Recently, I read a report about an event in Kerala, to mark the 27th death anniversary of M.D. Ramanathan, which was observed in April. MDR, as he was affectionately called, was perhaps the last of his creed of Carnatic musicians. With his shaven head
and kudumi (tuft) at the back of his head and a shade
of squint, this vocalist
was certainly not one of the best looking men on the circuit.
His music though was a class apart. Once he began singing, no one really paid any attention to his grotesque facial expressions and weird gestures.
As a child listener, I was fascinated by this aspect, I must confess. I would readily attend his concerts (although I had a little say in the matter), and would watch in wonder and sheer delight as MDR embarked on the visual gymnastics of squirming, convoluting his features and working his fingers in the imagined space before him.
This was perhaps the necessary penance that MDR needed to undergo in order to produce the music that he did. When I received a prize in a music competition from him at around the age of 11, I expected to see a frightful, intimidating persona at close quarters. Instead, I was greeted by a gentle, kind face and an encouraging smile.
His Giripai in Sahana still reverberates in my mind. His deep and resonant voice touched the base octave and reclined in a way that no one else could imitate. MDR was the undisputed king of this realm. His unhurried style of singing, combined with his genius and fantastic power-laden voice, made his music distinctly different. He was never in a rush; there were no spiraling passages, no rapid fire releases of raga phrases, no complicated arithmetic.
MDR’s music was reposeful and he enjoyed basking in the slow vilamba tempo. He left his indelible stamp on several ragas that seemed to belong just to him — Ritigoula, Mukhari, Suruti, to name a few.
I had heard him several times in concerts before his demise in 1984, but I was still too young to cherish the best of MDR. My parents and I would usually sit till the very end of his concerts, till the last syllable was sung, the instruments put to rest and the crowds waned. My reminiscences of the musician is of a man who sang with sincerity and passion, unmindful of everything else.
Above all, there was simplicity and beauty in what he delivered. There was something that was both comforting and stimulating in his music that cast a spell on the listener and endeared him to audiences. He composed more than 300 compositions with the signature Varadadasa, as a tribute to his legendary guru Tiger Varadachariar.
I remember his beautiful Tillana in Kapi, which I chanced upon accidentally while listening to some cassettes at home. The first line was slow and lilting and the second, brisk and galloping. It was one of the most melodious versions of Kapi I had ever heard.
MDR served for years at Kalakshetra, the apex body of dance and music and eventually became its principal. He even composed music for Rukmini Arundale’s dance ballets. What a treat that must have been!
MDR’s career was short; he died when he was barely 60. Yet, he made his mark. He won laurels that included the Padmashri and the Sangeet Natak Academy awards. In an article that he wrote as homage to his guru, MDR made a reference to musicians of the hour and musicians of all time and devotedly put his guru in the latter category. The same can be said of MDR himself.
Twenty seven years after his demise, his name remains unforgotten, though one may argue that he did not get his due. Today, technology and the Internet have only helped share and propagate MDR’s unique legacy. What I can claim to own of the MDR heritage is one photograph with the musician, some recorded music and immense fondness for his genre of music.

Dr Vasumathi Badrinathan is an eminent Carnatic vocalist based in Mumbai. She can be contacted on vasu@vasumathi.net