Latest news with #NeelamCulturalCentre
The Hindu
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Hindu
Gaana music: a versatile art form that steals Chennai's heart
'Chennai na ve Gaana dhaan ' (Gaana means Chennai) is the first thing Gaana artistes state about the city and its art. With its thumping rhythm, easy lyrics, and quick beats, Gaana music captures the essence of not only the lives of the working class but also the struggles of marginalised communities in Chennai, particularly north Chennai. As the art gains popularity in the mainstream, thanks to YouTube and cinema, more women are also turning to Gaana. Born on the streets of north Chennai, Gaanawas originally sung only at funerals. 'People had to stay awake the entire night for the wake. The pain of losing a loved one is enormous and to keep them distracted for some time, we sing the praises of the deceased, usually in our lyrics with existing tunes,' explains Chennai Nagooran, president, Tamil Nadu Gaana Artists Association. Today, gaana is not limited to just funerals; it has gained a wider audience with its use in cinema from the 1990s in songs such as Machi Mannaaru by Ilayaraaja in En Uyir Thozhan (1990). But what brought Gaana singers a huge following was Gana Ulaganathan's song Vazha Meenukum in Chithiram Pesuthadi (2006). Today, many films have at least one Gaana song and many have their own curated Gaana playlist. The versatile art form is today performed at birthdays, weddings, temple festivals, baby showers, and protests, with songs on subjects such as caste, love, politics, garbage, and murder. The Casteless Collective, an 18-member ensemble band that includes singer Isaivani, Tenma, Arivu, and Muthu, broke new ground by mixing Gaana with hip-hop, folk, and rap. A collaboration of filmmaker Pa. Ranjith's organisation, Neelam Cultural Centre with Tenma's label Madras Records, it has released sharp political commentary through its music. 'No other type of song can be used to send a message as quickly and upbeat as Gaana does. It resonates with the people,' says Gaana Merlin, 21, who has gained a bigger following after competing in Super Singer. Gaana's imprint on Chennai is indelible as captured by Ms. Merlin and Maima Sudhakar's song Chennai Vaasi,where the lyrics 'Inna da illa Chennai ulla, Chennai ah adichika oore illa.' (What's not there in Chennai, nothing can beat our Chennai city) 'Every street in north Chennai now has at least two Gaana singers with many more showing interest in taking up the art,' says Gana Vimala, the first transperson Gaana singer. Women's space While the scene has been dominated by men, women are now foraying into the picture with support from their families, areas, and encouragement from other artistes. N. Muniyammal, 60, a Gaana singer from Vyasarpadi, had to learn the art form in secret. 'My father and brothers would go around singing Gaana at funerals. I would follow them on the sly and listen in. But I was never allowed to join them or sing. When they were out of town for other kutcheris (funerals), I would go sing at local kutcheris. People loved my voice but my family and husband didn't allow it,' she says. Now, she has been singing in the public arena for the past 12 years with encouragement from her family. She has also performed at Neelam Cultural Centre's Margazhiyil Makkalisai. Munniyammal's grandsons and granddaughters continue to sing Gaana. Gaana singer and member of Casteless Collective Isaivani recalls the first time taking the stage to sing: 'The comments by the musicians there in seeing me pick up a mic, it was difficult. They tried to discourage me. But once I started, there was no stopping. The people loved it,' she adds. However, artistes point out that the stigma surrounding it still continues. 'The approach to us (Gaana artistes) in recording studios is very disrespectful. Moreover, within the Gaanacommunity, when a woman enters the stage, the looks and comments by other artistes are disgusting. Gaana feeds me; Gaana gave me opportunities and respect among the public,' Ms. Merlin says. 'When we get more opportunities to tell our stories through Gaana, more women will come out to show their talent,' Ms. Muniyammal adds.
The Hindu
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Hindu
A versatile art form that steals Chennai's heart
'Chennai na ve Gaana dhaan ' (Gaana means Chennai) is the first thing Gaana artistes state about the city and its art. With its thumping rhythm, easy lyrics, and quick beats, Gaana music captures the essence of not only the lives of the working class but also the struggles of marginalised communities in Chennai, particularly north Chennai. As the art gains popularity in the mainstream, thanks to YouTube and cinema, more women are also turning to Gaana. Born on the streets of north Chennai, Gaanawas originally sung only at funerals. 'People had to stay awake the entire night for the wake. The pain of losing a loved one is enormous and to keep them distracted for some time, we sing the praises of the deceased, usually in our lyrics with existing tunes,' explains Chennai Nagooran, president, Tamil Nadu Gaana Artists Association. Today, gaana is not limited to just funerals; it has gained a wider audience with its use in cinema from the 1990s in songs such as Machi Mannaaru by Ilayaraaja in En Uyir Thozhan (1990). But what brought Gaana singers a huge following was Gana Ulaganathan's song Vazha Meenukum in Chithiram Pesuthadi (2006). Today, many films have at least one Gaana song and many have their own curated Gaana playlist. The versatile art form is today performed at birthdays, weddings, temple festivals, baby showers, and protests, with songs on subjects such as caste, love, politics, garbage, and murder. The Casteless Collective, an 18-member ensemble band that includes singer Isaivani, Tenma, Arivu, and Muthu, broke new ground by mixing Gaana with hip-hop, folk, and rap. A collaboration of filmmaker Pa. Ranjith's organisation, Neelam Cultural Centre with Tenma's label Madras Records, it has released sharp political commentary through its music. 'No other type of song can be used to send a message as quickly and upbeat as Gaana does. It resonates with the people,' says Gaana Merlin, 21, who has gained a bigger following after competing in Super Singer. Gaana's imprint on Chennai is indelible as captured by Ms. Merlin and Maima Sudhakar's song Chennai Vaasi,where the lyrics 'Inna da illa Chennai ulla, Chennai ah adichika oore illa.' (What's not there in Chennai, nothing can beat our Chennai city) 'Every street in north Chennai now has at least two Gaana singers with many more showing interest in taking up the art,' says Gana Vimala, the first transperson Gaana singer. Women's space While the scene has been dominated by men, women are now foraying into the picture with support from their families, areas, and encouragement from other artistes. N. Muniyammal, 60, a Gaana singer from Vyasarpadi, had to learn the art form in secret. 'My father and brothers would go around singing Gaana at funerals. I would follow them on the sly and listen in. But I was never allowed to join them or sing. When they were out of town for other kutcheris (funerals), I would go sing at local kutcheris. People loved my voice but my family and husband didn't allow it,' she says. Now, she has been singing in the public arena for the past 12 years with encouragement from her family. She has also performed at Neelam Cultural Centre's Margazhiyil Makkalisai. Munniyammal's grandsons and granddaughters continue to sing Gaana. Gaana singer and member of Casteless Collective Isaivani recalls the first time taking the stage to sing: 'The comments by the musicians there in seeing me pick up a mic, it was difficult. They tried to discourage me. But once I started, there was no stopping. The people loved it,' she adds. However, artistes point out that the stigma surrounding it still continues. 'The approach to us (Gaana artistes) in recording studios is very disrespectful. Moreover, within the Gaanacommunity, when a woman enters the stage, the looks and comments by other artistes are disgusting. Gaana feeds me; Gaana gave me opportunities and respect among the public,' Ms. Merlin says. 'When we get more opportunities to tell our stories through Gaana, more women will come out to show their talent,' Ms. Muniyammal adds.
The Hindu
4 days ago
- Politics
- The Hindu
Neelam Social releases documentary on conservancy workers' protests
Neelam Cultural Centre's YouTube channel, Neelam Social, that had documented every development of the 13-day-long sit-in protest organised by conservancy workers, released a documentary titled 'The Eve Before Independence Day'. The protests were organised by the workers demanding permanent jobs and end of privatisation of garbage disposal in the city. . Founded by filmmaker Pa. Ranjith, Neelam Cultural Centre's YouTube channel focusses on social and political issues faced by marginalised sections of society. The almost 27-minute-long documentary features video footage of how the police encircled the protesters before bringing in buses to take them out of the protest site. Speaking to The Hindu, Neelam Magazine's Editor, Vasugi Bhaskar, said that a three-person crew was stationed at the protest site to document every move and development in the protests. 'Our job was to record as much footage as possible. We didn't know what we were going to do with it. However, given that mainstream media often ignores and sometimes even misrepresents the protests launched by marginalised sections, we wanted to be there,' said Mr. Bhaskar. Rejecting the allegation made by certain sections on social media that Neelam Cultural Centre was actively involved in giving direction to the protesters, Mr. Bhaskar said that the organisation often had to face unfair and unsubstantiated slander. 'In fact, we were clear that this was their [conservancy workers] protest and that the credit belongs to them. We were merely present there to document how the State deals with such protests,' he said.
New Indian Express
28-04-2025
- Entertainment
- New Indian Express
Redefining the aesthetics of photography
When the camera slips from the grip of casteist and colonial gatekeepers, it finds new ways to see. It lingers on daily life, catches the blush of celebrations, the weight of grief, the shape of land and longing. This Dalit History Month, as part of the Vaanam Art Festival by the Neelam Cultural Centre, Niththam (Everydayness) showcases precisely this shift. Here, photographs hum, installations snarl, and poems whisper what mainstream archives have tried to bury. Let the image breathe Jaisingh Nageswaran, photographer and a first-time curator with the restless energy of someone who's spent years dismantling casteist lenses, describes the exhibition as 'a visual poetry'. 'Photography isn't just about taking pictures. It's about how you display them,' he says. Images here are unruly: a boy's laughter showcased across a vast white slab, a film flickering quietly in a corner. The room invites you to pause, lean in, and unlearn the aesthetics imposed upon us. Now, with smartphones and digital access, photography is no longer the preserve of the elite. But once, photography was an outsider's gaze. 'My grandparents weren't allowed into a photo studio when they got married,' he recalls. 'They had to go all the way to Palani to take a picture.' So, Niththam asks: if everyone can be a photographer now, what does it mean when twelve artistes focussing on stories from the margins, tell their tales — on their terms? Rethinking beauty For Jaisingh, aesthetics must emerge from lived reality. Influenced by Arthur Jafa's work on Black aesthetics, Jaisingh believes in disrupting — not discarding — existing forms. 'We question the aesthetic, not to break it, but to find new meaning in it.' Sadia Mariam Rupa's 'Noise' opens the show with tenderness and tension. A woman bends to bless a child. A dove perches in a cage. Domestic moments from the Korail Basti — washing corners, modest desks, patterned curtains — build a visual diary of survival. Below, drawings and mixed media works chronicle bureaucracy and history: redacted forms, ID cards, annotations. 'It's an attempt to listen to the sound of the place,' says Rupa. Kabilan Soundararajan's 'Echo of Silence' features portraits of Parai drummers and koothu artistes suspended like a chorus line. 'Since it showcases music, I wanted these photographs to move,' Jaisingh notes. Abhishek Khedekar turns to his hometown, Dapoli, composing layered images of memory and myth. He includes archival photos by Subhash Kolekar, the first photographer from the region, blending fiction and history. Rajyashri Goody's 'Eat With Great Delight', borrowing its title from Omprakash Valmiki's Joothan, critiques hunger, shame and the politics of leftovers. Displayed near the wall are poems from Vasant Moon's 'Growing Up Untouchable in India.' Jaya Shruti Laya's 'People of the Frontline' confronts climate inequality. The images ask: Would heat waves be taken seriously if they affected the privileged? Land, labour, loss Abila documents displacement from Manjolai estate; her photographs, acts of witness, taken during ration trips back home. Selvakumar, raised in the nearby Oothu Estate, captures how generations of labour shaped the landscape. His 'Stories of Our Scars' speaks of betrayal, pain, and the myths built atop mountain silence. Arunkumar Marimuthu's 'An Object or Two' is quiet yet radical. While in a village near Kolkata, he photographs women not through portraiture, but through the objects around them. These objects hold endurance and unspoken stories. And Nirmalprasaath T's 'Lignite' documents how the Neyveli mines erase entire villages. His lens focuses on land under threat, and the cycle of forced development and forgotten people. Moving mediums Mehul Singhal's 'Anatomy of Barber and Shop' deconstructs the barbershop as a social ecosystem. The monochromatic images show that it is not just a place of grooming — it's a living, breathing site of community, ritual and rhythm. Filmmaker Di Sica Ray's 'The Creation of Adam' is a film told through hands alone. Michelangelo's verse echoes in Italian while hands reach from artificiality toward nature — a yearning for escape and reconnection. The film is screened throughout the exhibition in one corner. The show ends with Prabhakar Kamble's kinetic installation, 'Disfiguration of Image'. A motorised brush smears saffron paint across a miniature Ambedkar statue — only to reset and begin again; a comment on how ideologies try to erase what threatens them. Jaisingh says, 'Earlier Orange was associated with Buddha. Now we associate it with the BJP. The paint that is spilled on the floor indicates violence. Everyday violence of Dalits is what we wanted to show.' The British brought cameras to catalogue 'natives' like exhibits. For decades, Dalit presence was limited to famine porn or fetishised suffering. Niththam flips that frame. Here, there are no lowered gazes. These images don't flinch. Neither should we. Niththam is on view at Lalit Kala Akademi, Chennai, until April 29.
New Indian Express
22-04-2025
- Entertainment
- New Indian Express
In the realm of resistance
In Tamil literature today, questions of caste, gender, and power have fought against the resistance and rightfully taken the spotlight. P Sivakami, former IAS officer, writer and activist, has spent her life charting this transformation. Hailed as the first Dalit woman novelist, she has written novels, short stories, poetry collections and myriad essays that unsettle complacency and demand justice. As a part of Vaanam Art Festival, the Neelam Cultural Centre presented her with the Verchol Dalit Literary Award, this month, in recognition of her fearless voice. As her novels win acclaim in Tamil and English, Sivakami explores the politics of translation, the resistance faced by Dalit women authors and the urgent need for self-critique within literary and political circles. In a conversation with CE, Sivakami reflects on her bureaucratic career, departure into grassroots activism, founding movements for land rights, women's equality and subaltern arts. Excerpts follow: Reflecting on your debut novel and the literary landscape, do you believe Tamil literature has become more receptive to Dalit and feminist narratives? Certainly. Many Dalit writers and poets are now addressing caste, gender, and their intersections. Their works are increasingly published and well-received, particularly when translated into English. Writers like Imayam, though he doesn't identify as a Dalit writer, gain recognition as Dalit literature in translation. Authors such as Raj Gauthaman, Bama, and Kanyakumari-based poet ND Rajkumar have also been translated. This indicates a positive shift in reception. You've highlighted the lack of critics for subaltern literature. Why do you think this gap exists? Sadly, there's a dearth of critics engaging deeply with these works. Publishers seldom send books to media outlets, and when they do, coverage is delayed or absent. Even media platforms overlook such literature. Reviews are rare, leaving these narratives without the critical discourse they deserve. Could you elaborate on your process of transcreating Tamil novels into English? To clarify, my English works are original pieces inspired by my Tamil novels, not direct transcreations. Publishers like Penguin and HarperCollins approached me for the manuscript before I'd even completed it. My priority is ensuring the work reaches audiences, regardless of the publisher. Your fiction often critiques Dalit patriarchy. Has this drawn resistance within Dalit literary circles? Initially, yes. Women writing about Dalit issues were marginalised. However, once their works gained traction through English translations, acceptance grew. Today, the intersection of caste and gender is widely acknowledged as inseparable in Dalit writing. What prompted your transition from bureaucracy to activism and founding a political party? It was an ideological, not emotional, shift. During my 28 years in the IAS, I conducted awareness camps, edited a magazine, and documented tribal oral histories. Over time, my passion for grassroots work — whether with tribal communities or trans rights — outweighed bureaucratic constraints. I chose to dedicate myself fully to advocacy outside the system. 'Puthiya Kodangi' has nurtured a lot of writers. How would you define subaltern literature today, and has its scope evolved since the magazine's inception? Puthiya Kodangi has consistently centred on land rights, globalisation's impact on marginalised communities, and critiques of party politics. It blends philosophy, anti-caste activism, and creative writing — poetry, novels, and translations. Over 25 years, it has addressed Tamil language preservation, Dalit employment, and constitutional safeguards for tribal land. While public discourse now engages these issues, the magazine's mission remains unchanged. Campaigning for Dalit and tribal land rights, what resistance have you faced from the state or society? Our activism targets systemic failure, not individuals. For instance, in Gudalur, powerful entities illegally occupy Panchami lands meant for Dalits. Though courts ruled in our favour, implementation stalls. Similarly, tribal lands under the Fifth Schedule are exploited by non-tribal buyers despite legal protections. Governments neglect these issues due to the communities' lack of political clout. Without subaltern voices in policy, execution remains lax. You've emphasised self-critique in writing. What personal challenges have you faced in your literary journey? Early works faced dismissal as 'romanticised' or appeasing caste Hindus. My debut novel, criticised for idealism, was later revised to include a critical authorial perspective, which resonated better. Publishers occasionally dropped my work for critiquing Dravidian politics, but others stepped in. Academia remains hesitant. My English works are syllabi staples abroad, but Tamil counterparts are discouraged for research in local universities. How has your identity as a Dalit woman shaped your understanding of feminist politics in India? Women are subjugated because of caste and gender, both are inextricable. Ambedkar had stressed it, Uma Chakravarti echoes the same sentiment. Liberation requires annihilating caste through inter-caste marriages and solidarity. Any feminist politics ignoring caste is incomplete — a reality evident to any critical thinker. What narratives remain underrepresented in Tamil literature regarding caste, gender, or bureaucracy? Non-Dalit writers seldom acknowledge caste's role in their lives. They portray families as caste-neutral, ignoring systemic complicity. This subjectivity perpetuates caste norms. Even celebrated authors like Pudhumaipithan romanticise caste hierarchies, revealing a lack of critical objectivity. As an advocate of marginalised voices, how does it feel to be recognised by platforms like Vaanam Art Festival, which aligns with your mission? Literary awards often have political undercurrents. Mainstream accolades favour those disavowing Dalit identity. Vaanam, however, explicitly celebrates marginalised voices, a rarity. I have been ignored in the literary festivals conducted by the government. While no award is apolitical, platforms prioritising subaltern narratives deserve appreciation for amplifying silenced perspectives.
