— Narasimhan Vijayaraghavan
It is 13.22 PM. December, 25th, 2025. Thursday. Venue: R R Sabha, Mylapore. Auspices: Brahma Gana Sabha.
It is not every season that young rookies get to perform on stages of major Sabhas.
The atmosphere carried that unmistakable Margazhi electricity—part incense, part expectation, part silent prayer that at least the front rows would be occupied. Under the benevolent umbrella of Brahma Gana Sabha, the young vocal duo took the stage, supported with quiet assurance by Madhumitha Doraiswamy on the violin and Rishi Manoharan on the mridangam, both well aware that afternoon concerts are less about applause and more about faith.
They opened with Eka Dantham in Bilahari, a buoyant homage to Muthuswamy Dikshitar in his 250th birth anniversary year. Bilahari did what it does best—smiled reassuringly—even as the reviewer slipped into a philosophical emergency. What does one do when the pen in one’s hand shares both lineage and lunch table with the voices on stage?
Music criticism, tradition insists, has a Lakshmana rekha. One may father a musician, encourage them, finance them, even panic discreetly on their behalf. But the moment one reviews them, criticism risks becoming autobiography.
To review one’s own daughters’ concert is parental courage masquerading as detachment. If generous, it is nepotism; if severe, it is courage admired only by those not invited home thereafter. Subtlety, that elusive madhyama mārga, rarely survives blood relations. Music demands ruthless honesty; parenthood thrives on selective deafness.
History offers little comfort. Paternal commentary has oscillated between terrifying severity and indulgent advocacy. These are cautionary tales, not templates. Mercifully, this afternoon required neither. When the duo rendered Parthasarathy Nannu Palimpara in Madhyamavathi, the choice felt geographically apt—a gentle salute to Triplicane, once enfolded within Mylapore’s cultural embrace.
As for the turnout, let us be charitable. The hall was… spacious. It would have taken a RaGa to fill it. Get it? Margazhi, however, is forgiving; empty chairs have heard great music before.
Full disclosure, then: the performers were Bhargavi and Ranganayaki, and the reviewer their father. In the Chennai season, even the most improbable family arrangements eventually find their rhythmic resolution—usually in Ādi tāla.
