More than twenty years ago, the late Pundit W D Amaradeva, with great kindness and much indulgence, taught me what to students of music would be a very basic lesson in singing. ‘It’s not in the throat, Malinda; it’s in the mind and heart.’
Then he lamented that most singers, including those who were popular and even highly acclaimed, had not grasped this fundamental principle. I didn’t know anything about music. I didn’t sing. I was simply curious about how ‘good’ was measured. That’s after he said all this.
‘So who sings with the mind and heart?’
‘After all is said and done, Nanda,’ he said or at least that’s the English translation of his answer.
More than twenty years later, Nishad Handunpathirana,my friend, batch mate from Peradeniya, neighbour and virtuoso in the dilruba, introduced me to the Hindi musical term ‘pukar,’ which refers to the way in which a vocalist projects the voice with intense feeling. Heart.
Today, for obvious reasons, Nanda Malini's songs come back to me. And I, a little less unenlightened than I was more than twenty years ago, am compelled to agree with Pundit Amaradeva.
Today I remember two conversations I had with this incredibly accomplished singer. The first was during an interview for the Sunday Island. I believe it was in 2002. I had things to say about the album ‘Pavana (The wind)’ that was released sometime during a series of concerts under the same title in those exhilarating times that would eventually bleed, literally, into the ‘bheeshanaya (Terror or Time of Terror)’ in the late eighties.
‘We were young and those songs resonated with the energy, hope and even convictions we entertained, but a friend told me that great songs outlive political moments; those of “Pavana” do not, unlike the songs in “Shravanaaraadhana (Invitation to listen)” and “Sathyaye Geethaya (The Song of Truth"). The songs of “Araliya Landata (To the Araliya Grove)” which was released after “Pavana” will be remembered, I think.’
She smiled. A few years later, when I ran into her at Sudarshi on Bauddhaloka Mawatha, she remembered and told someone that I am a harsh critic. She was laughing. This, by the way, was after I had written '[A] mild critique of Nanda Malini and Sunil Ariyaratne.'
That is all by way of encounter. Now all I have are her songs. The political choices. The lyrics and the voice.
Some may say that Nanda Malini ‘evolved’ from what they might believe was a Sinhala Buddhist chauvinistic phase. Others may think ‘evolved’ is debatable and that anyway the (virtual) rubbishing of her own songs without explanation was odd. She didn’t write the lyrics. The more overtly political songs were written by Sunil Ariyaratne, so fingers that may be pointed would first be directed at him. She did sing them, so fingers would point her way as well.
Nanda Malini alone would have known if Sunil Ariyaratne was her political conscience. It was her choice, perhaps, or his or of both to drop ‘Me sinhala apaage ratai (‘This is the land of us Sinhala people’ or, ‘This “Sinhala” is our nation,’) even disavowing it in not so uncertain terms. Perhaps it was a decision made in the best interest of the nation and all citizens. But then again, ‘Pavana’ was littered with chauvinistic interjections, for example, ‘Bamunaa vunath…(even if a Brahmin)’: no less, no more, than songs which contained ‘Sinhala,’ or ‘Hela.’
In contrast, consider children's songs such ‘Rukkaththana mala mudune (atop the rukkaththana flower)’ and ‘Surangeeta duka hithuna (Surangee felt sad).’ Consider love songs such as ‘Kanda udin ([from] above the mountain)’ and 'Kalaa vaven gath diya dothak se (Like a handful of water from the Kala Wewa).' Devotional songs such as 'Budddhanubhavena.' Consider even political compositions of the more general kind such as ‘Sakura mal pipilaa (Sakura flowers have bloomed).’ All this, before Ariyaratne took on political projects and found in Nanda’s voice a powerful communicative vehicle. Exquisite.
What troubled me most with regard to the politics, though, was the grave injustice done to Mahinda Algama who wrote the lyrics of what became of her most popular early songs, ‘Chandra madulu yata suranganaavan (fairies under the penumbra).' The last stanza was edited out. It wasn't about ideological prerogatives (understandable), but the way the lyricist was treated (dodgy): he was not informed; instead an excuse about length was offered.
All of it is questionable and understandable. Forgivable or unforgivable depending on how mild or harsh one wants to be respectively. And all that was a long time ago. Critique stands but it’s lost in the enormity of all that she was and all that she’s given, as should be and as acknowledged even back then.
Today as I ‘listen’ to her songs and walk through the political milieu that she lent her voice to, I recall a comment that Gabriel Garcia Marquez made about Pablo Neruda: ‘He was a King Midas of literature — everything he touched turned into poetry; even when he got into trouble with his politics, the poetry was very, very good.’ Something to that effect; he was of course referring to Neruda’s defence of Stalin’s Russia. She was very, very good.
That voice!
I remember it when she spoke about her journey, such a long time ago. She has since detailed her story and spoken candidly and without regret or disdain. In her public persona Nanda Malini was soft. Humble. In her political persona, problematic perhaps. She has had the humility, however, to admit error of judgment. She has returned again and again to lyrics that last. Ephemeral or enduring, political or apolitical, regardless of whether she sang of or for children, love, justice or hope, she sang with feeling. All heart. Always.
Looking back, I realise she was kind and indulgent. Like a mother. And I remember ‘Mege nama lankaa ya (Her name is Lanka),’ ‘Sanda eliya gangak vee (Moonlight, having become a river)’ and ‘Avurudu dedahas panseeyak (Twenty five hundred years),’ all penned by Ariyaratne by the way, and the last two for ‘Pavana.’ They were first performed decades ago. The words are still relevant and that’s Sunil Ariyaratne at his best.
Nanda Malini, by admission, had less control with high notes, but there was and is so much voice in the vast regions she could hold, so firmly and yet with such grace.
The introductory lines of ‘Me jeevana gangaadaaaraye (This river of life)’ the signature song in ‘Satyaye Geethaya’ were foundational for me, politically, and probably for many others: ‘asatyayen satyayata, swapnayen yatharthayata, andakaarayen alokayata (from falsehood to truth, from dream to reality, from darkness to light).’ It was a task she set for herself, a tough road she chose to walk along, with courage but with human frailty. In his own way, Ariyaratne made it easier for all of us but that ease is as much or more attributable to voice as words.
Her name is Lanka in all our little island’s fortitude and failing, strength and frailty, heroism and cowardice, and all that is nevertheless resplendent, resilient and musical. The invitation to listen, stands.
