The Paradox of Admiration: My Complicated Relationship with TM Krishna’s Music

There is an old joke about the Hindi-film villain Ajit who commands, “Robert, throw this fellow into a tank of liquid oxygen. The liquid won’t let him live, and the oxygen won’t let him die.”

Some days, I feel like that unfortunate fellow—caught between two irreconcilable truths.

As a rasika, I find myself unable to live without TM Krishna’s music. As an observer of his public persona, I find it hard to reconcile his political rhetoric and perpetual provocations with the transcendence he achieves on stage. I swing between awe and irritation, admiration and exasperation—year after year.

I have tried, more than once, to boycott his music. It never lasts. Inevitably, I run into mediocrity—popular kritis rendered without depth, without imagination. And in those moments, I miss the unmistakable TMK touch. I find myself returning to his music for solace, only to be unsettled again by his next ideological outburst. The cycle repeats.

Take, for instance, this rendition of a Muthuswami Dikshitar classic in Kamboji (link below)—a ragam TMK has long excelled in. His approach to this composition demonstrates the full expanse of his musicianship: his mastery, his imagination, and his total immersion in the art.

He begins with a viruttam, building the atmosphere brick by brick. He travels deep into the labyrinth of Kamboji before gently easing into the pallavi. Like a painter laying strokes of colour, he explores combinations of swaras, shades of emotion, and lyrical interpretation. Even at a measured tempo, the music stirs something primal. His enjoyment of the sahitya and his own swara pathways is unmistakable—and contagious.

The neraval in the anupallavi’s opening line showcases his precision and his intimate relationship with the ragam’s grammar. He then accelerates through the remainder of the phrase and dives into the charanam—a vast ocean of musical possibility. His use of the madhyama sthayi sparkles, and the second neraval is handled with both restraint and flourish.

And then comes the finale: the pallavi summarised in three speeds, beginning with the fastest and tapering into the slowest. It is sheer brilliance—technical, aesthetic, emotional.

And yet, as the final notes fade, I am left with a disquieting duality. I see in him shades of Ravana—Aalavandhaan’s haunting depiction of “Kadavul paadhi, mirugam paadhi.” Ravana, after all, was a genius: a veena virtuoso, a Vedic scholar, a devout Shiva bhakta—and still capable of profound darkness. History has chosen to remember primarily his flaws, not his brilliance.

Will TM Krishna become the Ravana of the modern musical kingdom—unquestionably gifted, yet remembered as much for his controversies as for his genius?

Only time will tell.

For now, I continue to live in this paradox: unable to relinquish the music, and unable to ignore the man.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EkEiI9oqS-4

PS: The only other rendition of this song, that matches this level of Brilliance is that of Madurai Mani Iyer. I have tries at least 50 other musicians’ rendition of this song.