A Few Distinguished Dancers (

A Few Distinguished Dancers (Part 1)

[[A Few Distinguished Dancers (Part 1) Source: prekshaa]]

There once lived an elderly veśyā who went by the name Sītakka in the Guniguntipalya area of Mulubagilu town. She had a foster daughter. I remember her name to be Ratnāsānī. In those days, the Bharatācārya[1] who lived in our town was a vaidika (a Vedic scholar/someone who follows and practices the Vedic lifestyle), Panasakayala Venkatasubbabhatta. I must have been around seven-eight years of age when I saw him. He was around seventy. He was a respected person in the town’s assembly of connoisseurs. Once, Venkatanarayanabhatta and such other connoisseurs requested Venkatasubbabhatta to perform. I more or less remember the reply given by Venkatasubbabhatta: “Oh come on – I have already turned seventy. My beard and moustache have diminished. Face and body have become weak. Now why are you asking to see me perform? When there is no zeal in the body, performance becomes a parody. Whatever is to be done now, I have to make-do with these … They will not realise it; I will not forget it.

Nīku pāṭham ceppi nāku mānampōya

nīku vaccēlēdu nāku marcēlēdu”

(Having taught you, I lost my honour. You could not get it; I could not forget it)

He would ridicule by interspersing this line in between the song in the Khamaj rāga.

Teaching Method

The house at which he conducted his classes was on the street that I used to take to go to school. In the hallway of the house, on the walls both on the northern side and the southern side, there were pegs that were firmly attached. Ropes were affixed to the pegs and were fastened to the legs of the dance students – like horses being tethered. The purpose of these binds was to ensure that the student neither stepped ahead of the set line nor stepped behind from another set line. In this manner, in order to confine the boundaries of the dancing area, those ropes were arranged.

Even in this kind of a marked area for dancing, the footwork can go wrong, is it not? It would only result in getting hit on the heels.

In order to maintain the rhythm (tāḷa), Venkatasubbabhatta had a plank with him and a stubby piece of wood to hit on it. By maintaining the tāḷa with the said Taṭṭukaṭṭige, he would indicate the movement of the feet of the dancer in this manner:

thei thakka thom – thā thakka thom

tadigiṇa tadigiṇa tom – thā thā thakkiṭṭa thom

By reciting the Śollukaṭṭus (syllables) in this manner, and by striking on the heels, if the dancer’s footwork was incorrect, he would make amends. At times when he got angry – ‘how dare you make a mistake… you…’ saying so he has chided as well. There were times when students would also laugh when he scolded or hit the plank in this manner.

These are merely rudimentary practices in the pedagogy of dance. Abhinaya[2] is far superior to these.

Ratnāsānī

Ratnāsānī was one of the dancers who learnt under the tutelage of Venkatasubbabhatta. The connoisseurs of the town remarked that she had ably learnt the art. Her Gejjepūje ¹ was conducted at the house of my family preceptor, Vedamurti Venkataramabhatta. His house was just across from our house. After the pūjā was completed there in the morning, a dance performance was held in the evening at Śrīmadāñaneyasvāmī temple, in the premises of the Śrī Kodaṇḍarāma temple complex. That night or on a night three-four days later, a festival dedicated to Śrīrāma took place. It was customary that the procession would pass by on the street on which our house lay. It was perhaps because my grandparents were trustees or because the preceptor Venkataramabhatta was the one who performed the Gejjepūje, the procession would halt in front of our house for about fifteen-twenty minutes and I got the opportunity to see the dance performance of Ratnāsānī. Back then, the singers were a few women belonging to the same community. The one who was playing the violin was Naṭuva Mādayya. The person playing the maddaḷe was Naṭuva Sītārāmaiyya, the brother of the aforementioned Sītakka. The song that was being sung at that time was in Khamaj rāga:

sāmbaśivā - yenavē

rajatāgiri – sāmbaśivā yenavē

paramadayā - karuḍanu cū

moraliḍuto – niratamunā

parātparā - śubhākarā

girīśa śaṁ-karā yeni

Ratnāsānī would emote this. The disposition of arms and gestures that she would execute at that time became an indicator of blissful experience in the hearts of the spectators. What became important there was not the limbs of the body but histrionics ² of her gesticulation: the beauty of the disposition of the arms.

……………………………

There were many notable dancers in our town:

1. Bairakūru Venkatalakṣmāsānī 2. The Mother-daughter duo of Jaugupāḷya - Venkatāsānī and Kamalāsānī 3. Sisters – Gaurakka and Padmāvati 4. Tuḷasāsānī 5. Children of Naṭuva Appājayya.

This is the first part of the English translation of the Second essay in D V Gundappa’s magnum-opus Jnapakachitrashaale (Volume 2) – Kalopasakaru. Edited by Arjun Bharadwaj.

Footnotes

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A Few Distinguished Dancers (Part 2)

[[A Few Distinguished Dancers (Part 2) Source: prekshaa]]

Venkaṭalakṣmāsānī

Among the popular dancers of my village, Bairakūru Venkaṭalakṣmāsānī’s dance and histrionics ³ became famous. Apart from the knowledge of music and Bharatanāṭyam, she also possessed some knowledge of literature. She sang and emoted various classical compositions including Jayadeva’s Aṣṭapadi[2] and Kṛṣṇakarṇāmṛta[3]. As a result, esteemed connoisseurs gathered at her residence for playing cards and having casual conversations. Prominent among those who gathered there were Venkatanarayanabhatta, purohita Ramachandracharya, Muniswamacharya - the Tabala player, arcaka Srinivasacharya and such others. My father also often went there.

No one saw her with contempt. Her elder brother, Narayanaswamappa was proficient in musicology as well. I have seen him performing the Suryanamaskāra (salutations to the Sun) every Sunday. After his bath each morning, he applied the sacred mark on his forehead (nāmadhāraṇa); then after having observed the ritual practices with kaḷaśa and having completed the pradakṣiṇa)twelve times, he would consume the tīrtha from the kaḷaśa. It was only after he completed this set of activities every day, he went ahead with other work. During the festivities, every householder (gṛhasta) of the town called Venkaṭalakṣmāsānī to her house to receive arśina-kuṁkuma[4]. Both at my native house as well as at my Guru’s residence, Venkaṭalakṣmāsānī was regarded as a female member of the house just like all other womenfolk.

During my childhood, before offering the dues to the Tirupati temple, Venkaṭalakṣmamma would take me to her house and would sew a flowered cap on my forelocks and braid my hair with jasmine flowers. Besides, saying that the flower decoration she had made would wither, if I was home, she would take me to her house after my dinner and make me stay through the night. The next morning, I was paraded through the market in the town! She would come with me and proudly display her ornamentation.

Venkaṭalakṣmamma was famous for her abhinaya accompanied with singing of the Varṇa[5], ‘Garimāpaṇati’. That apart, I have seen her sing and render dance for many Kannada Jāvaḷis[6]: the Jāvaḷi in the rāga Kānaḍa, ‘kareyē ātana nīnu’ used to be exceedingly alluring.

Kareyē ātana nīnu । kareyē ātananīga ॥ (Pallavi)

kareyē ātananīga । sarasa līlege bēga ॥

haruṣadi baranēke । maretanō avanenna ॥ kareyē …[7]

Songs like these are full of everyday words. The delight was in capturing the obliqueness of tonality between each word, the flourishes, the indications of the eye and the hand gestures. As a result of such flurrying advents, words acquired the nourishment of emotions and the song found fulfilment in expression.

I don’t know where those Kannada Jāvaḷis have disappeared now.

Venkaṭalakṣmamma owned a house and a piece of land. Fine in her appearance; A charming face. Dignity and magnanimity were innate to her.

I remember that on a certain occasion, she performed an Aṣṭapadi in the company of her dear friends. After many years, I got to watch Bengaluru Nāgaratnamma perform for the same Aṣṭapadi. That Aṣṭapadi goes as follows:

yāhi mādhava – yāhi keśava ।

mā vada kaitavavādam ॥

Back then, I did not have enough knowledge to comprehend the rāga in which the song was rendered. Nāgaratnamma sang it in the Mohana rāga. The speciality in that was not mainly in the rāga; it was in the employment of a single word to convey varied emotions. ‘yāhi’ refers to ‘go’. Rādha is asking Kṛṣṇa to leave. However, what is the feel here? Does it mean that he has to be sent afar? Is it suggesting him to come closer? Is it weariness? Is it objection? Is it disappointment? How many different flavours can be brought about just as the heroine as her beloved one to ‘go’. This is an aspect that an experienced connoisseur would know.

1. Go = go far away, do not come near. 2. Go = go chap, I am hurt. 3. Go = go chap, you are a bad person. 4. Go = please do not go

Being able to convey these mutually contradictory emotions arising out of a single term, through facial expressions is a skill. Along with these expressions of the face, indications through sounds such as groaning, work as nourishers of emotion. In that way, emotions get enhanced, thereby the enjoyment is sustained for longer duration. For this reason, in the efforts for preparing the heart, the facial cues and voice modifications have gained prominence. The variations of such indications of the voice, in literature, were given the names such as Vakrokti ⁴. The main intent of histrionics of dance was to awaken the dormant emotions of the heart in the realm of Śṛṅgāra.

Some might argue – this exhilaration of emotions happens even without these tools, is it not? One can feel hungry even without kesari (saffron), paccakarpūra (borneol flakes/edible camphor). But a delectable meal needs aroma. Hurriedly gluttonizing is not a scrumptious meal. Enjoyment is a different subject matter.

Among the Nāyakasānīs that I have discussed, all of them had a fair acquaintance of different forms of music and dance. The tāfe performance of those who went by the name of ‘Appāji’s children’, was endearing to many people. I remember around three or four people who were Appājayya’s children. All of them danced beautifully and were good-looking. One of them was a tad hefty. Appājayya owned a house, a yard and some stretches of cultivated land.

Gauri and Padma – their singing was melodious. Padma was slightly dusky in her complexion. Her voice was awe-inspiring.

Tuḷasāsānī

Of all the women personas that I have seen thus far, if I were to contemplate on Tuḷasāsānī’s appearance, I can claim that there is nothing as appeasing. It was a demure, tranquil beauty. There are several kinds of beauty. Some provoke the heart. Some bring about a frenzy. Some cause increased perversions; while some others bring about a coolness without causing anxiety – calms down a perturbed mind. Our Tuḷasāsānī’s was that kind of a heart-warming form.

Her physique was tall and her height was such that it did not show her proportions as bulky; her face was longer than wide. She was fair in her complexion, but did not appear too pale. It can be said that it was the colour of an elephant’s tusk. She was not someone who donned many ornaments; she was usually found in ordinary clothing.

Her house was on the street which I took to my school. It was about half or three-fourths of a furlong from my house. Once in a while she would call me. Handing me bananas or grapes she would say, “study and become knowledgeable”. She also humoured me a bit, now and then. Sometimes she even combed and braided my hair. I often felt some delight because of her facial expressions and manner of speaking. Now I feel - that is the kind of comfort a child feels when it has gained an affectionate elder sister. She was that kind and loving.

After a few days, she left the town and went elsewhere. An affluent person from the area where gold mining took place – the person doing the contracts there –often visited her house. He used to come on a bicycle. Seventy years back, bicycle was a rare thing and the tycoon’s entry into and exit from the town had attracted the attention of people. I did not hear anything about Tuḷasamma after she went under his patronage. I remember people remarking that a fine lady left the town.

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Concluded.

This is the second part of the English translation of the Second essay in D V Gundappa’s magnum-opus Jnapakachitrashaale (Volume 2) – Kalopasakaru. Edited by Arjun Bharadwaj, Cover Image courtesy - Pooja Subramanya

Don’t miss Prekshaa’s annual book launch at 10 am on Sunday, 8 December at Gokhale Institute of Public Affairs, Bangalore.

Click here to know more!