Conceptual poster — The Madras Quartet: Radha & Her Circle of Physics.
Artwork by Dhinakar Rajaram.
Early 1950s — Presidency College, Chennai, India.
(L–R) Amba Raghavan, Dr. Radha Gourishankar, Dr. Bhamathi Sudarshan.
Courtesy: Grandma Got STEM Archive.
The Madras Quartet — Radha and Her Circle of Physics
The Madras Quartet — Radha and Her Circle of Physics
In the 1950s, an unassuming set of classrooms at the University of Madras became the stage for one of India’s quiet revolutions in science. Under Alladi Ramakrishnan, a new generation explored the language of quantum theory — and among them stood four women who would defy expectations, including the young T.K. Radha.
Ramakrishnan’s vision transcended infrastructure. Visiting scholars — Robert Marshak from Rochester, Leonard Schiff from Stanford, and Donald Glaser from Michigan — turned his small seminars into windows to the wider world. Within this circle, the “Madras Quartet,” as Radha later called them informally, wrestled with new physics armed with intuition and blackboards.
Each member of that quartet contributed to the early formation of Indian theoretical physics: Radha would go on to Princeton; her colleagues would pursue research, teaching, or family life, their names seldom printed but their influence quietly enduring. Their friendship was both scientific and spiritual — a compact of shared purpose in a time when mentorship and sisterhood were indistinguishable.
“We learned from letters,” Radha reminisced. “Our textbooks were the world itself — arriving in envelopes from abroad.”
Today, as scholars retrace their contributions through scattered archives, the story of the Madras Quartet stands as an emblem of what collaborative intellect can achieve under constraint. It is a reminder that the pursuit of knowledge — whether in Chennai, Princeton, or Edmonton — is ultimately a human conversation carried forward by those who refuse to stop learning.
The Madras Quartet — Radha and Her Circle of Physics
By the late 1950s, the University of Madras had become an improbable cradle of theoretical physics. It was here that Alladi Ramakrishnan — visionary, reformer, and founder of the Institute of Mathematical Sciences (Matscience) — gathered a small constellation of minds that would redefine what Indian science could be. Among them were four young women, each tracing a path through equations and expectations alike. Later, they would be remembered informally as the “Madras Quartet.”
At the heart of this group was Thayyoor K. Radha — later known as Radha Gourishankar — whose mastery of particle physics and mathematical elegance earned her recognition from none other than Robert Oppenheimer. But she was not alone in this odyssey. Alongside her studied three other pioneering women:
Bhamathi Sudarshan — wife and intellectual collaborator of physicist George Sudarshan. A mathematician by training, she moved fluidly between theory and pedagogy, teaching while raising a family, her quiet intellect woven through George’s own writings on quantum optics and gauge theory.
Amba Raghavan — remembered as a lucid teacher and problem solver, Amba’s doctoral work under Alladi Ramakrishnan explored wave mechanics and group theory. Her correspondence with Western physicists testifies to her depth of understanding and clarity of thought, even as her career was curtailed by limited institutional recognition.
Rukmini Ramakrishnan — Alladi’s niece, a student of experimental and theoretical interfaces, who became a bridge between the university’s early research and the nascent Madras Theoretical Physics Seminar that later evolved into Matscience.
Together, they formed a rare constellation — women not merely studying physics but producing new thought at a time when institutional India scarcely imagined women as researchers. Their discussions extended beyond equations: ethics of discovery, the metaphysics of quantum states, the role of the Gita in scientific detachment — all frequent topics in their small study circle.
“We worked without comparison,” Radha once recalled. “Our greatest competition was the idea itself — could we understand it more purely than we did yesterday?”
While Radha’s path led to Princeton and eventually to Canada, her friends continued their own parallel pursuits — some teaching, others stepping away from formal academia. Yet, each embodied the quiet continuum of women’s scientific thought in India. Their mentorship of later generations, especially in Chennai’s post-Independence colleges, seeded the acceptance of women in the sciences for decades to come.
The Madras Quartet’s story also reveals the transnational texture of mid-century science. Through Alladi Ramakrishnan’s initiative, visiting scholars such as Robert Marshak (Rochester), Leonard I. Schiff (Stanford), and Donald Glaser (Michigan) gave lectures that exposed the Madras students to front-line quantum research. Their preprints, mailed from abroad, became the group’s lifeline to the outside world.
Archival recollections preserved by the Institute for Advanced Study and oral histories on Grandma Got STEM affirm this legacy. In those interviews, Radha — by then Dr. Radha Gourishankar — remembered her time in Madras not as struggle but as joy: “We learned through conversation, not competition. Every theorem was a shared discovery.”
In hindsight, the Madras Quartet was less a formal collective and more an ethos — a moment in time when curiosity transcended gender and geography. Their legacy endures not only in papers or institutions but in the very possibility they embodied: that a young woman in 1950s India could speak the language of quanta and belong wholly to it.
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.
VI. The Circle That Shaped Her — Peers, Mentors, and the Little-Known Pioneers
Long before T.K. Radha drew the attention of Robert Oppenheimer, she was part of an extraordinary yet seldom-remembered circle of young Indian physicists who quietly laid the groundwork for particle physics in India. When she joined Alladi Ramakrishnan’s programme in theoretical physics at the University of Madras, she was joined by a handful of others — including three young women who dared to choose physics when society preferred they chose silence.
Ramakrishnan, newly inspired by his own visit to Princeton, transformed a modest Madras classroom into a nucleus of global exchange. Visiting scientists such as Robert Marshak, Leonard I. Schiff, and Donald Glaser shared their frontier research, while Radha and her peers absorbed, debated, and extended those ideas in real time — often with nothing more than chalk, curiosity, and imported journals that arrived months late by ship.
From this improbable space emerged a cascade of fourteen papers on quantum interactions and Feynman propagators — achievements that testified not only to talent but to collective perseverance. Their classroom was their laboratory; their correspondence with international scholars, their lifeline.
Among those three contemporaries — women of equal brilliance and restraint — were the friends whose paths Radha never forgot. Each would later pursue her own journey through research, family, or teaching, leaving behind traces now being pieced together by historians. Future essays will follow their stories in detail, revealing how this small Madras group quietly anticipated the larger feminist awakenings of science in the decades to come.
“We were never competing with the world,” Radha once recalled. “We were simply trying to learn what the world was learning — and to do it here, in India.”
This circle of learners and teachers reminds us that progress is rarely solitary. It grows, as it did for Radha, from the shared impulse to understand — and to pass understanding forward.
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.
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.
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.
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.
🎵 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
Copyright & Attribution
All text, research, and commentary curated and written byDhinakar 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.
Sahana & Nalinakanthi — The Cinematic Voices of Ilaiyaraaja, Rahman & Deva
🎶 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.
🌸 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.
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.
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.
🌼 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.
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.
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.
🎻 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.
🪶 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.
📚 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.”
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
🎧 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.
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.
Exploring Ilaiyaraaja's groundbreaking title track, its grammar, orchestration, and technical genius.
I was truly astonished when I first heard Vikram Vikram in 1986. Even as a title song, it transcended the conventions of Tamil cinema’s heroic themes of the era. The energy, structure, and sophistication were unlike anything I had encountered before — it felt futuristic, almost prescient. Ilaiyaraaja combined electronic synthesis with structured composition in a way that anticipated trends that would become common only decades later. This song serves as an early example of hybrid film music, blending the acoustic sensibilities of classical composition with the precision and texture of electronic instrumentation.
Counterpoint & Musical Grammar
The genius of Vikram Vikram lies in its use of 🎵 counterpoint. The repeated “Vikram, Vikram” motif acts as a thematic anchor, around which multiple independent lines — synthesised brass, pads, and vocal motifs — move in imitation, inversion, and contrary motion. The 🎹 ostinato bass provides rhythmic drive and harmonic grounding, while higher-register synth and vocal lines interact dynamically to create tension and resolution. Each line retains independence yet contributes to a cohesive harmonic texture, producing a rich dialogue that resembles orchestrated conversation. This is a remarkable example of counterpoint applied in electronic cinematic music decades before such methods were common in Tamil film scoring.
Vocal Credits: Main vocals by Kamal Haasan, backing female voice by S. Janaki, with lyrics written by Vaali.
Orchestration & Analogue Timbrality
Ilaiyaraaja’s orchestration demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of 🎹 timbral layering. Analogue synthesizers provide warmth and tonal depth, while pads offer harmonic support. Percussive electronic elements punctuate the rhythm, adding clarity and forward motion. Voices and instruments are carefully orchestrated to maintain clarity, despite dense layering. The interplay of high, mid, and low registers produces a sonic spectrum that is both full and precise, allowing listeners to perceive subtle counterpoint lines within an electronic framework.
The integration of Kamal Haasan’s expressive main vocals with S. Janaki’s ethereal supporting layers exemplifies how human voices are woven into the counterpoint and timbral textures, enhancing both narrative and musical sophistication.
Studio Craft
The production of Vikram Vikram shows that Ilaiyaraaja treated the studio as a compositional tool. Strategic 🎵 stereo placement separates the voices, creating a sense of spatial dialogue between motifs. Reverb and delay effects add depth and dimension, while layering ensures clarity for independent lines. The studio itself becomes an instrument, with careful spatial planning enhancing the perception of counterpoint. This attention to detail in 1986 prefigured modern electronic and cinematic production techniques.
Form & Dramatic Impact
The structure mirrors a miniature sonata: an exposition introducing the hero motif, developmental interludes where independent lines interact and build tension, and a triumphant recapitulation that reinforces the hero’s presence. These structural decisions provide both narrative propulsion and emotional layering, heightening the cinematic impact of the title sequence. The interaction of voices mimics dramatic dialogue, producing anticipation and excitement for the viewer.
Why It Matters
Vikram Vikram remains a landmark in Tamil cinema. It exemplifies how electronic synthesis can coexist with structured compositional techniques to create music that is both cinematic and technically advanced. The track demonstrates that electronic instrumentation does not dilute musical sophistication; instead, it can enhance it when paired with rigorous counterpoint, layered orchestration, and careful studio craft. For students and enthusiasts of film music, electronic counterpoint, and studio orchestration, this song is an invaluable case study of innovation, foresight, and compositional brilliance in 1980s Indian cinema.
Glossary
🎹 Analogue Synthesizer: Electronic keyboard instrument that generates sound using analogue circuitry. Produces warm, rich timbres commonly used in 1980s electronic music.
🎵 Counterpoint: The art of combining independent musical lines so they harmonize while retaining their individuality.
🎶 Ostinato: A repeating musical phrase, often used as a rhythmic or harmonic anchor.
Stereo Placement: Spatial positioning of instruments or sounds within the left-right stereo field to create depth and clarity.
Reverb: Audio effect that simulates the reflection of sound in a space, adding depth and atmosphere.
Contrary Motion: Two musical lines moving in opposite directions.
Imitation: A motif or phrase repeated in another voice, creating interplay and texture.
Layering: Stacking multiple musical lines or textures to create harmonic or textural richness.
Coda
Vikram Vikram stands as a beacon of innovation, blending structure, electronic synthesis, and dramatic storytelling. Its counterpoint, layered timbres, and meticulous studio craft make it a timeless study for musicians, composers, and cinephiles alike. In 1986, this track was not just ahead of its time — it charted a new path for how electronic music could inhabit cinematic spaces, proving that sophistication and emotion can coexist in every note.
Ilaiyaraaja’s Rain Ragas: Amruthavarshini and the Unique Hindustani Encounter
🌧️ Ilaiyaraaja’s Rain Ragas: Amruthavarshini and the Unique Hindustani Encounter
Music often mirrors nature, yet few composers make it feel as though the elements themselves are speaking. In Ilaiyaraaja’s repertoire, Amruthavarshini and Miyan Ki Malhar do exactly that — not just melodies, but textures of the sky, clouds, and the subtle scent of rain.
Amruthavarshini (or Amritavarshini) is a popular, symmetric pentatonic (audava) raga in Carnatic music known for evoking the mood of rain, joy, and passionate appeal. Created by Muthuswami Dikshitar in the 19th century, it is famously believed to bring rainfall — its very name meaning “one who showers nectar.”
Key Technical Details: Melakartha: Derived from the 66th Melakartha, Chitambari. Structure:Audava–Audava (pentatonic/pentatonic) raga, featuring five notes. Scale (Ārohaṇa / Avarohaṇa):
ārohaṇa – S G₃ M₂ P N₃ Ṡ
avarohaṇa – Ṡ N₃ P M₂ G₃ S
Notes Used: Shadjam (S), Antara Gandharam (G₃), Prati Madhyamam (M₂), Panchamam (P), and Kakali Nishadam (N₃). Vādi / Samvādi: Panchamam (P) and Shadjam (S).
Musical Personality: Amruthavarshini sparkles with brisk, cascading phrases and a luminous leap from P to N, giving it an impression of rainfall in motion. It is expressive yet contained, devotional yet sensuous — making it a natural choice for compositions invoking water, compassion, and divine grace.
Myth & Tradition: It is said that Muthuswami Dikshitar’s Anandamrutakarshini brought rain to a parched village when sung in this raga — an association that has since become legendary among Carnatic musicians.
🎶 The Divine Legacy of Amruthavarshini
According to temple tradition, during the Ramayana era, Hanuman arrived at a sacred site in search of Sita, carrying his veena tuned to Amruthavarshini. Unaware that she was concealed nearby, he played the raga on the temple grounds. The celestial resonance drew Lord Shiva, manifesting as Singeeswarar, who appeared before Hanuman and instructed him to continue his search toward Lanka.
This sanctified place, where music itself became a medium of revelation, is the Mappedu Singeeswarar Temple in Thiruvallur District, Tamil Nadu. Even today, the shrine is revered as the spot where Amruthavarshini first descended to earth — a living symbol of how melody, faith, and divine intervention intertwine.
Mappedu Singeeswarar Temple, Thiruvallur District (Open Source)
In essence, Amruthavarshini’s story spans mythology, musicology, and emotion — a raga born of prayer, blessed by divinity, and immortalised by composers across centuries. With Ilaiyaraaja, it finds yet another avatar — where tradition meets cinema and rain turns into resonance.
☔ Amruthavarshini — The Rain That Shimmers
The five-note Amruthavarshini carries a natural brightness — a sound that feels like water meeting light. Ilaiyaraaja found in it a melodic simplicity that could express joy, prayer, and the first rush of rain.
Across his Tamil and Telugu works, he returned to this raga again and again, creating some of his most tender and radiant pieces:
Ippodhenna Thevai – Makkal Aatchi
Kathirundha Malli Malli – Mallu Vaetti Minor
Kurise Verijallule – Gharshana
Thoongatha Vizhigal – Agni Natchathiram
Mazhaikoru Dhevane – Sri Raghavendra
Vanin Devi Varuga – Oruvar Vaazhum Aalayam
🎶 Neela Lohitha – A Rare Collaboration
While exploring the intersections of Carnatic and Hindustani idioms, one must also recall “Neela Lohitha” from the Malayalam film Kaveri (1986). Though the film’s score was credited jointly to V. Dakshinamoorthy and Ilaiyaraaja, this particular composition bears Ilaiyaraaja’s unmistakable melodic signature. The song stands out for its fluid structure, evoking a tranquil yet devotional ambience, blending Ilaiyaraaja’s orchestral sensibility with the traditional gravitas of Dakshinamoorthy’s style.
Song: Neela Lohitha | Film: Kaveri (Malayalam) | Year: 1986 Lyrics: Kavalam Narayana Panicker | Music: V. Dakshinamoorthy, Ilaiyaraaja | Singer: Dr. M. Balamuralikrishna
🎼 Aavedana – Aalapana (1986): The Hindustani Voyage
If Amruthavarshini is Ilaiyaraaja’s sunlight, Aavedana is his monsoon sky. Conceived as a Ragamalika, it brings together both Carnatic and Hindustani colours. Here, Ilaiyaraaja sings the jathis and performs the Hindustani ragas himself, while SP Balasubrahmanyam and S. Janaki carry the Carnatic sections.
In my understanding, this is the only song where Ilaiyaraaja has used the two Hindustani raagas — Bahaar and Miyan Ki Malhar.
Miyan Ki Malhar is one of the most evocative ragas of Hindustani music, celebrated as the very sound of the monsoon. Belonging to the Malhar family — a cluster of ragas traditionally associated with rain — it is said to have been refined and popularised by the legendary musician Miyan Tansen of Mugal Emperor Akbar’s court. The raga blends serenity with grandeur, evoking the fragrance of wet earth, flashes of lightning, and the emotional depth of longing and release. Its tonal framework is richly curved rather than linear, allowing performers to depict clouds gathering and dispersing through subtle oscillations and glide phrases.
Scale (Swaras):
Ārohaṇa : S R₂ M₁ P N₂ S
Avarohaṇa : S N₂ D₂ N₂ P M₁ R₂ S
Key phrases include the curved ni–dha–ni–Sa glide that mirrors the gathering of clouds, and the subtle dialogue between madhyamam and the two nishādams that lends the raga its emotive depth. Typically rendered during the monsoon or late-night hours, Miyan Ki Malhar embodies both grandeur and introspection — a raga where the sky itself seems to sing.
Key notes include the characteristic movement of ni dha ni Sa that symbolises the gathering of clouds, and the interplay between madhyamam and nishādam that gives the raga its weight and pathos. Typically performed during the rainy season or late evening, Miyan Ki Malhar carries a contemplative yet majestic quality — at once personal and cosmic, grounding and elevating. In Ilaiyaraaja’s Aavedana – Aalapana (1986), its presence marks a rare and deliberate invocation of the Hindustani monsoon idiom within a South-Indian cinematic soundscape.
The Six Ragas of Aavedana
Madhukauns – Sa Ga₂ Ma₂ Pa Ni₂ Sa / Sa Ni₂ Pa Ma₂ Ga₂ Sa
A reflective opening that carries a serene and introspective texture, serving as the meditative base of the composition.
Kamboji – Sa Ri₂ Ga₃ Ma₁ Pa Dha₂ Sa / Sa Ni₂ Dha₂ Pa Ma₁ Ga₃ Ri₂ Sa
Evokes a grand, traditional Carnatic mood, providing a smooth transition from repose to emotion.
Pantuvarali – Sa Ri₁ Ga₃ Ma₂ Pa Dha₁ Ni₃ Sa / Sa Ni₃ Dha₁ Pa Ma₂ Ga₃ Ri₁ Sa
Brings devotional intensity, with phrases that lean towards yearning and solemnity.
Miyan Ki Malhar – Ārohaṇa : S R₂ M₁ P N₂ S
Avarohaṇa : S N₂ D₂ N₂ P M₁ R₂ S
- A monsoon raga filled with pathos and grandeur, where the ni–dha–ni–Sa motif depicts clouds swelling and breaking into rain.
Raag Bahaar – Ni₃ Sa Ma₁ Pa Ga₂ Ma₁ Ni₂ Dha₂ Ni₂ Sa / Sa Ni₂ Pa Ma₁ Pa Ga₂ Ma₁ Ri₂ Sa
The raga of spring, employed here to portray the grace of Manipuri dance. The pakhawaj and soft ghunghroos enhance its dignified elegance.
Ataana – Sa Ri₂ Ma₁ Pa Ni₃ Sa / Sa Ni₃ Dha₂ Pa Ma₁ Pa Ga₃ Ri₂ Sa
Concludes the piece with rhythmic vitality and a sense of closure.
The flow from Miyan Ki Malhar to Bahaar feels like a musical journey through the seasons — spring’s poise melting into the monsoon’s emotional fullness. The result is a rare cinematic moment where Ilaiyaraaja stands not only as composer but as performer, uniting two classical traditions within one canvas.
🌿 Two Languages of Rain
Amruthavarshini speaks in light — joyous, devotional, and pure. Miyan Ki Malhar speaks in shade — introspective, emotional, and soaked with monsoon spirit. In Aavedana, these worlds meet, forming a dialogue between season and sound.
🌈 Conclusion
Rain, in Ilaiyaraaja’s music, is more than an element — it is a state of being. Through Amruthavarshini, he gives rain its light, purity, and prayer. Through Bahaar and Miyan Ki Malhar, he grants it emotion, gravity, and grace — blending the celestial and the earthly in seamless harmony.
Each droplet seems to pulse with rhythm; each thunderclap carries melodic intent. In his hands, nature becomes notation, and silence itself transforms into sound. His portrayal of rain is not mere depiction but participation — an immersion where composer, listener, and the elements breathe as one.
When Ilaiyaraaja writes with rain, he does not describe it — he is the rain.
The sky, the rhythm, and the melody coalesce until music itself begins to fall.
🎶 Kaapi and Mohanam — Two Dimensions of Emotion in Ilaiyaraaja’s Music 🎶
Prelude
Tamil cinema has long drawn from the Carnatic idiom, but none embraced and redefined it like Ilaiyaraaja — a composer who built bridges between folk soil and symphonic sky.
Often hailed as the Music Messiah, Raaja internalised classical grammar and rendered it accessible without compromise.
He turned ragas into emotional landscapes and made silence a structural element of sound.
To experience Raaja is to witness a form of emotional engineering — precision and feeling coexisting in seamless unity.
Every song becomes architecture: melody as foundation, rhythm as geometry, and harmony as breath.
In this essay we traverse two of his recurring ragas — Kaapi and Mohanam — mirrors of two moods, dusk and dawn.
To call him a Music Messiah is not a gesture of fan adoration — it is a recognition of what he has done for sound itself.
Ilaiyaraaja did not merely compose songs; he liberated music from the narrow corridors of form and function.
He gave melody a conscience, rhythm a pulse, and harmony a direction.
In the landscape of South Indian cinema, he became both scientist and sage — the one who measured silence, moulded emotion, and made an entire generation rediscover listening as a sacred act.
His music did not entertain alone — it awakened.
🎵 Kaapi — The Scent of Memory
🌺 Kanne Kalaimane — Moondram Pirai (1982)
Music: Ilaiyaraaja | Lyrics: Kannadasan | Singer: K. J. Yesudas | Rāgam: Kaapi
This song is Kaapi distilled to its emotional core. Ilaiyaraaja uses only three primary swaras, creating vast emotional resonance with minimalist phrasing.
A delicate hint of Nātabhairavi shadows the melody, giving it earthy warmth.
Kannadasan’s final lyrical offering becomes a farewell in sound — tender, resigned, timeless.
“Where words end, Kaapi begins — whispering of love, distance, and quiet grace.”
🎧 Yae Paadal Ondru (also known as Hey Paadal Ondru) — Priya (1978)
Music: Ilaiyaraaja | Lyrics: Kannadasan | Singers: K. J. Yesudas & S. Janaki | Rāgam: Kaapi
Trivia: First Stereo 8-Track recording in South Indian cinema.
If “Kanne Kalaimane” is introspection, “Yae Paadal Ondru” is luminous romance.
The warmth of Yesudas and Janaki’s voices makes Kaapi glow with human tenderness.
This was the first South Indian song recorded in stereo 8-track, signalling Raaja’s technical vision as much as his melodic mastery.
Officially scored by Shankar–Ganesh, this lone Ilaiyaraaja composition eclipsed the rest of the soundtrack. Built entirely on Kaapi using just three notes — no others were used — the song demonstrates Raaja’s extraordinary musical genius.
The tune moves effortlessly between folk simplicity and classical gravity, yet its melodic economy creates immense emotional depth.
Its success was so overwhelming that many believed he had scored the entire film. Few composers could make a single song define a film’s identity — Raaja did it effortlessly.
🌼 Mohanam — The Light Within
🌼 Naan Oru Ponnoviyam Kanden — Kannil Theriyum Kathaigal (1980)
Music: Ilaiyaraaja (single song) | Rāgam: Mohanam
In a soundtrack where each song had a different composer, this Mohanam stood out for its sheer serenity.
The raga’s five-note purity reflects joy without ornament.
Raaja paints with light — his orchestration airy, his melody crystalline.
Rāga structure:S R₂ G₃ P D₂ S :: S D₂ P G₃ R₂ S — the pentatonic signature of Mohanam,
absent of Ma and Ni, giving it transparency and openness.
💞 Oru Kadhal Enbathu — Chinna Thambi Periya Thambi (1987)
A sibling synergy — Gangai Amaran helmed the score, but Ilaiyaraaja’s single Mohanam track became a sensation.
Bright and youthful, it radiates simplicity woven with orchestral shimmer.
Even when contributing one song, Raaja stamped an unmistakable melodic identity.
🔥 Ninnukori Varnam — Agni Natchathiram (1988)
Music: Ilaiyaraaja | Singer: K. S. Chithra | Rāgam: Mohanam | Tālam: Ādi
A classical varnam reborn in symphonic fire.
Ilaiyaraaja transforms Ninnukori — originally a pedagogic piece — into rhythmic theatre, blending electric bass, counter-melody, and harmonic layering.
The Mohanam stays untouched in soul, yet its body is modern, cinematic, alive.
Notable Renditions: Maharajapuram Santhanam, Jon B. Higgins (Bagavathar)
A pillar of Carnatic learning, this varnam is a study in balance — melody and rhythm in equal measure.
Ādi Tālam (eight beats) lends its circular rhythm.
Among its interpreters, Jon B. Higgins’s rendition remains legendary for tonal purity and meditative flow, remembered even after its online disappearance.
🌿 Coda — The Dual Spirit
Between Kaapi and Mohanam unfolds a dialogue of human emotion.
Kaapi, with its yearning curve, mirrors dusk — reflective, soulful.
Mohanam, radiant and open, embodies morning light.
Ilaiyaraaja bridges them through orchestration, turning raga into character and emotion into story.
“In Raaja’s world, a raga is not notation — it is emotion finding its own grammar.”
✨ Closing Thoughts
From the quiet breath of Kanne Kalaimane to the exuberant pulse of Ninnukori Varnam,
Ilaiyaraaja proves that ragas are not ancient relics but living beings.
His Kaapi whispers memory; his Mohanam sings illumination.
Together they complete a circle — silence and sound, shadow and sunlight.
