Memories of my Guru

This is a humble tribute to my guru, Padma Shri Guruvayur Dorai sir, through the experiences, values, and teachings I have gathered from him over the past 22 years.

I may not be among his senior-most students, nor am I his only student. I am also conscious that I may not have reached the level of artistry that would qualify me to speak about a personality and a musician of his stature.

Nevertheless, through this tribute, I wish to share some of those memories and, more importantly, express the depth of the values, musical understanding, and perspectives on life that I have imbibed from him. These are my personal reflections as a disciple, offered with immense gratitude, reverence, and affection for the guru who has shaped so much of who I am today.

Incident of Revelation 

One incident that will always remain etched in my heart is from a concert for which I had taken one of his mṛdaṅgam-s. During the concert, the right-side braiding of the instrument got ripped. I was extremely stressed and anxious about telling him what had happened, and even more so about returning the instrument to him in that condition.

But his response was a reflection of the magnanimity of his character. Instead of making me feel uncomfortable about the damage, he was gracious enough to let the matter pass and, more importantly, put me at ease first. His concern for me as his student took precedence over the incident itself.

What touched me even more was what happened later. Once the braiding had been replaced, he insisted that I take the mṛdaṅgam for a concert and use it. He was also keen to know how the instrument felt and sounded after the repair. That, to me, spoke volumes about the kind of guru he was. His care for his students extended far beyond teaching music; it was reflected in the smallest gestures, in the way he understood our concerns, and in how he continued to take an active interest in our musical journey.

This is a memory I will always treasure, for it reminds me that sir’s greatness lay not merely in his art, but equally in his generosity of spirit and the affection with which he nurtured his students.

Special Moments That I Fondly Remember

Some of my fondest memories of sir go back to when I was just eight or nine years old. During those years, I would accompany him to most of his concerts in and around Chennai. At that age, I was far too young to understand the seriousness of the art being presented on stage or the concentration and involvement that a musician brings to a performance. Yet, sir would always insist that I sit on stage with him during his concerts.

Most of these concerts would take place after 6pm. My mother would pick me up from my cricket coaching and drop me off at sir’s place so that I could accompany him. While I would eagerly set out with him, my enthusiasm would rarely last through the entire concert! Since I could barely understand what was happening on stage, I would invariably doze off halfway through the performance. On one occasion, I even came close to falling off the stage!

Whenever he noticed me nodding off, sir would extend his left hand — the very hand with which he played the toppi — and gently pat my lap, giving me a look that clearly meant I was not supposed to fall asleep on stage. This would happen several times during a concert, except during the tani āvartanam, when I would suddenly be wide awake! Of course, at that age, I had absolutely no idea why the tani āvartanam managed to hold my attention when the rest of the concert did not.

The real fun would begin after the concert, when we returned home. Sir would lovingly tease me about how much I must have enjoyed the performance, given that it had put me to sleep! Those moments remain incredibly special to me today.

What I cherish most, however, is that he never discouraged me from accompanying him or insisted that I stop sitting on stage simply because I could not stay awake. On the contrary, he firmly insisted that I continue to sit beside him. He allowed me to be part of that musical environment in my own way, even before I was capable of fully appreciating it.

As the years passed and my interest in music grew, I gradually began staying awake through the concerts and listening with greater involvement. Looking back, I realise that sir was doing something far more significant than simply taking a young boy along to his performances. Without perhaps making a conscious lesson out of it, he was giving me the opportunity to experience the concert platform, observe musicians at close quarters, and slowly absorb the world of music.

What began as a little boy accompanying his guru to concerts eventually became an integral part of his musical upbringing. Today, these memories bring a smile to my face, but they also make me deeply grateful that sir gave me those early experiences and made me feel that I belonged on that stage, long before I understood what it truly meant to be there.

Anecdotes from His Life and Learning

One of the things I will always cherish about my time with sir was his habit of sharing anecdotes from his musical journey. He would often speak about the musicians of the previous generation, recounting their artistry, their approach to music, and the deep respect and admiration he had for his seniors and masters. I cannot recall a single occasion when I returned home after spending time with him without having heard an interesting story or learnt something new through his experiences.

One such anecdote remains particularly vivid in my memory. On this occasion, sir and I were listening to a concert in which he had accompanied the legendary M. D. Ramanathan. After the tani āvartanam, he began recounting the story of his very first concert accompanying MDR.

Someone had approached him and booked him to play for MDR. It was to be his first experience accompanying the maestro, and he was unaware of just how low MDR's preferred pitch was. Assuming that, as a male vocalist, MDR would sing at C-sharp or D, he arrived at the concert venue prepared for a pitch in that range. It was only when he reached the venue that he realised the required shruti was B.

He tried every possible way to bring the pitch of his mṛdaṅgam down, but despite his efforts, he could not get it below C. Faced with this predicament, he began thinking of other ways to solve the problem.

He understood that loosening the tension in the braiding that held the instrument's two heads in place could help lower the pitch. Having exhausted the other possibilities, he eventually took a knife and cut several of the buffalo-hide ropes that ran through the wooden body of the mṛdaṅgam, connecting and holding the heads in place. He left just enough ropes to hold the instrument together, with the tension sufficiently reduced for the pitch to come down. And that was how he managed to get his mṛdaṅgam to the required pitch for his very first concert accompanying MDR!

I often wish I had a recording of sir narrating this story. The way he told it, the expressions, the pauses, and the way he described what must have been going through his mind at that moment were all part of the experience. Retelling it in my own words can hardly do justice to the authenticity and feeling with which he shared it.

What continues to amaze me about this incident is the practical intelligence it reveals. Here was a musician who, without formal schooling, possessed an extraordinary understanding of the physical properties of his instrument and the relationship between tension and pitch. When conventional methods failed him, he relied on his understanding, ingenuity, and instinct to find a solution.

For me, this anecdote is more than an amusing recollection from his early career. It is a glimpse into the mind of an artist who understood his instrument intimately, approached challenges with remarkable resourcefulness, and learnt through observation and experience. These were the kinds of stories sir shared so generously, allowing us to glimpse not only the musical world he had inhabited, but also the intelligence, determination, and spirit that had shaped his journey.

Lessons Learnt from Him Through Observation

Some of the most enduring lessons I learnt from sir were not necessarily taught in a class or explained in words. They were lessons I absorbed simply by observing the way he lived, practised, and conducted himself as a musician. His discipline, professionalism, and unwavering commitment to ethical values are qualities I have always aspired to imbibe in my own life and musical journey.

Sir followed a remarkably disciplined daily routine, one that he would adhere to without compromise, regardless of who visited him or what other engagements came his way. His commitment to his routine was absolute. He did not treat discipline as something that could be adjusted to convenience; it was an integral part of his life. By living this way, he demonstrated to all his students that the pursuit of an art form demands consistency, sincerity, and a commitment that goes beyond one's immediate circumstances.

He would often remind us that our ideologies, perspectives, and interests might evolve as we grow through life, but our ethical values and professionalism should never be compromised. This was not merely advice he offered to his students; it was something he practised himself. He led by example, showing us what it meant to be a professional musician, not just in the way we performed on stage, but also in the way we conducted ourselves outside it.

One particularly important lesson he taught me concerned the value of our work as musicians. He was the first person who encouraged me to ask for payment for a concert. He never prescribed a particular fee or told me what rate I should demand. Instead, he encouraged me to understand what I was receiving for a performance and to be conscious of the value of my contribution. It was a lesson in recognising one's worth as an artist, while remaining grounded and professional.

Another principle he strongly emphasised was the importance of honouring a commitment once it had been made. As one grows as a musician, opportunities to accompany senior artists and perform at prestigious concerts will inevitably arise. Sir would remind me that if I had already committed to another concert, I should not abandon that commitment for a more attractive opportunity, regardless of the artist, the venue, or the remuneration being offered.

For him, accepting a concert was not merely agreeing to perform; it was giving one's word. Once that assurance had been given, it became the musician's responsibility to honour it. He would often tell me, “Take time to think before accepting a concert. Once accepted, there is no going back, unless there are truly unfortunate circumstances or unforeseen incidents.”

This principle has stayed with me. In a profession where opportunities can be unpredictable and more attractive engagements may come one's way at any time, the temptation to reconsider an earlier commitment can be real. But sir taught me that professionalism is measured not only by the concerts one performs or the musicians one accompanies, but also by the commitments one honours when a better opportunity presents itself.

Looking back, I realise that these lessons were among the most valuable things I received from him. He taught me to be disciplined without being rigid in thought, to recognise the value of my work without losing humility, and to pursue opportunities without compromising my integrity. Above all, he showed me that being a musician is not simply about the art one presents on stage; it is equally about the principles one upholds in life.

These are lessons I hope to carry with me throughout my musical journey. His music will continue to inspire me, but so will the way he lived, the standards he upheld, and the example he set for generations of students. In that sense, his teaching extends far beyond the lessons he gave us directly. It lives on in the choices we make, the commitments we honour, and the kind of musicians and human beings we strive to become.

A Teacher, a Listener, and a Lifelong Learner

One of the qualities that has genuinely inspired me the most in sir is his extraordinary patience and composure as a teacher. In all the years I learnt from him, I have never seen him scold me or give up on teaching me simply because I could not grasp something as quickly as he might have expected. Instead, he would come down to my level of understanding, break a concept into smaller, more accessible pieces, and patiently work through it with me until I could take something meaningful back from the lesson.

That, to me, was the mark of a truly great teacher. He never made me feel inadequate for not understanding something immediately. His approach taught me that teaching is not merely about imparting knowledge; it is about understanding the student, recognising their pace of learning, and finding a way to help them progress.

Sir also placed tremendous importance on listening to music. He would constantly encourage me to attend as many concerts as possible, irrespective of who was performing. The learning, however, did not end with attending a concert. When I visited him the following day, he would ask me about the performance, and we would discuss the concert in detail: what was sung, how the musicians approached the music, what the mridangists played, and the many nuances one could observe and learn from.

On one occasion, I travelled to Kerala to attend a concert. When I called him the following day, he was eager to know everything about the performance. I told him that I would be visiting him the next day and could share all the details then. But his curiosity could not wait! He wanted me to narrate the entire concert over the phone itself. That incident has stayed with me as a reflection of the keen interest he took in my musical experiences and the enthusiasm with which he continued to engage with music until the very end.

What I found equally remarkable was that he never restricted my listening to a particular set of musicians or discouraged me from listening to anyone. On the contrary, he encouraged me to listen widely, explore different artists, and draw inspiration from every possible source. He believed that such exposure could only help a musician grow. He taught me, through both his words and his actions, that learning should never be confined to a single school of thought or approach. The more we listen with an open mind, the more we begin to understand the many possibilities within our art form.

Another piece of advice he repeatedly gave me was to remain open to criticism, regardless of where it came from. Whether it was a fellow musician, a connoisseur, a rasika, a parent, or even someone with no formal musical background, he believed that one should be willing to listen. It was then up to us to reflect on what was said, discern what was useful, and work on it if we felt it could help us improve. In his view, a good musician should never be dismissive of criticism. This is a lesson I continue to value, because it reminds me that artistic growth requires not only confidence in one's abilities, but also the humility to question oneself.

As I grew older, there were occasions when I developed ideological differences. What surprised and humbled me was his willingness to engage in those conversations openly. Despite an age difference of 62 years between us, he was always willing to listen to my perspective, discuss our differences, and offer his thoughts without shutting down the conversation. His humility in being open to the ideas and preferences of someone so much younger than him was something I found truly remarkable. He demonstrated that experience and wisdom need not make one rigid; instead, they can give one the confidence to listen, reflect, and engage with differing viewpoints.

Having known sir for the past 22 years, I am conscious that there are senior students who have spent even more time with him and who would undoubtedly have many more insights and anecdotes to share about him as a person, a musician, and a teacher. Their experiences and perspectives are equally valuable in understanding the breadth of his life and legacy.

Yet, with immense gratitude and pride, I will always consider it a great fortune that I had the opportunity to spend a significant part of my formative years, and much of my youth, in his company on an almost daily basis. To have observed such a legend at close quarters, to have learnt from him directly, and to have absorbed so much simply by being around him is a privilege I will cherish for the rest of my life.

I know that I will carry his teachings with me for as long as I continue my musical journey. Some lessons came through his words, some through his teaching, and many more through the simple act of observing the way he lived and approached his art. His influence will remain with me not merely in the way I play the mṛdaṅgam, but also in the way I listen, teach, learn, interact with others, and conduct myself as a musician.

For all that he gave me, both knowingly and unknowingly, I will remain eternally grateful.