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.
Ilaiyaraaja’s oeuvre represents the seamless convergence of classical rigour and emotive storytelling. His approach to raga is not merely technical but deeply human — each raga is a living entity, resonating with emotion and spiritual expression. Among his most captivating creations are two compositions sharing the suffix Vasantham, yet arising from entirely distinct melodic and emotional worlds: Mallika Vasantham and Kalyana Vasantham.
Though each raga has a unique parentage, scale, and personality, both evoke the subtle emotional hue known in Tamil as sōgam — a restrained, tender melancholy that lingers in the listener’s mind. Through these two compositions, Ilaiyaraaja demonstrates how ragas with disparate tonal structures can converge to produce a shared emotional resonance.
I. Mallika Vasantham – The Unheard Beauty
Film:Nyaya Geddithu (Kannada) Song:Saavira Janumadhalu Ragam: Mallika Vasantham — S G₃ M₁ P N₃ S | S N₃ D₁ P M₁ G₃ R₁ S Parent Raga: Mayamalavagowla Thalam: Chatushra Eka Talam Singers: S. Janaki, S. P. Balasubrahmanyam Actors: Roopa, Kannada Prabhakar Music: Ilaiyaraaja
This composition is unique — the only song ever composed in Mallika Vasantham for cinema. Its raga, devised by Ilaiyaraaja, has never been used before or after in any film music. The scale, while rooted in Mayamalavagowla, exhibits traces of Kedaram and Shankarabharanam in both the arohanam and avarohanam, lending it subtle shades of classical depth.
Arohanam and Avarohanam
Arohanam: S G₃ M₁ P N₃ S Avarohanam: S N₃ D₁ P M₁ G₃ R₁ S
The omission of R₁ in the ascent creates an airy, open progression, while its inclusion in the descent restores emotional grounding. This duality produces an internal tension — a yearning quality that moves effortlessly between luminous ascent and introspective descent.
Characteristic Phrases (Prayogas)
G₃ M₁ P–N₃ S — signature ascent evoking longing.
S N₃ D₁ P M₁ — descending sigh reflecting gentle melancholy.
P M₁ G₃ R₁ S — concluding phrases establishing repose and serenity.
Ilaiyaraaja’s treatment ensures smooth, continuous transitions; the song’s voice and orchestration glide between notes, producing a contemplative effect rather than overt dramatics.
Composition Analysis: Saavira Janumadhalu
The song embodies brother–sister affection, expressed through musical devotion rather than overt sentimentality. The opening prelude — S–N–D–P–M–G–R — declares the avarohanam before the rhythm enters, reflecting a reflective rather than declarative approach. The Chatushra Eka Talam lends a lilting cyclic motion, complementing the dialogue between S. P. Balasubrahmanyam’s grounded voice and S. Janaki’s tremulous timbre.
The orchestration — soft flutes outlining swara contours and muted strings sustaining harmonies — emphasises the emotional depth. Certain chordal choices lend fleeting shades reminiscent of Punnagavarali, which is why casual listeners sometimes confuse the raga, though its grammar is distinctly Mallika Vasantham.
Cultural Resonance: Nāga Panchami in Karnataka
In Karnataka, Saavira Janumadhalu is often played during Nāga Panchami, a festival celebrating familial protection and sibling bonds. Sisters pray for their brothers’ longevity and prosperity, offering milk or ghee on their backs, while worshipping serpent idols or anthills (putthu) as symbols of divine guardianship. Traditional foods such as Pooran Poli are prepared, and simple folk games are part of the day. In this context, the song functions as a melodic archana, reflecting prayer, protection, and familial love.
II. Kalyana Vasantham – Emotion Within Serenity
Parent Raga: Harikambhoji (28th Melakarta) Arohanam: S G₂ M₁ D₂ N₂ S Avarohanam: S N₂ D₂ M₁ G₂ S Type: Audava–Audava (Pentatonic)
Kalyana Vasantham is capable of expressing both joy and subdued sorrow, depending on how Ilaiyaraaja phrases the swaras. Its open pentatonic structure omits R and P, allowing the raga to convey radiance or emotional depth.
1. Gnaan Gnaan Paadanum – Poonthalir
Singer: Jency Anthony Mood: Joyous, radiant, pure
The song employs Kalyana Vasantham as a luminous melodic framework. Key phrases — G₂ M₁ D₂ N₂ S and S N₂ D₂ M₁ G₂ — unfold gently, with occasional touches of Srothaswini to add sparkle. Strings, bells, and soft pads highlight the raga’s purity, while the vocals embody innocence and devotional warmth.
2. Nenjil Ulla – Rishi Moolam
Singer: P. Jayachandran Mood: Subtle sorrow, emotional outburst restrained within serenity
Here, the same raga expresses introspection and latent melancholy. Ilaiyaraaja elongates M₁–D₂–N₂ phrases, creating emotional suspension and release. The orchestration — sustained cellos and muted violins — supports this subtle sōgam, while the vocal delivery conveys a restrained, internalised emotional outpouring.
III. Comparative Reflection – Two Paths, One Emotion
Aspect
Mallika Vasantham
Kalyana Vasantham
Parent Raga
Mayamalavagowla
Harikambhoji
Type
Sampoorna (7 swaras)
Audava–Audava (5 swaras)
Mood
Devotional tenderness, sibling affection
Joy (Poonthalir), restrained sorrow (Rishi Moolam)
Key Prayogas
G₃ M₁ P–N₃ S / S N₃ D₁ P M₁
G₂ M₁ D₂ N₂ S / S N₂ D₂ M₁ G₂
Emotional Centre
Familial love, prayer, purity
Inner emotional spectrum — joy and spiritual reflection
Orchestral Colour
Veena, flute, muted strings
Strings, cello, soft choral textures
Though structurally distinct, both ragas share a common emotional thread: inward reflection, devotion, and the subtle sōgam of restrained feeling. Ilaiyaraaja’s genius lies in this ability to adapt raga grammar for cinematic emotional landscapes, allowing joy, love, or sorrow to emerge from the same melodic material.
IV. Conclusion
In Saavira Janumadhalu, love is sanctified through devotion and sibling affection. In Nenjil Ulla, emotion is cathartic yet inward. In Gnaan Gnaan Paadanum, joy shines luminously. These two Vasanthams exemplify Ilaiyaraaja’s mastery — the art of translating raga into the human emotional spectrum. They are reflections rather than siblings, two distinct manifestations of the same poetic spirit.
Violin Concerto – Raja Paarvai (1981): An In-Depth Analysis
Violin Concerto – Raja Paarvai (1981)
A Comprehensive Study of Panthuvarali, Counterpoint, and Cross-Cultural Synthesis in Ilaiyaraaja’s Magnum Opus
1. Introduction
The Violin Concerto from Raja Paarvai (1981) remains one of Ilaiyaraaja’s most audacious creations — an orchestral architecture that bridges Carnatic emotion and Western intellectual form. The film features Kamal Haasan as a blind violinist, and the concerto mirrors his inner cosmos — vision through sound, intellect through intuition, and structure through spirit. It is both cinematic expression and symphonic design, uniting two musical civilisations within one frame.
2. The Rāgam – Panthuvarali
The work is anchored in Panthuvarali (51st melakarta):
Arohanam: S R₁ G₃ M₂ P D₁ N₃ S
Avarohanam: S N₃ D₁ P M₂ G₃ R₁ S
Panthuvarali parallels the Western Lydian ♭7 mode, its prati madhyamam lending brightness while the shuddha dhaivatam adds sombre depth. The raga’s ethos evokes yearning and spiritual tension — ideal for depicting introspection and transcendence. Ilaiyaraaja has employed Panthuvarali sparingly, only in three noted instances:
In Western art music, a concerto signifies dialogue between a soloist and an orchestra. Ilaiyaraaja reinterprets this genre for the screen: a single-movement tone poem where the solo violin (individual voice) converses with the orchestra (collective expression). The cinematic and symphonic merge seamlessly, creating a new idiom of film-based concert music.
4. Structure and Form
Section
Character
Dominant Idiom
Function
Opening
Solo violin exposition
Carnatic
Introduces the melodic identity of Panthuvarali
Middle (Western Section)
Orchestral development
Western symphonic
Explores counterpoint, harmony, and thematic growth
Final Blend
Hybrid synthesis
Integrated fusion
Brings Carnatic and Western worlds to resolution
5. Western Classical Concepts and Techniques
The composition draws upon an array of Western classical ideas, spanning Baroque, Classical, Romantic, and Impressionist idioms:
Antiphony: Exchange of ideas between instrumental groups.
Voice-leading: Smooth linear motion connecting harmonies.
Modal harmony: Debussy-like colour chords within the raga’s framework.
Dynamic shaping: Crescendos and diminuendos providing narrative contour.
Rubato: Expressive tempo flexibility in solo violin lines.
Orchestral dialogue: Strings, woodwinds, and brass exchanging motifs.
Symphonic texture: Alternation between polyphony and homophony for contrast.
Technical Reference – Mapping Panthuvarali to Western Theory
Panthuvarali corresponds approximately to the Lydian ♭7 mode (1 – 2 – 3 – ♯4 – 5 – 6 – ♭7).
Typical chordal equivalents: Am – D – E – F – G.
The rāgam’s bright M₂ aligns with the Lydian raised fourth, allowing smooth adaptation to Western harmony.
Ilaiyaraaja exploits this property to build functional chords without violating modal character — a feat few composers have achieved with such elegance.
5a. Symphonic Structure and Architecture
Beyond its concerto label, the composition unfolds with the grandeur of a miniature symphony.
It contains distinct thematic zones that mirror the logic of symphonic thought — exposition, dialogue, development, and resolution.
Each instrumental family is used not merely for colour but as an active participant in argument and reply.
Strings and winds build harmonic space, while brass and percussion provide architectural weight.
This design elevates the film cue into a complete symphonic statement — concise, yet formally rich.
6. The Listener’s Insight – A Musical Discussion
“The concerto sounds like a musical discussion — a fugue-like conversation, beginning between two violins, expanding to a group, reaching its pinnacle, and then dissolving in peace.”
This perceptive observation captures the essence of Ilaiyaraaja’s contrapuntal design. The violin first speaks alone, another voice answers, the orchestra joins, the texture thickens into collective debate, and finally serenity returns. It is a fugue reimagined for cinema, comprehensible both emotionally and intellectually.
The fugue-like texture functions both technically and symbolically.
It begins as a two-voice conversation — the violin presenting a melodic subject, another responding in inversion.
Gradually, additional voices enter, forming a full polyphonic dialogue.
At its height, the entire orchestra becomes a single living organism — every voice independent yet bound by shared purpose.
Emotionally, this progression mirrors a human debate evolving into consensus.
When the texture subsides, the music returns to solitude, enriched by collective understanding — an auditory metaphor for enlightenment.
7. Tempo, Rhythm, and Tonal Flow
Tempo: The concerto begins freely, adopts measured rhythm in the orchestral section (akin to Andante), and relaxes again towards conclusion.
Rhythmic transformation: Movement from fluid Carnatic pulse to disciplined Western metre symbolises the journey from intuition to order.
Tonal centre: The sustained Sa acts as a pedal point while upper lines explore subtle modulations, implying travel without departure — a hallmark of Ilaiyaraaja’s modal harmony.
7a. Tempo and Symphonic Movement
The concerto’s pacing mirrors a Western symphonic movement — beginning with a reflective Andante, expanding into a moderate Allegro as the orchestral counterpoint intensifies, and concluding with an Adagio resolution.
This progression from contemplation to animation and back to repose provides the narrative breath typical of Romantic concert works.
Ilaiyaraaja’s mastery lies in adapting such Western temporal dynamics within a raga framework, achieving seamless cultural synchrony.
8. Orchestration and Sound Design
Strings: Violins, violas, cellos, and double basses form the contrapuntal web.
Woodwinds: Oboes and clarinets provide timbral contrast and lyrical echo.
Brass: Sparingly employed for emphasis and harmonic breadth.
Percussion: Timpani and snare drums maintain dramatic propulsion.
Mix and reverb: Solo violin placed slightly forward in the mix, giving intimacy amidst orchestral expanse.
9. Emotional Arc and Cinematic Parallel
The concerto mirrors the protagonist’s emotional trajectory:
Opening: Solitude and anticipation.
Development: Dialogue and awakening of inner vision.
Climax: Collective intensity — orchestra and solo in synthesis.
Resolution: Return to introspective calm and fulfilment.
9a. Cinematic Symphonic Characterisation
Within the film, the concerto serves as a psychological portrait of the blind violinist.
The solo line embodies individual perception, while the orchestra represents the outer world he cannot see but can sonically imagine.
As the symphonic dialogue unfolds, it becomes a dramatic translation of vision through sound — a cinematic device unprecedented in Indian film scoring of its time.
10. Philosophical Reading
At a deeper level, the concerto may be viewed as a dialogue between individuality and collectivity, intuition and intellect, and emotion and structure. The blind violinist’s inner light becomes audible through this union of forms — the invisible rendered visible through sound.
Philosophically, the concerto articulates Ilaiyaraaja’s lifelong preoccupation with synthesis — between the sacred and the secular, discipline and freedom, East and West.
The dialogue between raga and symphony becomes a parable of coexistence, where contrast itself becomes harmony.
This is music as philosophy — where the act of listening is also an act of understanding.
10a. Sound Design and Production
The recording balances intimacy and grandeur.
The solo violin is mixed slightly forward, surrounded by a spatial halo of reverb to simulate concert-hall depth.
Ilaiyaraaja’s sound aesthetic anticipates later surround orchestration styles — clarity of line within cinematic warmth.
This balance ensures the work communicates both to the lay listener and to the trained ear, maintaining purity of raga amidst Western spatial sensibility.
11. Historical and Cultural Context
In 1981, Indian film music rarely employed Western symphonic form as narrative device. Ilaiyaraaja, drawing from his grounding under Dhanraj Master and formal Western study, introduced authentic counterpoint and harmonic architecture into cinema. This concerto predates by a decade the orchestral sophistication that would later define Indian film scores. It was a revolution — Indian melodic grammar meeting Western symphonic logic with perfect poise.
The concerto’s legacy extends beyond Ilaiyaraaja’s own oeuvre.
It anticipated the structural orchestration later heard in his works such as How to Name It? (1986) and Nothing but Wind (1988), as well as the film symphonism that would later characterise A. R. Rahman’s scores.
In retrospect, the Raja Paarvai Concerto stands as the seed of an Indian symphonic consciousness — an early declaration that Indian melody could converse fluently with Western harmony without compromise.
12. Legacy and Influence
The concerto has since become a pedagogical reference for composers and scholars. It inspired later symphonic thinking in Indian film music and remains a model of how fusion must occur — at a compositional level, not superficial instrumentation. Its emotional accessibility proves that intellectual design need not alienate the listener.
13. Summary of Western Concepts
Concept
Western Origin
Ilaiyaraaja’s Application
Counterpoint
Baroque (Bach)
Independent voices in violin layers
Fugue
Baroque
Conversational, question–answer texture
Sonata logic
Classical (Beethoven)
Exposition, development, recapitulation structure
Ternary form
Classical
ABA pattern (solo–orchestra–solo)
Thematic development
Beethovenian
Motif variation and transformation
Pedal and suspension
Romantic harmony
Harmonic grounding with expressive tension
Cadences
Classical
Emotional punctuation points
Antiphony
Baroque / Choral
Call-and-response among orchestral sections
Modal harmony
Impressionist (Debussy)
Chords within Panthuvarali’s modal scale
Rubato phrasing
Romantic
Expressive tempo flexibility for emotion
14. Conclusion
The Violin Concerto from Raja Paarvai stands as a pinnacle of musical synthesis — Carnatic in soul, Western in structure, and cinematic in intent. It embodies counterpoint, fugue, thematic evolution, orchestral mastery, and profound emotion. From the lone violin’s introspective whisper to the orchestra’s climactic debate, the work traces a journey from solitude to symphonic unity. It remains a timeless demonstration of Ilaiyaraaja’s genius — proof that music, when truly conceived, transcends geography, grammar, and genre.
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