Musically Yours - Srinivas(Singer)

So, for each of us, music is an inseparable part of life in one way or another. Sometimes we even create social media posts for our loved ones saying, “When I miss you, I listen to that song that reminds me of you—and then I miss you even more!” That’s how profoundly music shapes our experiences. Many of us have special keepsakes that make us feel proud to have lived during certain iconic individuals’ eras. I’m no exception, and I consider it a blessing just to have existed in the times of such great, greater, and greatest people. My list includes the “Musical Synonym” Shri M.S. Viswanathan, the brilliant scientist Prof. Umaa Shanker Raman, the mandolin maestro Amarar Srinivas, cricket legend Sachin (though I barely follow the sport, I’ll watch it for him), the incomparable poet Amarar Vaali, the ever-lively Vinay Ji, the remarkable Sujatha Sir, my all-time favorite “magical Stellar Musician” Srinivas Sir—known to me as Vasu Uncle—the celestial voice of Shri K.J. Yesudas, the soulful Chitra Ma, the splendid scientist Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, the writer of humankind Muthulakshmi Amma, the “Memory Master” Dr. Reddy, and so on. You may wonder why I haven’t put figures like H.H. Ravishankar or H.H. Parthi Sai Ram at the top. My apologies, but my limited spiritual knowledge has never let me write much about them, so I’ve placed them somewhere lower on my list.

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Let’s return to the “magical stellar Musician,” Srinivas Doraiswamy—or Vasu Uncle, as I affectionately call him. He kindly allowed me to address him informally, never insisting on “Sir.” He’s truly a marvelous figure in the music industry. Each time I hear him sing, I think he should have been born with a tag reading, “Musically Yours!” His soulful voice infuses listeners with a luminous energy. It’s pure bliss to hear him sing “Kadhal thaaimai irandu mattum, baaram enbadhey ariyaadhu!” or to smile at “Undhan Nizhalaruge oivugal eduthiduven…Idhu Kaadhal illai…Idhu Kaamam illai.” You can’t help shedding tears of pride when listening to “Mouname Unnidam, antha mounam thane azhagu.” This engineer-turned-musician has perfected every chord, pitch, and note so profoundly that you can’t help but fall in love with his music. If music were a religion, I’d listen to Srinivas every day.

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All of us have big dreams. Some of us never dare to chase them; others knock on the door of our dreams but don’t wait for that door to open. Still others, hurt by the thorns along the path, give up and merely daydream about what could have been. By contrast, Srinivas must have realized slippers exist for a reason. When thorns pricked his feet on his path, he persisted, determined to follow his dream. I always marvel at how his mind acts like a perfectly efficient reactor, generating a positive feedback loop under all conditions, offering us a flawless musical feast from t = 0 to t → ∞. (Yes, I’m referencing the chemical engineering and heat transfer principles from my college days.) He’s no ordinary man, that much is certain.

I read everything I can about this man who merges seamlessly with music, and I’m always struck by a glow of pride. Every interview I’ve watched or read shows him to be humble, down-to-earth, and wonderfully warm. I’ve even experienced his kindness firsthand—he has replied to or “liked” every little Facebook post of mine. Such simple, humane gestures speak volumes about him.

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There’s nothing quite like having a companion to enjoy Vasu Uncle’s music with, and I’m lucky to have an entire circle of friends who are fans. At the top of that list is my aunt, a sixty-five-year-old who loves hearing his songs nonstop. She can’t resist grabbing her phone to call me, shrieking in delight, “Hey Gaana, Sri is singing on ### channel—turn it on!” Without hesitation, I’ll snatch the TV remote from my bewildered dad (who probably thinks I’ve lost my mind). My aunt and I will stay on the phone until the program ends; even the commercial breaks are filled with our excited commentary about his gorgeous expressions. One of the most unforgettable interviews he did was with M.J. Shriram. Watching Srinivas sing, you can’t decide whether to listen or to watch; his facial expressions themselves are captivating. It’s a feast for the ears, eyes, and soul.

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I was around ten years old when Uyire was released. That’s when I first fell under the spell of Srinivas’s enchanting voice. Back then, I barely understood the lyrics; it was simply the pleasure of hearing such a fantastic voice. “Google God” or “Yahoo Upa Devatha” wasn’t an option, so we relied on All India Radio, “Pepsi Ungal Choice,” or local channels like “Manam Virumbudhey.” My grandmother—who had her own eclectic music tastes—would also join me, though she referred to him as “Srinivasan” (don’t ask me why!). She’d help me call the TV host to request his songs, and then she’d sit by my side until they finished playing.

Another partner in my musical obsession is my best buddy, Keats. I “infected” her with what we call the “Srinivas Syndrome” (and several other syndromes, to be honest). Whenever she has access to the internet, she heads straight to YouTube, searches for “Srinivas performances live,” “Srinivas songs,” “Timeless Classics,” and so on. She downloads them all just to flaunt her collection the next day—usually far surpassing mine.

Before Keats, my partner in mid/high school was Kavi, a fellow member of our “Srinivas Crush Club.” (We were young; forgive the phrasing!) Every recess would be spent chattering about Srinivas, trying to imitate how he sang this or that song, or debating who had the right lyrics. “Azhage Sugama” was the tune I always banked on, netting me plenty of chocolates. No math formula ever stuck to my brain quite the way that song did.

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Even now, each new album or track he releases can move me to tears—tears of pride. Some people we don’t know personally, yet they seem very close to our hearts. We offer them unconditional love, keep them in our daily prayers, and hold them in immense respect, whether or not they’re aware of it. For me, Srinivas is one of those rare people. Perhaps God realized not everyone can express love through music, or maybe even God needed someone to voice it, and thus Srinivas came into being. Early in his career, his name might not have caused an instant spark, but these days, just hearing “Srinivas” calls up a rush of adjectives in your mind: melodious, ardent lover of music, gifted musician, and so on.

If you’re feeling nostalgic or if this piece has given you the “Srinivas Syndrome,” grab your headphones, click on any of his songs, close your eyes, and you’ll be directly connected to a state of pure bliss.

Cheers and happy aMusi(KI)ng!

P.S. I’m not a “professional” writer, but I definitely write with passion. If acknowledgments are due, they go to the hero of this piece—Mr. Srinivas Doraiswamy—whose musical journey has given me so much to feel and to express. I also dedicate this post to all his fans across the globe.

(Pictures are snapshots from the Airtel Super Singer grand finale telecast on Vijay TV.)        

       

      

             

Fossilized Memoris

Every one of us bemoans those distant childhood days that seem so far behind us. Childhood has become a treasure trove of memories, and sometimes, in the midst of our monotonous routines, we manage to evoke that nostalgia. It’s a momentary escape when our overtaxed brains stumble onto recollections buried deep in our own secret gardens, where the memories bloom, and we inhale their sweetness, realizing how precious those times were.

We recall waking to our mother’s gentle voice, which quickly turned into a raised one when we wouldn’t budge. Our father would step in for a morning kiss, and we’d pull him close, clinging to that warmth just to snatch a few more seconds of sleep. Eventually, we’d give in, finding our mother busy in the sacred place we call the kitchen, preparing something that smelled positively divine. We’d creep up like a stealthy cat, give her a hug, and earn a mild scolding for interrupting her “pure” cooking.

Then came the daily ritual: rummaging for socks and shoes, fetching our crisply pressed uniforms from the wardrobe, and counting the days till we could wear our next “color dress.” We’d double-check our homework, hoping the math or geography teacher would be absent, and praying the P.E. teacher was healthy enough for class—nobody wanted a missed games period!

We’d grab our bike—or cycle—handlebars, pedal as fast as possible, and spot the watchman inching the school gate closed as the first bell rang for assembly. We’d flash our brightest smile, offer a polite “Namaste,” and slip through the narrow gap with our heavy bag and sports cycle. Parking it somewhat deeper inside (to pretend we arrived earlier), we’d drop our book bag and lunch bag in a random ground-floor classroom, then line up for assembly with our classmates, trying to appear like the ever-punctual “good kid.” The head girl would acknowledge us with a smile, effectively marking our presence. Any lingering fatigue from the bike ride would vanish under the cool breeze from the yellow-flowered tree, swaying at the edge of the grounds. We’d smile with gratitude at its topmost blossoms.

“School, stand at ease! School, attention!” came the school pupil leader’s voice. We’d obey like robots, singing those lengthy prayer songs, half-closing our eyes. The news would be read in multiple languages; we’d hear various thoughts of the day, all while fretting over the lunch bag we’d left in that unfamiliar classroom. Meanwhile, the head girl, ever-vigilant, might catch us chatting and note our names for an imposition on the Big Black Board. After the formalities, we’d recite the Indian pledge, hands on our hearts, and hear the school captain announce class attendance: “VI A—Boys present: 21, Girls present: 23…” all the way up to “XII C—Boys present: 9, Girls present: 6.” The assembly ended with the chant of “Hare Rama Hare Rama, Rama Rama Hare Hare,” followed by a cheerful clapping routine. Finally dismissed, we’d head back to class, where our closest friends created the memories that now seem etched in our minds forever.

In the classroom, we’d listen halfheartedly, doze off, get caught whispering, and commit every kind of harmless mischief. On Mondays and Wednesdays, we had evening drills—an excuse to play matches with seniors or just watch friends sprint around the grounds. Tuesdays brought “special classes” we tried to skip (often unsuccessfully), and Thursdays and Saturdays featured co-curricular activities. Some of us showed our “classical” dance moves then, while on Fridays, bhajans took center stage. Though not everyone was deeply religious, we’d still walk into the prayer room to watch our buddies perform and to savor the “Maha Naivedhya Prasadam”—delicious sundals. Our friends’ little hands would beat percussion instruments, and their sweet voices would sing, “Radha Rasikka Vara Raasa Vihaara…” Those 45-minute sessions felt like a feast, whether you were the lead singer or simply soaking in the atmosphere.

Then there were those geography exams where we’d stare at squiggly lines on a page, supposedly maps and borders. English grammar—“is,” “was,” “were,” “had been,” blah blah blah—was equally puzzling. Finger-on-your-lips corridor walks were probably the only times we truly grasped the concept of silence. If our names ever got called over the mic, even if for mischief, we felt like royalty. And once the final bell rang, we’d snatch our satchels, race to the field, unlock our bicycles, and exit through the grand grill gate. A quick glance back gave us a burst of joy: we were free for the rest of the day and could hang out with friends on street corners.

Who could forget annual days and science project exhibitions? Sanskrit classes, Sanskrit dramas—watching seniors conversing in that ancient language and falling hard for it ourselves. Sports moments, inter-school chess competitions, personality development camps at Thenangoor or Thekkady—wherever they took us. We beamed with pride when our school triumphed over its sister concern. We also held exhibitions and celebrated Raksha Bandhan on Independence Day, envying kids from other schools who got a holiday. If our parents applied for a “restricted holiday,” we’d happily stay home to enjoy the festival with our grandparents.

We fought for window seats, swapped colorful sketch pens (especially the fluorescent ones), and pasted charts all over the walls. We endured aural-oral competitions and holiday homework. We played UNO with siblings, watched Kane and The Undertaker in the wrestling ring, and cheered on Sachin Tendulkar in cricket matches, oblivious to diagonal or horizontal lines—just enthralled by Sachin’s batting. The next day at school, we’d excitedly replay every move with friends. (Sachinism probably deserves its own write-up.)

And here we are, wishing God had a reverse button to take us back to those good old days. Back then, “Google God” was too expensive a concept to fathom; we simply relied on libraries or Doordarshan. JGHV—Jaigopal Garodia Hindu Vidhyalaya—played an enormous role in my life story, teaching me values that shaped me into a near-complete individual.

We learned what family means, understood the essence of friendship, and experienced genuine love. Every one of us holds a rich legacy of memories—let’s cherish them and do our best to pass a bit of that magic on to our kids. I inhale a deep breath of hope, leaving you to wander back to your own childhood.

P.S. Thank you, Padmaja, for prompting me to write this, and thanks to the many friends—Madhuvanthi, Janani, Shakthi, Srivatsan Jagannathan, Aishu, Kavitha, Abi, Krithika, Vaishu, Suju, Usha Mam, Gaju Mam, Sathya Sir, Sankari Miss, Kumar Sir, Princi Mam, Nalini Mam, and all those teachers who not only appear in this piece but also fill the pages of my life. A special mention to Lalitha Mam and Uma Mam of JGHV—my T.S. Eliots—who first recognized my ability to write. I only wish they could read this piece of mine!

CAUTION: ZONE OF IMAGINATIONS: HAZARDOUS TO MIND FEELS

Between the two moments of birth and death sputters the phase we call life. In that phase, you meet people of all kinds, spanning a wide spectrum of relationships. Sometimes, we fire up our brains to understand big ideas—God, prayers, love, and all sorts of known and unknown phenomena—rather than wasting time gossiping about individuals. My mind is teeming with thoughts struggling to take form, and I finally managed to get my laptop to capture them all, hoping to shape these random reflections into a coherent whole. Often, we have nothing to say yet still want to speak—that happens to me quite a bit. So, here’s my take on how a perfect weekend should unfold, starting with Friday.

“Caution: You are entering a HIGH Imagination Zone. You may not step back until permitted.”

TGIF is the first phrase your lips murmur on a Friday morning. After a long, draining week, every cell in your body begs for the serenity of the weekend. There’s a chill in the air, and a little squirrel appears by your window while the coconut tree bends gracefully for the passing breeze. Your phone, lying next to the pillow, softly plays your favorite tunes, and you wonder why these magical moments don’t happen at the start of the week. You wish your loved one were by your side to share the bliss, but it’s only around 5:00 a.m. Still, you pick up the phone that’s been serenading you all night, dial a special number, and hear Dasettan’s voice crooning your dedicated caller tune. Your lips curl into a smile. A warm, playful “Hello daa” meets your “Love you, sweetheart,” which in turn earns a “Love you more.” A tingle courses through every nerve, making your heart flutter.

With that uplifting start, you set out for the day. After a brief commute, you find yourself volunteering at a center for differently abled children, and the joy of helping them spills over into your own work later on. You tackle an overdue report, grateful for a previous filing system that finally helps you tie up loose ends. At last, the weekend is here—two full days for yourself. On your way home, you’re almost walking on air, inhaling the aroma of home cooking through the evening chill. Time seems to swirl forward: day turns to dusk, and the setting sun yields the sky to a gently glowing moon. You reflect on cherished memories of your loved one as you head to a personal meeting. A blessing slips from your lips the moment your phone lights up with your loved one’s picture calling you. Their voice makes you feel as though you’ve traveled in circles, returning to square one—but in the best possible way.

Eventually, you have private moments with all the people who matter most. When the most special one of all scolds you for your impulsive trip, your heart silently cries, “I know you won’t hear this, but I’ll answer you in person if I’m blessed with the chance.” You’re not alone in the night; the sleepless moon keeps you company. You aren’t trained to read stars and planets, but you can capture their essence in your eyes and translate it into words. A shiver runs through you just imagining time spent with your beloved. At last, the big day arrives. You hang out with your dearest friends, letting the gathering fill only half your day, then message your loved one to meet at their place. Shocked to find they’re nowhere to be seen, you realize you’ve mixed up addresses. With your heart pounding so hard it feels like it could leap from your chest, you knock on the correct door at last. A minute passes in stunned silence—guilt, longing, and relief flood both of you, your eyes taking in every subtle change in their expression. Egos dissolve, and tensions fade. You reach out, only to find yourself already embraced in warmth and passion. With a sheepish grin, you whisper, “Yes, I’m absolutely crazy about you, and I made this exhausting trip just to feel this hug.” Words vanish; your eyes do all the talking.

Period.

Transforming for a Deformation!

So, this piece was influenced by a weekend discussion about cultural deterioration. In this era of transformation, everything keeps changing: phones get smarter while humans seem to grow duller, gadgets get slimmer while people get heavier, and our outlooks, attire, and attitudes evolve too. We talk about Darwin’s idea of “survival of the fittest,” yet we often fail to live in harmony with nature, expecting “natural selection” to favor us even though we stand apart from, rather than as part of, nature. Poor nature struggles to find its place on this planet.

We love having conversations in English—perhaps because it’s considered the “balcony of the world.” I am not against English itself, but I am against those who make fun of their own mother tongues. Our attitude toward culture has deteriorated, and our sense of community seems to have vanished. I recall a statement from my sixth-grade Hindi reader—“Manushya saamaajik jandhu hai,” meaning “Humans are social animals.” The author (perhaps Madhu Dhawan or Harivansh Rai Bachchan) was prophetic in reminding us that humans are still classified as animals. Modernization has led to skyrocketing crime rates and unfathomable corruption, and basic moral values appear to be disappearing under the guise of “swag.” We feel embarrassed touching our elders’ feet or going to temples, but we have no qualms about frequenting bars and late-night parties. Clothing has become more about fashion than about being covered at all.

This decline began when our nation welcomed revenue from sectors promoting cultures opposite to traditional Indian values. Like a child drawn to a shiny new object, people were lured in, and that external culture blended into Indian roots. Slowly, financial bonds overshadowed the true bonds of life; the power of wealth began determining how strong relationships should be.

When people isolate themselves, arrogance flourishes, and “self-dependency” is mistakenly viewed as unquestionable independence. This also applies to parents: if an elder—like a grandfather or grandmother—had been around, children would have learned to cope with loneliness more positively. Earlier generations favored nuclear families, and proud parents of both genders realized too late that their pride was misplaced. The saddest part is that many people still haven’t realized this mistake. Had joint families or at least caring grandparents been present, cultural deterioration might have been far less severe. Regardless of gender, the blame is equally shared. If the elder generation had respected their own parents, perhaps we wouldn’t need sophisticated senior care centers.

While parents attempt to instill Indian heritage, values, and traditions in their children, Bollywood has increasingly catered to its diaspora audience, and second- or third-generation Indians—dressed in modernized versions of the traditional sari or shalwar kameez—are blazing a new pop-cultural trail. There’s no need to force children to follow traditions. Being a parent is not just about giving birth but also participating in a child’s “growth and development.” Simply maintain your customs with a smile of genuine satisfaction, and children will naturally be drawn to them. That’s how I learned many of my own traditions, and I’ve continued to uphold them even when no one was watching.

It’s disheartening that “Moral Science” and “Ethics” are now treated merely as school subjects—an indication that Indian culture and professionalism are on the brink of extinction. If I may speak as a rebel, let me say that Western culture is also a valid culture. There is much good in it that we can learn and adopt. However, every cultural package carries its own pros and cons. We Indians should apply a “cultural filter” before letting ourselves become diluted by outside influences. The pursuit of wealth and the power of Western media have amplified these effects; without the revenue, things might have been different. While it is necessary to evolve into better professionals (whatever that means), being completely swept away by foreign values may not be wise. Our heritage is rooted in spirituality, while the culture we are adopting often has a more materialistic base. Nowadays, if you don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, your partner might question your love—but our ancestors never even knew about that day and still shared lifelong bonds of love and trust. Today, people wish each other on Valentine’s Day, only to end up at the courthouse for a divorce or at the park for a breakup.

It’s high time we think for ourselves, rediscover our roots, and make sure our original culture doesn’t fade away. We already have campaigns to save tigers and trees. Let’s hope we don’t end up needing one to “Save Indian Culture and Tradition.