Everyone in Irinjalakuda knew Jayan Kuttan aka P Jayachandran. But for my father, he was more than just a student; he was a dream realised, a voice that filled our home and our hearts with music.
I had never interviewed P Jayachandran. And I never wrote about him, the iconic playback singer from Kerala who left us on January 9, even though we shared the same home town, Irinjalakuda. Interestingly, both of us were not born there, but grew up as staunch Irinjalakuda-aites, imbibing the temple town’s beats and rhythms.
Writing about P Jayachandran was something that never occurred to me. Not even once during my almost three decades long journalistic career. Because, you can hardly ‘interview’ someone who was a constant presence in your life, unless it was staged by some external agency.
Of course, once I had accompanied a young girl, an internee on her assignment to interview P Jayachandran. And the girl had got it all wrong when she opened the interview by asking the most stupid question, “Which is your first song?” Jayachandran’s face darkened and tone changed. “If you don’t know even that, why bother to come here?” he fumed. I had jumped in, made some chitchat, changed his attention, and then slowly led the girl back. I don’t know if she ever realised her folly.
For me, P Jayachandran was a part of my life, right from the time my memory starts. The world as I knew, even as a baby, was saturated with the songs flowing out in his mellifluous voice. Not just his voice, but in my father’s voice, too. Because almost every night, my father used to sing me to sleep, singing the Jayachandran songs, well, till I decided to fall asleep.
A life in song
There were favourites which needed to be sung every night. Like, ‘Harshabashpam thooki….’ that evergreen song from the 1971 movie, ‘Muthassi,’ with the lyrics penned by P Bhaskaran and music composed by Dakshinamoorthy; ‘Ekanthapathikan njaan….’ another P Bhaskaran creation, both as a director and lyricist for ‘Ummachu’ (1971); ‘Karimukilkkattile…..’ of course from P Bhaskaran classic, ‘Kallichellamma,’ and, of course, ‘Manjalayil mungi thorthi….’ The maestro’s first ever Malayalam film song. That was definitely the P Bhaskaran – G Devarajan era of Malayalam cinema.
The story of P Jayachandran and my father, K V Ramanathan, written umpteen times by my father in periodicals and books, narrated by him and by Jayachandran himself over interviews and in television programmes, has been described by every other interviewer writing about the singer, or about my father.
Though my father, K V Ramanathan, had his first reputation as Kerala’s most prominent children’s writer of his times, he took more pride in being known simply as ‘Jayachandran’s Mash.’ For him, Jayan was more than just a student that he singled out from the classrooms of National High School, Irinjalakuda on an afternoon in 1958. I had often felt that for my father, Jayachandran was a personal dream come true. He was like the younger brother my father never had, or the son he never had.
And I think he had never nurtured anyone else, even us, the way he had nurtured Jayan Kuttan (as the young boys of the Paliam family are called) from the time he spotted the young 8th standard student who jumped up to sing Tamil song, ‘Vennilave vennilave…’ at a Sahithya Samajam meeting on an afternoon. From the moment he summoned the boy to the staff room immediately after the meeting, my father was focussed on nurturing him, molding him into a singer. He wrote songs for Jayan, he set music to the songs and taught the songs himself.
After Jayachandran grew up, completed his graduation in BSc Zoology from Christ College, Irinjalakuda (much to the chagrin of my father who wanted him to learn music) and left for Madras where he made his first forays into the world of music, my father stopped writing songs and setting music to them. I had often wondered why my father never tried to continue writing songs or setting them to music, or even singing. He sang quite well. The most comfortable childhood memory for me, and my sister was always listening to my father’s voice, singing our favourite songs.
But for him, it was all just for Jayan. As Jayachandran rose to stardom in Malayalam filmdom, he knew his duty was over and that it was time to savour the success. And savour he did.
Growing up with a voice
Every single milestone in Jayachandran’s career was celebrated in our household. Every new song would be announced to my father immediately after the recording. I don’t know how many times we had listened to my father describing how excited he was when he held that gramophone record of ‘Manjalayil mungithorthi….’ that Jayan had sent from Madras, how he ran to the then Pioneer Theatre in Irinjalakuda and played the record over and over through the movie theatre’s megaphone, and how people crowded outside, listening in awe the voice of their next door boy.
When my parents got married in 1968, Jayachandran, who was already climbing the steps to celebrity hood, sang at the wedding reception. It was not a ganamela or anything. Just plain, beautiful rendering of all his, and their favourite songs without any microphone or stage. Yet, it was a P Jayachandran Ganamela!
His visits meant hours and hours of bubbling conversations, peppered with bits and pieces of songs. ‘Excitement’ was his keyword. He was always excited about music, about songs, about a single line, or a single tune, or a lilting melody. He would waft eloquent over the singers, and lyricists, and music composers he adored. And he would never hide his satirical comments on those whom he didn’t like.
My father could never stop laughing when recalling an incident when Jayachandran once unrolled his sardonic comments on the lyrics of some new song, without realising that the songwriter himself was sitting next to him. Well, even if he knew, he hardly cared!
P Jayachandran was not a tall man. Physically, he had a short stature. But he always stood tall. He never took himself for a short man. His personality, and his voice always towered over everyone else. And everything else.
He was a traditionalist. But, deep within the veneer of tradition, there was a soul that did not care for tradition, that did not care about anything but music.
His knowledge of music was quite deep. But it was not acquired through meticulous study. Rather, he seemed to imbibe music from wherever it was. He spoke fluently of the ragas, of the nuances of concerts, of the little nooks and corners of classical ragas that were hidden within the popular film songs. There was an effortlessness that swept over him.
He never cared for awards. Or for fanfare. He could always walk undisturbed through the streets of his hometown, buying vegetables from the corner shop, or eating a masala dosa at his favourite café. No one bothered him. Or dared to bother him. He grew younger as he aged.
Anand Madhusoodanan, the young music composer and lyricist whose song, ‘Podimeesha mulakkana prayam…’ had won Jayachandran a State Award for Best Playback Singer in 2016, recalled in a memorial meeting how he as a 26 year old emerging composer dared approach the legend. The song was meant to express teenage romance, and the singer was 72 years old. But no young throat could ever have expressed the quivering tensions of the teenage heart than this 72 year old voice.
I realise that I can go on talking about him for hours on end. I knew about the man, about the singer, about the family man much much more than I ever realised.
And, I realise that this is the first article I wrote about him. May be, I should have interviewed him.
1 Comment
Befitting tribute