumph they went for it. "Yay!"

"Jalpesh, father sent me to find you." Tiyagas face, thin and handsome,

glowed in the moonlight.

"And so you have... Then?" Jalpesh joked defiantly. His face was thin and

hang-dog droopy, and it had an eerie look in the shadows.

"Let's go home, as father wishes," Tiyaga said.

Just then the little goat tried to get out from under Jalpesh, who was

straddling him as if he were a little horse; he laughed and an angry villager grabbed

the goat: "Stop it, you!"

Jalpesh said "Alright! Dance is breaking up anyway!" And he led the way


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now, hooting as he went. In the shadows he seemed to have serpents springing up

from his shoulders. In the dark and dusty path Jalpesh found an old rope, and was

flinging it up. Then he grabbed Tiyaga's wrists roughly, wrapping the rope around

them and tightening the knot. He led Tiyaga, who squirmed and resisted, dragging

him to a tree off the beaten path. He then succeeded in tying the rope around it.

"A joke is a joke; it's gone far enough!" Tiyaga protested.

But Jalpesh was on his way home, silent for once.

Tiyaga tugged and pulled for all he was worth, but that seemed to make the

knot tighten. It was sheer luck that Jalpesh had knotted the rope so well; with a few

loops in a few seconds he had put Tiyaga in a real bind.On distant huts subtleties of moonlight glowed and shifted like supernatural

puddles. Units of human feeling pulsing unconscious family music in the peace-

pious night moved closer to dreaming. Everyone would soon be asleep and Tiyaga

would still be alone, tied to a tree, where he would have to stay all night. "Help!

Hello? Mother! Father! Help!"

At first his face scowled, feigning indifference. Then the burning rage rose

up, and fear crept out. He clamped his teeth tight and made a small growling

sound. Then he opened his mouth and inhaled. Help!" His voice felt small in the

big night. "Rama Rama Rama," he hummed, getting used to the idea of waiting

there a long time.

Tiyaga breathed deeply and relaxed. No one came a long. Another crazy

situation, courtesy of Jalpesh. Tiyaga was tired. He didn't care. He was grooving in

the subtle night of downhome melodies deep in his nervous system accompanying

his voice in the key of Rama's name. The popeyed owl in the tamarind tree

watched a while then flew off. Tiyaga had music in him, and since music is a

conscious sleep, a dreaming philosophy, a sleepwalking dance and a heart full of

knowing he was free. He was soaring around though he was bound to a tree.


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He dozed off and saw a young king on an elephant; he was wearing blue and

had his bright-featured wife beside him.

In the skin-and-bones poverty of nothing happening, nothing including "I've

got nothing pressing on me, holding me down, hanging me up, hurting my spirit,"

Tiyaga waited, listening intently, singing in the night, dozing and coming to. Stars

moved, the moon moved. The lives of the humble under their tumble-down leaf

roofs limped toward another day through dreams of plump plenty...

And just before dawn, as a light rain began to fall, a passing monk named

Ramakrishna Ananda stopped and gently untied the knotted rope. He spoke

jokingly to Tiyaga about the knots of the heart which are released byenlightenment, and of the riches of high consciousness, of the far reaches of

freedom's peace. The holy man looked so small and slight, wearing just a sheer

orange cloth, yet he was stronger than anyone Tiyaga knew -- you could see it in

his eyes.

"A jewel can be possessed but also lost, even if you are a king. The name of

the jewel, retaining all the beauty of the namesake and evoking the valuable on

call, is the essence which cannot be lost. The singer-poet owns and multiplies and

distributes this treasure without ever losing it. It is his stock in trade. The song with

a jewel in it, a precious thing of thought and feeling which lives in folks' minds,

that's the beauty, Tiyaga." The monk's eyes said as much as his words. Tiyaga

nodded and rubbed his wrists. The monk went on. If you keep that mantra close it

will keep calamity far.

Tiyaga gave him a look of gratitude.

"The times are full of changes and disruptions. It will get worse before

getting better. Advances gained in centuries past, spiritual and cultural works must

not be lost. You can help keep alive the spark which each generation rekindles,

going all the way back to the fire of the vedic seers' vision."


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The monk asked Tyagaraja, Who is your ishtadevata-- your favorite form

of God? Tyagaraja paused a moment and Ramakrishna Ananda said, Rama is

dharma-- you like Rama if you like the proper order of society, the regard of the

lower for the higher. Rama is the perfect king to serve. Krishna is playful free-for-

alls, tricks, everybody rubbing elbows and mixing it up, no worries about whos

high or low, important or a nobody, old or young, rich or poor.

Tiyaga said, I am devoted to Rama.

Yes, said the monk, and the night music of crickets faded in the first rays

of dawn.

8."Tiyaga! You're alright? We looked and looked -- I've been worried sick!"

his mother said when he came in. "Where on earth were you?"

"Jalpesh tied a rope round my arms to a tree." The boy showed his mother

his sore red arm and began to cry. All the anger and frustration and hurt came

welling up and flowing out.

"My dear child, it is a great pity. Your father should have known. Jalpesh

has a nervous disorder. It's not entirely his fault. The Ayurvedic physician said he

has a disease of the nerves. He was born this way, can't help it. The medicines we

give him only seem to make it worse. Don't take his acts personally. I know it isn't

easy. I'm sorry. You must be quicker than he is, outsmart him. Don't let him get the

better of you, understand?"

Tiyaga said nothing, but wiped his eyes. He gritted his teeth wanting to go

out and pick flowers and tulasi leaves for worship. The plants grew in Pashupati

Kovil garden, freehold land given to his father by the king.

Tiyaga went out. He wailed to the soothing river. The waters were rolling as

always, lazy and lush. The great Chola king Tirumavalavan had built banks sturdy

enough to channel the turbulent Kaveri river, harnessing it for the farmers to use.


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Otherwise, floods would wash whole villages away. The music of the river

shouldn't drown out the music of the village.

The whacking and smacking of cloth against rocks downstream sounded

homey. Tiyaga wove a tune around that rhythmic beat, a song of the waters. If he

could be anything other than this, he would be a river flowing with feelings --

sssaaaaa-- muddled in monsoon season with turbulence, then growing clear in

moonlight, reflecting dawn, cool and inviting.

On the way home, passing the house of Narayanarupee, Tiyaga heard a faint

hoarse voice calling "Jallllpe-esh!" Jalpesh in fact was sleeping in the shade in

front of the house. Tiyaga knew that Jalpesh would never hear the fearful littlevoice rasping like a dry leaf scraping across hard ground. "Jalllllpe-esh!" the

whisper came again like an urgent mantra. "Jallllllpe-esh, Little Squirt!" Then the

voice pleaded, "Anyone! I dont care who you are! Help! Help me!"

Tiyaga answered the whimper and went in. There lay the old man on his cot

of knotted rope. Mouth dry, desperate yet with a distant glint in his eyes,

Narayanarupee lay there, unable to move. He moaned as in a nightmare: "I cannot

find the place of my ancestors, I cannot see!"

Tiyaga took the old man's twisted hand, and noticed by feeling the wrist that

something was strange. A rapid buzz-like vibration was alternating with a sudden

ceasing of the pulse. It seemed a strange sign to him, and he wondered how long

one could live with such a strange pulsing. Jalpesh, who had always been the

mango of Narayanarupee's eye, snored loudly, deaf to the old man's call. Tiyaga

poured a tumbler of water from the clay vessel, and the old man swallowed it

thankfully. Tiyaga fixed the pillow beneath the feeble man's head. He took a

palmleaf fan and stirred the air around the man to cool him off.

Tiyaga thought of his other brother, Panchapakesha, who had died while still

very young. Little Panchapakesha had sometimes run with Jalpesh, sometimes


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played with him. Tiyaga knew he too might have died at that time, just as easily as

his brother had died. Why not? Life is like the fast-playing fingers at the frets of

the vina-- who knows where the course of life will shift next. Yet it is a pattern,

beautiful, inevitable, just so. The Creator wrote a man's fate on his forehead, and

that was his destiny. Instead of dying, Tiyaga had been blessed to live a good life;

the monk Ramakrishna Ananda had blessed him.

Narayanarupee was breathing his last, the boy sensed it. Tiyaga kept

repeating "Rama Rama" until the man was still as stone.

"He is no more," Tiyaga said. Outside, the tall Kandal trees' buds were in

various stages of unfurling. White and red, the fully unfurled long petals stirredand wavered like tongues of flame in the mild breeze which brushing through them

formed a hushing sound-- "Ssssaaa..."

When Jalpesh found out what had happened he became very angry, and

started throwing things. Tiyaga, as always, was the one who could lull Jalpesh to

restful silence by singing him a song. Saaa... Thanks to Tiyagas soothing

lullabies, Jalpesh forgot the pain in his neck and soon was smiling in his sleep,

dreaming of playing funny pranks. Ssssaaaa...

CHAPTER TWO

Beginning to See the Way

1.

"Rrrrrri!" bellowed the oxen in the early morning. "Rrrrri!" Not too far from

home, in the field his father had been given by the king, Tiyaga was gathering

flowers for the family shrine room. And the silent cows of dawn streamed forth

from their pens, like the light in mountain clouds. The pretty-eyed cows, decorated


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for the harvest festival called Pongal, followed one another in single file. Their

heads and horns were adorned with beads, bells, colors and little spiral seashells, to

celebrate the fruition of the time just past, and with hope for the year to come.

"Rrrrri!" They shone like radiant milk, inspiring Tiyaga to think of the old

Vedic vision: The rays of light, the streams of milk at sunrise. Goddess Dawn, the

mother of cows, rides the skies on a chariot pulled by glorious milk cows. Her

flight is a music of plenty, her womanly beauty is radiant, like the healing

goodness of the Kaveri river flowing patiently along.

Tiyaga watched the slim peasant girl hugging the rounded vessel of milk

tucked close to her waist, resting on the curve of her hip, walking out like dawnitself: her brother with his staff drove the cows to their green grazing meadows.

The cows had a lazy gait and their eyes were like starry night, but so innocent.

"Rrrri!" the oxen were hungry and wanted attention.

Tiyaga liked to see the patient and peaceful cows. Today they seemed

especially beautiful to him. In the pasture they would freely wander, searching for

green stalks and leaves to chew and chew. "Rama, Ramachandra," Tiyaga sang to

himself. In the lush pasture the mother cows would low to their calves, and nourish

and fondle them, licking their faces, sprucing them up, while the tottering new

calves waited expectantly, blinking in the new sunshine. Streams of milk were

flowing for the calf. Later in the day, the milkmaids with praise would

affectionately call the cows with sweet song and more milk would flow and squirt

against the side of the vessel. At dusk the cows would be led back to stalls, and

crickets would sing in the moon-cast shadows, Rrrrriiiii.

Down on the Kaveri banks Tiyaga heard a Brahmin chanting. Shlokas rose

and fell in cycles.

Tiyaga liked the noble sounds of the ancient Sanskrit; he resonated with its

solemnity. Day after day, Tiyaga listened to his father recite the Sanskrit


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Ramayana, Rama's story, and he studied the Ramayana text and Potana's Telugu

Bhagavatamin the King's Pathasala school. And often he would sit on the narrow

front porch of his home and chant Vedic texts, or study the Shastras, the traditional

books of duties and rites. He would set down the palm-leaves etched with the

written word, and still its rhythms would echo in his mind, merge in the heart-

pounding of his blood, and the steady flow of breath in and out of his lungs. Tiyaga

listened to the music being taught on the porch of Ginger Venkataramayya'a house

across the street. He lived in the world of fine feelings, purified by his love of

Rama, a world of deeper energies responsive to the moments of life, yet able to fly

beyond. With the taraka mantra, which his father had taught him at eight, hedeveloped a strong concentration. He hungered for some deeper goal; what it

would be like he did not know. Words alone, majestic Sanskrit, or homey

mellifluous Telugu, never seemed to fully satisfy the longings of his heart. But

from time to time, music could. Sweet singing could dissolve it all in peace and

wonder. The Vedic chanting turned in his mind from mantra chanting to rhythmic

song, notes cycling along.

Tiyagas brother Jalpesh was agog over cockfights and colorful costumes,

curious belongings of gypsies, and wandering tricksters with trained apes or

dancing bears or fortune-telling parrots, but Tiyaga loved to hear folksongs, the

melodies of oxcart drivers, Tamil ballads of love and war, and temple music, and

he was thrilled to see an open air drama of Rama and a musical shadow play of

itinerant puppeteers. Whenever Jalpesh saw valuables, his already narrow face

looked as if it was being squeezed by clamps, and it drooped with envy and

outrage that the impressive signs of wealth were not his. When Tiyaga saw

bunches of bananas, gems in jewelry, baskets of flowers, he thought of clusters of

notes in musical phrases. The hacking of the woodcutter, the auspicious kolam

designs of fine rice powder drawn by women every morning at the thresholds


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(Mandalas, lotuses, peacocks), the banging of builders, the cries of vendors,

birdsong and sounds from an array of sources-- these his mind played with and

processed, designing fantastically delicate arabesques of rhythmic notes,

rehearsing subtle liquid filigrees of sound. "Rama Rama Rama" was the constant

background. His mother generated a fragrance in her everyday acts, chopping

vegetables, for example, an aroma was soft, sweet and musical. With his mother

Tiyaga would go to a bhajanparty. They would stop at the temple and listen to a

performance of King Shahaji's songs. His father told him of the seven echoes

which one sound produces in the temple of Tiruvayaru. "The holy primordial

vibration Omis the source of the seven tones," his father told him. "From eternalunity, vibrations give birth to variety in order." Brahmins at the temple's inner

sanctum rangpujabells, inspiring reverence, and these ringing tones and other

sounds gave Tiyaga insights into the logic of sound sequences, the flow of melodic

patterns.

Of all the forms of God, Jalpesh liked best the mischievous Baby Krishna--

the supreme prankster stealing yogurt and butter. Jalpesh was not interested in

Rama. Rama seemed to him too serious and formal, too solemn and righteous, too

controlled in his aloofness. Rama seemed to hover far beyond the world of Jalpesh.

But Baby Krishna might do anything-- lie, steal, kill big rakshasas, overcome

monsters, swallow forest fires, hold up a mountain on his little finger.

Tiyaga was calm and self-restrained. He sat contentedly and hummed

melodious songs. He turned inward to enjoy the light within. He gathered his

energies and grew stronger in spirit and stamina. Jalpesh could barely restrain

himself. In fact he couldnt. He threw up, belched, expelled gas, drooled, sneezed,

yawned, squirted diarrhea and laughed compulsively. Could he control any of it?

People said he was strange, and Jalpesh can be a very arguesome fellow. In the

market Jalpesh would argue with a fruit merchant for hours and then say, No I


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have decided not to honor you with a purchase. Each merchant who experienced

this, dreaded to see Jalpesh coming and tried to shoo him away. He was too much

of a pest to deal with day after day.

Why cant you be more like Tiyaga?

Because Im not like Tiyaga. Im me!

Tiyaga watched his mother busy in the kitchen sunlight and wondered about

his family's dependence on the king. The food his mother cooked was provided by

the king. Tiyaga asked, "Why should this be so? Why should we rely on human

beings?"

His mother was afraid he might become asannyasin, a monk, rather than ahouseholder with a family. But she always encouraged his love of music and was

proud when Tiyaga would compose a fitting lyric. She gave him her carved

jingling fish-shaped clappers to keep time when he sang, but then Jalpesh took

them, and no one ever saw them again.

Around that time Jalpesh got a role in a dance drama. It was the part of

Hanuman and it mostly involved leaping from place to place and cavorting like a

monkey in a Hanuman costume. Jalpesh watched the actress playing Sita sing and

dance, expressing her longing for Rama.

At daily worship at home, Tiyaga sang a song based on an old folk tune, an

oxcart driver's song. It had been on his mind for a few days.Namo namo

Raghuvaya-- "Glory be to Rama forever! King of the Raghu dynasty." His father

had never heard this song before and rightly suspected Tiyaga had composed it.

Tiyaga was getting taller, lean and wheat-colored like his father. His broad

shoulders, resonant throat, and reflective face each year more mature. As Tiyaga's

mother had great hopes for him, so his father more and more let himself hope.

The next day when Tiyaga asked his father "Why do we rely upon the


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king?" Ramabrahmam told him, "When I go to court tomorrow to recite the Rama

epic, you may accompany me. You will learn about life." Tiyaga was not sure what

to think, but he smiled and waved his head like a cradle, a South Indian sign of

agreement.

2.

Tiyaga listened to the songs from the fields as he and his father walked to

the capital, Thanjavur. "Music everywhere," he murmured.

His father agreed. "The smallest star in the sky purrs a song.Anahata, sound

of the unstruck chord, is singing throughout space. There are people in our village,

the ultra orthodox, who are hyper-critical of musicians. They think of them as inthe same class as dancers, and gallants. People who live to amuse. There is a

narrow staleness to some orthodox thinking. 'Manu the ancient lawgiver says no

Brahmin should make his living by music,' they say."

"Even musicians who live only to sing praise?" Tiyaga asked.

"Some people lump them together with dancers, courtesans, carousers. I

don't," Ramabrahmam explained.

"What do they think of Narada, the ancient singer of Vishnu's praises?"

Tiyaga wondered.

"They can't see him in connection with the present. He is long gone, not

someone to be like. They listen to the stories, then go back to sleeping and eating,

with no effect made," Ramabrahmam said. "They call musicians frivolous

parasites."

The path turned and they squinted into the glare of the sun.

They passed a hay wagon piled tree-high with hay. The blue painted wheels

were as tall as Tiyaga's father. In the shade the white bulls chewed contentedly

while their master dozed beneath the wagon in the shade, his head propped up,

using the wheel-rim and spoke as a pillow, his feet propped up on the other wheel


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like a footstool.

Tiyaga had a thought of how music is like travel, and pilgrimage -- music

travels you -- you go places in inner landscapes with its freeing power. He tried to

explain to his father. "Music carries you, it is a path for pilgrimages to far places

within." Ramabrahmam agreed: "It melts the heart. Music is like cosmic harmony,

all the winds and waters, weathers and creatures of creation seen as singing with

inspiration-- if you don't listen and participate, you're untuned, and not playing

your part."

Now they could see theshikhara, the temple spire, looming up beyond the

tall palm trees, reaching to the clouds in the bright sky. The temple-top seemed tonuzzle up against the low clouds like a calf up to a mother cow.

"I wonder if anyone except spiritual musicians can reach life's goal. And

some people think musicians are lowly. It's very strange," Tiyaga mused.

The sun's relentless intensity poured bright golden rays on their bare heads

and shoulders.

Tiyaga thought of ways that music could be considered as a meaningless

jingle. "You can have it for an old song" meant "you can have it dirt cheap, almost

for nothing." In song all things could be glamorized. War has its songs. No doubt

bad men could buy songs of praise from hungry musicians. "Music can be abused,"

he admitted to his father. "But it can be so great -- a sign of perfection -- when

played in the right way." A bony brown cow looked peacefully up from the shady

roadside, chewing her cud.

When they reached the palace compound walls they saw the royal horses

with leath er saddles being led to their stables. How well fed and groomed they

seemed, shining in the sun, clipping along at a smart trot. They seemed quite

important. They saw the European Frederick Schwartz who was overseeing the

construction of a school building. Both Ramabrahmam and Schwartz were


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preoccupied at the moment, otherwise they would have greeted one another as they

usually did. Schwartz was a European perfectionist. He was tearing apart some

construction work that had not been done correctly. It must be done all over

again.

Ramabrahmam and his son took off their sandals and washed the dust from

their feet in a fountain-fed pool.

Schwartz passed that way and said hello. A European was overseeing the

construction of another nearby building. Ramabrahmam folded his hands and

greeted his old friend. As always, the man's clothes looked odd to the boy. Theywere oddly square-shaped and dark. Schwartz came over and spoke to

Ramabrahmam in Tamil. It was second language for both Schwartz and

Ramabrahmam but they managed a brief exchange. Schwartz smiled and re-opened

an old conversation with an invitation and a challenge.

"Why not send your son to my school, where he can gather useful

knowledge?"

"Why should we learn English?" Ramabrahmam asked.

"It will be the medium of the future here. The British East India Company

will continue to offer employment in this region. Advanced civilization will be

possible, even here. The old rituals are dying now. You are an intelligent man, you

see how things are going."

"I pray for the life of all. May your rites, and mine, thrive. May God bless

all."

Schwartz smiled. "Let's call a truce, my friend. Listen, last year when Lord

Pigot, governor of Madras, restored Tuljaji Raja to the throne, the king was so

happy and grateful he said, 'The court of Thanjavur is the Company's. I have only

to beg that they will preserve my honor.' Not a good sign, when a king bows and


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begs. The forces at play in the country are fearful, believe me. The wise know a

wasp's nest does not make a good pillow." Schwartz spoke with intensity, and as if

taking Ramabrahmam into his confidence. "I must tell you my friend, I worry for

the future of this kingdom. Rumors of Haidar Ali's invasion are in the air. The

French and the British are both scrambling for trade rights. Conflicts are brewing,

I'm afraid. I am storing up grain in case things get really bad. If you think the sun's

rays are scorching, wait until the swords of Haidar Ali arrive en masse. I have a

sense of hard times approaching. In Psalm 106 of the Good Book it is written:

'They went astray in the wilderness; They did not find the way to an inhabited city.

Hungry and thirsty, their life was wasting away in them. They cried to the Lord indistress and He rescued them from their straits.' Well, I must get back to work.

There will be crying in distress, I fear. Are you reciting today?

Yes. My son Tiyaga has come along to listen.

Where is your other son? Schwartz asked.

He is otherwise occupied. Hes busy playing the part of a monkey--

Yes, I hear hes always misbehaving.

No, I mean hes playing Hanuman in a dance drama.

I hear he has his troubles. Perhaps he is trying to get your attention. Maybe

he is tired of the old ways. Im told Jalpa means wrangling or haranguing or

arguing in a bullying manner. Why did you name him Jalpesh?

His given name is Panchanada. And I called him Japa-Ishwara. But

everyone nicknamed him Jalpesh, and it stuck. I am expected in court,

Ramabrahmam said. You will excuse us, please.

Best wishes to you. We'll meet again." Schwartz smiled goodbye, and was

off. He was a busy man and always moved swiftly from task to task.

Ramabrahmam folded his hands in sign of farewell to Schwartz.

When they had taken their leave and set off for home Ramabrahmam said:


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"It is a friendly rivalry we have. Reverend Schwartz is not a bad man," he told his

son. "His school will no doubt train many officials for East India Company posts.

Even Jalpesh wants to learn English."

Tiyaga was silent. They passed beneath massive rounded arches in the

palace proper.

Tiyaga was amazed to see the glory of the court. "Riiii!" blasted a horn, and

the sound intensified the wonders of the palace which overflowed on all sides.

Wealth spilled out in opulence. Sheer hugeness of gates and hallways, halls with

brightly painted walls and ceilings, attendants ornamented and arrayed like

heavenly beings. Dizzy with the richness of carved wood furniture and luxuries,astonishing picture-pretty ladies with shining tresses like woven clusters of

peacock eyes, stunned by fragrant jasmine, bright bangles and silk and gold saris,

flowers in garlands and chaplets decorating the sunny rooms. The jingling anklets

on the women's feet made a pulse-quickening musical rhythm, a stream of

expectation and excitement.

Everything seemed much more important in here. Vidvans, honored expert

musicians and authorities in the arts and sciences, were arriving and taking their

places in the big hall. Ginger Venkataramayya folded his hands in greeting to

Tiyaga's father and smiled to Tiyaga in glad welcome. How thick seemed the

pillars, how strong the palace walls. How generous, wise and powerful must the

king be to command such people and rule from such a palace! Yet he must be a

shadow next to the sun which is king Rama, Tiyaga thought. King Rama ruled a

kingdom too, the earth itself and all its magnificence. A pink-legged dove sleeping

in the eaves awoke and watched the goings on. Then it flew up and mated with

another dove in the gracefully carved rafters. They coupled joyfully in the sunlight

then flew off separately, singing. Small feathers drifted down.

Tiyaga heard music coming closer -- a drum crackling like a fire of dry


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wood and dry leaves and seeds bursting in flames, powerfully popping and

snapping; then the naga-swarahorn player came closer through the hallways.

"Rrrrri" double reed sound kept cooking away, intensely, like a night fever, urging

-- where to? "Rrrri!" -- lamenting, searching, announcing the presence of an

emerging power. "Rrrrrri!" It was a demanding, pervasive resonance, harsh as an

elephant's trumpeting, not like a pleasant flute soft as lover's whispers. The players

finally came into sight with their big drums and long black horns. The

nagaswaramplayers had diamond earrings that flashed, and wore brightly colored

lungis around their waists, with tonsured heads and necklaces of rudrakshanut

beads.And next came the king like the dawn sun striking clouds in the abyss,

setting its seal on all that was dark. Raja Tuljaji had frog eyes. His smile beamed

and his ministers like rays solemnly surrounded him, some of them walking

backward so as not to turn from his face. A big-bellied Brahmin announced the

king's arrival, and a retinue of Brahmin advisors with the respected chief minister

Dabir Pandit in their centre took their places near King Tuljaji as he sat on his

elaborate seat above everyone else.

So this was the man his father's dream had impressed. The king took his

throne, smiling to show he was happy, and moving gracefully, to show he was

strong and healthy. The ministers were finding their places, and the formalities of

royal procedure were being followed with pomp. The king smiled and picked up

some betelleaf to chew, from the mirror-shiney silver plate in a lovely woman's

hands. The tall Brahmin standing by the throne bent low and whispered in the

king's ear. An attendant nearby waved a peacock feat her fan, sending waves of

breeze to keep the king cool.

Tiyaga's father calmly w

singer thyagaraja

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