KS Kalidas , disciple of Pazhani subramania pillai passed away few days back. He was a great writer that included writeups in shruti magazine. I think he has read our forum not sure if he has written any post . A frequent connisseur and an intense rasika , he hardly showed his knowledge to any one, . Lot of youngsters had learnt from him and quite a lot of them had their arangetram . I Personally donot know him deeply , i only had a minimal passing smile and namaskaram mama relationship. I saw a post he was born in 1937 and passed away on 05th Aug, 2026- 89 years. Om shanthi.
Our Lalitharam who knows him so deeply wrote a lovely post that i am pasting in the next post.
KS kAlidas
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rajeshnat
- Posts: 10296
- Joined: 03 Feb 2010, 08:04
KS kAlidas
Last edited by rajeshnat on 07 Aug 2026, 13:11, edited 2 times in total.
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rajeshnat
- Posts: 10296
- Joined: 03 Feb 2010, 08:04
Re: KS kAlidas
Lalitharam eulogy for KS Kalidas
-----------------------------
Yesterday(August 05th,2026), we lost mridanga vidwan K S Kalidas, one of the foremost disciples of the legendary Palani Subramania Pillai.Ever since I heard the news, I have been trying to process it. The more I think about it, the more I realise that a significant part of my musical sensibility was shaped by him.
Kalidas Mama was more than forty years older than I was. I first met him when I was in my early twenties. Looking back, what strikes me most is not merely the depth of his knowledge but the extraordinary patience with which he shared it.
I was never his student. I never learnt mridangam from him. Yet, in many ways, he became one of my greatest teachers.
He allowed me to sit quietly through his mridangam classes, almost like a fly on the wall. Though I was never formally part of the class, he never treated me as an outsider. Even while teaching his disciples, he would include me in the conversation, turning every session into an opportunity to help me see and hear something I had previously missed.
There are many things in Carnatic music that cannot be explained through words. They have to be pointed to. They have to be experienced. Mama possessed that rare gift. He would draw my attention to the subtlest of details—a phrase, the weight of a stroke, the balance between melody and rhythm, the anticipation before a phrase resolved, or the eloquence of silence itself.
Many times, I would not immediately understand what he was trying to show me. But that never seemed to bother him. He knew that understanding has its own rhythm. He would simply plant a seed and move on. Weeks, months or sometimes years later, I would suddenly hear something in a concert or while listening to an old recording and realise what he had been trying to tell me all those years ago.
Among the many things he told me, one observation has stayed with me throughout my musical journey.
He once said that Carnatic music is not really about constantly hearing something we have never heard before. Rather, it is about listening to the same things over and over again, and yet discovering something new in them as we ourselves evolve.
At first, it sounded deceptively simple. Over time, I realised how profound it was.The compositions remain the same. The ragas remain the same. The recordings we return to are often the very ones we have heard dozens of times before. What changes is the listener. As our ears become more discerning and our experiences deepen, the same music begins to reveal layers that had always been there, waiting patiently to be discovered.
Perhaps that also explains his own approach to teaching. He was never in a hurry to make anyone understand everything at once. Musical understanding cannot be transferred like information. It has to ripen. When I met Mama, he was already in his late sixties. He possessed an astonishing reservoir of musical memories. He had heard many of the greatest musicians of the twentieth century in person and had accompanied several of them. With that kind of experience, it would have been easy for him to dismiss the present and retreat into nostalgic conversations about the "good old days." But that was never who he was.
Yes, he revelled in the greatness of the old masters. He could speak about them for hours, bringing their music alive through anecdotes and insights that only someone who had lived through that era could offer. Yet his ears were never trapped in the past.
He listened to young musicians with genuine excitement. He was always eager to discover fresh talent, delighted when he found promise, and remarkably generous in speaking about it to others. Through his long-running column in *Sruti*, he consciously brought many deserving young musicians into the limelight. Long before social media made it easy to amplify talent, Mama used every opportunity available to him to encourage promising artistes. There was no trace of cynicism in him. He celebrated excellence wherever he found it.That openness extended beyond performers.
I wrote my first book—a biography of G. N. Balasubramaniam—when I was twenty-six. Today, when I read it, I can see many inadequacies. Time has taught me how much more there was to know and how much better I could have written it. I have no doubt that Mama recognised those shortcomings immediately.
Many others from his generation did not even bother to read the book. Some dismissed the very idea of it. How could someone in his twenties, born fifteen years after GNB's passing, presume to write his biography?
Mama never looked at it that way.
He never measured the book against my age. He measured it against my intent. He was genuinely delighted that someone from a younger generation wanted to dig into the lives and music of the great masters. Instead of questioning my right to write the book, he encouraged the curiosity that had led me to it.
That was typical of him. He never used his knowledge to intimidate. He used it to nurture.It is easy to overlook the fact that Mama himself was an A-Grade artiste of All India Radio, despite never being a full-time professional musician. His career in the Indian Railways was his profession; music was the passion that consumed every spare moment of his life.
Yet he hardly ever spoke about his own accomplishments. Whenever conversations drifted towards his playing, he would gently steer them elsewhere. Before long, he would be speaking about Palani—his music, his aesthetics, his bani and his genius.
What struck me most was the sheer delight with which he received praise for his guru. It did not matter who was doing the praising. It could be a senior vidwan, a young student or someone hearing Palani seriously for the first time. The moment someone recognised the greatness of Palani's playing, Mama's face would light up with an almost childlike joy. I witnessed that countless times. Every new admirer of Palani's music seemed to give him immense happiness.One lesson I have learnt over the years is that greatness alone does not guarantee remembrance.
However extraordinary an artiste may have been, keeping that legacy alive requires decades of sustained effort. More often than not, that responsibility falls upon the family or the disciples.In the case of Palani Subramania Pillai, much of the credit belongs first to Shri M.N. Kandaswami Pillai, who conducted the annual Guru Puja until his passing. After him, it was Mama who formalised those efforts by establishing the Palani Subramania Pillai Trust and dedicating a significant part of his life, his time and even his personal resources to ensuring that his guru would never be forgotten.
Although he had formally learnt from Palani for barely two years, he considered himself a disciple for life. His fidelity to his guru's bani was unwavering. By the time I came to know him, preserving Palani's legacy had become his life's mission.
His commitment was not merely emotional; it was deeply personal. He funded the documentary on Palani Subramania Pillai, contributed a substantial part of his retirement corpus towards preserving his guru's legacy, and helped establish a medical wing in a hospital in Palani's name. These were not gestures for recognition. They were acts of devotion.
His position in the Indian Railways enabled him to travel extensively across the country. He used those journeys not for sightseeing but to hunt for music. He searched relentlessly for rare recordings, met collectors, copied fragile tapes and painstakingly built an archive.
In his later years, he began sharing many of these treasures through his YouTube channel. Several recordings that are now regarded as indispensable—including the celebrated Madurai Mani Iyer concert from Dindigul—entered public circulation because of his efforts.
His work as a documentarian was equally significant. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of Palani's passing, he spearheaded a landmark special issue on *Sruti*. Apart from his own analyses, he interviewed stalwarts such as Lalgudi Jayaraman, T. M. Thyagarajan and K. V. Narayanaswamy. Today, those interviews are priceless historical documents.
Years later, during Palani's birth centenary, I had become completely devoted to his music. I told Mama that I wanted to write a biography of his guru.Looking back, I realise how extraordinary his response was.
He probably possessed more first-hand knowledge of Palani than I ever could. He certainly had enough material—and more than enough insight—to write such a book himself. Yet he became even more enthusiastic than I was about seeing that biography come into existence.
He opened his entire collection to me without hesitation. He spent countless hours playing recordings, pointing out nuances, explaining aesthetic choices and helping me understand what made Palani unique.What he gave me was probably enough to write the book.
Yet I wanted to undertake my own research. I spent nearly four years travelling, interviewing, reading and verifying before the manuscript finally took shape. I know he was eager to see the book published. But he never rushed me. He never became impatient. Instead, he gave me the freedom to write *my* book rather than *his* version of it. He introduced me to many people who had known Palani personally, opening doors that would otherwise have remained closed.
When the biography was finally published, his joy was unmistakable. Through the Palani Subramania Pillai Trust, he organised a memorable release function. He purchased several hundred copies with his own funds and distributed them widely among musicians, rasikas and institutions.
As I sit today trying to come to terms with his passing, I realise that my debt to him extends far beyond the countless hours we spent listening to music together.Much of what I value in Carnatic music—what I listen for, what excites me, what moves me—was shaped by those conversations. He never taught me mridangam. Instead, he taught me how to listen. The news of his passing is still too fresh. I do not think it has reached me with its full weight yet.Perhaps that is only fitting.
So many of the insights Mama shared with me did not reveal themselves immediately. They stayed dormant for months, sometimes years, before blossoming into understanding. I have a feeling this loss will be much the same.
In the days, months and years ahead, I suspect I will keep discovering just how deeply he shaped the way I listen, the way I think about music and even the way I approach my own work. His influence was never loud or immediate. It was quiet, patient and enduring—much like the lessons he taught.
- Lalitharam Ramachandran ,dated August ,2026
-----------------------------
Yesterday(August 05th,2026), we lost mridanga vidwan K S Kalidas, one of the foremost disciples of the legendary Palani Subramania Pillai.Ever since I heard the news, I have been trying to process it. The more I think about it, the more I realise that a significant part of my musical sensibility was shaped by him.
Kalidas Mama was more than forty years older than I was. I first met him when I was in my early twenties. Looking back, what strikes me most is not merely the depth of his knowledge but the extraordinary patience with which he shared it.
I was never his student. I never learnt mridangam from him. Yet, in many ways, he became one of my greatest teachers.
He allowed me to sit quietly through his mridangam classes, almost like a fly on the wall. Though I was never formally part of the class, he never treated me as an outsider. Even while teaching his disciples, he would include me in the conversation, turning every session into an opportunity to help me see and hear something I had previously missed.
There are many things in Carnatic music that cannot be explained through words. They have to be pointed to. They have to be experienced. Mama possessed that rare gift. He would draw my attention to the subtlest of details—a phrase, the weight of a stroke, the balance between melody and rhythm, the anticipation before a phrase resolved, or the eloquence of silence itself.
Many times, I would not immediately understand what he was trying to show me. But that never seemed to bother him. He knew that understanding has its own rhythm. He would simply plant a seed and move on. Weeks, months or sometimes years later, I would suddenly hear something in a concert or while listening to an old recording and realise what he had been trying to tell me all those years ago.
Among the many things he told me, one observation has stayed with me throughout my musical journey.
He once said that Carnatic music is not really about constantly hearing something we have never heard before. Rather, it is about listening to the same things over and over again, and yet discovering something new in them as we ourselves evolve.
At first, it sounded deceptively simple. Over time, I realised how profound it was.The compositions remain the same. The ragas remain the same. The recordings we return to are often the very ones we have heard dozens of times before. What changes is the listener. As our ears become more discerning and our experiences deepen, the same music begins to reveal layers that had always been there, waiting patiently to be discovered.
Perhaps that also explains his own approach to teaching. He was never in a hurry to make anyone understand everything at once. Musical understanding cannot be transferred like information. It has to ripen. When I met Mama, he was already in his late sixties. He possessed an astonishing reservoir of musical memories. He had heard many of the greatest musicians of the twentieth century in person and had accompanied several of them. With that kind of experience, it would have been easy for him to dismiss the present and retreat into nostalgic conversations about the "good old days." But that was never who he was.
Yes, he revelled in the greatness of the old masters. He could speak about them for hours, bringing their music alive through anecdotes and insights that only someone who had lived through that era could offer. Yet his ears were never trapped in the past.
He listened to young musicians with genuine excitement. He was always eager to discover fresh talent, delighted when he found promise, and remarkably generous in speaking about it to others. Through his long-running column in *Sruti*, he consciously brought many deserving young musicians into the limelight. Long before social media made it easy to amplify talent, Mama used every opportunity available to him to encourage promising artistes. There was no trace of cynicism in him. He celebrated excellence wherever he found it.That openness extended beyond performers.
I wrote my first book—a biography of G. N. Balasubramaniam—when I was twenty-six. Today, when I read it, I can see many inadequacies. Time has taught me how much more there was to know and how much better I could have written it. I have no doubt that Mama recognised those shortcomings immediately.
Many others from his generation did not even bother to read the book. Some dismissed the very idea of it. How could someone in his twenties, born fifteen years after GNB's passing, presume to write his biography?
Mama never looked at it that way.
He never measured the book against my age. He measured it against my intent. He was genuinely delighted that someone from a younger generation wanted to dig into the lives and music of the great masters. Instead of questioning my right to write the book, he encouraged the curiosity that had led me to it.
That was typical of him. He never used his knowledge to intimidate. He used it to nurture.It is easy to overlook the fact that Mama himself was an A-Grade artiste of All India Radio, despite never being a full-time professional musician. His career in the Indian Railways was his profession; music was the passion that consumed every spare moment of his life.
Yet he hardly ever spoke about his own accomplishments. Whenever conversations drifted towards his playing, he would gently steer them elsewhere. Before long, he would be speaking about Palani—his music, his aesthetics, his bani and his genius.
What struck me most was the sheer delight with which he received praise for his guru. It did not matter who was doing the praising. It could be a senior vidwan, a young student or someone hearing Palani seriously for the first time. The moment someone recognised the greatness of Palani's playing, Mama's face would light up with an almost childlike joy. I witnessed that countless times. Every new admirer of Palani's music seemed to give him immense happiness.One lesson I have learnt over the years is that greatness alone does not guarantee remembrance.
However extraordinary an artiste may have been, keeping that legacy alive requires decades of sustained effort. More often than not, that responsibility falls upon the family or the disciples.In the case of Palani Subramania Pillai, much of the credit belongs first to Shri M.N. Kandaswami Pillai, who conducted the annual Guru Puja until his passing. After him, it was Mama who formalised those efforts by establishing the Palani Subramania Pillai Trust and dedicating a significant part of his life, his time and even his personal resources to ensuring that his guru would never be forgotten.
Although he had formally learnt from Palani for barely two years, he considered himself a disciple for life. His fidelity to his guru's bani was unwavering. By the time I came to know him, preserving Palani's legacy had become his life's mission.
His commitment was not merely emotional; it was deeply personal. He funded the documentary on Palani Subramania Pillai, contributed a substantial part of his retirement corpus towards preserving his guru's legacy, and helped establish a medical wing in a hospital in Palani's name. These were not gestures for recognition. They were acts of devotion.
His position in the Indian Railways enabled him to travel extensively across the country. He used those journeys not for sightseeing but to hunt for music. He searched relentlessly for rare recordings, met collectors, copied fragile tapes and painstakingly built an archive.
In his later years, he began sharing many of these treasures through his YouTube channel. Several recordings that are now regarded as indispensable—including the celebrated Madurai Mani Iyer concert from Dindigul—entered public circulation because of his efforts.
His work as a documentarian was equally significant. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of Palani's passing, he spearheaded a landmark special issue on *Sruti*. Apart from his own analyses, he interviewed stalwarts such as Lalgudi Jayaraman, T. M. Thyagarajan and K. V. Narayanaswamy. Today, those interviews are priceless historical documents.
Years later, during Palani's birth centenary, I had become completely devoted to his music. I told Mama that I wanted to write a biography of his guru.Looking back, I realise how extraordinary his response was.
He probably possessed more first-hand knowledge of Palani than I ever could. He certainly had enough material—and more than enough insight—to write such a book himself. Yet he became even more enthusiastic than I was about seeing that biography come into existence.
He opened his entire collection to me without hesitation. He spent countless hours playing recordings, pointing out nuances, explaining aesthetic choices and helping me understand what made Palani unique.What he gave me was probably enough to write the book.
Yet I wanted to undertake my own research. I spent nearly four years travelling, interviewing, reading and verifying before the manuscript finally took shape. I know he was eager to see the book published. But he never rushed me. He never became impatient. Instead, he gave me the freedom to write *my* book rather than *his* version of it. He introduced me to many people who had known Palani personally, opening doors that would otherwise have remained closed.
When the biography was finally published, his joy was unmistakable. Through the Palani Subramania Pillai Trust, he organised a memorable release function. He purchased several hundred copies with his own funds and distributed them widely among musicians, rasikas and institutions.
As I sit today trying to come to terms with his passing, I realise that my debt to him extends far beyond the countless hours we spent listening to music together.Much of what I value in Carnatic music—what I listen for, what excites me, what moves me—was shaped by those conversations. He never taught me mridangam. Instead, he taught me how to listen. The news of his passing is still too fresh. I do not think it has reached me with its full weight yet.Perhaps that is only fitting.
So many of the insights Mama shared with me did not reveal themselves immediately. They stayed dormant for months, sometimes years, before blossoming into understanding. I have a feeling this loss will be much the same.
In the days, months and years ahead, I suspect I will keep discovering just how deeply he shaped the way I listen, the way I think about music and even the way I approach my own work. His influence was never loud or immediate. It was quiet, patient and enduring—much like the lessons he taught.
- Lalitharam Ramachandran ,dated August ,2026
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Nick H
- Posts: 9496
- Joined: 03 Feb 2010, 02:03
Re: KS kAlidas
Very sad news. Indeed, according to Hindu Obituary notice, he was 88.
He has several students that he has trained strictly in Palani school of playing. Including his son, Ashok Kalidas.
He has several students that he has trained strictly in Palani school of playing. Including his son, Ashok Kalidas.