An umbilical cord, via the airwaves

Ilayaraja: Composer non-pareil

                               

Serendipity

(noun)
The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way: “a fortunate stroke of serendipity”

Like the little girl tumbling down the rabbit hole, in Lewis Carrol’s Alice in Wonderland.

Like me listening to Chennai’s FM channels by chance, that too late at night, bringing me face-to-face (okay, ear-to-ear) with their total dependence on a composer who virtually ruled Tamil cinema in the late 70s and 80s: Gnanadesikan aka Ilayaraaja.

In what can be termed a metro-to-retro makeover in an instant, the channels, which would until late evening churn out the latest chartbusters, seek refuge, en masse, in the hits of the Isaignani, at the stroke of 9. (Those interested in phenomena such as multiple personality disorders have a case study on their hands.) This is in addition to his compositions in recent Tamil releases occupying their fair share of airspace in the pre-9 pm slots (NeethaneEn Ponvasantham, for instance), much like a senior cricketer proving his mettle in the game’s latest avatar, T20.

                                                          

Maestros in medley

Go ahead, say aloud, “Old is gold.”

My chance encounter with the city’s airwaves post 9 pm led to some rather interesting revelations.

One channel (no names, no endorsements!) has a programme laid out, especially for those with aching hearts, doling out drama by the tonne. Respondents either call up or mail experiences of their trysts with love – usually the jilted or spurned – which the RJ reads out in an almost funereal tone, his voice modulated by the mood of the correspondence. A sombre mail usually means a token show of sympathy and reassurance from the radio jockey, followed by the playing of tracks from movies that involve its protagonist grappling with the nuances of love (Think O Priya Priya… from the Nagarjuna starrer Geethanjali; Kuyil pattu… from En Rasavin Manasile). However, if it’s a telephonic conversation, then the RJ plays to the gallery, the dialogues replete with tears, wails and sorrow; putting to shame a Romeo and Juliet or a Devdas.

Oprah, Arnab, are you listening?

Another FM channel is more direct, perhaps seeking the easy way out. The RJ here proceeds methodically, talking about the movie from which the song is, and then its cast, providing enough content that could fill a Wikipedia stub before playing it. Interactions with listeners are limited to announcing the names of respondents and the song requests they have placed for.

With Kollywood biggies Rajinikanth and Kamal Haasan;
Ilayaraja has composed music for many of their movies

Then there are the motley group of channels, that play the Isaignani’s hits back-to-back and fall silent at the stroke of midnight. No comperes, no explanations, no time-fillers.

And then there is the government-owned FM channel that makes amply clear that it belongs to an altogether different planet. Songs are punctuated by breaks of random durations, with the radio-jockeys choosing to make themselves heard as they please, in the midst of government – state and central – ads, from family planning to polio control; in addition to those that stress the nation’s on the road to prosperity. So, the lilting Kuzhaloodhum Kannanukku… or the funky number that begins with a burst of Spanish guitars, Raakkamma Kaiya Thattu… may be interrupted with the ring of a bell, followed by a mechanical, sonorous recitation of the implementation of government schemes, in addition to why it has redefined success.

And we thought Ripley’s ‘Believe it or not’ was screened only on TV.

In one of his hit numbers Ilayaraaja may have likened Tamil Nadu to paradise (Sorgame enralum athu namma oora...); but this musician who began his cinematic career in 1976 with the Tamil film Annakkili has been re-authoring Milton’s “Paradise Regained”, dusk after dusk.