Topic: A Day with My Favorite Carnatic Music Personality Congratulations on winning the lottery!! We welcome you to the Gandharva Lōka where music and magic intertwine. In this mystical realm, you have an entire day to meet your most favourite carnatic music personality (who isn't alive now). Time to pen your magical memories...

“Oof!” I cried. I had been rudely awakened by a rough jolting.

“But wait, my mother never wakes me up like this,” I thought. And that’s when I realized that this wasn’t my bed. This was an auto!

“Help!” I cried. “I am being kidnapped! Call the police!”. The auto driver looked at me. He smiled. He didn’t look much like a kidnapper. He just turned on the radio. It sputtered before beginning Semmaṅguḍi Srinivasa Iyer’s Marubalka. As we listened, I saw a sign saying ‘Gandharva Loka Highway 17: Vidwan’s Avenue.’ 

“Jolly nice place to get kidnapped,” I thought. In a corner, I saw Ariyakuḍi Ramanuja Iyengar talking with S. Balachander.

“I must be dreaming,” I thought. As we went, the auto finally stopped at a tree. And beneath the tree, singing was Semmaṅguḍi Srinivasa Iyer himself! I nearly jumped with shock. When I realized this was actually happening, I went and touched his feet. I felt his frail fingers gently lift me up.

“What song would you like to learn?” was the first thing he asked me. My heart skipped a beat. The great Semmaṅguḍi himself asking me what song I would like to learn from him! 

“Bhāvayāmi Raghurāmam,” my big mouth said before I could even process the million options I had.

“Your wish is my command,” he cried as we turned on the Śruti. Gently, he taught me Saṅgati by Saṅgati, each and every word resonating in my ear, reaching my throat and coming through my mouth as music. All time seemed to have frozen as he patiently taught me the whole composition, putting me at ease. And so we finished learning the whole song.

“Would you like a yātra next?” he asked me.

“What better!” I told him.

And with the blink of an eye, we were transported to a dainty little village in Tamilnadu called Semmaṅguḍi.

“Are you named after this or is this named after you?” I asked him.

He chuckled. “I was born here, my child. I still remember this place. Our house used to have more holes than walls. All the better to hear the song that our neighbour had just learnt!”

His eyes twinkled. “We used to travel miles to listen to eight hour concerts. God knows if your generation can sustain that!”

He gently took me through the village.  But suddenly, the scene changed and we were in another hamlet. This one was Tiru̱viḍaimaru̱dūr.

“I’ve heard there’s a Nādasvaram concert here tomorrow. I’ll be there. For sure,” he said. I giggled. Everyone knew of his love for Nādasvaram. As he looked around, his eyes gleamed with nostalgia.

“My voice used to be like a cracked Vīṇa around my early teens,” he said. 

“But I suppose Semmaṅguḍi’s cracked Vīṇa makes the best music!” I cried. ”It managed to bag the Saṅgīta Kalānidhi, didn’t it?” 

He looked at me. “I don’t sing for awards,” he said. “I sing for myself.” As he said these words, we suddenly stood in the little big, bustling city we all know as Madras!

“I sang here in the Madras session of the Indian National Congress during the freedom fight,” he said, “that soon became the Music Academy.” He led me to a quaint little house. I could see a small Vigraha of Rāma and Tyāgarāja there. We sat in front of it. He immediately began a Rāga in Kharaharapriyā. It was a pure rendition of the Rāga bhāva. Then he sang the Kṛti, Rāma nī samānam evaru. His honey-filled voice with a touch of nasality soared. Then was the part we had been waiting for - Niraval. First resting in the first few words, then moving on, then trying all the possible combinations - it was impossible to sleep when this man sang. Along with the neraval was his famous Svara-s. He began slowly, with nuanced Gamaka-s and then increased the tempo till my heart was racing like a bullet train in Japan, not even stopping for a Kārvai. It was just the two of us, immersed in Rāga bhāva. Then, it was not even that - just the music remained. As the song ended, the sound of anklets filled the air. A little girl sat down, beside me, in a blue Pāvāḍai. Semmaṅguḍi tātā and her shared a smile. As if on cue, they began a soulful Raṅgapura Vihāra. Bṛndāvana Sāraṅgā soaked into my ear. They continued, just pure bliss to hear. As they finished, the little girl grinned and left. As she left, he called after her, “Practice well, Subbulakshmi!”

My jaw dropped as I realized who this was. Veṅkaṭēśa Suprabhātam rang in my ears as I gaped in awe at this girl. Behind her was my kidnapper-driver, ready to take me back. I looked at my new friend in Semmaṅguḍi tātā. I hugged him tightly, not able to bear the thought of leaving.

He said, ”Music is a divine gift. May it remain with you as it did with me. Now go back to your house. I shall miss you.”

I went to the auto driver. “Ready to go home?” he asked me. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. He smiled. I got in the auto.

I was so tired from all our adventures….

The next minute, I woke up. This time, for real, I was on my bed. My mother came and looked at me. “You never wake up with such a grin. What’s up?”