Yamini was born to dance. Others became dancers.
If there was a dancer in our times who ‘owned’ the stage, it was Yamini Krishnamurthy. There was no other like her. She possessed it with a personality, so powerful that the largest proscenium seemed to shrink when she alighted upon it. When she danced, she ruled supreme. No diktat, no style, no norm applied to her. She made the rules as she danced.
You would not say that we came from the same school, the same philosophy. She put Kalakshetra behind her when she found other truths along the journey. Her love for her gurus – Kittappa Pillai and the legendary devadasi Gowri amma, was more profound.
When I had the opportunity to interview her in Delhi for the Sruthi magazine some decades ago, she brushed aside my questions about her time in the institution saying that all she remembered of those days in Adyar was her Nepali mother’s insistence that she braid her beautiful long hair in two plaits and Dr Padmasini’s insistence that she come to Kalakshetra in a single plait. To her, it mattered little which way her hair was braided. Her life itself was soon to be intertwined with a meteoric career that awaited her.
Many of my generation had the opportunity to watch her in her heyday, in her full glory. We were conservative dancers by comparison. She performed Bharata-natyam, Kuchipudi and Odissi, having learnt from masters like Kittappa Pillai, Gowri Ammal and Guru Pankaj Charan Das. And what a performer she was! Especially in the Kuchipudi and Bharata-natyam styles which seemed to be extensions of herself.
In the Bhama Kalaapam she spoke the dialogues in her native language – Telugu. It seemed the most natural thing to do when she did this. Not planted or pasted on.
She paid little heed to formalities. Songs and compositions that precede the main composition were summarily dismissed by her, or when performed did not stay in one’s memory. The mighty varnam was her forte, her playground. She did not need to do anything else in the repertoire. Those were the days when nritta compositions ruled performance and she was its most profound exponent.
She loved the varnam in Kamas – ‘Swami nee rammanave’. Even in the varnam, she refused to busy herself with several hands or even with long sancharis to describe the sahitya. She knew their import all too well. But in this matter, she was of the old school. She stated their meaning a couple or more times and simply moved on. Then when a line like ‘raave’ in this varnam or ‘saami raa raa’ in the popular Kuchipudi composition were sung, she paused the item to linger on the words.
When she did this, everyone sat on the edge of their seats. Whatever else she did was forgotten and this line alone stood out. Those individuals who found themselves in the front rows, usually men, were pretty sure she was ‘beckoning’ to them!
She sat on the stage and repeated the call to the beloved in numerous ways – smiling shyly, pouting, getting angry, her eyes suggestive and jealous, laughing at him – while the line was repeated over and over again. Then as though she had had enough, she would rise and continue from where she had left off; for why elaborate further when another brilliant jathi was waiting around the corner?
She loved to play with an audience, but loved her jathis more. Most days it was not one, but two of them which she did between each line of the varnam. And she did these complex rhythmic formulae with an elan and aplomb that was both fascinating to watch, as was disconcerting. It wasn’t just the audience that was left spellbound. We dancers were, too. And while we watched in awe and some trepidation, she was busy printing her name on the edifice of India’s dance memory!
I do not think Yamini Krishnamurthi was bothered acquiring any other skill. Least of all, any social skill. She replied to most people in short sentences, almost brusque. It was only when she met old colleagues from the South, that she smiled and laughed in delight.
Her own family seemed like a tight-knit unit then – her father, not unlike a diva himself – Sanskrit scholar that he was, did the composition introductions before and during the show; her sister Jyoti sang melodiously. Nandini, another sister, accompanied her on the nattuvangam.
Yet it was Yamini, the dancer, who carried the burden of the show’s success entirely upon her shoulders. She had broad shoulders no doubt. But their dependence on her through her life, was perhaps her biggest pleasure and burden.
Yamini experienced unparalleled success and world-wide recognition. No one quite matched her special star quality. And there were some great dancers then. People fawned on her and critics, musicians and scholars were in awe.
Yet she had no pride. I say this with conviction. For at heart I believe, she was a simple South Indian girl, almost out of place in Delhi, the city she lived in most of her life. When I asked who she admired in the field of dance, past or present, she said “No one”. It came across as an honest statement – one she believed to be true.
The musicians who served her over the years were many – Subbramani, Ramamurthy and later, Mahalingam who sang for her, Devanathan from Kalakshetra who did the nattuvangam, Jayaraman, Akhila Krishnan, Lalitha Nagarajan. This really was her family, after her own left her. She taught diligently for but a few years of her life.
Among her first batch of six students was the now well admired, Rama Vaidyanathan. The others soon dropped out though and she seemed to lose interest in teaching after them.
It is possible that she was not encouraged by her father to have any friends – male or female. This surely had an effect on her personality. Few know, that it was she who looked after an intellectually disabled brother till he passed on. Others took from her at will. She did not know how to stand up for herself. She was always controlled and taken advantage of, by one or another man.
How sad it is, that such a brilliant life such as hers, has a streak of unmistakable tragedy woven into it. She lived in the institute she built in Hauz Khas, a prime area of Delhi. A smallish apartment with adequate facilities. Towards the end of her life, Shiva Ganesh, her manager handled her affairs. He and a mridangist, Ramesh were loyal to a fault and looked upon her as a goddess, calling her ‘Amma’.
The Apollo Hospitals and I would wager a guess that it was Pratap Reddy and his able daughter, Preetha Reddy who saw to her medical care in the last years of her life. Their generosity must be applauded, for time and again they have silently helped artists in need.
Yamini passed away on August 3. She was tearfully sent on to greener pastures by Rama and some of her students. They danced for her last rites while she was draped in a radiant yellow sari with bells on her feet. May she rest in peace. And if it pleases her, may she dance with the Gods without the complex burden of our earthly performances.
Leela Samson is an acclaimed dancer and a recipient of the Padma Shri.