Bhavayami: The Kriti That Defined Carnatic Music for Me

I’ve often confessed how musically incompetent I am. I have no idea about thālams or ragams, nor even the basics of whether a singer is off shruti. And yet, music, especially the music of M. S. Subbulakshmi has been a constant companion throughout my life.

Every morning and evening of my childhood, MS’s voice filled our home with the Vishnu Sahasranamam, Hanuman Chalisa, or Suprabhatam. Those slokams reverberating through the walls became part of my everyday rhythm. For my mother, who was deeply religious, devotional music was inseparable from life itself. And though I never grasped the nuances of Carnatic music, devotion seeped into me through those sounds.

MS had a unique quality in her renderings. She didn’t just sing, she seemed to be standing in the presence of divinity. When people say a true musician never dies, I understand it. Their body may pass, but their music becomes immortal.

For years, I kept a respectful distance from Carnatic music. I never had the ear for its complexity, and I wasn’t under pressure to study or master it. But slowly, without realizing, I began to enjoy it. Thanks to musicians like Mandolin Srinivas, Lalgudi Jayaraman, and of course, MS herself, I learned to appreciate the music without worrying about the technicalities.

One composition in particular has stayed with me: Bhavayāmi Gopālabālam, immortalized in MS’s voice. Set in the raga Yamunā Kalyāṇi, this kriti creates a sublime, prayer-like atmosphere. The raga’s flowing, devotional quality blends seamlessly with MS’s pure voice, making the piece iconic. So much so, that whenever Yamunā Kalyāṇi is discussed, the conversation inevitably turns to this song. The raga and the kriti feel inseparable.

I remember once attending a concert where someone performed in Yamunā Kalyāṇi. Without knowing the technical grammar, I could still identify it and that's only because Bhavayāmi had etched its soundscape so deeply in my memory. That is how a raga grows on you. You don’t have to master its theory; sometimes, repeated listening makes it part of your inner world.

Indian culture and traditions are steeped in this kind of devotion - weaving music, spirituality, and history into daily life. Today, my own children are learning Carnatic music. My wife, who grew up within its rigor, often teases me: “How can you appreciate good music when you don’t have a musical bone in your body?” Maybe she’s right. But for me, it has never been about musical blood. It has always been about devotion.

Carnatic music, at its heart, is inseparable from devotion. That is why attempts to separate bhakti from this tradition feel hollow. The music itself is prayer.

I have listened to Bhavayāmi Gopālabālam in silence, in prayer, in reverence, in joy, in sadness, and in awe. Each time, it feels like a personal offering, a submission of self before the divine.

If there is one kriti that defines Carnatic music for me, it is this. I may never master thalam or ragam, but when I listen to this piece, I realize that understanding was never the point. Devotion was. And that, to me, is the essence of Carnatic music.