Allow me to take you to Trivandrum. It is the capital of Kerala, the slender state that stands tall along India’s south-west coast. I love it for everything that my home, New York, is not. It is a world away from the grey skies and cold winds, the fast-paced life, the general over-sizedness of New York, where I live. Unlike so many Indian cities that seem to fizz and soar and sprout and sputter like an assortment of mutant firecrackers, Trivandrum has remained itself, largely unruffled by the winds of change gusting through its sister cities.
The beating heart of Trivandrum is the Padmanabhaswamy Temple, a lovely, graceful temple dedicated to the Lord of the city, Padmanabha, who here takes form in a sculpturally stunning, golden idol of Vishnu reclining on his serpent. Padmanabhaswamy was also the family deity of the Travancore Maharajas. One of the kings, Marthanda Varma, dedicated the kingdom to his beloved Lord, and ever since, the real ruler of the kingdom was Padmanabhaswamy, with the human in charge working under His guidance and command. There have been some extraordinary Travancore Maharajas. The aforementioned Marthanda Varma who ruled from 1729-1758, was a brilliant strategist who succeeded in outsmarting a coalition of feudal lords who wanted him out of the picture, establishing a peaceful and well-administered kingdom, and routing the rapacious and reviled Dutch. And then, the following century, came Swathi Thirunal, who reigned from 1813 - 1846. He not only introduced smart and pioneering ideas and innovations into his kingdom that spanned science, education, law and so much more, but was also a richly prolific composer of a corpus of songs of singular melodic, lyrical and rhythmic beauty.
Today, Swathi Thirunal’s music is much beloved and can be enjoyed at Carnatic (and some Hindustani) music concerts around the world. But it is in his home city Trivandrum, in the grounds of his very own palace, abutting the temple of his beloved Lord Padmanabha, that his music is showcased at its best, at one of the finest music festivals I have ever attended anywhere, anytime.
This is the Swathi Sangeethotsavam. It is held in early January every year in the grounds of the Kuthiramalika Palace, the palace of the Garland of Horses that was built by Swathi Thirunal himself. The concerts feature only compositions of the great king-composer who lived and worked in this very palace, right next to Lord Padmanabha in his temple. Through the 10 days of the festival, not a song is ever repeated. It is free and open to anybody. You walk in and sit where you want. There is no cordoned-off VIP section; if you are lucky enough to snag a seat in the front row, it is yours to enjoy the music in. The festival is impeccably curated and masterfully executed. Like the city that is its home, it is quietly elegant, not dressed up in revelry and bombast, not angled and filtered to be social media worthy. It is my immense fortune that the organizer, Sri Rama Varma, who is himself an amazing musician who performs here every year, is a dear friend. At his invitation, I have attended the Sangeethothsavam several times. Come with me now. Let us attend a concert together.
We are in the grounds of the Kuthiramalika Palace. It is peaceful here; the crowds and bustle of the streets around the Padmanabhaswamy temple seem a world away. The palace is low-slung, graceful, elegant. It has a quiet beauty that I love.
Rows of carved wooden horses gaze ahead from the rafters beneath the eaves. Long verandahs swell gently into an open alcove with intricately carved pillars, which is the stage. The backdrop of the stage is a picture of Swathi Thirunal; off to one side is an image of the Lord of this city, Padmanabha. All across the perimeter of the stage are gently glowing brass lamps, the traditional south Indian “kuthi vilakku”, draped in garlands of orange and white flowers and with rose petals and marigolds scattered around their base. More lamps hang from wooden beams and sway ever so gently in the wind.
It is aesthetic perfection. A balm for the soul.
The musicians arrive and a lamp is lit for the Lord. As they settle down on the stage, two old men, dhoti-clad and with sunken chests and gently protruding bellies, light the lamps. Watching them feels meditative. Their movements are unhurried and patient. They replenish the lamp’s oil from lovely brass ewers - not for this place is the cheap convenience of plastic - and tend to misbehaving wicks, their unobtrusive activity a soothing tableau that merges with the music.
Twilight falls and birdsong fills the air. Moths circle overhead and drift around and into the lights. A white owl flutters up and stares down, its eyes glinting. The old terra cotta roofs and passages are bathed in a ghostly green light. It is sheer enchantment.
The music washes over me and puts me in a state of rapture. The sound system is superb. Accustomed to the ear-splitting volumes and errant squeals and shrieks from most sabhas, the quality of the sound here is a wonderful surprise.
It is now nighttime and the sweltering heat of the evening has dissipated and given way to cool breezes. Three hours have flown by. I have attended many, many concerts in my lifetime and this one stands out as one of the most outstanding, unforgettable ones I have been to.
Tempted? Then go to Trivandrum and attend a concert, or three, or ten. Let Google do the work for you and in a few minutes you will have all the information you need.