The cow in the way of the pariah

“Vazhi Maraittirukkudu Oru Maadu” ; Composed by Gopalakrishna Bharati, sung by Jon B. Higgins

The Raga

This rendition is in the raga Natakuranji, though apparently it may have been originally tuned in an older version of the raga Thodi, known as Desiya Thodi. In the 1942 movie Nandanar, Carnatic singer, composer and actor M.M. Dandapani Desikar renders the song in Desiya Thodi.

Natakuranji is a raga that is quite easily recognizable, as it is defined much more by the phrases of notes used in the raga rather than the combination of notes (or scale) itself. It is also quite a “vakra” or “crooked” in nature, making a couple of hair-pin bends and “jumps” on the ascent before finally reaching the higher octave. This also makes it quite catchy and upbeat, in a delicate, almost wistful way. It’s a great raga for upbeat, forward-looking nostalgia, like if you are about to set off for a college reunion.

The Composition

This song is one of several in the musical drama / ‘opera’ Nandanar Charithram, written and composed by the 19th century musician Gopalakrishna Bharati. It is in a simple, colloquial Tamil. The opera is an account of the life of Nandanar, considered to be one of the 63 Nayanars, or Shaivaite saints who lived from the 6th to 8th centuries. Nandanar was an outcaste or parayan (the English word pariah comes from the Tamil) who was devoted to Shiva, and in particular, Shiva as Nataraja at the famous Chidambaram temple. He was a man of little credibility, as he kept saying that he would make the journey to Chidambaram “tomorrow” and was mocked as “Thirunalaipolavar” — the one who will go tomorrow.

Apart from the tuning in Natakurinji, I am drawn to the song because of two things. First, like a great song in a good musical, the song moves the story forward. It deals with a crucial incident in the entire narrative, Nandanar’s visit to the Shivalokanathar temple at Thirupunkur. When he visits, he finds that there is a massive bull (a statue of Nandi) blocking his view of the lord. As an outcaste, he cannot sidestep the bull and enter the temple. So he pleads to the lord to request Nandi to adjust his position a little bit — Nandanar can then have his viewing without having to go in. If you go to the Shivalokanathar temple today, you will see Nandi sitting slightly off-centre.

Second, the language is simple and straightforward with the situation clearly communicated. The structure follows the “Situation-Complication-Resolution” plot line that well trained management consultants and script writers are so fond of:

Pallavi: vazhi maraittirukkudE malaipOlE oru mADu paDuttirukkudE
Anupallavi: pAvip-paraiyaninda Uril vandum ivan (innum) pAvam tIrEnO
pAdattil shErEnO ErEnO shivalOka nAthA
Charanam: tEraDiyil ninru darishittAlum pOdum kOvil vara mATTEn ayyE
OraDi vilaginAl pOdum ingE ninru uTrup-pArkka shaTrE vilagAdO mADu

Pallavi (Situation — “Bull”)- A bull, lying down, is blocking my way, like a mountain
Anupallavi (Complication — “Caste”)-In spite of being a sinner and an outcaste, I have made my way to this town. Will my sins not be forgiven, may I not reach your feet?
Charanam (Resolution — Move the bull (please))- Okay, I will not come into the temple. Standing outside, I will have my viewing (darshan) — that would be enough for me. If only your bull would move just a foot, won’t he do even this much?

There is a very delicate emotion and context conveyed in this song. Nandanar is demanding his right as an ardent devotee, but as an outcaste, is adjusting in his outlook. It is the story of his life, all in one moment. It is an argument finely prosecuted in somewhat blunt language. The situation is borderline absurd (of all things, a large bull, sitting placidly between a man and his salvation)and borderline sublime in its simplicity. The tone of the entreaty and the raga are perfectly matched — pleading, without antagonising.

There is a reason Nandanar kept saying “tomorrow”, “tomorrow”. He was not lazy. It just took him a while to work up the courage to go to Chidambaram. As a holy town, it was barred to pariahs like him. So forget about entering the temple, even getting to its vicinity was going to create a god-awful ruckus. The curious case of the bull in the day time at Thirupunkur would be a precursor to the final act in Chidambaram. So what happens in Chidambaram? Nandanar enters a “purificatory” fire (i.e. gets burnt alive) and emerges as a brahmin. The brahmin Nandanar then “merges” with Nataraja (i.e. gets salvation and dies). The caste system is unscathed, the devotee reaches the Lord.

The singer and another song

Jon Higgins was an American from Massachusetts who first began learning Carnatic music at Wesleyan University in the sixties under T. Ranganthan (mridangist) and then came to India on a Fulbright scholarship to learn under T. Viswanathan (flautist) and T. Balasaraswathi (dancer, musician). All three were grandchildren of the great Veena Dhanammal. He was also influenced by Ramnad Krishnan, and his style perhaps reflected both his antecedents and his training in the Dhanammal school — fairly minimalist, with a focus on bringing out the emotive apeeal of a raga. He was unfortunately killed by a drunk driver while out on a morning walk in the US, sometime in 1984.

He was embraced by the Carnatic world and soon called “Bhagvatar” Jon Higgins out of affectionate respect. He was once told that he must have been a Tamilian in his past life, to have emerged as such a proficient Carnatic musician in this one, with scant traces of his American accent in his renditions. To which he said “maybe, but do not forget the hundreds of hours I have spent learning Tamil in this lifetime”.

He was well known for his rendition of Krishna Nee Begane Baro, a song in Kannada, by Vyasaraya, the 15th-16th century Dvaita philosopher, poet and influential spiritual patron to Krishna Deva Raya and the Vijayanagara empire. There is a story of Higgins at the famed Sri Krishna temple at Udupi. Apparently he was not allowed in, as he was a foreigner. So, much like Nandanar, he sang from outside the temple (he sang Krishna Nee Begane Baro). His luck was better than Nandanar’s. The priests, dumbstruck, allowed him in.

Like all devotees, Higgins likely had his first viewing of the Krishna idol through a small hole in the wall known as the Kanakana Kindi or Kanaka’s Window. Perhaps he even sang his song from outside this peephole, which would have been deliciously apt. The window is named after Kanaka Dasa, another 16th century Dvaita saint, and a follower of Vyasaraya. He was an ardent devotee of Krishna, but being of a lower caste was not allowed in the temple. On a visit to Udupi, he made himself comfortable in a small hut outside the temple walls, singing songs in praise of Krishna. One can imagine Krishna Nee Begane Baro was a part of his repertoire. The story goes that overnight, there was an earthquake and a small crack developed in the temple wall. And Kanaka Dasa had his darshan, from outside. Rather than covering it up, the powers that be created a small window and to this day, everyone visiting the temple first view the idol through Kanaka’s window before entering the main temple.

So there we have it — two devotees — Nandanar and Kanaka Dasa — almost a millenium apart, barred from entering temples by virtue of their birth. Both singing in devotion. Both getting their view of their Lords. Both results brought about by miracles. And in both instances, the Lord finding it easier to move stone than to change hearts or minds, daring not to mess with caste. Both one-off special cases that did not set a precedent. Thousands of out-castes did not followed Nandanar through the gates of Chidambaram the next day. In Udupi, at the Sri Krishna temple, priests who passed by Kanakana Kindi every day seemed not to have internalized its significance even in the 1980s, again barring a man from entering, by virtue of his birth.

The solution found for Nandanar was less than ideal, but in its defence it was a product of its times. Nandanar himself was reluctant to bend the rules of caste. It could even be argued with some credibility that the Nandanar’s narrative is a progressive one. But what of today? Both cows and “outcastes” are back in the news. There has been a spate of anti-Dalit violence over the last year, especially in the wake of newly stringent laws banning cattle trade and cattle slaughter. The big difference is that while Nandanar was rewarded with salvation for playing by the rules, Dalits these days are lynched for doing precisely that. The cow continues to lie in the way of the pariah. By what miracle, by which song, and by whom will he be saved this time?

Post-script — the use of the word “pariah”

Most Carnatic singers have replaced the word “parayan” in the song with the word “elai” which means poor or something akin to deprived. So the Anupallavi now translates to “In spite of being poor and a sinner, I have made my way to this town.” This is completely misguided. The motive seems to be to able to perform the song without having to even acknowledge that caste is the central theme of the song, or indeed, in the story of Nandanar. This is like trying to watch porn, but without the sex parts. Surprisingly, even TM Krishna has sung this song having made this replacement, but the recording I have heard of him doing this is from 1999. I wonder how he would sing it today. He has written in favour of purging the word pariah from the English language. My guess is that he will avoid singing the song altogether.