23-05-2025
How padams and javalis are a reminder of the strong link between art and human emotions
Padams and javalis belong to the world of love poetry — rooted in sringara. They emerged from the temple and court traditions of South India and were central to the Devadasi repertoire.
The treatment of sringara in literature goes back as early as the 8th century with Andal's Nachiyar Tirumozhi and has been explored with nuance and depth by composers across centuries — Jayadeva in the 12th, Annamacharya in the 15th, Kshetragna in the 17th, and many others up to the 20th century.
When Leela akka (Bharatanatyam exponent Leela Samson) and I decided to come together for a performance that would let us explore the inherent charm of padams and javalis through our respective art forms — music and dance — it became a celebration of literature, movement, rasa and sruti. Over several sessions of discussions, we came up with a line-up of these short poetic pieces for the event, which was held in Bengaluru recently. This article is a result of our mutual artistic exchange and the desire to share it with the larger world.
Padams and javalis are subtle verses that have suggestive, nuanced meaning, is how Leela akka succintly puts it. 'At the start, we look for exact meaning — word to word, then sentence by sentence and lastly verse by verse. But along the way you realise that the meaning has to emerge from the context of the situation. There is no explanation that the poet leaves behind as an instruction manual that may guide you. It simply says it as the poet felt it. Two to three hundred years later, it is largely anyone's guess as to what he might have meant. Much is left to one's own interpretation, one's svabhaava or nature and to a sense of aesthetic,' she explains.
My own engagement with them has been shaped by a deep respect for their musical appeal. Padams feel meditative. They call for stillness and introspection. Javalis, by contrast, are quicker in emotional turns — lighter and playful. Their difference isn't one of skill, but of tone. A padam breathes slowly, through pause and weight; a javali skips along with perky charm.
Language plays a central role in both padam and javali. Telugu flows with soft musicality, while Tamil brings its own emotional cadence. When I learn or perform a padam or javali, I let the emotional resonance of the language, and the melody shape each other. The sahitya offers direction, the raga gives depth. It's a quiet dialogue, not a contest.
The emotions in a padam may reflect human love or spiritual yearning. I don't see them as opposites — both feel valid, at times intertwined. Rather than impose meaning, I try to let the raga and text lead me.
'For most artistes', says Leela akka, 'male or female, these compositions beg honest depiction. Not a skewed and twisted tale that was not meant. Being honest and subtle in expression is difficult, for it reveals more than when the situation in the poem is laid bare explicitly, leaving nothing to the imagination.'
Unfortunately, these pieces have been sidelined in mainstream Carnatic concerts. Some musicians find the eroticism of the lyrics unsuitable for large audiences, but to me, the literal meaning is just the skeleton — empathy, nuance and abstraction give it life. Sringara, the king of rasas, deserves a more graceful engagement in our culture, not dismissal. Moreover, their melodic richness alone makes padams invaluable for deepening one's grasp of raga and expression. Some others fear the languid pace of padams may not appeal to today's fast-paced, Insta-driven audiences. But the so-called slowness is where micro-emotions unfurl. Stillness, when internalised, becomes charged with quiet intensity, which, if alive in the performer, gets conveyed to the audience without any feverish embellishment.
The Dhanammal tradition, especially through T. Brinda, exemplifies what these compositions require of musicians — a malleable voice, breath control and the ability to sustain notes with emotional weight. To sing padams in this style (even in spirit if not exact detail) ornamentation must be gentle and deliberate. One needs to project intense feeling without excessive force.
Yes, these are products of their time, but within them, the protagonist's voice (mostly female, but at times, also male) is striking — assertive, desiring, self-aware, vulnerable. Their emotional truth speaks across time, needing no translation.
Leela akka beautifully sums it up: 'The biggest takeaway from these forms of composition is sensitising oneself to a superior form of music. When this grows in you as a dancer listening to numerous versions of them by great singers, as also by one's classroom memories of the dance teacher singing them, and all form and standard of expression in between, one ought to have learnt where the truth lies. The truth is finite. It asks you to conform, not lead. It asks for collaboration, not superiority. It requests you to let go perhaps? To dream again and not worry that the composition is winning hands down. It is much larger than you. It is superior in every way to the singer or the dancer. It humbles you and says you may join the journey.'
The writer is a Carnatic musician.
