When a measure like demonetization that affects all people comes into play, you can be sure it will be factored into films in a variety of ways in the times to come. Film is a mass medium and a mass happening is certain to find echoes in it. In fact, the very first demonetization in India that took place in 1946 figures brilliantly in a little known film of the period. The film, ‘Vijayalakshmi’, flopped when it was released, but ironically it is perhaps the only film of 1946 to have survVijayalakshmi.jpgived seventy turbulent years since it saw the light of day! 

Though named eponymously after its female protagonist, the film is dominated by the avaricious father-in-law Ganapathi Iyer, who finds his Nemesis in the demonetization of thousand rupee notes. In a superbly crafted climax that is based on superimpositions, unconventional camera angles and evocative music, the character that marries the religiosity of the priestly class with the greed of the loan shark finds superb evocation.

Based on a Marathi stage play, Bandaachi Soon, written by playwright Sri Ganesh Krishna Shastri Pathak,  Vijayalakshmi was directed by the veteran filmmaker P. Pulliah, most famous for directing N.T.Rama Rao in the iconic mythological Sri Venkateswara Mahatyam (1960). Ironically, Vijayalakshmi is on the other end of the spectrum, being for most part a delightful vehicle of cinematic realism that presents credible characters and situations.  

B.R. Panthulu, known more as producer director of seminal films like Veerapandiya Kattabommon, Kappalottiya Thamizhan, Karnan and Aayirathil Oruvan, if not for his essay of the role of ‘School Master’, excels himself in a riveting portrayal of greed. With the varied palette of a practised actor, he brings facial expressions, as well as mannerisms of speech and gait to make the character of the miserly Ganapathi  come alive.

After his religiously conducted Lakshmi Puja, which is more a gloating over accumulated riches in his iron safe than any devotion to the goddess of wealth and prosperity, Ganapati Iyer receives a letter from his son Ramu. He begins to utter mournful cries learning that Ramu has resigned his job.  Questioned by his anxious wife, he says, ‘Praanan Poana Enna, Panam Poana Enna, Rendum Onnu thaanedi’ (Losing money is akin to losing one’s life), underlining his philosophy of life with the skewed equation that wealth equals  life !

This immediately leads to exploitation and ill-treatment of women, of course with the complicity of other women, as is to be expected in a patriarchal society with scant respect for the rights or feelings of women.  Prodded by his wife, Ganapati Iyer sends his daughter-in-law packing to her father’s place so that he can make more money getting his son married a second time. ‘’A two-stringed gold necklace, all the silver ware, and 10,000 as dowry for the second marriage. I can put away another 15,000 rupees in my safe,’’ he chuckles happily, gloating over future acquisitions! Note hungry Ganapati is of the kind that invites the woes of demonetization!

Even at the outset, the film juxtaposes Ganapati Iyer’s worship of material wealth (Lakshmi in a sense) with the joy and gaiety of heroine Vijayalakshmi (M.V.Rajamma, the super mother of later years), suggesting that a worthy woman is truly more valuable than material things a man may possess. That this constitutes the denouement of the film, speaks of the thoughtful way the film has been structured all through. Did not Pudovkin lay down that editing is the foundation of film technique! 

The year 1946 was a challenging one for the film industry with famine conditions prevailing in certain parts of the then Madras Presidency and the introduction of 12 ounce ration of rice. The demonetisation of 500, 1000 and 10,000 notes also hit the money bags financing the film industry as it did the stars who received part of the payment in black. Though the introduction of prohibition in 8 districts of the Presidency made it seem that favourable conditions had been created for the film trade, there was actually little enthusiasm at the box office.

It was under such dismal conditions that a band of filmmakers like Pullaiah (director), B.R.Panthulu (lead actor), A.T.Krishnaswami (dialogue writer and director), G.Govindarajulu Naidu (music director), among others, got together to make a distinctive film like ‘Vijayalakshmi’. It turned out to be an excellent film, but bombed at the box office. It has also escaped the notice of the chroniclers of Tamil cinema till now, but still lives to tell a tale!


(The writer is a historian of Tamil cinema and author of several books on the subject)

(A version of this article appeared in the columns of Times of India)





In the context of the literature Noble to Bob Dylan for the lyrical content of his songs, it is pertinent to ask whether Tamil film songs have any literary value. But there is an obvious difference between Dylan’s oeuvre and Tamil film song in general. Bob Dylan was a counter-culture icon, who apart from being his own song writer, music composer and performer had great freedom to be individually expressive. The film lyricist, on the other hand, works to a commission….he is writing for a situation which for most part is pedestrian and clichéd. He is hemmed down by tunes to which he has to write to. No wonder train-loads of Tamil film songs are not worth the paper of which they are written though they too in some mindless way reflect the preoccupation of their times!

Tamil cinema has for long been influenced by the traditions of the professional Tamil stage. Sankaradas Swamigal was a doyen of the Tamil stage in its golden period. His song-filled scripts proved to be the template for numerous drama troupes and schooled actors in the cadences of Tamil diction, in epic mythology and the expression of dramatic situation and feeling through song.

 Actors like MGR and Sivaji Ganesan grew up in such a tradition, and though they learnt realistic acting styles while enacting novels of the day, they were alive to the indigenous song-filled tradition. This explains why Sankaradas’s ‘Kaayaadha Kaanagathe’, sung by Muruga when he appears before the tribal belle Valli as a hunter in search of a deer, was delivered by a cavalcade of actors on stage, and also reprised on screen by T.R.Mahalingam, Sivaji Ganesan and  Vijayakanth. Does this persistence across film eras make ‘Kaayadha Kaanagathe’ literature?

Papanasam Sivan, pre-eminent composer-lyricist of the opening decades of Tamil cinema, honed some of the evergreen songs of the thirties and forties. His ‘Radhe Unakku Kobam Aaagadhadi’ was Thyagaraja Bhagavathar’s first hit, it launched T..M.Sounderarajan’s singing career in the late forties and later had Sivaji miming to it in Kulamagal Raadhai (1963).  Sivan’s ‘Manmadha Leelaiyai Vendraarundo’ has gone on to become a proverbial saying. Not literature?

With Tamil Nadu’s heady mix of cinema and politics and Tamil cinema’s penchant for mass heroes as well as melodramatic and escapist fare, intellectuals are entitled to turn up their noses regarding any claims of creativity in general and of literary worth in Tamil film song in particular. Modern poet Gnanakoothan didn’t hide his disdain for film songs and flayed them for crudity and butchery of lyrics at the altar of music. Acclaimed novelist Vannanilavan finds only a line or two of literary value even in the best of songs of Kannadasan.  Bharatidasan, the poet of the self-respect movement, wrote the songs for some films initially, but considered it infra dig. Poet Abdul Rahman famously put down film lyricists with the jibe, ‘Ammi Kutha Sirpi Yedharkku’ (No need for a sculptor to roughen the surface of a grinding stone). He later changed his opinion and affirmed that film lyrics also are a kind of poetry.

There is also the fact that a reputed writer like Jayakanthan wrote film songs. His ‘Thennan Keetru Oonjalile’ , sung by PBS and S. Janaki under the baton of M.B.Srinivasan is one of the greatest melodies of Tamil cinema. His ‘Kandadhai Sollugiraen’ (anthem of a modern writer who bears witness to his times) and ‘Veru Idam Thedippovaalo’ (angst-filled cry of a rape survivor) for the celluloid version of his own novel, ‘Sila Nerangalil Sila Manidhargal’. are very meaningful songs. Do they qualify as literature? Famed novelist Kalki Krishnamurthy came up with ‘Kaatrinile Varum Geetham’ for M.S.Subbulakshmi’s Meera, and it turned out to be not only her best but also one of the most entrancing songs of all time!

Most common folk who affirm Tamil film song’s literary worth mostly give one name, Kannadasan! Whether it’s a love song (Naan Pesa Ninaippadhellaam), inspiring anthem (Adho Andha Paravaippola) or patriotic song (‘Naadu Adhai Naadu’, ‘Pani padarndha Malaiyin mele’) and songs reflecting a variety of human predicaments from birth to death, Kannadasan set the bench mark for excellence. Vali came a second but was oftentimes chagrined to be mistaken for the former!

Vairamuthu, fresh from his popularity as a ‘new poetry’ performer in Kavi Arangams, debuted with a bang with ‘Oru Pon Maalai Pozhudhu’. He holds the record of winning the National Film Award for Best Lyric six times. Lyrical excellence?

In times of ‘Kolaiveri’ lambasted by judges, social activists and lay people for breeding misogyny and violence in the youth , the late and lamented Na. Muthukumar kept the flag of poetic creativity flying. But did he have the musical support that somebody like Kannadasan could boast of?

Kannadasan lived in times when there were music composers like MSV and K.V.Mahadevan who were supremely alive to the nuances and rhythms of the lyric. While MSV claimed that the words themselves yielded the tune, KVM insisted that lyric came first every time. Also, most male artistes of Kannadasan’s time came from the stage and were grounded in music even if they did not sing, while female artistes were either dancers or reasonably acquainted with dance. On the other hand, many intellectuals and writers who flay film lyrics don’t understand that the film lyric cannot  be prised out of its musical and cinematic setting.

The question of the literary worth of film songs is a contentious one, but it is also a fact that texts accepted as literature have been beautifully presented in Tamil cinema. Bharati’s ‘Chinnanchiru Kiliye Kannamma’, tuned by the genius C.R.Subburaman for ‘Manamagal’, has gone on to become a famous Carnatic song. Bharati’s songs have been used many times from 1935 to this day. From snatches of Silappadhikaram to verses of the Divya Prabandham and Thevaram and songs of Tiruppugazh, many a literary piece has been meaningfully popularized in films. Who can forget T.M.Soundararajan’s flawless rendering of Arunagirinathar’s ‘Muthai Tharu Paththi’ with all its percussive flight and intricate interweaving of words. While occasionally film song does indeed boast of some literary merit, or at least a touch of it, now and then what is accepted as literature also becomes a winning film song!


(The writer is a historian of Tamil cinema and a lyricist himself).

(This article was published in the Chennai edition of Times of India)

Na. Muthukumar 1Vamanan

‘Here lies one who sought to rescue Tamil cinema song from the clutches of cliché by embracing lyricism’ might as well be the epitaph to Na.Muthukumar. There was something in the song and personality of this utterly unpretentious song writer that seemed to bring a redemptive touch to film songs. Whether it was a father’s ecstatic outburst (‘Ananda Yaazhai Meettugiraay’) for his young daughter in Ram’s Thanga Meengal (2013), or a young girl’s dainty ode to beauty (‘Azhage Azhage Ellaam Azhage’) in A.L. Vijay’s Saivam (2014), Muthukumar’s sensitive lines seemed to be the silver lining to the ominous clouds of the Kolaveri season! Both ‘Ananda Yaazhai’ and ‘Azhage Azhage’ had fetched national awards for the poet, but his shockingly premature passing at the height of his creativity seems to have set the clock back decisively.

There was little of the grasping cinema upstart or social climber in Muthukumar’s rise. Despite  initial heartaches, his soaring career in the film world was informed by camaraderie. He had celebrated the warmth of family and friends in a series of articles titled ‘Anilaadum Munril’ (Squirrels in the Courtyard) in a popular weekly.  He hailed from a village near Kancheepuram and had fond memories of the bonds and affections of rural life and joint families despite having lost his mother as an infant.

Glued to books from childhood by the influence of his teacher father, Muthukumar completed his post graduation in Tamil in Chennai and even took up doctoral research into Tamil film songs. He later joined Balu Mahendra as assistant director.  As the Tamil tradition of keeping every occasion with song was ingrained in him, Muthukumar soon found his poesy getting the better of his love of film technique! He thought of himself as a sensitive poet who must keep the flag of creativity flying despite commercial cinema’s weakness for kitsch.

Not that Muthukumar didn’t have his moments of superficiality. He could sometimes lapse into juvenile joustings as in ‘Mutham Kodutha Maayakkaari, Un Lippu Enakku Paani Puri’ (Adhik Ravichandran’s Trisha Illainna Nayanthara), but could  add  fizz to a catchy bar song like ‘Vaada Va Machi’ (DeMonte Colony for composer Keba Jeremiah) with Omar Khayyam-like intimations of the desi variety. ‘As life is like a match stick that doesn’t gets lit when wet, make the most of every moment!’

In his first song for Yuvan Shanker Raja with whom he struck his most significant and prolific partnership, Muthukumar would plumb his knowledge of Tamil literary genres in ‘Oar Aayiram Yaanai Kondraal Parani’ (Nandha 2001), referring to the criterion of a king having to kill a thousand elephants in war for a war panegyric  (‘Parani’) to be written about him. Bala’s Nandha was a trenchantly tragic tale of crime and punishment, and one wonders how much of Muthukumar’s lines and their musical and vocal mounting measure up to it, but the lyricist’s distinctive approach is discernable.  A decade later, Bala had Muthukumar write all the songs for his quirky comedy, ‘Avan Ivan’.

In Selvaraghavan’s ‘Kaadhal Konden’ (2003), a love story teetering on the psychopathic, Muthukumar’s ‘Devadhaiyai Kanden’, again for Yuvan, imaginatively fleshed out the romantic fixation growing in the mind of a challenged introvert. In the same director’s 7G Rainbow Colony (2004), the visual of the tragic hero being a marginalised and devastated entity in his dead sweetheart’s funeral is matched by Muthukumar’s oxymoron ‘Nerungi Vilagi’ (close but apart) in ‘Ninaithu Ninaithu Paarthaen, Nerungi Vilagi Nadanthaen’. It is this uncanny ability to sum up life’s bitter ironies in simple day-to-day words that made Muthukumar a director’s song writer.  In his 16 year career of a reckoned 1500 songs, he found friends who would give him the opportunity to write freely. His ability to parse the ubiquitous and almost hackneyed used of romance in Tamil films with interesting colours and shades was one of the reasons for his success.

In ‘Papanasam’ (2015), Ghibran’s bouncy western projection notwithstanding, Muthukumar’s ‘Yeya En Kottikaara’, recalls Kannadasan’s hit, ‘Muthukulikka Vaariala’, if only in the use of regional dialect. In Kaakaa Muttai (2015), in ‘Po Po Vaazhve Kaakka Muttaithaan’, Muthukumar’s lines for G. V. Prakash’s chirpy number paint the triumph of the human spirit in the squalor of a Chennai slum. His nostalgic celebration of a rustic childhood spent playing in the sun, in Vasanthabalan’s Veyil, ( ‘Veyilodu Vilaiyaadi’, 2006) is a marvellous montage brilliantly marshalled. This is a facet that we see in his collections of poetry too.

Muthukumar would categorise songs and poetry as either emotional or intellectual saying that he always aimed at the former. And in keeping with the art of his role model Kannadasan, Muthukumar sought to express himself vulnerably in the most childlike words he could dredge into his consciousness. How Muthukumar longed to spread his lyrical wings like Kannadasan, whose ‘Ninaikkadherindha Maname’ and ‘Kanne Kalaimane’ brought warm tears of joy in his crystalline moments of inebriation! But though as a lyric writer Muthukumar had the sensitivity both to ideas and music to write memorably, he was functioning at a time when the lyric was only one more element in the musical ensemble, not the queen as in earlier musical dispensations. But despite that, Muthukumar managed to leave his individual stamp.

Muthukumar, who had the uncanny ability of dipping his poetic brush in the palette of life’s living moments, wrote in ‘Azhage Azhage’, that not only a blossoming flower but also a falling leaf has beauty. Leaves can fall in autumn, but why would life’s blossoming flower wither in springtime, and that at 41?

(An edited version of this article appeared in the Times of India, Chennai)


There are two things that the film world banks upon : luck, without which nothing succeeds, and talent, without which not a frame moves forward meaningfully. Panchanathan Arunachalam, popularly known as Panchu Arunachalam, had cartloads of luck for a great length of his career as a lyricist. which started in the early sixties, and as a script writer,  which kicked off in the early seventies.

panju arunachalam

Panchu – photo by Vamanan

For one, it was given only to him to open the doors through Annakili (1976) to the maestro of a thousand films and also benefit from the connection!  Again, it was given only to a very few like Panchu to make meaningful story-based films with Rajinikanth like Aarilirundhu Arupadhuvarai (1979) and Engeyo Ketta Kural (1982), as they were early birds in the latter’s skyrocketing career as a super star!

As for talent, Panchu had the ability to write successful screenplays for films covering a gamut of genres from comedy (Kalyanaraman 1979) to action (Murattu Kaalai 1980),  melodrama (Bhuvana Oru Kelvi kuri 1977) and crime thriller (Gayathri 1977). Novels, rarely known to translate into successful films in Tamil cinema, became money spinners when Panchu wrote the screenplay : Sujatha’s Priya (1978) is an example.  Incidentally, it was with Panju’s songs for Priya that Tamil cinema turned to stereophonic  sound.

Luck in fact, had ironically played truant in Panchu’s younger days. Panju’s father Kannappan, like the latter’s younger brothers film producer A.L.Srinivasan and Kannadasan, had been adopted by rich parents. But as destiny would have it, Kannappan’s foster parents died prematurely and he was deprived of his due by their scheming relatives.  Young and sensitive Panchu detested being treated as a poor cousin in the well-to-do Nagarathar community and was determined to succeed in life. His coming to Chennai to work in uncle Kannadasan’s publication,  ‘Thendral’ was the first step in that direction.

Playing amanuensis to Kannadasan as he fitfully did the rounds of film companies weaving masterful  lyrics even for pedestrian films, Panju imbibed the art of lyric writing. Panchu had some magical songs of his own like Manamagale Marumagale Vaa Vaa, which is sung in light music programmes in marriages to this day, as well as Ponnezhil Poothadhu and Pooppola Pooppola Pirakkum.  But Panchu’s native intelligence made him realize that with a colossus like Kannadasan around and Vali coming a close second, he would not go places as a lyric writer.

It was then that Panchu decided to market himself as a script writer banking  on his voracious reading of fiction and ability to spin believable stories.  A series of small budget films, either breezy comedies (Ungal Viruppam, 1974) or cautionary melodramas (Mayangugiraal Oru Maadhu) with catchy songs (Vijay Bhaskar) and likeminded technicians came as a whiff of fresh air in a scene dominated by Sivaji and MGR. Annakili was a dark horse that went on to hit the jackpot with the utterly uplifting musical magic of Ilayaraja. Panchu’s gambit of giving Ilaiyaraja his debut film had paid off!

Ilaiyaraja’s rise, which synchronized with a tidal change in Tamil cinema, meant that the Panchu brand was acquiring more shine. His songs were now ruling the waves (Kaatrinile Varum Geetham and Paruvame Pudhiya Paadal Paadu) and his screenplays were being lapped up. The prolific director S.P.Muthuraman swore by Panchu. With the AVM brothers raring to go after the pause created by the passing of Studio Patriarch A.V. Meiyyappan, Panchu (dialogues and screenplay) along with S.P.Muthuraman (direction) was in the cockpit to direct the course of the Studio’s films.

Panchu and Muthuraman, along with the AVM brothers would also play a crucial role in the marketing of  Rajinikanth and Kamalahasan as mass heroes in massive hits like Murattu Kaalai, Sakalakalavallan (1982) and Paayum Puli (1983). This period, which saw Panchu working for many Rajinikanth and Kamalahasan films,  also signalled his rise  as a successful producer with films like Thambikku Endha Ooru (1984) and Guru Sishyan (1988).

In 1987, Panchu sort of declared war on directors whom he charged with wasting time and resources without proper planning. He became his own director and wielded the baton for four films, of which  ‘Pudhuppaattu’ (1990) was under the Ilayaraja Creations banner. Panchu’s iconic P.A.Art Productions  shone again with his script for Rajinikanth’s ‘Veera’ in 1994. But as the years went by, the failures that came home to roost constricted his resources as well as his living style.


(The author is a Tamil film music historian and author of many books on Tamil cinema)

(A version of this article appeared in the Times of India, Chennai)


With the Vietnam war tearing up not only Vietnam but also public opinion in the US, it was to be expected that Vietnam became a synonym for discord and strife. But back in the late sixties, it was left to school drop out K. Sundaram to immediately tap the symbolism by naming his play on a family divided against itself as ‘Vietnam Veedu’! His audience in the amateur drama circuit in Madras consisted of the urban middle class who were avid newspaper readers bombarded by headlines of  the war in the Southeast Asian country.  In the event, the play and the film that followed were so successful that Sundaram came to be known as ‘Vietnam Veedu’ Sundaram!

There was something of the then smouldering Vietnam in Sundaram himself. Son of a lawyer in Tiruchi, Sundaram’s turbulent adolescence was marred by a disastrous academic record and dismally low self esteem. He once remarked that he had the appearance of a figure in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Sundaram’s anxious mother took him to Reverend Lourdes Xavier of the Immaculate Conception church at Poondi, near Thanjavur. The latter’s assurance that the boy would make good though without any formal education came as some reassurance to both mother and son. Sundaram later returned the favour to the kind Padre with Gnana Oli, a stage play based loosely on Les Miserables and featuring Major Sundarrajan. Sivaji Ganesan played the protagonist in the celluloid version shot prominently in and around the Poondi church.

Sundaram’s chance entry upon his arrival at Mambalam, into Clubhouse, iconic haven of film world aspirants like Nagesh, Vali and Srikanth, was providential. His meeting with thespian Y.G.Parthasarathy, whose association stirred up his passion for the stage was equally serendipitous. After being asked to push Parthasarathy’s broken down car to his house, Sundaram returned on invitation in the evening only to become a junior member of his dramatic troupe!

Initially Sundaram had wanted to be an actor….perhaps a comedian in keeping with the mocking and dismissive disdain everybody treated him with. It was the veteran comedian T.S.Durairaj who identified Sundaram’s métier and asked him to concentrate on writing. Working night shifts as a tyre inspector in an industrial unit, Sundaram did the dramatic rounds in the day and soon caught the eye of none other than ‘Puratchi Nadigar’ MGR. Sundaram had written the play for the factory’s first anniversary which was presided over by MGR. The impressed star wanted the playwright to come on stage and not only predicted that he would go places but also recommended him to topnotch film companies like Devar Films and Padmini Pictures. Sundaram’s participation in the story department of such production companies improved his rock-bottom finances apart from teaching him how to write for films.

There is some fortuitousness again in the manner in which Sundaram’s Vietnam Veedu-tale based on his own father’s fixation for family prestige, reached the portals of Sivaji Ganesan, then a shining star whose name had become synonymous with histrionics. When Sundaram did really reach the Presence, Sivaji glanced at the youth and remarked, ‘Your shirt is bigger than your frame’.  Sundaram responded with, ‘’I am not the master of my own shirt, Sir’’ referring to the fact that the shirt in question was borrowed.

The scope for melodrama that Vietnam Veedu provided tickled Sivaji’s fancy as did the fact that he would be using the Brahmin lingo in a big way for the first time. The dollops of dramatic English lines that Sundaram had larded the dialogues with were an added attraction. Sivaji luxuriated in the glow of Prestige Padmanabhan, and his powerful, if mannered and quirky essay mesmerized stage audiences before holding cinema goers in thrall.

Sundaram’s Gnana Oli and then Gowravam,  part of whose storyline Sundaram had gleaned from Agatha Christie’s ‘Witness for the Prosecution’, gave ample scope for Sivaji to indulge his sweet tooth for grandiose melodrama provided by a megalomaniacal character whose tragedy could have been avoided with a little wisdom. Though he was more at home as a script writer than as a director,  Sundaram wielded the megaphone himself in Gowravam, fortified by Sivaji’s own preference as well as the guidance of ace camera director A. Vincent. Hugely effective songs from the MSV,Kannadasan,TMS combination (Devane in Gnana Oli; Neeyum Naanuma and Palootti Valartha Kili in Gowravam) heightened the tragic dimensions unfolded in Sundaram’s films. He wrote scripts and dialogues for many Sivaji starrers. Even as Sundaram basked in the limelight with his successes for Sivaji, he wrote for MGR in ‘Naan Yen Pirandhaen’ and ‘Naalai Namadhe’, a remake of Yadon ki Baarat.

Realising that he was caught in the image trap of the two titans of Tamil cinema, Sundaram sought some way out. He claimed to have begun the genre of ‘social mytholology’ by showing the workings of divinity in contemporary individuals and situations (Namma Veettu Deivam). Sundaram had a strong religious streak which came out in many films (Devi Sri Karumariamman, Aayiram Kannudaiyal and Navagraha Nayaki among others). But the cake goes to films like Payanam, with its interesting directorial touches, as wells as turns of dialogue and plot in etching the character of a motley assemblage of train passengers.

The small screen provided ample acting opportunities to Sundaram in the evening of his life. But he was also toying with a film based on his mother’s life. He had debuted with his father’s story and  would have come full circle if he had had his way.

(The writer is a historian of Tamil film music and author of several books on Tamil cinema) 

(The above article appeared in Times of India, Chennai edition)

The news of the Magsaysay having been conferred on T.M.Krishna came out this morning. Actually, one could not understand why in the world the award was conferred. He is a singer. If it is for that, then he is a rather very mediocre singer among those singing classical music in Tamil Nadu. No cutcheri of his is worth a second listening. He just delivers what he has learnt. Somewhat like a music instructor belting it out. He doesn’t even deserve to sit in a chair that Sanjay Subramaniam has gotten up from.

But it seems the award has been given for his ‘humanitarian’ activities. If one enquires about the nature of those ‘humanitarian’ activities, they point to his ‘progressive’ articles in the English daily, The Hindu. We are told that he attempts to take music to the poor and less privileged. Hasn’t this ever happened before? Has he made any lasting contribution towards this end? Krishna’s contribution, if any, is having written shallow and strident articles without any deep understanding, by picking up ideas opposed to tradition as well as ‘progressive’ slogans. Gnani’s superficial articles are any day many times better than what Krishna has turned out.

Generally, it is the wont of Brahmins to hop a few feet more in an attempt to mask or pass over their original identity. Those who secretly hide their Brahminism under their armpits generally make shriller sounds. As T.M. Krishna makes such blaring protestations, I have always distrusted him and his The Hindu-Iyengarish background.

Everything I happened to learn about him only reinforced that doubt. He is somebody who has no connection with Tamil cultural mores. He hails from a rich upper class family that has no introduction to Tamil literature and its artistic values. He is an empty vessel that makes noise in public space, in a politically correct vocabulary with an eye on sensationalism.

So, it is his The Hindu background alone that constituted the eligibility for the award. If not for this award, it wouldn’t have been necessary for a person of my calibre to even deign to comment on such an unbefitting person. The conferment of this award is wholly a case of the rich and powerful making internal adjustments to crown one amongst themselves. From here, he may go on to be conferred the Gnanpith for his naive articles. He has the money power and media power to make a bid even for the Noble. In recent times, this (the Magsaysay) has been a moment of much revulsion.


(Translated by Vamanan)

Tamizh Cinemavil Samskrita Ilakkiyam

Published in Dinamalai, Nellai