Endaro Mahanubhavulu
It was on a scratched out CD that I first heard U Srinivas. I don’t recall the song, but the beautiful, subtle picking in the middle of the composition was what stood out. It sounded very Indian, yet strangely familiar to my western sounds only ears. I had grown up listening to all sorts of music. My father being a very devoted Beatles and Greatful Dead fan with the mother being disco partial. But they liked to experiment with their listening, so my influences were varied. But the strange gap was classical Indian - both Carnatic and Hindustani. I’ve never questioned them on why this was so.
Fast forward some 15 years. I am sitting comfortably in a small auditorium listening to the strains of a Veena being tuned. The curtain suddenly lifts. U. Srinivas and his band of musicians. He is dressed in pristine white with his hair loose and wild. The rest of his band look ready. He picks up his mandolin, greets the crowd with a namaskaram and hits the first note. Trance. There’s something hidden in those strings. Something magical. I am listening to myself talk. Inside. Quietly. In complete silence. The rest of the audience seems to be doing the same. One lady is so joyous, she is swaying left and right with ectasy. By the time he comes around to playing the raga Mohanakalyani, the intimate, cosy nature of the auditorium has amplified everything. A pure surge of energy, starting small at the top of head, growing, growing and exploding out of your feet.
This is what music should feel like.
I think music succeeds when at the end, it bestows on you a sense of equanimity like no other. That day, for me and a hundred other people, U. Srinivas did just that.
