The year was 1979. I was a greenhorn, about a year into my job, in the then Indian Airlines, later known as Air India, and was posted at the Kochi Airport—not the swanky one we see today but the one at the Naval Base, a relic from a time when aviation was more about function than finesse. Back then, Kochi was still called Cochin, and the airport was primarily meant for Coast Guard operations. The runway stretched just about 7500 feet, and the aircraft in use were the sturdy, unglamorous HS 748s, which later made way for the Boeing 737s.
Now, why am I rambling about all this when the topic at hand is a man whose voice melted hearts and whose name was synonymous with melody? Well, dear reader, I am just setting the stage—because if you must know, one of the frequent fliers on the Cochin-Madras (now Chennai) route, Flight IC538, was none other than P. Jayachandran.
Meeting a Legend Over Puttu and Tea
There he was—an aristocratic, slightly rotund man, probably about 5’5”, who often traveled between Cochin and Madras. At that time, I had no clue about the Malayalam or Tamil music scene. My knowledge of music was limited to what played on Chennai’s radios, and the only “melody” I truly appreciated was the sound of the aircraft engine starting on time. But fate, as it often does, had other plans.
It wasn’t at the airport that I truly got to know him, but over several cups of tea and platefuls of puttu at a ramshackle shed just outside what we then called the “terminal.” Either he took a liking to me, or the food was simply too good to pass up, but we ended up sharing many grand breakfasts together. Little did I know then that I was unknowingly rubbing shoulders with greatness.
The Rhythm Behind the Melody
Before he became the celebrated singer we know, Jayachandran was, in fact, a percussionist. He played the tabla (or was it the mridangam I can’t say for sure, but he definitely had rhythm in his veins). This early training in rhythm and beats gave his singing an unmatched sense of timing and fluidity. His deep understanding of taala (rhythm) allowed him to interpret melodies with incredible grace, which later became a defining characteristic of his style.
A Friendly Rivalry with Yesudas
An interesting piece of trivia: during his youth, Jayachandran competed in a music competition at a youth festival. His rival? None other than K.J. Yesudas. Yes, the two titans of playback singing in Malayalam cinema first crossed paths not in a recording studio but on a competition stage. Though Yesudas won that particular contest, it did nothing to deter Jayachandran’s journey. If anything, it was a foreshadowing of the many decades in which both voices would dominate the music industry, often sharing the same playback singing space, yet each retaining a distinct signature.
Jayachandran’s big break came in 1965 when he sang Anuragaganam pole in the Malayalam film Kavyamela, a song that shot him to instant fame. He went on to lend his soulful voice to hundreds of Tamil, Malayalam, and Kannada songs.
The Unassuming Star
Despite being a giant in the industry, Jayachandran remained simple and down-to-earth. My own experience with him reflected this. Years later, after I had left my job and moved to Madras, the music bug finally bit me. I got drawn into Carnatic classical music and found myself needing a guru. Who better to guide me than Jayan ettan (as I respectfully called him)? It was he who recommended me to Trichur Ramachandran, a connection that shaped my musical journey.
A Farewell to a Voice That Never Fades
P. Jayachandran may have left the stage, but his songs continue to live in the hearts of millions. His voice was not just a sound but an emotion—one that carried the essence of love, longing, and devotion. And while I may have met him first as just another passenger on a flight, I now look back and marvel at how life has a way of weaving its own melodies.
Jayan ettan, you will be missed, but your music will forever remain.
Nalla Madras 