Vocal: Vid. TMKrishna
Violin: Vid. HKVenkatram
Mridanga: Vid. KArunPrakash
Khanjira: Vid. SunilKumar
01 shankari nIve bEgaDe rUpaka subbarAya shAstri
02 rAga tAna pUrvikalyANi MukhAri
03 chinna nADenA chEyi kalAnidhi Adhi tyAgarAja
04 karnATaka dEvagAndhAri AlApane
05 shrI tuLasamma mayinta nelakonavamma dEvagAndhAri Adi tyAgarAja
06 shankaram sharanAgata vatsalam kannaDa gAndhAra Adi RKSK (A, N, S, T)
07 sAvare aijiyyo yamunA kinAre miSra khamAj mIra bhajan
08 enna thavam shaidhanai kApi Adhi pApanAsham shivan
09 vaishNava janatO Mishra khamAj Adi Narsi Mehta
A Mesmerising Evening of Musical Conversation
There are concerts that one listens to, and then there are concerts that one experiences. The concert by T. M. Krishna, with H. K. Venkatram on violin, K. Arun Prakash on mridangam and Sunil Kumar on the Khanjira, belonged unmistakably to the latter category. It was a deeply absorbing evening in which music seemed to unfold organically, without the feeling of being driven towards a predetermined destination. The four musicians brought together formidable musical experience, individuality and sensitivity, resulting in a performance that was both intellectually stimulating and emotionally compelling. For a rasika, it was the kind of concert in which one gradually stops keeping track of time and simply surrenders to the music.
The opening “Shankari Neeve” in Begada, composed by Subbaraya Shastri and set to Rupaka tala, immediately established the character of the evening. Begada is a raga whose personality can be easily diminished when approached merely as a collection of familiar phrases. In the hands of a sensitive musician, however, its unmistakable grandeur, grace and slightly elusive character emerge naturally. The opening kriti provided a dignified entry into the concert, and the choice of Subbaraya Shastri was itself a lovely reminder of the extraordinary richness of the Carnatic compositional tradition beyond the most frequently performed repertoire.
What followed was a substantial exploration of Purvikalyani, with raga and tana, followed by Tyagaraja's “Chinna Nadena Cheyi” in Kalanidhi, set to Adi tala. The transition from the evocative world of Begada to the expansive emotional territory of Purvikalyani gave the concert an entirely different dimension. Purvikalyani has a naturally searching quality; it can sound luminous one moment and intensely introspective the next. The raga-tana presentation provided the first major opportunity for the evening to breathe expansively, and the subsequent kriti brought the music back from abstraction into the structured world of composition.
The concert then entered one of its most rewarding phases with the Karnataka Devagandhari alapana. This was followed by Tyagaraja's “Sri Tulasamma Mayinta Nelakonavamma” in Karnataka Devagandhari, set to Adi tala. The choice was exquisite. Karnataka Devagandhari possesses a distinctive emotional fragrance, and its appeal lies partly in the subtlety of its identity. It does not demand attention through sheer dramatic force; rather, it draws the listener inward through its gentle, poignant contours. The alapana and the kriti together formed a particularly satisfying musical pairing, allowing the raga to be encountered first in its unrestrained melodic form and then through the composer's carefully fashioned creation.
One of the pleasures of a concert of this calibre is noticing how deliberately the musical landscape changes without ever feeling fragmented. The movement from Karnataka Devagandhari to Kannada Gandhara created precisely such a moment. Another alapana opened up this distinctive raga, followed by “Shankaram Sharanagata Vatsalam” in Kannada Gandhara, an Adi tala composition of R. K. Srikantan's repertoire. Here again, the choice was compelling. Instead of relying entirely on the familiar raga-kriti combinations that dominate many concert programmes, the presentation gave space to less routinely encountered musical colours.
Kannada Gandhara, with its unusual melodic personality, seemed particularly well suited to a concert that valued exploration and listening rather than predictability. The juxtaposition of the two alapana segments—Karnataka Devagandhari and Kannada Gandhara—was one of the programme's most thoughtful features. They demonstrated how two comparatively less commonplace raga worlds can create very different shades of emotion and atmosphere. It was a reminder that the Carnatic tradition is at its most fascinating when its vast repertoire is allowed to breathe.
The tani avartanam that followed brought the rhythmic dimension of the concert into sharp focus. With K. Arun Prakash on mridangam and Sunil Kumar on Khanjira, the percussion combination had an impressive breadth of sonic possibility. The tani was not merely an interlude between the main musical sections; it represented the independent vitality of laya within the larger architecture of the concert. The rhythmic dialogue between mridangam and Khanjira added another layer to an evening that had already moved through several contrasting melodic landscapes.
The post-tani portion took an entirely different turn with the Mirabai bhajan “Savare Aijiyyo Yamuna Kinare” in Mishra Khamaj. This was a particularly natural transition. After the density and sophistication of the preceding Carnatic presentation, the bhajan opened up a more direct devotional space. Mishra Khamaj, with its graceful mixture of classical structure and expressive accessibility, provided an ideal vehicle for this shift. The atmosphere became more intimate, and the devotional character of the composition allowed the music to communicate without the need for elaborate musical architecture.
Then came Papanasam Sivan's “Enna Tavam Seithanai” in Kapi, in Adi tala. This was perhaps one of those moments where the familiar can become newly meaningful. Kapi is a raga of extraordinary emotional versatility, and Papanasam Sivan's composition carries an unmistakable devotional tenderness. Coming after the Mirabai bhajan, the choice created a beautiful continuity of bhava. The concert had moved from the sophisticated architecture of raga and tala towards the more direct language of devotion, but without compromising musical depth.
The final item, “Vaishnava Janato” in Mishra Khamaj, set to Adi tala and attributed to Narsi Mehta, brought the evening to a deeply evocative close. The placement of this bhajan at the conclusion felt particularly apt. It did not attempt to end the concert with a spectacular flourish; instead, it left the listener in a contemplative and devotional space. The final impression was therefore not one of exhaustion after a long musical journey, but of having arrived somewhere quiet and inward.
What made the concert particularly memorable was the way T. M. Krishna's musical personality interacted with the exceptional calibre of his accompanists. H. K. Venkatram is an accompanist with a remarkable ability to inhabit the music rather than merely follow it. The violin becomes a conversational voice, capable of reflecting, complementing and enriching the central melodic line. K. Arun Prakash brings to the mridangam an extraordinary combination of authority and sensitivity, while Sunil Kumar's khanjira added a complementary rhythmic colour to the ensemble.
But perhaps the most important quality of the evening was its sense of musical freedom. There was no impression that the concert was simply moving through a checklist of items. Each raga and composition seemed to have its own space and character. Begada gave way to Purvikalyani; Purvikalyani yielded to Kalanidhi; Karnataka Devagandhari opened another window; Kannada Gandhara offered a less familiar but fascinating landscape; and the final sequence gradually moved towards the devotional intimacy of Mishra Khamaj and Kapi.
This is where Krishna's approach to concert-making becomes particularly engaging. The programme did not seem designed merely to satisfy expectations. Instead, it invited the listener to travel with the musicians. Familiarity and discovery sat comfortably beside each other. The compositions were not simply vehicles to be crossed off a list; they became points of entry into different emotional and musical worlds.
There was also something wonderfully unhurried and contemplative about the overall progression. Even where the music was technically demanding, the larger experience remained spacious. That spaciousness is precious in a concert setting. It allows the rasika to listen not only to the notes but also to the silences, the pauses, the transitions and the subtle changes in mood. The music acquires a life beyond the printed programme.
The programme itself deserves appreciation for its imaginative curation. Beginning with Subbaraya Shastri and moving through Purvikalyani, Kalanidhi, Karnataka Devagandhari, Kannada Gandhara and finally into the world of Mirabai, Papanasam Sivan and Narsi Mehta, it presented Carnatic music not as a rigid succession of standardised items but as a living continuum. There was tradition here, but there was also curiosity. There was scholarship, but there was also spontaneity. Most importantly, there was bhava.
For me, the concert was an unequivocal 10/10 listening experience. The rating is not simply a comment on technical excellence—which, at this level of musicianship, almost goes without saying. It is a reflection of something more difficult to quantify: the ability of music to hold one's attention completely, to provoke thought, to evoke emotion and ultimately to leave a residue that remains long after the final note has disappeared.
A memorable concert need not necessarily overwhelm. Sometimes its greatness lies in the manner in which it quietly occupies the mind. This evening did exactly that. The ragas continued to linger, the compositions acquired renewed resonance, and the interplay between melody and rhythm remained vivid in memory.
In an age where the temptation can sometimes be to measure a concert by the number of items, the length of an alapana or the brilliance of a particular swara sequence, this performance offered a more enduring measure: Did the music make you listen? Did it make you feel? Did it make you think? Did it leave you wanting to hear it again?
The answer, unequivocally, was yes.
It was a rich, refined, evocative and deeply satisfying evening of Carnatic music—one where four accomplished musicians created not merely a concert, but a sustained musical conversation. And for those fortunate enough to have been present, it was the kind of evening that one does not simply remember as having attended; one remembers it as having lived through the music.
