— Narasimhan Vijayaraghavan
On the twenty-first evening of December 2025, the venerable halls of Narada Gana Sabha were not merely filled with sound; they were suffused with meaning. At a time when murmurs of thinning audiences have accompanied the Margazhi season like an unwanted sruti, the Trichur Brothers presided over a gathering where empty seats were conspicuous by their absence. Sir Neville Cardus would have smiled—his irreverent insistence on “rears to be seated” was amply satisfied. What unfolded was not just a concert, but a collective immersion.
The evening opened with Saint Tyagaraja’s “Teliyaleru Rama” in Dhenuka, a gentle admonition that ritual without inward devotion is but an empty shell. That philosophical overture yielded seamlessly to the assured gait of “Paripalaya Mam” in Reethi Gowla, rendered with muscular clarity and unflagging momentum. The brothers’ music carried the stamp of lineage—robust, unsentimental, and nourishing—leaving the audience willingly tethered to its rhythmic pulse.
A tender Hemavathi alapana followed, honeyed yet uncloying, setting the stage for Muthuswamy Dikshitar’s “Kanthimathim.” In this, Dikshitar’s 250th birth year—curiously coinciding with the 250th year of American independence—the Guruguha mudra emerged with sculpted precision. The ensuing swara exchanges sparkled with abundance, a cascade of melodic confections tossed back and forth like a lavish platter of halvas, provoking spontaneous applause that rippled through the hall.
A subtle assertion lay beneath the surface. After a stirring Nrusimha-themed piece in Mohanam, the brothers spoke of the inseparability of sahityam and bhakti—a quiet but firm rejoinder to last season’s controversies. Yet the evening’s true summit arrived with the Ragam Tanam Pallavi, anchored in the uncompromising line:
“Pengalai Kaapathu Kadamaiada:
Nam Bharatha Naatin Dharmamada.”
As these words unfurled, the hall seemed to contract into stillness. Ahead of me sat a young girl—a special child—her world often governed by silences others scarcely notice. As the pallavi gathered force, tears traced their way down her face, unbidden and pure. Her parents watched, equally undone. In that instant, the music ceased to be art and became invocation. A 150-minute vigil found its meaning in a child’s wordless response. Technique bowed to truth. The divine, briefly, felt within reach.
