Carnatic music world today is really in a fix,
Filled with quarrels, ego, hate and of course politics!
The fact that concerts have become a mere tennis game 
With racket, shots and screams and all, is really quite a shame.
The singer thinks that he is king, the fiddler too, same thing.
The drummer has "time" in his hands, so he is also the king.
There are new ragas - talas too - and pieces by the score,
And what fans shout to this big bore ? "We want yet more and more!"
The singers sing the then "in" thing which may change every day,
The fans they clap at each mishap and keep music at bay!
So hollow, music has become - nothing but a few gimmicks,
So music, pure, (I am quite sure), is really in a fix.
During such time, there came a man , with voice like thunder,
But sweet it was, and soothing too, it made people wonder.
His music was the most serene, and the purest ever sung,
That each one note (no exceptions) with bhava heavily rung.
His voice shook the music world, his singing - bit more so.
He had a truly grand, slow style which could, so smoothly flow.
Sangatis of every kind, he could, with ease produce,
And purity he never lost, and that is real good news.
A bhakta true, he sang for God and not for galleries,
He wouldn't change his style, no matter how much people teased.
He was a kind and gentle man, so loved by everyone,
He had always an air of wit, and also a sense of fun.
This musician, this saint so true, had lived and now has died,
A better, wiser, humbler man, my eyes have not yet spied.
"Who is this man," now you may ask, "whose light was oh! so bright ?"
If you think that is MDR, I tell you, you've guessed right !
But when he lived, we never raised a fingertip to screen
This holy man from critics' shots, and what all there have been
To knock him down and make him sing to useless common taste
Thus letting his divine talent all go to complete waste.
But, Oh, would this man move an inch to lose his purity ?
Oh no! not MDR! Never! Not in this life would he!
So thus he lived and thus he died, with few to cry for him
But what made life so tough for him ? It is not just God's whim,
It's us, the rogues who sat, eyes closed, who are the ones to blame
For letting such a great great man just burn out like a flame.
I think we pay homage to him by singing songs he made,    
And saving music's purity from light music's murderous blade.                                                                                                                                                                            


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