DR

T.K. Radha — The Kerala Girl Who Walked Princeton

A Dhinakarique science-biography

Published 2026

Early graduation photograph of T.K. Radha — Image courtesy: The Institute for Advanced Study, University of Madras / Presidency College, Madras & Mathrubhumi Archives.

Preface

Preface

Every civilisation reserves its heroes in marble, yet its quiet geniuses often fade into dust. This essay is the rediscovery — a careful unspooling — of Thayyoor K. Radha, born 1938 in Kerala: a woman who studied under the glow of hurricane lamps, earned a gold medal when Indian women were scarcely seen in laboratories, and later conversed with J. Robert Oppenheimer in the precincts of Princeton. Every line here balances history with reverence.

I. The Dawn Beneath Colonial Shadows

Radha was born in Thayyoor, Kerala, in 1938 — an era of kerosene lamps, schoolteachers who doubled as community historians, and colonial syllabi. Her father had once studied at Presidency College, Madras; she followed that same path. Neighbours remember a girl who solved mathematical puzzles faster than the local schoolmaster. Where many daughters of that generation were steered toward domestic arts, Radha quietly steered toward mathematics and physics.

At Presidency College, Madras, she won a Gold Medal in Physics. It was not merely an academic victory: it was a social act. In large lecture halls, surrounded by men, she made visible the possibility that intellect was not a gendered commodity.

II. Under the Tutelage of Visionaries

It was here that Alladi Ramakrishnan — the energetic organiser of theoretical physics in Madras — brought together a small band of students. The course was improvisational: there were no textbooks, only preprints and the patient deciphering of foreign journals that arrived by sea-mail. Radha joined this group and became one of its brightest members.

Within a few years she co-authored fourteen research papers on particle theory and quantum methods, working on topics like Feynman propagators and interactions that would place her work at the frontier of Indian theoretical physics. In classrooms that had not yet learned how to seat women comfortably, she wrote equations that suggested otherwise.

III. The Letter That Bridged Continents

Letter dated 26 November 1965 from Robert J. Oppenheimer inviting T.K. Radha to the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton — Source: Mathrubhumi.

In June 1965 a cream envelope arrived bearing the crest of the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton. The letter — signed by Robert J. Oppenheimer — offered her membership for the 1965–66 academic year and travel support. For a young Indian woman, this was a passage into the heart of world science.

“I walked the street where Einstein lived. When I met Oppenheimer, I was struck by his knowledge of the Bhagavad Gita.”

Princeton was then, as it remains, an uncommon conversation: Einstein, Gödel, Dyson, Fubini — the constellation of minds that defined mid-century theoretical physics. Radha joined that conversation as one of the first Indian women and as a representative of a tradition that saw no contradiction between Sanskrit cosmology and quantum enquiry.

IV. Of Love, Latitude and the Long Detour

After the IAS year, Radha returned to India and later travelled on lecture tours to North America. In Edmonton she met Vembu Gourishankar, a professor of electrical engineering. They married; she settled in Canada. An assistant professorship at the University of Alberta was offered, but childbearing and the absence of institutional childcare redirected her path away from a conventional academic track.

In 1973 she enrolled in computing courses and again emerged at the top of her class. The physics department employed her as a scientific programmer, a role in which she translated theoretical formulae into numerical algorithms. For nearly sixteen years she worked behind the scenes — writing simulations, debugging models, mentoring students and researchers.

Later she taught mathematics and coding to schoolchildren, turning private expertise into public benefit: a second career that quietly seeded future generations.

V. The Silence of Recognition

Institutional memory is fragile. Radha's name vanished from many standard references — an erasure produced by migration, a change of name after marriage, and the archival practices of an era that did not prioritise women’s contributions. Only in recent decades did archivists and researchers reconstruct the path: the travel grant records at Princeton, the co-authored papers in Madras, the alumni notes and testimonies.

Her children, who would themselves become scholars — Hari and Hamsa Balakrishnan — now teach at institutions of global repute, continuing a legacy of intellectual curiosity that began in a Kerala village and threaded through Princeton’s quiet corridors.

T.K. Radha in her later years — Image courtesy: Mathrubhumi.

Epilogue — The Light Beyond Equations

T.K. Radha’s story is not measured by prizes but by persistence. She did not seek monuments; she sought understanding. Her life asks us to enlarge the canon of scientific memory — to include the coders, the teachers, the mothers, and the silent collaborators whose work allows discoveries to stand.

“Now I am become Light, the seeker of truth.”

Between Oppenheimer’s famous invocation of the Gita and Radha’s quieter invocation of inquiry lies the modern scientist’s paradox: to wield knowledge responsibly while remaining humble to the unknown.

Coda — A Footnote to History

In Princeton’s archives a letter dated 26 November 1965 bears her name — a paper thread that connects Kerala to the Ivy league. In Edmonton’s classrooms her lessons linger in notebooks and student recollections. She did not vanish; she settled into the work of building others.

Glossary & Locutions

Presidency College, Madras	One of South India’s premier colleges; produced many scientists and civil servants.
Alladi Ramakrishnan	Founder of the Institute of Mathematical Sciences, Madras; a pioneer of theoretical physics education in India.
Feynman Propagator	A function describing the probability amplitude for a particle's transition between two spacetime points.
Institute for Advanced Study (Princeton)	A private independent centre for theoretical research where Einstein, Gödel and many others worked.
Bhagavad Gita	Ancient Indian scripture with philosophical expositions often referenced in modern scientific reflection.

Copyright & Usage Notice

© Dhinakar Rajaram, 2026. All narrative text, interpretation, and structure in this essay are original works authored exclusively for Dhinakarique. Archival quotations and image references are reproduced here under fair academic use, duly credited to their respective sources. No part of this article — text, code, or imagery — may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form without prior written consent of the author. Unauthorised duplication or derivative reproduction constitutes a violation of applicable copyright laws.

For reproduction rights, syndication, or scholarly citation, kindly contact the author through official Dhinakarique channels.

Tags: #WomenInSTEM #IndianScience #KeralaToPrinceton

Author signature: Dhinakar Rajaram

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TQ

The Twin Quasars — a Cosmic Mirror of Einstein’s Vision

An original essay by Dhinakar Rajaram — image by Dr. Arun K. Shankar (used with permission)

Under truly dark skies and with patient accumulation of photons, an amateur observer may achieve work ordinarily reserved for professional observatories. The photograph below — realised from 1,136 sub-exposures of 20 seconds (totaling c. 6 hours 18 minutes) at a Bortle 3 site — shows the famed twin images of quasar Q0957+561: A and B. The light arrived here from a distance of c. 8.7 billion light-years, and began its voyage long ante the birth of our Solar System.

Image © Dr. Arun K. Shankar — Photon Hunter. Used with permission. Original Facebook post: view post.

Preface

Photons are archivists of cosmic history. When we collect them patiently, summing faint glows across hours, we assemble narratives of epochs long past. The double image of Q0957+561 is not merely an aesthetic curiosity: it is one of the earliest, most striking visual confirmations of Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity, for it manifests the bending of light by gravity — gravitational lensing.

Capturing such remote celestial light requires not merely precision optics but extraordinary patience. Each individual exposure gathers only a minute fraction of the photons arriving from the quasar — remnants of an epoch when the Universe was young. Because these photons are so few and faint, astronomers must accumulate hundreds or even thousands of exposures over several hours, later combining them digitally to enhance the signal while suppressing noise. This meticulous process, known as integration or stacking, enables the invisible to become visible, transforming random specks into coherent cosmic history.

What Is a Quasar?

The term quasar derives from “quasi-stellar radio source”, first used in the 1960s when astronomers found intense radio emissions emerging from points of light resembling stars. In truth, a quasar is the incandescent core of a remote galaxy, its brilliance powered by a supermassive black hole consuming gas and dust at extraordinary rates. The infalling material forms an accretion disc that heats to millions of degrees, radiating energy across the entire electromagnetic spectrum—from radio waves to X-rays.

By contrast, a neutron star is the dense remnant of a massive star’s core, only a few kilometres wide yet containing more mass than the Sun. When such a neutron star rotates rapidly and emits regular beams of radiation, it is termed a pulsar. A black hole, on the other hand, is a gravitational abyss from which nothing—not even light—can escape. Quasars differ in that the light we see comes not from within the black hole, but from matter in the final moments before crossing its event horizon, where gravitational energy is converted into luminous fury.

In essence, a quasar is both a monument to creation and a herald of destruction—gravity’s own paradoxical masterpiece, where annihilation becomes light.

The Enigma of the Twin Quasars

"We are seeing two apparitions where there is fundamentally one source." — paraphrase of classical lensing interpretation.

At first sight (prima facie), the two luminous points separated by approximately 5.7 arcseconds might appear as distinct celestial entities — two quasars, side by side in the far reaches of the constellation Ursa Major. Yet, beneath that illusion lies one of the most elegant demonstrations of the geometry of the cosmos. Meticulous, multi-wavelength observations — optical, radio, and infrared — have revealed that these twin sparks are, in truth, reflections of a single object: the quasar Q0957+561, seen twice because the very fabric of space-time has curved its light into twin pathways. What we behold as duality is, in reality, unity distorted by gravity — a natural optical illusion written in the mathematics of Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity.

The intervening agent responsible for this celestial mirage is an otherwise unremarkable galaxy, faint and hidden along our line of sight. Its mass — composed of visible stars, dark matter, and cosmic dust — acts as a colossal gravitational lens, bending the quasar’s light like a prism of curved space. Each photon follows a unique geodesic, one path slightly shorter, the other drawn further through the gravitational potential well. The outcome: two visible images of the same ancient source, separated by a mere few arcseconds in the sky, yet by roughly one light-year in journey length.

In the foreground, the striking spiral galaxy NGC 3079 — poetically known as the Phantom Frisbee Galaxy — contributes visual drama but not the lensing itself. Its shimmering disk of gas and dust merely frames the scene, a cosmic bystander in this grand interplay of distance and destiny. The true lensing galaxy lies beyond it: a shadowy mass whose gravitational field, invisible yet immense, warps the light of a quasar nearly nine billion years old.

And therein lies the greater wonder. The photons captured in Dr. Arun K. Shankar’s image began their journey some 8.7 billion years ago — when the universe was less than half its present age, when the Solar System, the Earth, and even the Milky Way as we know it did not yet exist. These quasar-beams are, quite literally, messengers from the cosmic dawn, traversing aeons through an expanding universe. As they travelled, the relentless stretching of space — cosmic expansion — elongated their wavelengths, softening them into the reddish glow of ancient light. Their energy diminished, their pace unchanged, they continued to arrive, photon by photon, like whispers from a vanished epoch.

In observing them, we do not see the present universe, but its memory — a tapestry woven from time-delayed light. Each captured photon is a relic, older than the Sun, older than the dust beneath our feet. And as the cosmos continues to expand, these same sources will drift ever farther, their light fading toward invisibility, until one day, perhaps, the twin quasars themselves will pass beyond the reach of human eyes. What we witness now, then, is both revelation and farewell — the universe showing us its reflection, before distance swallows it whole.

This paradox was beautifully intuited in ancient Indian philosophy. The Upanishads spoke of Kāla — Time — as the unseen thread binding existence and perception, while Buddhist thinkers described reality as Kṣaṇika (momentary), ever dissolving and renewed with each instant. The concept of Māyā, too, reflects this illusion of continuity — that what we perceive as the “now” is but a tapestry woven from delayed impressions. Science and philosophy converge here: light, the divine messenger, reveals that even when we gaze upon the stars or the face beside us, we are, in essence, beholding the past through the veil of the present.

Super-Earths in the Cygnus Constellation

Preface

In the last few decades, humankind has stepped beyond the boundaries of the Solar System — not in spacecraft, but through the quiet precision of telescopes. Among the thousands of exoplanets now catalogued, a particular class known as super-Earths has captured both scientific curiosity and public imagination. These are worlds larger than Earth yet smaller than Neptune, diverse in form and possibility, each one whispering clues about how planets, atmospheres, and perhaps life itself may arise elsewhere.

The Kepler Space Telescope was instrumental in revealing this unseen cosmic population. By observing subtle dips in starlight, Kepler transformed the constellation Cygnus into a map of new worlds — a stellar swan whose wings now stretch across the annals of astronomical discovery. The following pages explore some of these remarkable super-Earths in Cygnus, where science meets wonder in the search for another Earth beneath alien suns.

What Are Exoplanets and Super-Earths?

Exoplanets

Exoplanets are planets that orbit stars beyond our own Solar System. The first confirmed detections were made in the early 1990s, and since then, astronomers have discovered thousands using methods such as the transit technique (observing dips in starlight as planets pass in front of their stars) and the radial velocity method (measuring the gravitational wobble a planet induces on its host star).

Exoplanets display an extraordinary variety — from giant gas worlds orbiting perilously close to their stars (“hot Jupiters”) to icy mini-Neptunes and small, rocky planets reminiscent of Earth. Their study has become one of the most exciting frontiers of modern astronomy, helping scientists understand how planetary systems form and evolve throughout the Galaxy.

Super-Earths

Super-Earths are a class of exoplanets whose masses lie between those of Earth and the smaller ice giants, typically ranging from 1 to 10 times Earth’s mass (M_⊕) or 1.5 to 3 Earth radii (R_⊕). The term describes size and mass only — not surface conditions or habitability.

Some super-Earths are likely rocky worlds with active geology and thin atmospheres, while others may resemble scaled-down versions of Neptune with thick gaseous envelopes. Because our Solar System lacks an equivalent planet type, super-Earths are scientifically valuable: they bridge the gap between terrestrial and gas planets, offering crucial clues about how planets form and migrate.

When a super-Earth orbits within the habitable zone — where conditions could allow liquid water to exist — it becomes a potential candidate for life-bearing environments. These discoveries fuel both scientific research and human imagination, reminding us that our own planet may not be unique in the cosmos.

The Cygnus Constellation and the Cygnus Arm

The Cygnus constellation — Latin for “the Swan” — dominates the northern summer sky, soaring along the dense band of the Milky Way. It is rich in bright stars such as Deneb, one of the vertices of the Summer Triangle, and lies in a region teeming with star-forming nebulae and distant stellar clusters. The constellation’s cross-shaped pattern, often called the Northern Cross, makes it one of the most recognisable sights in the night sky.

Official IAU sky map of Cygnus showing its position among neighbouring constellations and major stars such as Deneb and Albireo.
Image Credit: IAU / Sky & Telescope

Cygnus as seen from Earth’s northern hemisphere — its characteristic cross-shaped pattern forms the “Northern Cross”.
Image Credit: Till Credner / AlltheSky.com / CC BY-SA 3.0

Many of the Kepler Space Telescope’s most notable discoveries, including its famous super-Earths, were found in this direction because Kepler’s fixed field of view was centred on the Cygnus Arm of our Galaxy — a spiral arm rich with sun-like stars. This region offers an ideal vantage for detecting planetary transits, as it combines high stellar density with relative brightness and observational stability.

For students and enthusiasts alike, Cygnus not only symbolises a mythological swan but also represents a cosmic gateway — a window into the spiral structure of the Milky Way and into humanity’s expanding search for other worlds beyond our own.

Super-Earths in the Constellation Cygnus

Artist’s impression of Kepler-452b, a super-Earth orbiting within the habitable zone of a Sun-like star in the Cygnus constellation.
Image Credit: NASA / Ames / JPL-Caltech (via Wikimedia Commons)

The constellation Cygnus, the celestial swan that graces the northern summer skies, has become one of the most prolific hunting grounds for planets beyond our Solar System. The Kepler Space Telescope, launched in 2009, directed its gaze toward this region of the Milky Way, meticulously recording the minute dimming of stars caused by transiting planets. Among its most remarkable findings are a series of super-Earths — worlds larger than our own but smaller than Neptune, ranging typically between 1.5 and 3 Earth radii.

These planets occupy a fascinating intermediate category. Some may be rocky, Earth-like bodies with tenuous atmospheres, while others could possess thick gaseous envelopes. Their true nature often remains uncertain due to limitations in mass and composition data. Yet, they collectively reveal the incredible diversity of planetary systems within our Galaxy.

Kepler’s Legacy in Cygnus

The Kepler mission targeted a fixed field encompassing the constellations Cygnus and Lyra, monitoring over 150,000 stars continuously. This focus allowed astronomers to identify thousands of exoplanets through the transit method, where a planet passes across the face of its star, producing a measurable dip in brightness. Among these, several super-Earths stand out for their potential habitability and intriguing characteristics.

🌍 Kepler-452b — “Earth 2.0” Candidate

Distance: ~1,800 light-years | Star: G2-type | Orbital Period: 385 days | Radius: 1.63 R_⊕

Kepler-452b receives nearly the same amount of energy from its star as Earth does from the Sun. It orbits in the habitable zone, making it a leading “Earth 2.0” candidate. However, its mass and composition remain uncertain. The star is older than our Sun (~6 billion years), which could mean a drier and warmer surface today.

Educational Note: Discovered via the transit method, its regular dimming pattern confirmed an orbit similar to Earth’s year. Whether it retains an atmosphere suitable for life is still unknown, as direct spectral data is yet unavailable.

🌋 Kepler-69c — The “Super-Venus”

Distance: ~2,700 light-years | Star: G-type | Orbital Period: 242 days | Radius: 1.7–2.2 R_⊕

Kepler-69c receives almost twice the radiation Earth does, pushing it to the inner edge of its system’s habitable zone. This likely makes it a “super-Venus” — an overheated world with a thick carbon dioxide atmosphere and possibly reflective sulphuric acid clouds.

Scientific Insight: The study of Kepler-69c provides analogues for Venus’s runaway greenhouse effect, helping planetary scientists understand climate instability in terrestrial worlds.

🌊 Kepler-725C — A Massive Super-Earth

Orbital Period: 207.5 days | Mass: ~10 M_⊕ | Discovery Method: Transit Timing Variations (TTV)

Kepler-725C lies within its star’s habitable zone and is one of the more massive super-Earths discovered in Cygnus. Detected via transit timing variations, it exhibits subtle orbital shifts caused by gravitational interactions with nearby planets. Its density and surface composition remain unknown but may bridge the gap between rocky worlds and mini-Neptunes.

Student Focus: TTV is a powerful technique where gravitational tugs between planets slightly alter the timing of each transit — an indirect but precise way to estimate planetary masses.

🪨 Kepler-36b — A Dense and Rocky Neighbour

Orbital Period: 13.8 days | Radius: 1.49 R_⊕ | Density: ~7.5 g/cm³

Kepler-36b is one of the densest known exoplanets, orbiting in a tightly packed system alongside Kepler-36c, a mini-Neptune. Their proximity — less than 0.02 AU apart — highlights the complexity of planetary migration. The contrast between a rocky world and a gas-rich neighbour shows how planets evolve under shared gravitational influence.

🔭 Scientific Methods Behind These Discoveries

• Transit Method: Detects planets by observing dips in starlight as they pass in front of their stars, revealing orbital period and radius.
• Transit Timing Variations (TTV): Measures variations in transit schedules caused by gravitational interactions, allowing estimation of planetary mass.
• Radial Velocity (RV): Detects the star’s slight wobble due to orbiting planets — useful for determining mass and density.

Combining these methods gives astronomers both the size and mass of a planet — essential for determining whether it’s rocky, icy, or gaseous.

📘 Visual Infographics

How the Transit Method Works

When an exoplanet passes in front of its host star, it blocks a small fraction of the star’s light. Astronomers measure this dimming to infer the planet’s size, orbital period, and even hints of its atmosphere. This is how the Kepler Space Telescope detected thousands of exoplanets, including many in Cygnus.

During the Transit of Venus in 2012, I had the rare privilege of observing and photographing the event through my telescope. As Venus slowly crossed the face of the Sun, it appeared as a small black disc — a moment of quiet grandeur that few living astronomers have witnessed. What struck me even more was something subtle and beautiful: along the planet’s edge, I could see a faint, luminous ring — a delicate halo of refracted sunlight formed by the planet’s atmosphere.

That shimmering ring was not merely a visual effect. It was sunlight being scattered and dispersed by Venus’s atmosphere, splitting into a gentle rainbow spectrum. In that instant, I realised that I was witnessing, on a local scale, the very same phenomenon that astronomers use to study the atmospheres of distant exoplanets. When light passes through a planet’s atmosphere, certain wavelengths are absorbed or bent depending on the gases present — oxygen, carbon dioxide, methane, or water vapour — creating a unique spectral signature.

This technique, known as transmission spectroscopy, is central to exoplanet research. Space telescopes such as Kepler, and later James Webb, apply this same principle when observing the light from distant stars as their planets transit across them. The slight dimming in brightness reveals a planet’s size and orbit, while the minute changes in spectrum tell us about its atmospheric composition.

In essence, what I captured with my camera in 2012 is a living demonstration of the transit method — the same geometry of observer → planet → star that astronomers rely upon to detect and study new worlds. While my photograph shows Venus within our own Solar System, Kepler’s sensors detect planets orbiting stars thousands of light-years away. The scale may differ, but the physics — the play of light and shadow across a stellar disc — remains beautifully the same.

• 🌞 My observation: Venus’s atmosphere refracted and scattered sunlight into a faint rainbow, revealing its atmospheric layer.
• 🔭 Exoplanet studies: The same effect, seen through spectroscopy, uncovers the presence of gases and molecules around distant planets.
• 🌍 Shared geometry: Both depend on the precise alignment of planet, star, and observer.
• 📈 Scientific continuity: From a telescope on Earth to space-based observatories, the same principle unites the study of Venus and worlds light-years away.

That fleeting glow around Venus in my 2012 photograph was more than a visual spectacle — it was a personal glimpse into the universal method by which humanity is discovering and understanding other worlds.

Illustration of the Transit Method — measuring the dimming of starlight as a planet crosses in front of its star.
Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA)

Actual image of Venus transiting the Sun, captured during the 2012 Transit of Venus.
Photograph by Dhinakar Rajaram

Super-Earth Size Comparison

The illustration below compares the relative scales of super-Earths (1.5–3 R_⊕) with planets of our Solar System. Many Kepler discoveries fall in this range — too large to be Earths, yet too small to be gas giants.

Comparative exoplanetary system illustration inspired by TRAPPIST-1 and our Solar System.
Image Credit: Cyprianus Marcus / Own Work / CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons

📊 Quick Reference Table

Planet	Orbital Period	Radius (R⊕)	Mass (M⊕)	Habitable Zone	Notes
Kepler-452b	385 days	1.63	Unknown	Yes	“Earth 2.0” candidate
Kepler-69c	242 days	1.7–2.2	Unknown	Inner edge	Super-Venus type
Kepler-725C	207.5 days	—	~10	Yes	Massive super-Earth (TTV)
Kepler-36b	13.8 days	1.49	—	No	Dense, rocky planet

🧠 Endnotes for Students

🌎 A planet in the “habitable zone” is not necessarily habitable — it simply means liquid water could exist if other conditions (like atmosphere and pressure) allow it.

🚀 Future missions such as ESA’s PLATO (2026) and NASA’s LUVOIR concept will study these planets in detail, searching for biosignatures and atmospheric markers of habitability.

Coda

The constellation of Cygnus, long associated with myth and music, now sings a celestial chorus of planetary discovery. Each super-Earth orbiting its distant sun tells a story — of formation, survival, and transformation — in a Universe still teeming with mystery. In studying these alien worlds, we are, in a way, studying the many possible fates of our own Earth.

Copyright Notice

© Dhinakar Rajaram. All rights reserved. This article is a scholarly piece intended for educational and informational purposes. Any reproduction or reuse without permission is prohibited. Astronomical data courtesy of NASA Exoplanet Archive and ESA mission records.

Hashtags: #Astronomy #Exoplanets #KeplerMission #SuperEarth #Cygnus #SpaceExploration #Astrobiology #Kepler452b #ScienceBlog

The Rare Carnatic Rāgas that Flow through Ilaiyaraaja’s Universe

The Rare Carnatic Rāgas that Flow through Ilaiyaraaja’s Universe

“Where melody turns to meditation, and silence finds its song.”

Ilaiyaraaja’s music is a vast country of many seasons — sometimes drenched in monsoon rapture, sometimes sunlit with simplicity, and sometimes brooding like twilight before rain. Within this immense landscape, folk melody and symphonic architecture meet, each enriched by the other’s vocabulary. Hidden amid its well-trodden paths lie the rarer groves of Carnatic rāgas that the Maestro visits with private affection — moments when scholarship meets solitude and invention becomes prayer.

These rāgas are not frequent visitors to cinema; they bloom like monsoon lotuses, briefly yet memorably, when the emotional air is right. Some appear as complete classical expositions, others as passing scales moulded to fit the rhythm of a story — yet each carries the fragrance of Ilaiyaraaja’s melodic imagination. In tracing them, we glimpse the mind of a composer who could hold both the village and the conservatoire in the same breath.

This essay gathers those elusive strains — their essential swara outlines, the compositions in which they appear, and reflections on how Ilaiyaraaja coaxed each from notation into living sound. It is not merely a catalogue, but a meditation on how rare rāgas found new life when touched by his unerring instinct for balance between intellect and emotion.

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Rukmambari

Ārohaṇa: S R₁ G₃ P N₃ S
Avarohaṇa: S N₃ P G₃ R₁ S
Tāla: Rūpaka

“Sri Shivasutha” from the 1994 mandolin album (also issued as Ekadantham) gives Rukmambari a devotional stillness. U. Shrinivas’s mandolin shapes the rāga like incense smoke — rising, curling, dissolving. The film song “Sri Siva Sudha” (Karpoora Mullai) reimagines the same melody in cinematic prayer, retaining its sanctity while setting it within orchestral contours.

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Rāgavardhini

Ārohaṇa: S R₃ G₃ M₁ P D₁ N₂ S
Avarohaṇa: S N₂ D₁ P M₁ G₃ R₃ S
Tāla: Ādi

“Manam Kanindhu” from the same album is Rāgavardhini in quiet dialogue with itself — introspective, poised, and resolutely unhurried. The raga’s leap between R₃ and G₃ lends a noble restraint. Ilaiyaraaja later invoked its scalar hue in “Pattu Viral Thottuvittadhal” (Dhanush) and “Unai Kaanum Bodhu” (En Mana Vaanil), not as strict rāga renderings but as tonal colour — evidence of how theory softens into instinct under his hand.

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🎵 Panchamukhi — The Rāga of Many Visages

Fundamental Scaffold: S R₂ M₁ D₂ N₃ S  —  a tonal architecture conceived and codified by Ilaiyaraaja.

Panchamukhi is not merely a raga — it is a philosophical proposition in sound, a mirror of Ilaiyaraaja’s fascination with modal geometry and symmetrical resonance. First unveiled in his 1988 orchestral opus “Nothing But the Wind”, within the movement aptly titled “Composer’s Breath”, it stands as one of the rare occasions when the composer did not borrow from the canon of Carnatic ragas, but authored one — from silence itself.

The word Panchamukhi — “the five-faced” — is no mere metaphor. It denotes the raga’s chameleonic capacity to generate five distinct melodic identities through Graha Bhedam (modal shift of the tonic), each transforming the emotional hue while retaining the genetic code of the original scale:

• First visage: S R₂ M₁ D₂ N₃ S — austere, meditative, like incense rising in a deserted shrine.
• Second visage: S G₂ P D₂ N₂ S — pastoral and unhurried, evoking flute song over sunlit fields.
• Third visage: S G₃ M₂ P D₂ S — tender, inward-looking, a murmur between lover and muse.
• Fourth visage: S R₂ G₂ M₁ D₁ S — archaic, ritualistic, echoing the cadence of a Vedic chant.
• Fifth visage: S R₁ G₂ M₂ N₂ S — dusky and wistful, like twilight refracted through memory.

Together, these five modalities form a melodic yantra — a mandala of moods orbiting a single tonal centre. In “Composer’s Breath”, Ilaiyaraaja unifies them through voice-leading of remarkable fluidity, where harmony becomes breath and counterpoint turns meditative. What emerges is not merely a raga, but a reflection on consciousness itself — one melodic thought revealing five emotional selves, each face an echo of the other.

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Sarasangi

Ārohaṇa: S R₂ G₃ M₁ P D₁ N₃ S
Avarohaṇa: S N₃ D₁ P M₁ G₃ R₂ S

Sarasangi, pliant and versatile, wears many disguises in Ilaiyaraaja’s universe — rustic, devotional, symphonic. Across his oeuvre, the raga recurs like a refrain, adapting itself to every emotional climate.

• Ellorum Sollum Pattu — Marubadiyum
• Endrendrum Aanandame — Kadal Meengal
• Malligaye Malligaye — Periya Veetu Pannakaran (a prelude of exquisite beauty)
• Meenamma Meenamma — Rajathi Raja (with electric BGMs)
• Muthu Muthu — Periya Veetu Pannakaran
• Muthu Natraamam — Thiruvasagam in Symphony
• Pudhusu Pudhusu — Manidha Jaathi
• Rajanodu Rani — Sathi Leelavathi (a luminous East–West fusion)
• Thaa Thanthana Kummi Kotti — Adhisaya Piravi
• Yaar Thoorigai — Paaru Paru Pattanam Paaru

Each shows a different hue of Sarasangi — from pastoral to philosophical — yet all remain unmistakably Ilaiyaraaja’s, painted with the same melodic brush that balances Carnatic discipline and cinematic freedom.

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Saraswathi

Ārohaṇa: S R₂ M₂ P D₂ S
Avarohaṇa: S N₂ D₂ P M₂ G₂ R₂ S

Saraswathi enters when serenity must speak. “Karpoora Bommai Ondru” (Keladi Kanmani), “Poovaram Sootti” (Baba Pugazh Maalai), and “Veena Vani” (Pon Megalai) reveal Ilaiyaraaja’s gift for using its tranquil lines to frame devotion and tenderness without grand flourish.

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Saveri

Ārohaṇa: S R₁ M₁ P D₁ S
Avarohaṇa: S N₃ D₁ P M₁ G₃ R₁ S

“Chamakku Chamakku Cham” (Kondaveeti Donga) turns Saveri’s dawn solemnity into joyous folk rhythm. What is prayer in the concert hall becomes festival in the village — a transformation Ilaiyaraaja alone could achieve without loss of essence.

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Ramani

Ārohaṇa: S G₃ M₂ P D₁ N₃ S
Avarohaṇa: S N₃ D₁ P M₂ G₃ S
(Essentially Pantuvarāli without Rishabham)

“Andhi Mazhai Pozhigiradhu” (Raaja Paarvai) embodies Ramani — a raga suspended between yearning and restraint. By omitting the Rishabham of Pantuvarāli, Ilaiyaraaja carved a new tonal corridor, half-light and half-shadow, where melody sighs more than it speaks.

Some musicological sources classify the song under Vasantha for its fluid ascent, while others hear shades of Shivaranjani intertwined with Pantuvarāli. Yet a growing consensus identifies it as Ramani — a scale of Ilaiyaraaja’s own crafting. The ambiguity itself mirrors the song’s beauty: it floats between grammar and emotion, resisting confinement, content to be twilight itself.

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Discography & Referential Notes

Nothing But the Wind (1988) — features “Composer’s Breath” (Panchamukhi).
Ilaiyaraaja’s Classics in Mandolin / Ekadantham (1994) — U. Shrinivas performs “Sri Shivasutha” (Rukmambari) and “Manam Kanindhu” (Rāgavardhini).

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Glossary

Graha Bhedam: Modal shift of tonic — the method used to derive Panchamukhi’s five faces.
Tāla: Rhythmic cycle; Ādi and Rūpaka are among the common patterns referenced.
Scale vs Rāga: In cinema, scales often stand in for full rāgas, used for emotional contour rather than canonical grammar.

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Coda

These rare rāgas reveal Ilaiyaraaja as not merely a composer but a discoverer — a seeker who listens to what silence might sing. His engagement with the Carnatic idiom is neither ornamental nor didactic; it is organic, born of instinct and interiority. Each raga here, however brief its cinematic appearance, leaves behind the fragrance of deep study and deeper feeling.

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Copyright & Attribution

All text, research, and commentary curated and written by Dhinakar Rajaram. The musical works, compositions, and recordings referenced remain the intellectual property of their respective rights holders, including the composer and performing artistes.

This article is presented purely for educational and non-commercial study — a humble archival effort to celebrate Ilaiyaraaja’s rare melodic creations. Kindly credit the author if cited elsewhere, preserving the spirit and integrity of the text.

— Compiled with reverence, for the love of rāga and the wonder of melody.

#Ilaiyaraaja #Carnatic #Ragas #MandolinShrinivas #Panchamukhi #Musicology

🎶 Sahana & Nalinakanthi — The Cinematic Voices of Ilaiyaraaja, Rahman & Deva

Prelude: When the Grammar of Sound Becomes the Geometry of Emotion

In Indian music, a rāga is not merely a set of notes — it is a living being, a temperament, a pulse that breathes through time. Each carries within it a history older than the instruments that serve it, older even than the tongues that name it.

But when the rāga crosses into cinema, something alchemical occurs. It leaves the temple, steps into the studio, and learns to walk with the common man. It sheds none of its sanctity — only its austerity. There, among lights, lenses, and dialogue, it becomes the unseen actor: sometimes the voice of love, sometimes the voice of conscience.

In that long corridor where the classical meets the cinematic, two ragas — Sahana and Nalinakanthi — have found their own quiet corner. They do not shout for attention. They whisper, they linger, and they dissolve like perfume.

Their cinematic life is brief, almost elusive — yet in those few appearances, they reveal the inner lives of their composers. And when the names are Ilaiyaraaja, A. R. Rahman, and Deva, the conversation between tradition and modernity becomes nothing short of symphonic.

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🌸 Rāga Sahana

— A rāga of reflection and surrender —

Sahana is tenderness incarnate. A rakti rāgam born of Harikambhoji, it has the fragrance of jasmine after rain — fragile, familiar, and infinitely expressive. It does not seek grandeur; it seeks grace. Its phrases unfold in curves, never straight lines — a melodic arabesque that evokes surrender and introspection in equal measure.

Ārohaṇa: S R₂ G₃ M₁ P M₁ D₂ N₂ S
Avarohaṇa: S N₂ D₂ P M₁ G₃ M₁ R₂ G₃ R₂ S

Yet to call these swaras Sahana would be like calling a prayer a sequence of syllables. The raga’s true life resides in its gamakas — those oscillations of feeling that transform sound into sentiment.

Carnatic Parallel — “Emanadichevo” (Tyagaraja, Sahana rāgam)

Before Sahana entered the world of cinema, it lived for centuries within the sanctum of Carnatic music — tender, unhurried, and devotional. Among its most moving embodiments is Saint Thyagaraja’s “Emanadichevo”, here rendered by Natasha Sekar. The composition captures the raga’s innate vulnerability — a voice suspended between longing and surrender.

Tyagaraja’s melody flows like a conversation with the divine, each phrase tracing the curve of compassion. In Natasha Sekar’s interpretation, the sahitya breathes with quiet introspection, the gamakas unfolding like sighs of faith. This is Sahana in its purest sanctity — a gentle ache in melodic form — setting the emotional foundation for its later cinematic avatars.

🎼 Ilaiyaraaja — Sahana in “Unnal Mudiyum Thambi” (1988)

Among Ilaiyaraaja’s countless dialogues with Carnatic grammar, Sahana occurs only once — but that single instance is enough to tell an entire story of musical conscience. In Unnal Mudiyum Thambi, from 1:35:40 to 1:36:40, a minute-long nagaswaram passage rises like incense through silence.

No words, no vocal line — only the breath of the reed carrying moral transformation. Ilaiyaraaja does not “use” Sahana; he consecrates it. In that one minute, the listener hears not just melody, but resolution — the triumph of introspection over inertia. It is perhaps the most unspoken form of rebellion in Tamil cinema: a reformist cry rendered in raga.

It remains to this day Ilaiyaraaja’s sole cinematic invocation of Sahana — a single candle lit, and still burning.

🎧 Watch the segment (1:35:40–1:36:40)

🎵 Deva — Rukku Rukku (Avvai Shanmugi, 1996)

Deva’s “Rukku Rukku” from Avvai Shanmugi presents Sahana in a lighter, almost mischievous guise. Set within the comic fabric of the film, the composition softens the raga’s reflective melancholy into a smiling cadence that teases more than it mourns. The melodic turns, while playful, still carry Sahana’s signature pathos — a shade of tenderness beneath the laughter.

What makes this song remarkable is Deva’s instinctive ability to bring a classical raga into an everyday cinematic idiom without losing its soul. Rukku Rukku becomes the people’s Sahana — relatable, hummable, yet quietly steeped in emotional intelligence. It is a reminder that a raga’s grace does not vanish in comedy or crowd; it merely learns to smile in a new language.

🎵 A. R. Rahman — Azhage Sugama / Anbe Sugama (Paarthale Paravasam, 2001)

If Ilaiyaraaja’s Sahana is carved in stone, Rahman’s is carved in mist. In Paarthale Paravasam, he reimagines the raga as a sigh wrapped in silk, built on suspended chords and diaphanous textures. The lines are long, the pauses eloquent, the rhythm unhurried — Sahana wanders as though reluctant to end.

Rahman’s brilliance lies in his ability to translate the grammar of a raga into the language of the modern ear without diluting its spirit. Where Ilaiyaraaja’s Sahana meditates, Rahman’s dreams. One invokes the deity; the other addresses the beloved. Both worship — only the temples differ.

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🌼 Rāga Nalinakanthi

— A rāga of light and renewal —

If Sahana is a solitary dusk, Nalinakanthi is sunrise over a riverbank. Derived from the 27th Melakarta Sarasangi, it bursts with luminosity and measured optimism. It is discipline made joyous — the sound of the morning after a long night of silence.

Ārohaṇa: S G₃ R₂ M₁ P N₃ S
Avarohaṇa: S N₃ P M₁ G₃ R₂ S

The raga lends itself naturally to cinema’s kinetic emotions — bright, brisk, devotional yet worldly. Where Sahana invites reflection, Nalinakanthi invites renewal.

Carnatic Parallel — “Manavyalakincharadate” (Thyagaraja, Nalinakanthi rāgam, Ādi tālam)

Among the classical testaments to Nalinakanthi stands Saint Thyagaraja’s celebrated kṛti “Manavyalakincharadate”, set to Ādi tālam. Its architecture is simplicity itself, yet within that economy lies immense lyrical grace — a supplicant’s call to Lord Rāma, woven through the raga’s quicksilver contours.

Over the centuries, this composition has been rendered by the stalwarts of Carnatic heritage — from Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavatar and M. S. Subbulakshmi to contemporary voices like T. M. Krishna and Sudha Raghunathan. Each interpretation reveals a different hue of the same radiance — one devotional, one lyrical, one introspective.

In the IndianRaga presentation featured here, the piece finds new breath in a confluence of the classical and the contemporary. Haripriya Dharmala’s vocals converse fluently with the mridangam and konnakkol of Rohit Prasad, the flute of Poornima, and Kartik Raman’s arrangement that folds in a resonant bass groove. Their ensemble turns tradition into dialogue — a rhythmic sawaal–javaab across chatusram, tisram, and khandam patterns, where Carnatic imagination meets cosmopolitan polish.

The raga itself remains the quiet protagonist — bright, mercurial, and joyous — carrying Thyagaraja’s timeless question across generations: “Will you not hear this devotee’s plea?”

It is fascinating to note that Deva’s “Manam Virumbuthe Unnai” in Nerrukku Ner finds its very roots in this Carnatic lineage. The song’s melodic skeleton is unmistakably modelled on Saint Thyagaraja’s “Manavyalakincharadate”, translating the devotional plea of the original into the language of romance and cinematic intimacy.

Where Thyagaraja’s cry seeks divine compassion, Deva’s version seeks human connection — yet both arise from the same melodic soil of Nalinakanthi. The shift from temple to theatre does not dilute the raga’s essence; it merely reframes its yearning. What was once a prayer becomes, in Deva’s hands, a confession of love — a seamless transmutation of devotion into desire.

🎼 Ilaiyaraaja — Endhan Nenjil Neengatha (Kalaignan, 1993)

Here, Ilaiyaraaja conducts Nalinakanthi as though it were chamber music — intricate, layered, but unfailingly lyrical. The flute glides with understated majesty; the strings echo in tender consonance. Nothing juts out; everything breathes in perfect harmonic proportion.

This is the Raja of form — the engineer of emotion, for whom even the raga’s smallest gesture serves a symphonic purpose. He never compromises classical purity, yet never isolates it from feeling. Endhan Nenjil Neengatha is not merely composed; it is architected.

🎵 Deva — Manam Virumbuthe Unnai (Nerrukku Ner, 1997)

Male Version — Vocals by Unnikrishnan: Deva’s Manam Virumbuthe Unnai in Nalinakanthi finds its voice in Unnikrishnan’s serene classical phrasing. His rendition balances romantic tenderness with melodic purity, allowing the raga’s inherent brightness to bloom naturally. The composition remains graceful yet accessible — a bridge between Carnatic discipline and cinematic simplicity.

Female Version — Vocals by Harini: This rendition of Deva’s Manam Virumbuthe Unnai retains the cheerful lift of Nalinakanthi but softens its edges with Harini’s lilting timbre. Her voice carries the raga’s radiance with a distinctly feminine warmth, turning exuberance into quiet celebration — a luminous counterpart to the male version.

Deva’s Nalinakanthi is the people’s version — unpretentious, cheerful, instantly memorable. He trims its grammar but retains its smile. The result is simplicity without shallowness, a melody that doesn’t bow before the scholar but walks hand in hand with the listener.

One could say Deva democratises Nalinakanthi. His song hums through buses, tea stalls, and transistor radios — proof that a raga need not live in ivory towers to be alive. In his hands, melody becomes companionship.

🎶 A. R. Rahman — Kandukondein Kandukondein (Title Track, 2000)

Rahman’s Kandukondein Kandukondein begins in Nalinakanthi but refuses to stay confined. It soon flirts with Kadanakuthuhalam, teasing anya swaras (R M, D N, G P, R, R S) as though melody itself were intoxicated with curiosity.

Rāga Kadanakuthuhalam:
Ārohaṇa: S R₂ M₁ D₂ N₃ G₃ P S
Avarohaṇa: S N₃ D₂ P M₁ G₃ R₂ S

Kadanakuthuhalam is a raga of exuberance and motion — bright, effervescent, and full of childlike vitality. It rarely lingers; it dances. Its asymmetrical climb and cascading descent create a sense of perpetual discovery, making it a perfect companion to Rahman’s musical temperament. Within the title track, the transition between Nalinakanthi’s poise and Kadanakuthuhalam’s sparkle is seamless, symbolising curiosity meeting clarity — the heart conversing with intellect.

The song sparkles with Rahman’s characteristic eclecticism — a harmonic dialogue between Carnatic rigour and Western romanticism. Here, the raga isn’t simply followed; it’s interpreted. And in that interpretation lies the thrill — a reminder that creativity is the most respectful form of rebellion.

This is Nalinakanthi as festival, not lecture — classical soul dressed in the finery of filmic imagination.

Learn more about Rāga Kadanakuthuhalam →

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🎻 Composer Counterpoint: Three Worlds, One Grammar

To study Ilaiyaraaja, Rahman, and Deva through these ragas is to witness three philosophies of music-making.

Ilaiyaraaja is the grammarian-poet — an architect of order who believes beauty is born of structure. His ragas are not borrowed; they are built, brick by brick, until emotion becomes architecture. He composes as a mathematician might dream — with precision so profound that it turns spiritual.

A. R. Rahman, the alchemist, deals not in bricks but in light. He sees ragas as frequencies rather than formulas — elastic, mutable, alive. Where Ilaiyaraaja invokes the sanctum, Rahman builds a sanctuary — the same divinity, refracted through harmony. His music reminds us that devotion, too, evolves; it can wear headphones as easily as sacred ash.

Deva, the conversationalist, brings the raga to the people. He neither canonises nor complicates. He speaks in melody as one speaks in mother tongue — instinctively. If Ilaiyaraaja gives us the Veda and Rahman the Upanishad, Deva gives us the proverb — simple, succinct, yet resonant with wisdom.

Three composers. Three temperaments. One lineage of sound — each expanding the idea of what it means to be “classical” in a cinematic nation.

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🪶 Epilogue: When Raga Becomes Reflection

Ragas, like rivers, change shape according to their banks. In the hands of these three, they flow — through temples, studios, and streets — carrying with them the same unbroken rhythm of human feeling.

Sahana and Nalinakanthi are not merely scales; they are philosophies disguised as melody. One teaches surrender; the other, renewal. Both remind us that the emotional cartography of Indian music is not drawn on paper but on the listener’s heart.

Ilaiyaraaja listens with devotion, Rahman with wonder, Deva with instinct — and together, they form the trinity of Tamil melody, where intellect, imagination, and intimacy coexist.

When Ilaiyaraaja’s nagaswaram sighs in Sahana, or Rahman’s strings shimmer in Nalinakanthi, we are reminded that cinema, at its best, is not visual but spiritual. It is the art of hearing the unseen.

For in music, as in life, not every silence is empty — some silences are simply listening back.

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📚 Coda: The Library of Sound

Imagine walking into a library where every book is a raga. Some volumes are ancient and worn, their pages perfumed with age; others gleam, freshly bound, humming with new ink. In one corner sits Sahana, soft-spoken, contemplative, a philosopher in silk. Across the aisle, Nalinakanthi — bright-eyed, curious, a child who cannot stop asking questions.

And moving between these shelves, three curators: Ilaiyaraaja, arranging with the care of a sage; Rahman, rearranging with the curiosity of a seeker; and Deva, handing books freely to passers-by, smiling as they hum.

That, perhaps, is the enduring truth of our music — it is both library and living room, both scripture and song. And as long as these ragas continue to echo, one can walk into that library, close one’s eyes, and still find oneself home.

🎵 “In film music, a raga is never just a scale — it is the soul that listens when the story falls silent.”

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🪶 Copyright Notice

© 2026 Dhinakar Rajaram. All rights reserved.

This article, “Sahana & Nalinakanthi — The Cinematic Voices of Ilaiyaraaja, Rahman & Deva”, including its text, imagery, and analytical framework, is the original work of Dhinakar Rajaram. Reproduction, modification, or distribution of any part of this publication — whether in digital, print, or multimedia form — without explicit written permission from the author is strictly prohibited.

Short quotations or academic references may be used with proper attribution and a link to the original blog post. For all other uses, including translation, anthologisation, or educational adaptation, please request author consent.

“Music, like thought, belongs to the soul — but writing about it belongs to the writer.”
— Dhinakar Rajaram

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🎧 YouTube References Used for Illustrative & Analytical Purposes

All embedded videos are publicly available on YouTube and are used here solely for educational and analytical discussion under fair usage principles. Full credit and ownership remain with their respective creators, composers, producers, and copyright holders.

• Ilaiyaraaja — “Unnal Mudiyum Thambi” (1988) BGM (Nagaswaram – Sahana)
  Source: YouTube | Timestamp: 1:35:40 – 1:36:40
• A. R. Rahman — “Azhage Sugama / Anbe Sugama” from Paarthale Paravasam (2001)
  Source: YouTube
• Ilaiyaraaja — “Endhan Nenjil Neengatha” from Kalaignan (1993)
  Source: YouTube
• Deva — “Manam Virumbuthe” from Nerrukku Ner (1997)
  Source: YouTube
• A. R. Rahman — “Kandukondein Kandukondein” (Title Track, 2000)
  Source: YouTube

Embedded clips are intended only to illustrate musical interpretation and tonal structure in film raga analysis. No infringement is intended; if any rights holder requests removal, the author will comply immediately.

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