CHENNAI: Music can be born out of strange places; by the banks of a river, in a swanky, air-conditioned studio, in the silence of a drawing room. Or the chaotic, narrow by-lanes of Mylapore. It can be made by lesser-known heroes, who beat the hide, apply the polish, tie the ropes and stand spine to star musicians. If percussion is what is required of them, rhythm is what they have mastered. They act as the silent show-makers every time a Karaikudi Mani or Thiruvarur Vaidyanathan light up in pride after a successful concert. Meet the mridangam makers of Mylapore, the men who have carried forward the age-old legacy of a craft that lies hidden within numerous, worn-out little spaces that can be missed with the blink of an eye. Almost every street in this part of Mylapore, adjoins a temple and is named after it. And some of Chennai’s most sought after mridangam makers have pitched base here for over a decade. Twenty-eight-year-old Lawrence Franson set shop at the Apparswamy Koil street about ten years ago, to pursue his family vocation. Today, he caters to the needs of Guruvayur Durai and Trichy Sankaran, among other famed artistes. A young man himself, he holds on to this craft, unsure of whether his kids would do the same. “I joined the league out of my own interest. And when I get married and have children, they will do what they want to. Of course, it’s uncertain if mridamgam making will pass off as a prospective option,” he says. However, the craft comes with a decent financial prospect, with the average instrument maker earning anywhere between `10,000 and `20,000 a month; the revenue shooting up during the music season of Margazhi. But in the case of a veteran mridangam maker like A Yesudas, who is the proud supplier of instruments to Karaikudi Mani, the brand value of his craft overtakes other trivial aspects. Das has even made a visit to the Virginia University, United States, to manufacture mridangams exclusively for vidwan Ranganathan, on the reference of Karaikudi Mani. Not only is he assured of a loyal list of customers, he comfortably states his price and gets it, most of the time. A mridangam made by Das, will cost you anywhere between `7,000 and `12,000 — a price that’s evidently higher than the average. Das boasts of having the oldest shop in the locality (15 years) and is the fourth generation mridamgam maker in his family. “There has been a change in the preferences of the people over the years. For instance, they prefer having trekking ropes as straps for their mridangams, instead of the traditional buffalo hide. It makes it easier for them to travel with it. Also, travelling musicians prefer having the animal hide on either sides of the mridangam cleanly polished, as the airport x-rays catch the hair on it,” he informs. But the use of animal hide for manufacturing percussion instruments is often a cause of concern for the makers in the city. Not only do frequent visits to slaughterhouses in Choolai and Perambur take up the whole day, the lack of a space to beat the hide and dry it, makes the process a taxing one. “The hide needs to be a certain way before we can use it for the instruments. Often, we’d have to take up a corner at the slaughterhouse and process the skin. It’s a toiling process and takes up the whole day,” says PT Martin, who has been into the business for seven years.Interestingly, this community of people that makes classical percussion instruments is Christian and blood-related. “Every instrument maker knows another here. We’re all distant relatives. History goes that our community was making instruments even during the times of Thyagaraja, in little villages in Thanjavur,” says Martin.Today, these men boast of a loyal clientele and supply to instrument shops as well. And the less acknowledged fact is that they have mastered the nuances of rhythm and tempo, as skillfully as any revered percussionist; with no real training to boast of. “If I ever have to play, I know I will pull it off,” smiles Lawrence.
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