We all have favorite ragas that we romanticize and hold dear. But just as music can evoke profound love, certain scales evoke a genuine sense of dislike. Among the few ragas I actively avoid, Kalyanavasantham tops the list. I don’t quite know why, but it just doesn’t resonate with me.
It is fascinating how a scale like Kalyanavasantham with its bittersweet, melancholic nature can feel deeply moving to one person and entirely jarring to another. While I do appreciate Kalyani for its brilliant energy and Vasantham for its high-octane drive, I have an aversion to Kalyanavasantham. Despite its portmanteau name, it bears no resemblance to either of those individual scales. It isn’t a matter of rigid taste; my daily listening varies, and there are times I favor Vasantham over Kalyani. Kalyanavasantham, however, simply derails the entire experience for me.
During my college days, I vividly remember being stuck at one of those obligatory family functions. To cut the time before lunch, a few family members who could sing were asked to do so. When it was my turn, I sang a popular song at a medium tempo, skipped a few verses, and wrapped it up quickly and received some perfunctory praise.
Then, it was a relative’s turn. She launched into Saint Purandaradasa’s popular composition in Kalyanavasantham, Innu Daya Barade. Unfortunately, she chose an excruciatingly slow tempo. By then, it was past 2 PM; everyone’s hunger bells were already ringing, and lunch was nowhere in sight. She dragged out every single word, and as the performance stretched on, the room grew restless and people just started chatting over her. No disrespect to her or her vocal talents, but it was a classic case of the wrong song at the absolute worst time.
I had heard the raga before, but I don’t remember the moment I was first introduced to it. It should be my mother, who would have told the name of the raga when some background score appeared, or any other song in this scale played on the television. Anyway, it never sparked any positive reaction in me: no urge to hit replay, learn the song, or explore other compositions in the scale. It felt completely forgettable. I thought it was just a fluke and forced myself to listen to its most celebrated piece, Nadaloludai, from different artists, both vocal and instrumental. But, the effort felt mechanical and it still left me completely cold.
Now, I’m sure die-hard fans of this kriti or raga will want to hunt me down. I’ve already had this exact battle with my mother, who actually loves it! She’d ask me, ‘How can you hate a raga?’ to which I would contest, ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
Well for me, it’s more or less a sonic equivalent of a forced meal that just won’t go down!
Let’s be honest: music is purely subjective. I’m definitely not alone in this camp — everyone has those few melodies or songs or genres they absolutely can’t stand. A highly acclaimed musician, who has played hundreds of concerts and interpreted countless melodies, once admitted in an interview that he deeply dislikes certain ragas to the point where it actually irritates him if an audience requests them. Yet, he validates the audience’s admiration and continues to perform those melodies for them…with a smile, which is a feat that requires immense courage and patience to achieve.
At the end of the day, ragas and food operate on the exact same wavelength of rasa. Just as our palates naturally crave certain flavors and reject others, our ears do the same with melodies. We love certain ragas, are indifferent to some, and absolutely detest others. It’s not a lack of appreciation; it’s just how our personal taste buds and musical ears…are wired!
At one concert, the performance was completely brilliant until the artist began an elaborate Ragam Tanam Pallavi in Kalyanavasantham. It ruined the entire experience for me, feeling like a sudden wave of a pungent, suffocating smell that made me want to hold my breath. Not wanting to walk out mid-performance, which is showing sheer disrespect to the artists on stage, I somehow sat through it, despising every single second. Fortunately, it wrapped up much quicker than a typical RTP usually does. The real saving grace, however, was the ragamalika that followed — the artist’s choice of ragas came as a massive, much-needed relief.
I still don’t know what it is about Kalyanavasantham that repels me. It could be a specific phrase or a particular combination of notes that somehow feels agonizingly drawn out, evoking a deep sense of aversion towards it. To make matters worse, one of my favorite renditions from my favorite artist has this incredible ragamalika section that puts my absolute favorite raga just right after this drab. I always find myself asking, “Why did they have to ruin a great thing by putting this in the middle?” But maybe there’s a strange beauty in that contrast. It creates a balance. To truly love certain melodies, maybe you just have to despise some.
Is it the baggage of a bad memory that makes us hate a melody or a song, or can a specific arrangement of notes just inherently grate on our nerves? Which brings me to you: what is a melody or raga that you absolutely detest, and why?