In Memoriam: Lakshmi Viswanathan, Bharatanatyam exponent and keeper of timeless artistry leaves a luminous legacy

Abhinaya Manjari: A Bouquet of Javalis and Padams

By Lakshmi Viswanathan

Venue: Kalakshetra Auditorium, Chennai
Presented by Ekam, 22 October 2022

Vocals: Sivasri Skandaprasad

Nattuvangam: Sudarshini

Violin: Srilakshmi

Mridangam: Sri Sivaprasad

***

The noted Bharatanatyam dancer and scholar, Lakshmi Viswanathan, passed away rather unexpectedly on 19 January 2023, at age 79. She was a star student of Kanjeevaram Ellappa Pillai and studied Kuchipudi with Vempati Chinna Satyam. She also studied with Mylapore Gowri Ammal, widely held up as one of the greatest teachers of abhinaya, and Sankari Krishnan of Kalakshetra. A winner of multiple and significant awards for dance: the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award; the Nritya Kalanidhi from The Music Academy, Chennai; the Kalidas Samman from the government of Madhya Pradesh; the Kalaimamani Award from the government of Tamilnadu, and many more, Viswanathan’s presence in the larger world of classical dance, together with dance scholarship, and art curating, was unique, and of rewarding depth. The exciting Mamallapuram/Mahabalipuram Festival of Dance is Viswanathan’s brainchild. She is also the author of several important books on dance: Bharatanatyam: The Tamil Heritage; Women of Pride: The Devadasi Heritage; and Kunjamma: Ode to A Nightingale.

She will be greatly missed, because, in important ways, she is irreplaceable. Whenever I watched Viswanathan dance, I recalled the philosophers, who spoke of our always gravitating towards great art. Something in us is inevitably deepened in the presence of great art; and there is something in it which makes us experience a sense of timelessness and overwhelming beauty. We are, thus, led to let all the disagreeables evaporate, and play life without thinking of applause.

I was last in touch with Viswanathan on 13 January this year, and we had planned a series of exciting collaborations starting this very month. I had begun writing this piece ahead of her passing, and she was aware of it and had responded to certain queries of mine. She wrote in an email that she felt ‘privileged’ that I was going to write on her art, and now that she is gone, I feel more grateful than ever about her response. Here’s what Viswanathan wrote to me when I asked her about why she danced:

“I dance to express my aesthetic instincts which have been fine-tuned since childhood. Dance became a big part of my life, sharing space with other interests like writing, travelling and understanding different arts and cultures. Dance is a living tradition of my cherished heritage.”

These are heady days in the world of Bharatanatyam, India’s best known classical dance form, which has a staggeringly vast and treasured repertoire. This is a welcome contrast to Odissi, where a serious aridity has arisen out of predictability and pilfering—Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra, Guru Debaprasad Das, and Guru Pankaj Das’s pieces are hashed and rehashed ad infinitum, pirated, plagiarized, tampered with, performed to dreadful fourth generation recorded music, without acknowledgement, and ‘re-imagined’, whatever that is, by well-known dancers. In fact, Odissi is a colossal mess, and I take solace in Bharatanatyam, the first style which I studied and performed, and, somewhat naturally, my first love.

The new raft of young Bharatanatyam dancers, as well as several dancers in their 40s, 50s, and early 60s, are crisp—they display perfected versions of their art, offer up finished assemblages—and their movements are engineered to precision, while their slick attire reflects their personal version of the style’s aharya, (or costumes—some of which are very snazzy indeed); they are also visibly well practised. Nothing is out of place.

As a professional practitioner of classical dance, since age six, I belong to a school of dance, which emanated in a differing ethos, if you will. I went through nine years of rigorous training in the Pandanallur style of Bharatanatyam, with S Meenakshi, at Rishi Valley School—when you study and rehearse for three hours each day, the rigour is professional, but your attitude is entirely, and significantly, non-commercial. Then, overlapping and following my Bharatanatyam training, came a cumulative thirty-five years of Odissi with Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra and Deba Prasad Das (of which seventeen were spent in a most demanding study of the form), all of which have imbued me with a deep sense of yearning for rasa, (flavour, or savour), the creation of which is the ultimate aim of all Indian art.

Thus, it was pure joy for me to watch Lakshmi Viswanathan’s recital, Abhinaya Manjari, on 22 October 2022, at the beautiful Kalakshetra Auditorium in Chennai. Viswanathan’s dance—and, in particular, the refined art of her abhinaya, of which she was an undisputed master—was at its peak: it had been at its peak for many decades. She was renowned for her pristine Thanjavur style, her manodharma, originality, and an unfailing ability to create visual music. Her face was a palette of emotion which captured moods with each harmonic change. Herein lies the beauty of classical Indian dance—the creation of rasa is enhanced by age, as the enduring experience of life brings to the interpretation of art a richness which youth simply does not possess. In Western classical ballet, which is not driven by abhinaya, but by the perfection of bodily movement, and youth, renowned dancers retire in their mid-thirties. That is a certain loss; for, pursuant to stunning corporeal perfection, there follows an abrupt and permanent silence. I have experienced this sense of irreversible loss when Suzanne Farrell and Natalia Makarova retired.

Viswanathan began her recital with a viruttam—verses by the Saint Appar, describing Shiva, the cosmic dancer, in a popular piece. Her adoration of the god Shiva was well known, and, in this opening piece, she established bhakti bhava, an illuminating sense of devotion, in a recital which otherwise primarily revolved around the shringara rasa, the dominant mood of love. This was followed by “Enneramum un namum” by the poet Gopalakrishna Bharathi, in the Raga Neelambari, where the devotee longs to dwell permanently in the sanctum of Nataraja, the god of dance. (I know that this is how Viswanathan felt, in reality, and how vital was her connection to the ancient Kapaleeshwar Temple in Mylapore, Chennai.) A padam in Raga Kapi by Kshetrajña followed, where the heroine, or nayika, suspects her sakhi, or best friend, of being secretly in love with her beloved Krishna, known as Muvva Gopala. She says to her, “I was hardly aware of your deception until now, dear girl.”

The next piece by the Saint Appar describes the heroine as one who simply loses her mind whilst becoming a beloved of Shiva. This viruttam was followed by a padam by Tiruvottiyur Tyagarajan in Raga Atana. The heroine describes her lovelorn and besotted state: “Wherever I look, I only see my beloved,” she tells her friend. “Pray, do something to unite me with him.” This was followed by a popular padam by Annamacharya in the lilting Raga Abheri which describes the conversation between two women who are sakhis of the goddess Alamelu Manga. They say: “Look at our goddess asleep, with her hair all tousled, oblivious that the sun is already up ahead and shining bright. Has she spent the night in the arms of her lover?”

After a few more numbers, Viswanathan danced to “Edukku ithanai modithan”, in which a nayika mocks the god Shiva. This genre in lyric poetry is known as the nindastuti, which, at first blush, appears as damning, but eventually amounts to praise. It is a light-hearted taking to task and telling off of Lord Shiva, in this particular lyric, but it could be of anyone. Dripping in withering sarcasm, the nayika asks Shiva: Edukku ithanai modithan? “What have I done that you behave with me in this bizarre fashion? Have I ever alluded to your whimsical mannerisms, or to your strange appearance?” The gifted Marimuthu Pillai, (1712-1787 AD), of the Sirkazhi Trinity of composers, is the author of this well-known Tamil padam in the Raga Surutti. Also notable was a Swati Tirunal javali, in the rare Raga Saindhavi, in which a young woman chides the hero, the god Padmanabha.

In each of these numbers, the refined art of Viswanathan’s uttam bhavaprasthara and natyadharmi elegance shone through. Excellence in facial expression, or mukhaja abhinaya, is often held up as the benchmark which distinguishes an exceptional dancer from one who is average, or just good. This form of abhinaya emanates from within—it can be taught, but only up to a point. Viswanathan’s portrayal was at once moving and impressive, touching the audience in the deep recesses of their hearts. Also on display was constancy, which is “a necessary condition of style.”

To my mind, the nuances in abhinaya are like the alapana and gamakas in classical music. And, in a larger sense, abhinaya in classical Indian dance is the equivalent of the masterful Ragam-Thanam-Pallavi (popularly known as the RTP), of the Carnatic music recital. The life of a raga, per scholars, lies in the gamakas, or oscillations. As renowned scholar-performers have pointed out, a note often oscillates between its swarasthana (assigned position on the scale), and the next note. You cannot, for example, hold flat the gandhara in the Raga Kalyani. Similarly, when a powerful and elegant dancer such as Viswanathan is immersed in sancharibhava (the extended metaphor, if you will, in classical dance), she explores and delineates a gamut of emotions, but eventually returns home, to the dominant note.

Each inflection of the muscles, each movement of the eloquent eyes and the mouth, the eyebrows, and even the nostrils, were used by Viswanathan with spontaneity and creativity; each gentle hasta mudra (the ancient, codified symbolic gestures of the hands, which convey meaning), served to reinforce the emotion arising from within—and all of these cumulatively formed the bedrock of Viswanathan’s offering, in an outstanding and memorable recital.

The musical accompaniment provided by a roster of accomplished musicians was a tempest of glistening, jewel-like notes, laden with rich bhava. It complemented and enriched Viswanathan’s dance, responding to her, note by note, phrase by musical phrase, and in the sum total of its passion.

To hold an audience for almost 90 minutes with pure abhinay requires supreme mastery. Viswanathan left us wanting more, and much more. When art is this glorious, you could stay watching through an entire night and still not feel satiated.

The power and centrality of music in classical Indian dance

I cannot overstate the centrality of classical Indian music in Indian dance. In this regard, quite a few leading Bharatanatyam artists have an enviable advantage over practitioners of other styles—many of them have studied music alongside dance, for years. The dancer cannot become the dance without first letting the music master her, for it is through music that the artist is imbued with what Colombetti called “primordial affectivity.”

Here’s what Viswanathan wrote to me when I asked her about her study of music and its centrality in her dance:

“From childhood, I learnt vocal music from my mother (the lovely Alamelu Viswanathan, see enclosed picture), who sang and also played the veena. Later, I learnt a big repertoire from two vidwans: Thethiyur Narayanaswamy and Tiruvayyar Krishnamurthy. I also learned padam singing when I became a career artist from T Muktha.”

This is an impressive set of musical credentials for even a professional Carnatic musician, let alone a dancer. T Muktha and her sister, T Brinda, of the Veena Dhanammal School of music, were brilliant and much sought-after gurus. Thus, Viswanathan ascertained that the musical accompaniment for her major performances was live, and, not merely good, but outstanding. In that sense, she spoiled us a fair bit, because once you listened to this rich music, pre-recorded or less chiselled music, fell woefully short. I understand and sympathise with the exigencies which lead many classical Indian dancers to use pre-recorded music, but it is my hope that in the future, dancers will increase their use of live orchestras, at least whilst in India, taking a cue from Viswanathan, and a few others.

I have hardly ever given a concert with pre-recorded music in India—and I hope I never have to. For the thirty years that I spent with Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra, there was almost never a recital at which he didn’t accompany me on the pakhawaj. On the rare occasion when he wasn’t free, I was accompanied by his younger brother, Guru Banamali Maharana, or Pandit Harmohan Khuntia, a noted disciple of Pandit Jñan Prakash Ghosh. Similarly, since 1979, the bulk of the music for my new Odissi pieces has been composed by the genius, Padma Vibhushan Pandit Chhanulal Mishra of Varanasi.

An exceptional cadre of accompanists makes for the difference between a performance which is good, and one which is excellent. Not all accompanists are exceptional—but Viswanathan’s inevitably were.

The Costume in Dance

Viswanathan’s classic costumes were inevitably a visual feast. She wore silk Kanjeevaram sarees, draped a few inches below the knee, the aesthetics of which never fail: you could have them in purple with a mustard border, or magenta with an emerald green border, or peacock blue with a maroon border—these sarees are unique works of art, which are ignited and brought to life by the rich personal imagination and skill of India’s extraordinary weavers. When you coupled that with Viswanathan’s understated and aesthetic traditional temple jewellery, her costumes became a pleasure to behold. I often discussed the aesthetics of costumes—and, indeed, all aspects of art—with my mother, professor Prabhat Nalini Das, critic, Vice Chancellor, renowned and beloved academic, who studied Art and Aesthetics with the philosopher, John Hospers, at the University of Minnesota. She explained to me that a dancer’s costume, and her choice of saree and fabric, and its design, could make or break a concert. (My mother would have known, as she was instrumental in the revival of Odissi silk ikat and other sarees, starting off in 1951, and a selection of her sarees was displayed at the Festival of India at The Smithsonian in 1985.)

However, I do have an issue with female Bharatanatyam dancers abandoning the traditional plait/braid/veni these days—to my eyes it makes them look incomplete, and, somehow, shorn. My Odissi guru for thirty years, Padma Vibhushan Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra, insisted I wear a braid onstage, in addition to the regular chignon (see enclosed picture onstage, where my guru crafted the exquisite hairdo, flowers and all, for me), because he rightly asserted that the veni added shobha, or grace, to the female dancer.

This brings to mind another performance by Viswanathan, where she played the immortal singer, M S Subbulakshmi, clad in a saree in a colour called “MS Blue”, named for the singer, thereby recreating her for an audience which sorely missed her, and the grandeur and passion of her music.

A great critic and scholar of art once wrote that a shoddy society deserves to be paid in false currency. Did we deserve Vidushi Lakshmi Viswanathan, Pandit Birju Maharaj, Ustad Bismillah Khan, Ustad Amir Khan, or Vidwan Pazhani Subramanya Pillai? Do we deserve the glorious Vidushi Yamini Krishnamurti, or the breathtaking Pandit Kishan Maharaj and Vidwan Guruvayur Dorai? How much do we valorise the arts these days? What kind of certainty in their futures do young artists—be they classical, folk, or tribal—possess? Hundreds of millions of dollars are poured into sporting events, which is fine, and welcome; but shockingly meagre funds are allocated for the teaching, practice, dissemination, and preservation of the arts in our educational curriculum, in order that it might illuminate our and our quotidian lives, and strengthen the cultural heritage of a nation.

How do we gain from art, after all? Adrienne Rich spoke of the power of art to break despair. Art builds bridges between cultures and countries, and evokes, in any mind and heart, a sympathetic response, long before it is understood. It is felt before it is understood. When we respond this way, it is “intuitive understanding”, or what Pascal called the esprit de finesse. Culture shapes the self and “puts the experience in order”—it gives form and cohesion to that which is scattered and inchoate, and it helps us connect the prose and the passion. Works of art are born of “a daily fidelity” in the artist, and they have the power to create a daily beauty in the lives of millions of people.

I am not certain if Abhinaya Manjari was Viswanathan’s last recital, but it was staged less than three months before her passing, at 79: and that she was in resplendent form is a blessing, and a miracle. We need more such miracles in our lives—at least once a week, if not twice. We witnessed the abiding peace and mood of fulfilled surrender in her final namaskaram to her beloved, her Lord Shiva, and to an elated and grateful audience.

The writer is a Distinguished Fellow at Carnegie Mellon University since 1990, where she was appointed by its president, Dr Richard Cyert. She advises world leaders on public policy, communication and international affairs.

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