Waves, memory, and the beloved of the sea
From Candolim sunsets to Kanyakumari’s crashing tides…discovering a raga that mirrors the storms within.
Recently, I was in Kanyakumari for a family holiday. We were fortunate enough to spend a good time at the southernmost tip of mainland India, and I treasure every single moment of it: From watching the raging waves, a few easily as high as two metres, crash against the boulders, to seeing each of my family members take in the beauty of the sunset and the ferocious sea.
As time rolled by, the tides began to swell. Shortly past 6:00 PM, the wind gathered speed, and amidst the rising roar of the sea, my thoughts unexpectedly drifted to a raga called Samudrapriya.
That moment immediately carried me back to October 2014. I was sitting on Candolim Beach, watching the sunset and quietly reflecting on U. Srinivas sir’s extraordinary repertoire — a short-lived life, yet one that left behind a rich legacy to last generations. It had been barely a month since his passing, and social media was still flooded with heartfelt tributes and concert recordings, honoring the soul who redefined Carnatic music through his trailblazing mandolin artistry.
Right then, a friend texted me a video of Srinivas sir performing at the NCPA in Mumbai. ‘Hey, listen to that Bindumalini,’ the message read. That rendition was so moving it gave me instant goosebumps. But right before Bindumalini, another raga had quietly slipped into the back of my mind. Although it was the snippet of Bindumalini that moistened my eyes, that concert recording introduced me to another scale, I hadn’t consciously heard in traditional Carnatic renditions before. Interestingly, it brought to mind certain film songs that closely mirrored its structure. It evoked an entirely different spectrum of emotions — leaving me wondering what raga it could possibly be. It was hauntingly beautiful, giving me a few chills, and felt reminiscent of Dr. Rajkumar’s classic, Mellusire Savi Gana. Scrolling down, a single YouTube comment pointing out the raga’s identity hit me right away. I marvelled at the sheer beauty of the name — Samudrapriya — wondering whose poetic mind first called it the ‘beloved of the sea.’ Though a bit of digging reveals it is otherwise known as Sumanasaranjani (with its Hindustani equivalent being Madhukauns, closely related to Chandrakauns), the name Samudrapriya carries a far deeper, razor-sharp character.
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Years after first discovering the scale, I rarely came across compositions set in it. A quick search on YouTube shows a few exist, but it took a friend sharing a marvelous track from Uyire, the Tamil version of Dil Se, to truly stun me. When I had watched Dil Se.., I had caught a glimpse of the track, but assumed it felt like Chandrakauns and had just left it at that. I had never heard the complete piece, and interestingly, it doesn’t even seem to appear on the official Hindi album. It struck me quite deeply after I heard the track my friend shared — phew, Samudrapriya. Turns out, my friend hadn’t heard of the raga either!
Standing at Kanyakumari as the waves battered the jagged shore, the ocean’s roar felt like an echo of our own inner storms. In that surge of sound, Samudrapriya came alive to me. It isn’t a gentle raga; it carries a sharp, piercing weight that echoes the tempestuous voice of the sea itself.
Surprisingly, this was perhaps the very first time the scale had ever surfaced in my mind like this. I’ve visited many, many beaches over the years, soaking in serene sunrises, quiet afternoons, and stunningly beautiful sunsets…yet I can’t recall a single instance where Samudrapriya played as the background score to those moments.
Is it simply because the name bears Samudra that it echoes by the shore? Is it truly the ocean’s beloved? I don’t think it is merely a matter of nomenclature. The raga possesses a distinct identity of its own: one that feels like mirroring the surge of ferocious waves within the mind.
Perhaps it lies in the sharp, deliberate character of G2, M2, and N2. It is fascinating to note how M2 doesn’t oscillate or glide here…its unyielding, plain tone is precisely what gives the raga its piercing edge. The actual glides in the Carnatic style reside elsewhere, sweeping subtly between P and N2.
Together, these nuances give this pentatonic scale its raw gravity, evoking a sharp, sudden emotion. Or perhaps much of that magic also comes from the grounding presence of the fundamental, static notes, S and P. It is remarkable how these unvarying achala swaras quietly anchor the surrounding notes, bearing their emotional weight and letting their true colors shine through.
Well, whatever it was, the ocean and the music felt entirely indivisible that evening. How often do we carry a melody silently inside us for years, only to have a single, ferocious wave bring it roaring to the surface?
