The sweet music of jack wood

The woodcutter lifts the axe overhead and – thwack – hits the log. Ten feet away, I flinch. Sweat trickles down his back; it drenches the towel wrapped around his waist, over a pair of cotton shorts. Thud! He hits the wood again. It cleaves… splinters fly. The woodcutter’s name is M. Kamachi. Long ago, he worked as an agricultural labourer. He speaks to me without raising his head. His eyes are trained on the business end of the axe.

Kamachi’s workplace for the last 30 years is a shed near the Sivagangai Poonga, a grand old garden in Thanjavur. He is 67 years old. At 150 years, the garden is over twice his age. The temple nearby – the great Brihadeeshwara Kovil – is 1,100 years old. And the instrument he is roughly sculpting by hand, is mentioned in texts that go back further, way further. Kamachi is shaping a veenai – more commonly known as the veena – from a four-foot log of jackfruit wood.

To steady the timber, he places his right foot inside the depression that will, one day, become kudam (resonator) of the veenai. The shed is dusty and hot even in the shade and Kamachi’s work is hard and heavy. He gets paid 600 rupees daily for his labour. And skill. He grunts every time the axe strikes; now and then, he wipes his face with a rough towel.

In a few hours, he whittles down a 30-kilogram log down to 20, and it will be ready to go to the pattarai (workshop) where it will be chiselled and polished by craftsmen. In a month’s time, the finished instrument will sit on a player’s lap, and make beautiful music.

The veenai is born in Thanjavur. The Saraswati veena – an older version of the Thanjavur veenai – is India’s national instrument. And one of the three ‘celestial instruments’, with references from ‘vedic times’, along with mridangam and flute.

Like many other percussion instruments – mridangam, kanjira, tavil, udukkai – the veenai too begins its journey in the groves near Panruti, the small town in Cuddalore district, famous for its sweet and fleshy jackfruit. What is less known is the jackfruit’s link with some of the most iconic musical instruments of India.

“He agreed to stay, on hearing my words, like a
bull elephant that could not be controlled by a goad*, but is
controlled by a yāzh.”

Kalithokai 2, Sangam poem

The ‘statement of case’ to apply for a Geographical Indication for the Thanjavur Veena – which it received in 2013 – has several references to the string instrument’s history, tracing it back to the Sangam period (about 2,000 years ago), when the version of the veenai that existed was called the ‘yāzh’. 

“Will he come, your bard who told me that he
would not conceal from me if you went to other
women, swearing on his yāzh many times, to see
the scars on your neck caused by the bangles of
women who trusted your lies and united with you?”

Kalithokai 71, Sangam poem, What a concubine said to the hero

The geographical indication document specifies jack wood as the raw material and has elaborate details of its construction. The four-foot long veenai, it notes, “has a large, round body with a thick, wide neck, the end of which is carved into the head of a dragon.”

The veenai itself is a lot more elegant than its description. It’s curved in places, carved in others. The dragon head – yali, as it is called – is striking, and colourful. The wooden neck has 24 fixed frets and four playing strings, which produce all the ragas. The kudam (resonator) has intricate designs in ‘special’ veenais, and they are priced at least twice as much as the ordinary ones. 

For about 30 to 50 years before it is transformed by human hand into an instrument, the palamaram (jackfruit tree) grows in groves in the villages around Panruti, in Cuddalore district of Tamil Nadu. Like cattle, trees too are an investment. The rural populace considers them like stocks – the value usually appreciates, and they can be sold for a neat profit. R. Vijaykumar, 40, a jackfruit trader in Panruti town explains that once the trunk is eight hands wide, and 7 or 9 feet tall, “just the timber alone fetches 50,000 rupees.”

As far as possible, farmers do not cut trees. “But when there’s a need for capital – for medical emergencies or a marriage in the family – we choose a few big trees and sell them for timber,” explains K. Pattusami, 47, a jackfruit farmer. “That fetches a couple of lakhs. Enough to tide over the crisis, or take care of the kalyanam (wedding)…”

Before the logs reach Thanjavur, the finest portions are kept aside for the mridangam, a percussion instrument. In Sebastian and Sons: A brief history of Mrdangam* makers, T. M. Krishna (musician, writer, speaker and Magsaysay awardee) profiles the unsung heroes who handcraft the instrument.

But first the instrument itself, the “mridangam 101” as Krishna calls it. The mridangam is a “cylindrical two-faced drum, the primary percussion instrument used in Karnatik* music performances and Bharatanatyam recitals. Its body is a hollow resonating chamber fashioned from the wood of a jackfruit tree.” The apertures on either end are fitted with three layers each of hide.

Jack wood is “the holy grail” of mridangams, writes Krishna. “Its holiness is further enhanced if the jackfruit tree grows near a temple. The wood is then exposed to the sounds of temple bells and Vedic chants, and the resonance of an instrument made of such wood is, they say, unmatched. Artists like Mani Iyer would go to any lengths to acquire wood from an auspicious tree of this sort.”

Kuppusami Asari, a third generation instrument-maker in his family, tells Krishna that “there is a belief that trees near a church or a temple, or even a road where people walk and talk, or where bells toll, absorb the vibrations and produce good sound.”

Krishna, though, observes that “while mridangam artists believe Hindu temple bells and chants are the magic ingredient, the woodcrafter is more catholic in his search for these positive vibrations.”

In April 2022, I visited Panruti town to meet jackfruit farmers and traders. In the afternoon, I walk into Kuppusami Asari's busy workshop. It is at once modern (with lathes and machines) and traditional (with old fashioned tools and photos of gods and goddesses), much like Kuppusami’s attitude towards making the mridangam.

“Go on, ask your questions,” Kuppusami says. He’s in a hurry; he’s a busy man. “What do you want to know?” Why jack wood, I ask. “Because palamaram is perfect,” he says. “It is light weight and the nadam [tone] is very good. Here we make all the percussion instruments, everything but the veenai.” Kuppusami is a highly regarded expert. “You can read about us in T.M. Krishna’s book,” he says proudly. “There is even a photo of me with the lathe.”

Kuppusami trained in Madhavaram, a suburb in Chennai, and has “around 50 years of experience.” He began learning when he was 10 years old, with little education, and a lot of interest in working with wood. “Back then, all the work was done by hand. My father worked on the palamaram – hollowing out the inside – by mounting it on a vandi sakkaram (cartwheel). Two men turned the wheel, and appa scraped the inside.” But the family quickly adapted to technology. “We changed with the times.”

Unlike many craftspersons, he is very excited about modern machinery. “Look, then you took a whole day to dig out the centre of a mridangam. Now with a lathe, it is quick, precise and efficient. And the finish is much better.” He was the pioneer in using a lathe, in Panruti, and installed the machine 25 years ago. Many people have taken this idea to other towns.

“Plus,” he says. “I’ve taught four, five men to make percussion instruments. When they’re fully trained, they set up shop and sell it to the same retailer I supply in Mylapore, Chennai. They introduce themselves as my apprentices. And that shopowner then calls and asks me: ‘Just how many people have you trained?’” Kuppusami laughs when he tells me the story.

His son Sabarinathan has an engineering degree. “I told him to learn the measurements and how to make instruments. Even if he has a job, he can continue this with hired labour, isn’t it?”

“The Asaris are members of the Vishwakarma community. They are people of material art who work with metal, stone and wood. Away from their creative pursuits, many people in the community have been reduced to labour activities that are adjacent to their traditional caste-based occupations. Those in the younger generation are also moving away to white-collar jobs,” writes T.M. Krishna in his book Sebastian and Sons. 

“When we do speak of hereditary, caste-bound occupations, we have to be careful not to romanticise it as intergenerational continuity in knowledge creation, because all people and occupations are not equal in our social matrix,” Krishna points out. “Work that is passed down within caste-privileged families is considered knowledge and the perpetuation of such caste-limited sharing as preservation. And the practitioners do not experience oppression. Occupations and forms of work that are continued generation after generation within oppressed or marginalised communities are not considered knowledge. Nor are the people considered knowledge creators. They are looked down upon, undervalued and their work categorised as physical labour. And most importantly, those who practice these occupations experience caste-based oppression and violence. In many cases because of social circumstances they have no choice but to take up the family-caste-assigned job.”

“All instrument makers in this country are spoken about – if at all – in technical terms,” says Krishna. “They’re looked at like a maestri [carpenter] who is working in a construction site. The [instrument] player would be the architect. The reason credit is denied – or frugally and grudgingly given – is because of caste.”

Mridangam-making is male dominated, says Kuppusami. “There are a few women who work with leather. But the wood work is done solely by men. The wood that is sourced is typically from jackfruit trees that have stopped fruiting. They will “close” the trees that are old and unproductive,” Kuppusami says. “And for every ten they cut down, they plant 30.”

Kuppusami has many specifications for the wood. He prefers trees that are around 9 or 10 feet tall, wide and strong, and planted near the fence or by the road. Ideally, he’d take the lower portion of the wood, with a darker colour ensuring better resonance.

In a single day, he can cut and size about six mridangams. But the finishing will take two more days. His profits are minimal – he will be happy if he can make 1,000 rupees on a mridangam, he says. That’s after paying “the labourers 1,000 to work on this. It is heavy work, they won’t come otherwise, you know.”

Wood is not available throughout the year. When the trees are still fruiting, nobody will chop it down, he points out. So “I have to keep wood in stock,” he says. He invests five lakh rupees, to buy 20 logs which cost 25,000 rupees each. And that’s where he seeks intervention from the government. “If they gave us a subsidy or loan, to buy the wood… that would be so good!”

The demand for mridangams is good, Kuppusami says, and comes from both domestic and international markets. “In a month, I sell 50 mridangams and 25 tavils.” The trouble is getting the right wood and seasoning it for about four months. And since Panruti jack wood is “the best”, says Kuppusami, “there is heavy demand for it.” And he attributes the tonal qualities to the red soil in the region.

“From a single ten-foot-long log – costing about 25,000 rupees – you can cut only three good mridangams.” And every lot is mixed. Some of the wood isn’t really cut out to make music. The best Kuppusami can salvage from them are a small udukkai (a hand-held percussion instrument).

A good “kattai” costs “ettu rubaa”, Kuppusami explains. He uses the word ‘kattai’ (wood or log) to denote the shell of the mridangam. While “ettu rubaa” – literally eight rupees – stands in for 8,000. This is “onaam number” (first quality), he says, and customers will not return it. Otherwise, “if cracks develop in the wood, if the nadam [sound] is not good, customers will surely bring it back!”

Typically, the mridangam is 22 or 24 inches long. These instruments are usually played with a microphone, he says. “For kuthu [theatre], where it is played without a mike, the mridangam is 28 inches long. And the mouth is narrow on one side and wide on the other. The beats can be heard over a long distance as the sound travels very well.”

Kuppusami delivers the wooden shell to musical companies in Chennai. They place orders for 20 to 30 a month. And once they receive it, they give it out to the leather workers who finish the mridangam. This process adds another 4,500 rupees to the price. “Then there is the bag with the zip,” Kuppusami explains, his hands fastening an imaginary zipper over a mridangam.

Good quality mridangams around cost 15,000 rupees. Kuppusami remembers when they were sold for 50 and 75 rupees. “My father used to take me to Mylapore, Madras (now Chennai), to deliver the mridangams to gurus. They used to pay us in crisp currency notes! I was a little boy then,” he smiles.

Karaikudi Mani, Umayalpuram Sivaraman – some of the greatest mridangam artists in the Carnatic music world – have all sourced their instruments from Kuppusami. “So many vidwans (scholarly teachers and practitioners) come here and buy,” he says, with a touch of pride. “This is a famous shop, traditional shop…”

Kuppusami shares several anecdotes related to the percussion instrument. His stories are a superb contrast between the old and the new. “Do you know the late Palghat Mani Iyer? His instruments were so heavy, he had a person to carry it around for him!” And a hefty mridangam was preferred because the sound was “ganeer, ganeer” (loud and clear). Except, it’s not something the current crop aspire to all the time, Kuppusami says.

“When they travel abroad, they want a light instrument. They bring it here, and I reduce its weight from 12 to six kilos.” How is that possible, I ask. “We scrape out the wood in the belly,” he says. “We keep weighing the instrument, until it’s down to six kilos.”

A crash diet for mridangams, if you will…

But it’s not just mridangams, he also sends other percussion instruments around the world. “I have sent urumi melams [double-headed drums] to Malaysia for the last 20 years. It’s only during covid that it stopped…”

Jack wood is perfect to make mridangam, tavil, tabela, veenai, kanjira, udukkai, udumi, pambai… Kuppusami lists the names. “I can make about 15 varieties of percussion instruments.”

He is acquainted with craftspersons of other instruments. Some even by name and address. “Oh, you’ve met Narayanan, the veenai maker? He lives in South Main street, Thanjavur, isn’t it? He’s known to us.” Making the veenai is such a tricky job, Kuppusami says. “One time, I watched a veenai being made. The asari was making the curved stem. I sat quietly and observed him for two hours. He cut and shaped and placed and checked and cut and shaped some more… it was amazing. And exciting…”

I first met the veenai makers in Thanjavur in 2015, in M. Narayanan’s workshop. In August 2023, he invited me to visit again. “Do you remember the house? It’s the one with the tree outside,” he said. It may seem like a peculiar landmark, but the Pungai tree (Indian Beech) is possibly the only one on South Main street. A veenai made of cement graces the first-floor façade. The workshop behind his house is just as I remember it: tools on the cement shelf, photos and calendars on the wall, and unfinished veenais on the floor.

When the veenai comes from Sivagangai Poonga, it is a stout and somewhat misshapen block of wood. Once it reaches the workshop though, the tools change, the treatment changes, and naturally, so does the result. From the 16-inch wide log with a scooped-out belly, Narayanan and his team carve out a slim bowl that’s 14.5 inches across, with a half-an-inch thick wall. He uses a compass, he explains, to get the circle. And then carefully with a ulli (chisel), removes the extra wood.

To make music, the wood undergoes intermittent sculpting. The pauses help the wood dry and season. Shedding weight – inside and outside – cuts down the size from the roughly 30 kilograms when it arrives in Thanjavur, to 20, at Sivagangai Poonga. At the veenai pattarai, it is further chiselled to a liftable eight kilos.

Seated in his house, in front of the workshop, Narayanan hands me a veenai. “Here,” he says, “hold it.” It has a good heft, and a smooth finish, every part perfectly sanded and varnished. “It is all done by hand,” Narayanan says, the pride evident in his voice.

“Veenais are made only in Thanjavur. And they go all over the world from here. We have a Geographical Indication [GI] that was applied for and secured by advocate Sanjai Gandhi,” says Narayanan.

This instrument is always made with jack wood. “It is chosen because palamaram adapts to all climatic conditions. Thanjavur is 39 degrees [celsius] today. And when you make it here and take it to America, where it might be zero degrees, it will still function properly. And even if you take it to a hotter region – west Asia, for instance – nothing will happen. It will play well everywhere. This is a rare quality, which is why we use jack wood.”

“You can’t do it in mango wood, for instance. In the summer, a mango wood door can be shut. During the monsoon? You have to slam it hard… Plus, no matter how much you finish it, you won’t get a 'nice' look, the likes of which you can get with jack.” Besides, palamaram has tiny pores, Narayanan explains, smaller than the hair on our head. “It helps the wood breathe.”

Jack wood is widely grown. “But as far as I know, in some areas – around Pattukottai [Thanjavur district] and Gandharvakottai [Pudukottai district] – they have cut many of the trees. And not planted others in its place. The owners of the groves have sold their land as housing plots, and put the money in the bank. Without trees,” Narayanan points out, “there is not even a little shadow. Forget music. Look at my street, there is just my tree…all the others were chopped!”

New jackwood is yellow. As it ages and dries, it gets a reddish tinge. And the vibration of the wood is brilliant. That’s why, Narayanan says, old veenais are sought after. “And that’s why,” he laughs, “you never get them in the market, as the owners prefer to restore, repair and retain their instruments. Usually within the family.”

In the veenais that he makes, Narayanan adds some modern touches. “See this guitar key, we put them in so that it is easier to tune and tighten the strings.” He’s not excited about the changes in teaching, though; he calls them short-cuts (when teachers don’t teach the students how to fix the pitch), and he tunes a veenai as he explains it. The jack wood and metal string produce a beautiful sound, a background score for our conversation.

Like many of the makers, Narayanan too can play the instrument he crafts. “Only a little bit,” he says modestly, plucking the strings with his right hand, his left fingertips moving up and down the frets. “I know enough to understand what the customer wants.”

On his lap is an Ekantha veenai, made from a single piece of wood. He holds it carefully, like a mother would a sleeping child. “Once upon a time, we used deer antlers for decoration. Now it is Ivory Plastic from Bombay…”

If just one person were to make a veenai fully, it would take 25 days. “That’s why we give different jobs to different people and assemble it faster. And we can make two or three veenais a month. Each of them can cost anywhere between 25,000 to 75,000 rupees.”

Like the other veenai makers, Narayanan sources his wood from Panruti. “Either we go there and buy a ‘lot’, or they bring it here. Forty or 50-year-old trees, that are mature, are ideal. Traders might sell us a 10-foot log for 20,000 rupees, from which we can make an Ekantha veenai. There is some room for negotiation. Once we buy it, we get it sized and then shaped at the association space at Sivagangai Poonga.” Wood, however, is risky business, says Narayanan. “Sometimes there could be small cracks which will allow water to enter the tree and spoil it. We won’t know until we actually cut the log!”

Narayanan estimates that there are 10 full time veenai makers in Thanjavur and many more who work on it part time. Together they make about 30 veenais a month. From the time a log of wood reaches Thanjavur, it takes about 30 days for it to become an instrument. “There is definitely a good demand,” says Narayanan. 

“Many big artists like Chittibabu and Sivanandham have bought from my father. The new crop of student artists are also very interested. But most of them buy from ‘musicals’ in Chennai. Some come here directly and ask for a particular design or customisation.” And Narayanan loves that.

What he would love better is if the business thrives. “I’ve done this work for 45 years. My two sons don’t want to get into this. They are educated and have jobs. Do you know why?” The pause is filled with pathos. “This mason,” he points to the person working in his house, “earns 1,200 rupees a day. And I buy him two vadais and tea on top of that, twice a day. But for the meticulous work we do, the earning is half of that. There is no rest, no timing. Sure, it is a good business, but only the middlemen seem to make money. My workshop is 10 foot by 10. You saw it right? Everything is done by hand. And yet we get commercial rates for electricity. We tried telling the authorities it is a cottage industry – but we are not able to make any representations and sort it out…”

Narayanan sighs. Behind his house, in the workshop, an old craftsman sands down a kudam. With chisels, drills and blades, slowly, he makes the jack wood sing…

This research study is funded by Azim Premji University as part of its Research Funding Programme 2020.

Goad* - a metal tool carried by the mahout, it guides the elephant to move/behave in a certain way
Mrdangam* - also spelt as mridangam
Karnatik* - also spelt as Carnatic [classical music]