Why Dikshitar Matters Today

By Dr. Gowri Ramnarayan

Youngest of the celebrated Carnatic music trinity he may be, but Muthuswamy Dikshitar (1775-1835) is not the most accessible of composers. In fact, music lovers have come up with graphic similes to highlight his complex stylistics. Tyagaraja’s songs are like the sweet green grapes, they say, to be relished instantaneously. Syama Sastri’s songs demand some effort, for, after all, you have to peel a banana before you taste it! Muthuswamy Dikshitar poses all the challenges of cracking a coconut, with its thick husk and fibrous layers covering the hard shell. Others compare his music to a deep, winding river filled with unexpected depths, currents, and whirlpools.

These fanciful speculations are absolutely in line with the fact that there is little history and loads of hagiography in all the accounts of his life and output available today. However, Dikshitar’s compositions do offer a limited source of authentic information. They record his travels and pilgrimages. They make it clear that though he was ready to worship all the gods in the numerous temples he visited, Muruga was closest to his heart. Why else would he adopt “guruguha” as his mudra, to name himself in all his songs? We also know that his parents, Subbulakshmi and Ramaswamy Dikshitar, belonged to a Saiva Brahmin clan. They named the boy after Muthukumaraswami, their family deity at Vaithiswaran Koil, to whom they had offered prayers and penances in the hope of obtaining a son.  (They went on to have two more sons and a daughter).

I think a bird’s-eye view of his birth and upbringing would help us to see how Dikshitar developed his unique qualities as a composer.

As we know, like his two equally illustrious contemporaries, Muthuswamy was born in Tiruvarur town, in the region greened by the Kaveri. It was from his father, a scholar and music composer of merit, that the boy received his training in music, Sanskrit, Hindu philosophy, mythology, and the scriptures. This was as hidebound and old school as it could get. But a wholly different world opened when the family moved to Manali, near Old Madras, the headquarters of the East India Company in South India.

In Madras, Muthuswamy heard music from another hemisphere. Not just the British military band, but also Irish fiddlers and other European violinists and pianists. Later, he would draw on these experiences to transform French tunes and English reels, as well as the British national anthem, into Sanskrit songs that hailed Hindu gods and goddesses. (Collectively named nottuswaram, this was the first fusion music in the Carnatic genre!)  Meanwhile, brother Baluswamy turned into the pioneer who adapted the Western violin to play Carnatic music. Later, Dikshitar’s disciple Vadivelu was to extend its scope.   

Dikshitar’s life testifies to the fact that the increasing European presence in the region was bringing changes not only in the political arena, but in the cultural sphere as well. Religious proselytizing went hand in hand with the introduction of the foreign arts. British-occupied forts and cantonments brought western music through military bands and small classical orchestras. Indians began to get opportunities to hear the bands marching in parades, along with hitherto unknown instruments such as the piano, clarionet, and violin in chamber concerts. Indian rulers did not hesitate to invite these novel medleys to be showcased in their courts.  

But the political situation was not all song and dance; it remained volatile. The East India Company had entrenched itself in many parts of India. The British were struggling to control peninsular India by defeating the attempts of other equally greedy European countries to colonise the land. Moreover, the British went about reducing the rajas and nawabs ruling the princely states to vassals and puppets. The Anglo-Carnatic Wars brought attrition in wealth and wellbeing to both the king and the commoner. The British developed wily methods of annexation and taxation that steadily depleted the resources of the local peoples. Dikshitar witnessed one of the wealthiest countries of the world being hounded into pauperhood.   

Although the modern concept of nationhood/nationalism was non-existent back then, the country did have a sense of identity. There was more shuttling than we realise – through pilgrim routes from Kashmir to Rameshwaram, and those between the mosques and mausoleums  (memorialising pirs and saints) across the country.  In the south, the Deccan sultanates and the Vijayanagara kingdom had fallen before Dikshitar’s time. Wars, invasions, and other natural and political disasters had driven entire communities to migrate elsewhere.

That is how Tyagaraja and Syama Sastri came to compose in Telugu, the language of their Andhra ancestors who had settled in Tamil Nadu. Telugu had been the court language in Tanjavur, under the rule of the Nayaka kings. Its influence continued even when the Maratha Bhonsles from Chhatrapati Shivaji’s clan replaced the Nayakas. The three supreme composers of Carnatic music were born under King Tulaja’s rule, lived through the reign of Serfoji II, and died when Shivaji, the last Maratha king, was still on the throne. They could not know that the British would soon annex their motherland.   

It seems as though all three handled the economic downslides, social unrest, and political upheavals of their times by seeking refuge in a spiritual quest. Their idea of freedom had little to do with the constraints of material existence. They sought to rise above the din and dissensions of the terrestrial realm through their music. Music could offer solace and freedom. It became their pathway to liberty; ultimate and final.

Dikshitar developed his own path, by tempering bhakti with jnana. His oevre appeals to the music lover who relishes the emotional fervour of devotion, but equally to the erudite scholar who prizes musicianship, metaphysics and Sanskrit poetry.    

Muthuswamy Dikshitar stood out in another respect as well. Syama Sastri hardly stirred from his niche life. Tyagaraja opted to stay in his hometown for the most part, save for a few trips. However, at a time when most people hardly strayed beyond a few miles of their home, Dikshitar turned into an excursionist, a relentless sojourner. This wanderlust might have been ignited by his experiences in Madras, and stoked when he journeyed to distant Varanasi with his guru, Chidambaranātha Yogin.

The five years he spent in Kashi widened his horizons even more. He was learning tattva, sastra, and getting seriously trained in Hindustani music. Legend has it that the guru bid him to dip his arms into the river Ganga before returning home. When Dikshitar obeyed, he found himself holding a veena. This was the instrument embodying knowledge, learning, and wisdom.

Moreover, the veena is valued as the primal source of knowledge in his chosen art – in practice and theory. Perhaps this influenced him to generate his own vision of composing music, where lakshya (theory/technology) would be inseparable from lakshana (performance); where passion would be girded by contemplation; where music and meditation would flow together; and bliss would illuminate peace.

It has also been suggested that Dikshitar actually travelled to Uttarakhand and Kashmir. The evidence?  The Shubhapantuvarali marvel, Sri Satyanarayanam, supposedly rendered before the god in Badrinath. And Kalavati, in the rare raga of the same name, where he calls the goddess Sarasvati “Kashmira vihara”, one who lives in Kashmir. Actually, I know how such stories are generated. Why, when I saw the River Sarasvati at its source between two mountains, gushing through rainbows at lightning speed, I genuinely thought that Dikshitar must have seen what I was gazing at in Mana village, Uttarakhand. How else could he have chosen the perfectly named raga, Vegavahini, for his stunning song, Veenapustakadharini? (It is another thing altogether that I had heard its best rendition in the voices of the doyennes Brinda and Mukta – admittedly, in their characteristically sedate tempo.

Back home in Tamil Nadu, Dikshitar continued his peregrinations through village and town, worshipping different deities in each temple, recording each visit through on-the-spot  compositions. We know how, after his first creative outburst in Tiruttani (Srinaathadi), he went on to compose his most memorable kritis in birthplace Tiruvaiyaru (notably the Kamalamba navavarnam), and the panchalinga gems addressed to the gods of the five elements  Ananda natana prakasam (Chidambaram), Sri Kalahasthisha (Kalahasti) Arunachala natham (Tiruvannamalai),  Chintayama (Kanchipuram), and the inimitable Jambhupate  (Tiruvanaikkaval).  This trend continued through the years.

Jambhupate is quintessential Dikshitar. A network of paradoxes. The structure is menacingly taut, but the pace inches along. The language is dauntingly majestic, but the feeling seeps in with an irresistible ease. Gossamer romance dissolves in intense spirituality. Some of the phrases it deploys can be found nowhere else in Carnatic Yamunakalyani or Hindustani Yaman as we know them today. I think we can indicate its impact only by resorting to a word from the kriti itself – anirvachaniya (indescribable).

We all know that Muthuswamy Dikshitar is perhaps the most challenging composer in Carnatic music. First of all, he uses Sanskrit, the classical tongue, not limpid Telugu, which was then more or less the language of Carnatic compositions. This is not the lilting language of shlokams and stutis. It has a Vedic resonance, with tiered phrases that test the tongue. The music matches the verbal gravitas. Both hide subtleties that demand rapt attention. It springs surprises you cannot predict. The listener must surrender his head and heart before he can enjoy the flavour and fragrance.

And yet, it is heavyweight Dikshitar who appeals to our modern temper. His inclusive approach rivets us. We saw how he was piqued by the western airs he encountered. We also note how, unmistakably immersed in the Carnatic mode as he was, the composer refracts some core elements of the pace, texture, compositional form, and musical phrasing of the older dhrupad style of Hindustani music.  Saundara Rajam (Brindavanasaranga) and Parimala Ranganatham (Hamir) showcase the osmotic process through which he made them his own.

But it is as a guru that Dikshitar is most open-minded.  He did not confine himself to teaching members of his own family – though Baluswami did become a noted vidwan and introduced the violin to Carnatic music; and Subbarama Dikshitar rendered invaluable service to the Dikshitar parampara by publishing the seminal work – Sangeeta Sampradaya Pradarshini. We may also note in passing that Dikshitar’s compositions have probably come down to us in their most original form, if only because their architectonics are so precisely and characteristically fixed that tampering with them is difficult, if not impossible. (Barring rare exceptions, like the sangati cascades  reportedly introduced by yesteryear maestro Maha Vaidyanatha Sivan.)   

Nor can we forget that though there are no authentic accounts of Dikshitar meeting his illustrious contemporaries – Tyagaraja and Syama Sastri – he did train Subbaraya Sastri, the son of the latter. Honestly, a single composition of Subbaraya Sastri – Venkatashaila Vihara is enough to establish Dikshitar’s shadow.

However, we note that Dikshitar never allowed his privileged background and profound scholarship to limit his choice of disciples. They came from diverse communities. That is how his lineage was preserved and propagated, not only by Tenur Subramania Iyer and Avudaiyarkoil Venkatrama Iyer, but also by Koorainadu Ramaswami Pillai, the nagaswaram player Therezhundur Bilvavanam and suddha maddalam exponent Tiruvarur Tambiyappan. We know that the brothers Ponnayya, Chinnayya, Vadivelu, and Sivanandam, collectively known as the Tanjore Quartet, composed songs to honour the guru they revered. This also testifies to Dikshitar’s having held the community of dancers and dance teachers in great respect. We also know that he was a stranger to gender discrimination. Tiruvarur Kamalam and Vallalarkoil Ammani, women from the devadasi community, were among his disciples.

We don’t know exactly what prompted this eclecticism in his creative output and choice of disciples. But we do know that it is unusual, even unique.   

That is how Muthuswami Dikshitar, pictured as a conservative intellectual, an awe-inspiring maestro, a rule-abiding, even forbidding Brahmin of the old school, becomes kin to the iconoclastic songsters of the pan-Indian bhakti tradition. With this possible difference. Kabirdas and Tulsidas, Tukaram and Mirabai, even the azhvars and nayanmars in their times, adopted the mother tongue, local dialect, and easy style. But Dikshitar would not downplay erudition. He did not hesitate to include mystical and esoteric tenets in his sahitya. He would not make things easy in melody, in diction, or in thought processes. He disdained social and gender barriers without dumbing down the weight of his linguistic and musical scholarship. He would not sacrifice intellect or sophistication for easy appeal and popular accessibility.

Rather, he insists that we make the commitment and effort to grasp his music. To me, this stubbornness seems to stem from his genuine respect for his fellow human beings, his trust in their ability to perceive, respond, and strive for the highest standards in art and learning, and his conviction that such transcendence is not only universally achievable but also brings genuine fulfilment.