The birthday of the iconic MS Subbulakshmi falls on September 16 (born 1916). Her MS Blue continues to be a craze even after so many decades.
It all began on a breezy Saturday evening in Chennai — the kind where the ceiling fan makes that thak-thak-thak sound like it’s plotting rebellion, the aroma of filter coffee acts as an unofficial room freshener, and the Hanuman Chalisa echoes between the kitchen and the balcony like divine background music for daily domestic disasters.
In our house, it’s a ritual: the Chalisa plays on the radio, I chant while rescuing a dosa that looks like it’s been through a minor volcanic eruption, and my daughter Meenakshi joins in with whichever lines she remembers — often out of order, always with conviction. It’s less “Bhakti movement” and more “musical improv with snacks.” Yet, somehow, she absorbed nearly all 40 verses — not by force, but because children are basically sponges with WiFi.
One day, Meenakshi looked up and asked, “Amma, who’s singing this? Her voice is like velvet soaked in ghee!” I smiled and said, “That, kanna, is MS Subbulakshmi.” She blinked. “MS… like Microsoft?” “No, da! MS Amma. The original queen of multitasking — bhakti, bhava, and perfect pitch.” I pulled up her photo on my laptop. Meenakshi leaned in with reverence — the same look she gives cupcakes rising in the oven. We listened to Maitreem Bhajata, stunned into silence.
Just then, Paati waltzed in, holding up a blue silk saree like she was unveiling a national treasure. Meenakshi gasped. “Whatta colour! So dark… so deep… like ocean at midnight!” Paati beamed. “This is MS Blue! Just like Subbulakshmi Amma wore. Limited edition. Before sarees had hashtags.” Because obviously, in a Chennai household, a saree can spark a full-blown identity crisis. Or in our case — a life decision.
Moments later, Meenakshi declared, “Amma, I want to learn Carnatic music. I want to sing like MS Subbulakshmi.” I had two options: A) Ask practical questions like a responsible adult. B) Nod wildly and Google “Carnatic music class near me” faster than you can say “Sarali varisai.” Naturally, I chose Option B. Because when a child shows interest in culture over cartoons, you don’t hesitate, you immediately proceed.
The following Thursday (auspicious, according to Paati and the calendar), we stepped into our first Carnatic class — wide-eyed, clueless, and deeply respectful of anything in a saree. Now, our house is an audio landscape of “Sa Pa Sa,” interspersed with spirited debates between Meenakshi and her sruti box. I thought I’d just be the drop-off parent. But now, somewhere between “Janta varisai” and “Alankaram,” I’m singing along — enough to alarm the neighbours and impress the milkman.
Carnatic music isn’t just an art form — it’s a full-time emotional ecosystem. There are 72 melakarta ragas. Each has a mood, a time of day, and a personality. Bhairavi for breakfast. Asaveri for brunch. Play the wrong raga at the wrong time and Paati will personally file a complaint with the universe. Even the swaras have poetic roots. “Sa” comes from the cry of a peacock. “Ni” from the trumpeting of an elephant. Yes — in India, even elephants are in tune.
The veena, once a mysterious prop in old Tamil films, is now “that aunty with golden strings” in our house. The mridangam? It’s the noisy uncle who never knocks — loud but loveable. Me? I’m no longer just the mom who signed the cheque. I’m the student at the back of the class, singing softly at first… then loudly enough for even the postman to ask, “That was Shankarabharanam, right?”
Somewhere between flipped dosas and mistimed swaras, I realised I wasn’t just witnessing Meenakshi’s journey — I was on it too. I might not perform at the December Season, but I now say things like, “Hmm, that neraval lacked punch,” and mean it. This is more than music. It’s heritage, humour, humility — and a six-year-old leading the way.
Only in Chennai can a saree inspire a concert. And only in our homes can tradition and joy dance together — sometimes off-beat, but always in perfect rhythm.