Shujaat Khan -- “Success and growth as a musician are different things”

Shujaat spoke to Deepak Raja on January 16, 2004

Success and growth as a musician are different things. But, they are connected. If success is of the right kind, comes in good time, and one has the ability to digest it, it can be a great aid to achieving growth as a musician. On all counts, I cannot complain.

I have heard it said that an Indian musician does not achieve any credibility amongst Western audiences until he also commands a considerable presence and stature amongst audiences at home. This is not the way it has worked for me. US and European audiences opened up to me before the Indian market acquired serious interest in my music. Even today, when I am well established in India, almost seventy percent of my work is abroad.

There is a good reason for my exceptional success abroad. In the West, nobody cares about whose son you are, or whether your father is still around and whether you are still considered a “promising artist”. The market is willing to give you an opening if you deliver the goods, appeal to the imagination of audiences, and make people happy. Every decent musician can do this. But, the Western market also expects you to conduct yourself professionally – and this, every Indian musician cannot do. I have made a better headway abroad not because I am a great musician, but because I am a no-fuss, easy-to-deal-with guy who also delivers musical value. I don’t expect to be treated either like a king or God; I handle all my travel arrangements on my own, arrive at the venue in time, do my thing, collect my cheque, and disappear until the next time. It has taken me more than fifteen years to arrive at a situation of people valuing my music, independently of my professionalism.

Having achieved prior success abroad has helped me immensely in dealing with the Indian market. Whatever success I have in India today has been achieved with my self-esteem intact -- without the crawling, maneuvering, networking, and deal-making that dominates the world of professional Hindustani music. Because of my success abroad, I can command my price in India. It is not as if I do not do small concerts, subsidized concerts or even free concerts, in India. But, I have the freedom to do them when I so wish and for my own reasons. I don’t have to do them either because I am desperate enough to accept peanuts, or because I fear the consequences of poor visibility.

Having done well abroad has also helped me musically -- allowed me the time to liberate my Indian presence from the towering shadow of Ustad Vilayat Khan’s music. Had I been more dependent on Indian audiences for my livelihood, the market may have forced me to become a Vilayat Khan clone. You and I know what Ustad Vilayat Khan means to me musically. I cannot cease to be Vilayat Khan’s son and disciple any more than I can cease to be myself. I also love doing some of Ustad Vilayat Khan’s stuff – even willfully in addition to doing it unconsciously. But, I don’t want to be coerced into reaffirming my lineage at every concert, and in every raga.

By now, when India is taking me seriously, I am past forty -- no longer a kid. Nobody in his right mind can expect me to be a replica of Vilayat Khan at this stage in my life. I am not saying that the chain of expectations has been entirely broken. I can still hear orgasmic sighs and moans piercing the silence when, once in a while, I resort to a Vilayat Khan cliché. But, nobody feels cheated if I don’t do it.

With the passage of time, of course, an entirely new generation of listeners has emerged. To them, Ustad Vilayat Khan or Pandit Ravi Shankar or Ustad Ali Akbar Khan – though they are all alive – are only as real as Mahatma Gandhi or Jawaharlal Nehru. These audiences are willing to accept me for what I am. So, from every angle, my prior success abroad has worked well for me. Of course, every gain demands a price. The price I have to pay for this is that I am away from my family for almost six months in a year.

I have often been asked how different the content of my music abroad is from the music I perform in India. Today – and increasingly over the last three or four years – there is no difference. But, I am a very situation-to-situation musician, and the environment affects me. Under ideal conditions, I deliver superlative music. Under less-than-ideal conditions, I deliver only competent music. The West provides me with ideal conditions far more consistently than India does.

By conditions, I mean the concert halls, the sound systems, the professionalism of the concert hosts, and the conduct of the audiences. Amongst these factors, the acoustic environment is the most important. I agree that in my grandfather’s time, great sitar music was performed without acoustically engineered concert halls and without electronic amplification. In those days, the audiences were small – 100/150 people – the sitars were designed to address these audiences effectively without amplification, and the music was appropriate for those conditions. Unfortunately, my music is a product of the microphone era and I play an instrument designed for electronically manipulated delivery of output. I have been pampered by the opportunity of performing at the finest concert halls in the US and Europe. The contrast hurts.

Audiences abroad will not allow me to stagnate
With the success and financial comfort I have achieved by now, my music could easily have stagnated. But, I am not satisfied with the music I am playing and, as I grow, my musical perceptions are also changing. Also, fortunately for me, the quality of my audiences, especially in the US and Europe, will not allow me to stagnate. I do not have any strategy for change at each stage. Nor do I – as a rule – analyze my music. But, when queried about it, I can look back and decipher some patterns of experimentation I have been through. The residue of each stage has probably remained in my music.

The early days were of playing the true Vilayat Khan music. Then came the stage of western influences. Both these faded away. Then I was on a simplification and relief trip. Vilayat Khan’s exploration of the melodic potential within a small region of the melodic canvas was so dense and rich that the listener got tired of it. It worked for him. But, I wanted to introduce some relief. So, after an intense phase of melodic exploration, I started introducing lighter passages, less dense in melodic content. Sometimes, I went so far in this direction that the profundity of the music got diluted. Similarly, I started simplifying bandish-es. That effort also went so far that the bandish virtually lost its contours, and almost became a scale rendering to percussion accompaniment. Both these fads passed. Then, at one stage, I started working on introducing the unexpected in my phrasing strategy – the kaleidoscopic juxtaposition of notes and phrases, Ustad Ameer Khan’s gift to Hindustani music. Even in this direction, I went so far that, sometimes, that I lost a grip over the expected. This too passed.

As a practitioner of an improvisation-dominant art form, I have persistently crusaded – through my music – against the dominance of sitar music by “Tihai-s”. If you are a master of the rhythmic element, and have a melodic imagination, you don’t need tihai-s. It is not as if I don’t use them. But, I am ashamed and even apologetic when I do. What is so musical about an expression which, everyone knows, you have practiced and perfected a thousand times at home, and will culminate with unfailing mathematical accuracy? There is something so childish about it! I never stop marveling at musicians who deliver pre-composed tihai-s, and look around for the applause. A small occasional tihai, which almost composes itself, and surprises even the musician, is a musical delight. That is the real role of the tihai in instrumental music.

I am attracted by the prospect of charging the atmosphere with the music – of saturating the air with the character of a movement. In this direction, I often find myself unearthing and reliving memories of my father’s music of the 1960s, and how he handled the exploration of melody. This is why, increasingly, I play fewer movements, and explore each of them in a sustained manner over a certain minimum duration without a break. You can see this most clearly in my jhala. My percussionist has been instructed to refrain from clever playing once I begin the jhala. In the jhala, I like taking up themes, and weaving my improvisations around them. With the constant acoustic-rhythmic experience of the jhala, like prayers being sung in a temple to the accompaniment of the temple gong or the bells, one can have the audience swaying in the seats in response to the music – put them in a trance. That’s why they are there, to begin with.

And, finally, my current fad. Bandish-es – vocal and instrumental – have traditionally been composed to begin on certain beats of the rhythmic cycle. I am now working on composing and playing bandish-es, which commence on unconventional beats of the rhythmic cycle. Their beauty is highlighted when I take an amad tan and dovetail it smoothly into the mukhda. The subtle interplay of melody and rhythm in such dovetailing fascinates me for now. So, if you are looking for something special in my music at the moment, look for what I am doing now in the medium-to-fast tempo bandish-es.

I am embarrassed by my success
By any conventional yardstick, I am a successful musician. I must be the only Indian musician to have had an Income Tax Department raid at home. I have and can buy everything I want. I even have a Grammy nomination to my credit, a hard-core dollars-and-cents testimony to musicianship, which cannot be bought, influenced, or lobbied for. I am secure enough in my profession to do all my experimentation with new directions in the concert hall, under the flood lights, in public gaze. But, when I study the music of the greats of my era, I am embarrassed by my success. I don’t deserve it. I have no desire to become a Page 3 celebrity. Unlike Ustad Vilayat Khan, I am not driven by the conviction of being born for a place in history. I am satiated with what I have. All I want now is to play the music that I am happy playing, and enjoy the love and warmth of my family and friends – all those who are not here only because I am Ustad Shujaat Khan.

(C) Deepak S. Raja 2007

The finest recordings of Shujaat Khan have been produced by India Archive Music Ltd., New York.

Purnima Sen – “I could easily have become a knowledgeable musician nobody wanted to hear”

Introduction: Groomed by three Ustads of the Agra tradition, Purnima Sen (born: 1937) is a rare female exponent of the avowedly masculine style. She holds a first degree in Anthropology from Hunter College, New York, occupies the top grade rating on All India Radio, enjoys a respected presence on the concert platform, has released four CDs, and divides her time between music, and caring for a family of successful legal professionals.

Purnima Sen spoke to Deepak Raja on January 6, 2003.

My father was an Economist, and headed the Economics faculty at the Baroda University from 1939 to 1944. That was towards the end of Ustad Faiyyaz Khan’s life. During that period, he heard the great Ustad on several occasions, and no wonder, developed a love for the Agra style. From my childhood, I was very keen on learning music, and my parents were most encouraging. But, when I was very young, my family moved to New York. During our stay abroad, my father made it a point -- whenever we came to India – to send me to a music teacher to learn music. When I graduated from Hunter College, New York, I had scholarships to study further. But, instead, I decided to return to India with my parents and study music. That was 1957, and I was 19 then.

My father took me to Ustad Vilayat Hussain Khan, and requested him to teach me. The Ustad was a towering figure in the music world. He was the seniormost vocalist of the Agra gharana, and an adviser to All India Radio. He could boast of a galaxy of distinguished disciples. Teaching a near-beginner could not have been an easy proposition for him. But, my father persisted. Khansaheb auditioned me, and despite his reservations, agreed to teach. My father wanted the best available teacher, but also had apprehensions about the suitability of the masculine Agra style for me. Though the issue was not immediate – I knew so little then! -- Khansaheb was sensitive to it. He assured my father that I would learn to sing like myself, and not like him. Thus, I became a Ganda-bandh shagird (a ceremonially initiated disciple) of Ustad Vilayat Hussain Khan.

He was very enthusiastic about teaching me. One day he landed up at our house, without notice, at three in the afternoon, and asked me to sing Multani. I was stumped by the suddenness of this test. But, I sang. He was very pleased, and asked me what I would like to learn next. This was an unusual situation. A disciple dare not suggest what should be taught next; the Ustad always knows best what to teach at each stage of progress. I had just heard Kesarbai Kerkar’s Lalit recording at that time, and loved it. I wanted to learn the raga. So, very hesitantly, I suggested Lalit. He hummed and hawed for a while, and said: “Lalit is very complicated. But, you can manage”. So, he taught me Lalit. Thereafter, he also taught me Desh and Basant. I learnt six ragas with him in about 18 months, before I got married, and moved to Calcutta in 1958. I did not realize how much he had taught me in so short a time. But, by the time I moved, I could perform a raga passably for 30 to 45 minutes.

Vilayat Hussain gave me a letter of recommendation to his cousin, Ata Hussain Khan, who lived in Calcutta. Ata Hussain was reserved initially – I was only 21 then. After auditioning me, he accepted me as a disciple. On the very first day, he took up Desi Todi – a raga I did not know – and asked me to follow him – to merely reproduce what he sang. He unleashed his sparkling tans, which left me stunned. He said: “Never mind; try whatever you can manage”. He was testing my grasping power. By the fourth session, I could reproduce his tans. Thereafter, my training settled down to an even keel. He was a very good teacher, who never lost his temper. He taught me most of the ragas I know. I studied with him for twenty years – from 1960 to 1980.

While Ata Hussain Khan was teaching me, his nephew (and Vilayat Hussain’s son-in-law), Sharafat Hussain started accompanying him to our house, whenever he visited Calcutta. On those occasions, Ata Hussain would ask Sharafat to teach me. Gradually, Ata Hussain encouraged Sharafat to initiate me into the more advanced aspects of Agra vocalism as, by now, his own health had started failing. From 1974-75, Sharafat Hussain started staying with us on his visits, and got more intensely involved with my progress. This association continued for almost ten years -- until he succumbed to a cancer. That brought to an end almost 30 years of my apprenticeship with Ustads of Agra-Atrauli gharana.

I have never looked at music as a career. It is as much a part of my life as is my family. I was empanelled with All India Radio in 1976, and am now a top-grade artiste. My concert appearances have been limited largely to Calcutta and Delhi, the two cities where we have homes, with an occasional concert in Bangalore. I have not promoted myself actively. I have made four CDs abroad, and they have happened on their own. I do teach music in Calcutta. This, too, is very limited because I and my husband divide our time between two cities. This can make unreasonable demands on my students.

All my Ustads, starting from Vilayat Hussain, were sensitive to the masculinity of the Agra style. This was important because the forcefulness of vocalization and intonation determines everything else. Ata Hussain, who taught me for the longest period, accepted that just as a woman speaks differently, and walks differently, she would also sing differently. If she did otherwise, she would sound ridiculous. So, they allowed me to interpret Agra vocalism in a way that suited my voice and personality. The issue became more pronounced in the tans department where the typical four-stroke tans of Agra-Atrauli style exposed me to the risk of harsher expressions. Sharafat Hussain worked very hard with me on this, and made it possible for me to sing them without sounding unmusical.

The same was true of Dhrupad-Dhamar. According to the convention in the Agra gharana, the Nom-tom alap and Dhrupad-Dhamar compositions were an essential part of my training. But, I was instructed not to perform them because they were too aggressive for me. I was fortunate in having this sensitivity amongst my Ustads. Without it, I could easily have become a knowledgeable musician, whom nobody wanted to hear.

(c) Deepak S. Raja 2003

Read a detailed profile of the artist in: "Khayal Vocalism: Continuity within Change".

The finest recordings of Purnima Sen have been produced by India Archive Music, Ltd. New York. IndiaArcMu@aol.com.

The Alladiya Khan-Kesarbai legacy: in sepia tones

An extract from:
The Music Room
By Namita Devidayal

About the book: When Namita is ten, her mother takes her to Kennedy Bridge, a seamy neighbourhood in Mumbai. There, in a cramped one room flat, lives Dhondutai with her bedridden mother and their widowed landlady. Little does Namita know that - despite her squalid surroundings - Dhondutai has inherited riches of a different sort. For, she is the only student of one of the legendary Jaipur gharana vocalist, Kesarbai Kerkar.

Dhondutai is the keeper of all the gharana’s secrets and of their rarest compositions. And yet, after a lifetime of training with the best teachers, Dhondutai found fame and recognition miserly towards her. Namita begins to learn singing from Dhondutai, at first reluctantly and then, as the years pass, with growing passion. Dhondutai sees in her a second Kesar, but does Namita have the dedication to give herself up completely to the discipline, like her teacher?

The Music Room is the story of Namita and her teacher, of the charismatic Alladiya Khan who was unable to pass on all his skill and knowledge to his sons, and of the foul-mouthed and bewitching Kesarbai. At its heart is Dhondutai, a character half tragic, half victorious; diffident yet full of single-minded determination. The Music Room is beautifully written, full of anecdotes, gossip and legend.

Namita Devidayal was born in 1968. She graduated from Princeton University and is a journalist with The Times of India. She lives in Mumbai. This is her first book.

The Vikramaditya Music Conference (1944)

The musical event of the century

It was the musical event of the century. There had been nothing like that before and there hasn’t been anything as grand since. For seven days, the air reverberated with music. Afternoon concerts merged into evening sessions, and late night ragas heralded the dawn, while the sun’s first rays would start filtering in through the glass windows along the hall. People reportedly fell sick from sleep deprivation in their eagerness to grab as many performances as they could. The week-long festival took place at the monumental Cowasji Jehangir hall—which has since been resurrected as a modern art gallery.

A vast private home next to Bombay’s opera house—a fifteen minute carriage-ride away from the venue—was converted into a day-and-night mess where food was cooked in gigantic vessels and served all through the day and night for the artistes and their ensembles. Some preferred eating before they performed, some after the show. There was no sense of time as they drifted from performance to rehearsal to performance. A humungous cauldron of steaming tea was perpetually on the fire.

It was at this festival that unknown musicians became overnight stars. A young man from Punjab with a gourdlike stomach and black twirling moustache stole the show with his brilliant renditions of khayal and thumri, and Ghulam Ali Khan became Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, though some suggest that the preface of Bade or ‘big’ may have had more to do with his physical size rather than his musical stature. A young sitar player from Calcutta, Vilayat Khan, shot to fame and went on to become one of the all-time great musicians of the century. A startlingly unassuming tabla player took the audiences by surprise with his virtuosity. He was Ahmadjan Thirakwa. But it was the vocalists who were applauded the most.

The conference was like a snapshot of all that had happened in the music world in the last fifty years. Great artistes performed and then, the following day, put aside their egos and accompanied their gurus on stage. Backstage, the harmony was countered by personality clashes and ego battles. The best known fight was the one that took place between Faiyaz Khan and Omkarnath Thakur, both famous singers, who argued over who would sing last, for the chronology of performances was a reflection of seniority and stature. The best always sang last.The decision of who went before whom had led to legendary quarrels which sometimes lingered on for generations, and was carried on by the artistes’ students.

One musician had left his position as court singer out of fear that the whimsical ruler would make him sing before a lesser musician. In this particular case, Omkarnath finally won—and established his position as arguably one of the finest singers of his generation.

An intriguing couple sat in the front row through most of the performances: an old man with white whiskers, and a pretty girl in her late teens. She wore a traditional nine-yard sari and a blouse with short puffed sleeves. Every one knew who he was—the great Alladiya Khan, but they could not place the girl who sat next to him, attentively listening to the music, her hands neatly folded on her lap. When anyone asked him who she was, he would laugh and say,‘My granddaughter!’ But they knew she couldn’t be. She wore a bindi—the mark of a Hindu. Some would then whisper among themselves, ‘She must be Manji Khan’s daughter. He’s so modern, he is the only one who will let his girl come out in public.’ And if Dhondutai and the big Khansahib heard this, they would just smile at each other.

Dhondutai later told me how Alladiya Khan was able to sneak her into the best seats in the house, which were a thousand rupees each, a princely sum in those days. These front rows of red velvet-lined sofas were reserved for wealthy connoisseurs and maharajas. Many of them bought the tickets because it was the thing to do, but didn’t show up.

Alladiya Khan could get Dhondutai to sit next to him because there were inevitably empty seats all around. ‘Because of his age, he couldn’t sit for long stretches. He would make me sit there, go away, and then come back, and I would report every thing that went on,’ she said. She dutifully sat there, concert after concert. She described who sang and what ragas they sang. There was one musician who was so restless as a stage artiste, that he started his performance on one end of the stage and by the end of it, had shifted to the other end, she recalled with a laugh.

‘There was a singer, Karamat Khan, who was supposedly one hundred and twenty-two years old. I asked the big Khansahib whether he was really more than a hundred years old, and he said, “Yes beta. I don’t know his precise age, but I do know he’s much older than me.’’’ ‘There were very few people Alladiya Khan wanted to spend time with, so he would chat with me a lot. Of course, it was always only about music. He would tell me of the days he tried to become a teacher of Pharsi (Persian) to earn a living right after his father, a reputed singer, died. That was before he joined the family ‘business.’ After that, he started training seriously under his uncle who would tell him, there should be no relationship between an artiste and a clock and taught him from midnight onward. Until you can translate what your mind wants into your voice, you shouldn’t get up from your practice…’

Dhondutai’s voice trembled slightly as she remembered her days as a pretty young thing who had the blessings of the greats. I couldn’t help the thoughts that passed through me. She had it all—the training, the exposure, the life-long commitment. What had gone wrong? Why hadn’t they recognized her as the real heiress of this music? It didn’t make sense, and these questions troubled me for years.

The last to perform at the Vikramaditya Conference, in deference to his stature, was Alladiya Khan. ‘When he started singing, his voice was slightly shaky, and I remember my heart sinking slightly out of concern that he would falter,’ said Dhondutai. He was over ninety years old. Would he be able to sustain an entire concert? A few seconds later, without blinking, he shot off a taan like a lightening bolt. You could almost sense the wave of electricity go through the audience. That was the last time Alladiya Khan sang in public.

© Namita Devidayal
Reproduced from: The Music Room, with the kind permission of the publishers, Random House India.

Book published: September 21, 2007. Pages: 320. Cover price: Rs. 395.00

Arti Anklikar Tikekar -- “It is the mind that sings, and not the voice”

Arti spoke to Deepak Raja on December 20, 2003

In the last few years, I find that my definition of the beautiful in music is changing. When I look back on my youth – 20 years ago, when I entered the profession – I realize that I had very strong ideas about what is good music. Everything that did not fit this notion did not seem to even qualify as music. I went through several years of believing that Kishori Amonkar’s music was the only music that qualified as music. And, yes, I also studied with her for a few years.

As I started getting exposed to other leading musicians, I started seeing the beautiful facets of their music too. Then started a phase in which I wanted to sing the alap like one vocalist, bol-anga like another, and tan-s like yet another. Gradually, this too faded away, and I started seeing the beauty and integrity of every approach in its completeness. Once I reached this stage, I realized the futility of following models of vocalism, and began relating the universe of musical ideas to my own musical personality – who I am, what my voice can deliver, what I enjoy singing.

The stages through which I have passed are necessary stages of evolution. The world of music is so vast that it is impossible to enter it – in the early stages -- without wearing the blinkers of the gharana-s or models. It is only when we have absorbed one model well that we can start looking for our musical selves in a larger universe of musical ideas. The search for our musical selves is also a natural stage of evolution in life. At some stage, the reliance on borrowed ideas induces a feeling of hollowness within us. We feel the need to immerse ourselves so totally in our music, that we lose consciousness of our selves. This is a difficult stage for audiences to handle.

There is a substantial section of the audience that wants to hear Arti singing like Kishori Amonkar. This audience becomes uncomfortable when Arti starts singing what she wants to sing. It is a rough ride for the musician as well as the audiences. But, it is nothing new in our tradition. Every musician has had to go through this. As my neural chemistry changes, my music will also change. If Arti dives deep enough into the reservoir of her musicality, she will transmit the joy of the experience to her audiences. And, finally, this is what the audiences look for in the musical experience.

I am not belittling the tricky aspects of the transition in terms of audience expectations and their fulfilment. Yes, there is some dissonance amongst some sections of the audience. Yes, my audience profile seems to be changing without any shrinkage of numbers. I am probably no longer making too much sense to the younger crowd, but drawing the more mature audiences. But, I now have to be honest to myself, sing with conviction and total involvement, and let the audience factor recede from my consciousness.

For helping me along in this direction, I am indebted to my current guru, Dinkar Kaikini. It is not easy to guide a musician at my stage of evolution. I have been around, and fairly busy for 20 years now. By objective standards, I have no compelling reason to undertake a major overhaul of my music. But, what I do have is the inner urge – a spiritual urge, if you like – to grow as a musician, and through my music, as a human being. At this stage, my Guru’s inputs are no longer a matter of imparting knowledge of raga-s, or bandish-es or techniques of melodic execution. These are incidental.

Kaikiniji has made me realize that it is the mind that sings and not the voice. He has begun to untangle the cobwebs in my mind so that I might discover my musical self. He has made me sense the emotional charge inherent in every swara, and demonstrated to me the means of expressing it. He has helped free my mind from the reference points that had orientated my music so far. He has set me off on the path of self-discovery. I cannot say that I have got there. But, knowing where you have to go, and being on the path is a good beginning. At least I have a good chance of getting there if I persevere. If the audiences accept the results of this journey, well and good! If they don’t, I have to be prepared for the consequences.

© Deepak S. Raja. 2003

Read a detailed profile of the artist in: "Khayal Vocalism: Continuity within Change".
The finest recordings of Arti Anklikar-Tikekar have been produced by India Archive Music Ltd., New York. IndiaArcMu@aol.com

Abdul Lateef Khan --“When I accompany a vocalist, I merge my personality into his”

The life and times of Abdul Lateef Khan, as narrated to Deepak Raja on March 5, 2000 and March 21, 2001

I was born in a village called Guhad in the Gwalior state either in 1924 or 1925. In our times, people were not very precise about dates of birth. Mine is the fifth consecutive generation of Sarangi players in the family. We have been residents of Gwalior for several generations -- my ancestors were in the service of the princely state.

My parents had eleven daughters before I was born. When my father died at the age of seventy, I was just twelve years old. In those days, music was taught almost exclusively within the family; so my training would have been a major problem for my mother. Fortunately, one of my sisters had married Sikandar Khan, a well-known Sarangi player. He trained me for eight years. When I was about twenty, Ustad Sikandar Khan died.

This was a major crisis in my life, and the future looked very grim. At that stage, an uncle took me to a famous Sarangi player in Delhi – a gentleman I shall not name – and placed me under his tutelage. For a whole year, this great Ustad submitted me to unimaginable exploitation, verging on slavery, without giving me a single lesson. I could not take it any longer, and quit.

I was then introduced to Ustad Ghulam Sabri Khan Ambalewale, also based in Delhi. He accepted me as a disciple, treated me like a son, and gave me excellent training for three years. Things were too good to last. Fate intervened again. Those were days of great tension between Hindus and Moslems in Delhi. There was a communal riot in our locality, during which the Ustad disappeared without a trace. Nobody knows what happened to him. All enquiries in all quarters drew a blank. His disappearance is still a mystery.

I was heart-broken. I had no option but to return to the security of the extended family in Gwalior and start earning. Entry into the profession was difficult. I eked out a living, initially, in the dancing halls, accompanying Tawaifs [courtesans] on the tabla and the harmonium. If you think the status of the Sarangi player was low in those days, you cannot imagine how much lower that of tabla and harmonium accompanists was.

During that period, a sarangi player of some stature taunted me about my credentials as a sarangi player. This hurt not only my professional pride, but also my family pride. My moment of truth had arrived. That day, I decided that I would never set my hands on any instrument other than a sarangi. For the next two years, I practiced sixteen to eighteen hours a day, and faced starvation frequently. I emerged from the experience as a polished sarangi player, and mature human being.

Self-discovery and technique
During this period of self-discovery, I developed a technical relationship with the instrument, which differs from the techniques in vogue in my youth.

I have adopted a fixed-pitch tuning for my instrument. My sarangi is permanently tuned to the pitch of C sharp, irrespective of whether I am playing a solo, or accompanying a male vocalist, or a female vocalist. Depending on the requirement, I adjust the scale-base for the purpose of fingering, and retune the sympathetic strings. My melodic strings are always tuned to C sharp as the tonic.

This is far more difficult than it seems, and takes a lot of practice. But, I have found it necessary for getting a response of stable acoustic quality [timbre] from my instrument. Instability in this aspect of the music is not acceptable to my ears, even if it is acceptable to audiences.

My fingering technique probably developed in response to this peculiar tuning practise. I use the first finger for S,R,G, the second finger for M, P, and the third finger for D, N, S, and the higher octave. The last finger is used only for “kans” [fleeting/ summary intonation].

In the profession
Thereafter, I qualified for full-time employment with All India Radio, which I served for over thirty years, until retirement. In addition to giving me economic security, the radio station gave my art the exposure that elicited invitations to accompany some of the greatest vocalists of the century on the concert platform and on commercial recordings. Amongst the modern greats I have accompanied, I have enjoyed a special relationship with Mallikarjun Mansoor [the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana maestro]. He commissioned me to perform frequently in various parts of the country.

When I accompany a vocalist, I have to merge my musical personality totally into his. My job is to provide support to him, and not to compete with him, or to teach him on the stage. In an extreme case, I am obliged to save his face, even if his music is outrageous in some respect. No matter what he does, I cannot do anything that exposes his weaknesses. Such occurrences can be frequent, and especially frustrating on the radio, where I cannot choose whom I accompany. But, that is a price I pay for the economic security of a job.

Irrespective of the stature of the vocalist to be accompanied, the task of an accompanist is infinitely more challenging than that of a soloist. In addition to the self-control and emotional maturity that he requires, performing with great vocalists tests his competence and versatility as a musician. At short notice, without any rehearsals, I can be asked to accompany a vocalist performing any genre of music – Dhrupad, Khayal, Thumree. I have encountered situations when I have been engaged to accompany a series of singers from different gharanas [stylistic traditions] in the same music festival, one after another. In any kind of situation, I have to deliver a competent accompaniment.

In over 50 years of performing, I have acquitted myself honourably as an accompanist. But, it can often be very disorienting. If my basic training had not been strong, an accompanist’s life could well have left me with no musical idea that I can call my own. This is why I believe that a Sarangi player must have a very sound basic training in the vocalist’s art, along with his own art. And, this training should give him insights into the specialities of the different gharanas. If, for some reason, he gets indoctrinated into any particular gharana, he could become a very clumsy accompanist for vocalists of other gharanas.

I admit that, for a Sarangi player, it is not easy to keep his vision intact while earning a living as an accompanist. But, it is not impossible. If his basic training is sound, he can make the mental switch between the different approaches to performing.

Approach to solo performance
As a soloist, I have to recognise the limitations of my ability to hold audience attention. I don’t have the advantage of the human voice; and I don’t have recourse to poetry. I have, therefore, to pay special attention to the structure of my presentation – but within the established Khayal or Thumree genres.

The sarangi was designed to replicate the human voice. The vocal genres of Khayal, Thumree, Tarana etc. are the natural territory of the Sarangi. These genres also equip the Sarangi player with a vast resource of musical ideas and expressions. I therefore have little sympathy with Sarangi players who are trying to look outside the vocal idiom for their musical material for solos. Technically, anything can be attempted on the sarangi, or any other instrument; but to what purpose?

The legacy
One of my sons is now an accomplished Sarangi player, and employed with All India Radio. So, the future of the Sarangi in my family has been secured for yet another generation. I am now training my 18-year old grandson, the seventh generation in the family. For him, the radio does not look like a viable solution; but other avenues have opened up for Sarangi players. He is getting the best training I can give him. I would like to live long enough to see him well settled.

(c) Deepak S. Raja

The finest solo recordings of Abdul Lateef Khan have been produced by India Archive Music Ltd., New York. IndiaArcMu@aol.com.

Uday Bhawalkar -- "Dhrupad is not a guarantee of a comfortable life"

Uday Bhawalkar spoke to Deepak Raja on October 2, 1998

My family hails from Ujjain. In 1981, when I was 15, I read an advertisement in the newspapers inviting applications for Dhrupad training, under the guidance of Ustad Zia Fareeduddin Dagar. I sought the permission of my parents to apply. Since I was the youngest in the family, with no responsibilities, they readily agreed. I also asked my music teacher for permission; he also agreed because I would receive training in the Dagar tradition, which was highly respected.

Right from childhood, I had very little interest in conventional education. I was crazy about music. My elder sister, who is a good singer, had already started training me in the Khayal style. I had finished my first part of B.Mus. (Bachelor of Music) with five years of training. I did not know much about Dhrupad at that time. All I was looking for was a great Guru; and this advertisement seemed to open the right kind of doors for me.

The selection panel accepted my application. Initially, I could only follow the ragas. I could not figure out what was going on in the hour-long Dhrupad alaps that my Ustad used to sing. It is only when the compositions started, along with percussion accompaniment, that I could make sense out of the music. Gradually, things fell into place.

When I finished my four-year tenure at the Dhrupad Kendra in 1985, I decided that Dhrupad is the only music I want to sing – whatever the consequences. I wanted to continue my training under my Ustad’s elder brother, Ustad Zia Moiuddin Dagar. Therefore, I came to Bombay.

I do not have any regrets about having chosen the Dhrupad route. It is, of course, true that there is much greater competition in Khayal, and Dhrupad is emerging as an attractive novelty for a large number of music lovers. However, making any kind of career in classical music is not a bed of roses, and Dhrupad is not a guarantee of a comfortable life.

The improving demand for Dhrupad today only means that I happen to be doing the right thing at the right time. Nevertheless, the right thing is the right thing for me because of what I want to do with my life.I do not believe any genre of music – whether it is Khayal, Dhrupad, or Thumree -- is complete in itself. Each of them has its individual inclination and character. Dhrupad suited my temperament.

It is difficult to judge whether it is Dhrupad that interests my audiences, or Uday Bhawalkar. I believe that Dhrupad is attracting the audiences, rather than my own competence. However, it is also true that if I did not qualify as a singer, I would not get as many opportunities to present my music as I do. If Dhrupad now interests many more communities, it is because our Ustads have trained disciples well enough to command the respect of audiences.

After my performances, people often tell me that my music sounds different from that of my Ustads. This is important because our training has given us the basic equipment, and allowed our individuality and creativity to express itself. In the Dhrupad tradition, this may be happening for the first time; and it is necessary. The Dagars are allowing us the freedom to shape Dhrupad.

I would have no interest in a form of music that is stagnant. If I have to enjoy my own music, I need to feel that I am adding something new to it all the time. If my musical vision is acceptable to audiences, fine. If not, I still have to enjoy my music, and keep working upon what I have learnt.

There are, indeed, signs of a Dhrupad revival in India. The music is reaching out to audiences in a very different way. This is happening because, for the first time, the great Dhrupad gharanas have opened their doors to musicians from different backgrounds.

In the Dagar family, my Ustads are the first to take up training as a serious activity. In the other Dhrupad gharanas (ex: Maliks of Darbhanga gharana) too, the teaching of students outside the immediate family, is a recent development.

When I perform, people often tell me that they like the music, and it has changed their pre-conceived ideas about Dhrupad. They confess that they thought of Dhrupad as an aggressive style of singing, more like a wrestling bout with percussion. This impression gained circulation because too many musicians, lacking in balanced training, forgot that the range of improvisation should include poetic, melodic, as well as rhythmic elements.

Several factors are helping Dhrupad’s growing popularity. One is the absence of the Harmonium accompaniment, which more and more audiences find disturbing. In our gharana, we do not use harmonium accompaniment. The Elder Dagars (Nasir Moinuddin and Nasir Ameenuddin) did use Sarangi accompaniment often. In our stream of the Dagar style, however, the music is much closer to the Rudra Veena; so even Sarangi accompaniment would not be appropriate.

Second is the novelty, and acoustic richness of Pakhawaj accompaniment. To begin with, it is a change from the ubiquitous Tabla. Pakhawaj becomes more interesting because of the way in which we handle the interaction between the melodic development and rhythmic improvisation. Unlike Khayal, we do not suppress it altogether. But, unlike some Dhrupad gharanas, we also do not allow it to take off into a rival concert. Our gharana has developed a way of interacting with the rhythmic element, more akin to modern instrumental music. This method has great appeal -- not just musical, but also visual -- for audiences today.

Thirdly, and perhaps most important, audiences seem to like the gradual build-up of the structure in Dhrupad, in contrast to the immediate and simultaneous entry of all the elements in the Khayal form. Moreover, of course, the peace and tranquil quality of the vilambit alap in Dhrupad, without an explicit rhythm, seems to be satisfying a very important need amongst contemporary audiences.

In the west, I know mainly European audiences. Speaking of Europe in general, audiences represent a variety. One kind of audience is coming just for Indian classical music. This audience does not know Dhrupad from Khayal from Thumree. Another segment is coming just for something Indian. And, then, there are audiences, specially in the Netherlands, who know Hindustani classical music well, who have been exposed to many musicians, and are deepening their understanding with every exposure.

My impression is that Dhrupad is more popular in Europe than Khayal. The audiences show a special appreciation for the Dhrupad alap. They can share its meditative and peaceful quality. However, this is also a very important reason for the growing popularity of Dhrupad in India.

Actually, the alap component in the Bada Khayal is supposed to provide the same leisurely exploration of the meditative quality of music. Therefore, it is odd that Dhrupad should have such a great advantage. The only explanation would be that, perhaps Khayal singers have started neglecting some of the beautiful things the Khayal form took from Dhrupad. Therefore, audiences are now turning to Dhrupad. The wheel may have come full circle. In the past, the Khayal developed when Dhrupad started becoming soulless. And, now, the dryness of the Khayal is probably helping Dhrupad to return.

As far as I know, the significant gharanas of Dhrupad are still the Dagars and the Maliks of Darbhanga. The third is the Bishnupur gharana of Bengal, which is stylistically quite close to the Bettiah School of Bihar. The Dhrupad revival is helping each of these three traditions, though in different ways, and in varying degrees. This is especially the case in relation to the Western market for Dhrupad performances, teaching, research material, and recordings.

In India, we tend to have strong gharana loyalties. In contrast, the foreign market, especially Europe, requires a greater variety to satisfy its special needs. In search of this variety, students, impresarios, researchers and recording companies seek out good musicians from several traditions, and patronize them. It should not surprise you to discover that European followers of Dhrupad have a broader exposure to the stylistic variety of Dhrupad than most Indian audiences.

In its totality, I think the Dagar style still leads the genre in terms of its following. I am referring especially to the Zia Moiuddin and Zia Fareeduddin stream of the Dagar family, which has brought vocal music closer to the Rudra Veena idiom. You will notice that we sing as much of Jod and Jhala in our alaps as we do the free-flowing alap itself.

It is true that Dhrupad is now drawing a larger number of students, perhaps even of superior talent, than has happened in a long time. But, I get the impression that a lot of them expect that Dhrupad will not impose upon them the hard work and struggle associated with shaping a career in classical music. This worries me. I am also concerned that my juniors are not trying to think originally about their music. They are not aware that the source of a musician’s success lies in his own personality, in his own introspective ability, in his assessment of his own strengths and weaknesses.

The shortage of great Ustads will become more acute. We have to think about what we, as the next generation of teachers, can do for training musicians for the future. I am keen to impart the same quality of training to my students that I have received from my Ustads. However, I have so far not come across very inspiring students.

At present, my hopes rest on the three blind students who are learning from me under a scholarship instituted by Mr. Kishore Merchant of Bombay. They are talented, they work hard, and have started singing well. But, as they go along, they will have to face the basic issue of earning a livelihood. Unless I am able to accept total responsibility for their future, I cannot predict how music will fit into their wider concerns.

The scene is more encouraging in Pakhawaj. Actually, there is no shortage of Pakhawaj players. There are plenty of excellent soloists. But, great soloists do not have the temperament for accompaniment. The present shortage of good Pakhawaj accompanists will not last long. The leading Pakhawaj maestros are serious about teaching, and have several promising students.

The best way for us to promote Dhrupad is to work hard at our music, attract good students, and devote time and energy in producing better musicians. It helps to produce reference material in the form of books, videotapes or recordings. But, all this works if you are preserving quality material, there is a significant number of serious students wanting it, and a mechanism is available for dissemination.

I do not think Dhrupad Sammelans or Dhrupad Melas of the variety held in Varanasi and Vrindavan are doing anything substantial to preserve or promote Dhrupad. I am not sure if they enlarge the audiences for Dhrupad. Many foreigners attend these events. And, if some musician catches their fancy, they invite him/her to their home countries for concerts and teaching. We should think seriously about whether the randomness of such occurrences justify the effort and the expense.

On the other hand, events like Sir Shankarlal Music Festival in Delhi and the Harballabh Sangeet Mahasabha in Jallundhar or Sawai Gandharva Festival in Pune – I have performed at all these – do much more for Dhrupad. It is in these events that our caliber as musicians is tested. When these organizers and audiences accept us, Dhrupad is able to enlarge its audience. So, we keep coming back to the same issue. We have to establish our musicianship before we are invited to such events.

Reproduced, with the publisher’s consent, from “Perspectives on Dhrupad”, edited by Deepak Raja, and Suvarnalata Rao, published by the Indian Musicological Society, Baroda/ Bombay. 1999

Somnath Mardur – “Training my children was my highest priority”

Introduction: Somnath Mardur (born: 1944) is an unassuming musician, whose world has so far been limited to local radio broadcasts, and concert appearances in, and around, his native Dharwad. His musicianship may have remained unnoticed by the world outside, had it not been for his son and disciple, Kumar (born: 1982), who is now rated amongst the most promising vocalists of his generation. Somnath studied under the eminent Kairana maestro, Basavraj Rajguru (died: 1991), and is an “A” grade artiste on All India Radio. Beyond his formal tutelage, he also admits to a significant influence of the Gwalior-trained original, Kumar Gandharva.

Mardur spoke to Deepak Raja on March 30, 2004.

I received my initiation in music at the age of eight with Veerappayya Swami, an ascetic musician, who followed the Gwalior style. After three years with him, I started studying with Basavraj Rajguru.

Basavraj is known as a stalwart of the Kairana gharana. But, he was heir to a more complex legacy. He was a disciple of Panchakshari Swami (died 1944), a mystic-musician, who ran an ashram (a seminary-cum-conservatory) in Gadag (near Dharwad) with a couple of hundred students. Basavraj was trained, for several years, by Swamiji from 4.00 am to 7.00 am every day. Panchakshari Swami had been trained originally as a South Indian (Carnatic tradition) musician. Under the influence of Sawai Gandharva (the principal disciple of the Kairana founder, Ustad Abdul Karim Khan) who hailed from our part of the country, Swamiji was attracted to the Kairana style. So, he became a disciple of Ustad Abdul Waheed Khan (Abdul Kareem Khan’s uncle and associate). Then – I am not sure about the year -- Abdul Waheed Khan migrated to that part of India, which later went to Pakistan,. So, Panchakshari Swami continued his training in Hindustani music with Neelkanthbuwa Alurmath of the Gwalior gharana. My Guru, Basavraj Rajguru was a product of this background.

I studied with him starting in my teens, and remained attached to him until his end (died: 1991). But, I was hungry for newer ideas, and got them from wherever I could. For a few years towards the end of his life, Mallikarjun Mansoor (died: 1992), also taught me. From him, I learnt several ragas and bandish-es of the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana. Other than my direct Gurus, Bhimsen Joshi, Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, and Kumar Gandharva have also influenced me. Amongst these, Kumar Gandharva was unique. He was a self-made musician who followed nobody. He founded a one-man gharana with no disciples. The depth and complexity of his music were unfathomable. He was inimitable, and yet he influenced many musicians.

My performing career began in 1961 (age:17), when I stood first in the All India Radio competition. Thereafter, I have been broadcasting for over 35 years, and occupy the “A” Grade today. Very few people outside this region have heard of me. But, I have lived entirely off my abilities as a performing musician. In the early years, I taught music in schools and colleges. But, I found it impossible to combine that kind of work with my own pursuits as a musician. In Dharwad, where I live – unlike a big a city like Bombay -- even private tuitions cannot be a source of livelihood.

All significant musicians in our region have had secure jobs to keep the home fires burning. I have no agricultural land or property to live off. So, mine was a hard choice to make. I had confidence in my music, and that enabled me to live a life of self-respect, build a small house, and bring up my children. Moving to a bigger city has never seemed either possible or attractive. The Dharwad region is rich in its musical tradition. Life is peaceful and uncomplicated. It is only here that I could give my children the attention they have received. Shaping them into first- class musicians was my highest priority. They are free now to go out into the world, and achieve according to their potential. I am proud that they are receiving recognition and encouragement from the most discerning people.

(c) Deepak S. Raja
Read a detailed profile of the artist in: "Khayal Vocalism: Continuity within Change".
The finest recordings of Somnath Mardur have been produced by India Archive Music Ltd., New York.

Tagore – "Music is the purest form of art"

Reproduced from: Sadhana, the Realisation of Life,

by Rabindranath Tagore

1st edition. 1913, reprinted 1964

Music is the purest form of art, and therefore the most direct expression of beauty, with a form and spirit which is one, and simple, and least encumbered with anything extraneous. We seem to feel that the manifestation of the infinite in the finite forms of creation is music itself, silent and visible. The evening sky, tirelessly repeating the starry constellations, seems like a child struck with wonder at the mystery of its own first utterance, lisping the same word over and over again, and listening to it in unceasing joy.

When in the rainy night of July the darkness is thick upon the meadows and the pattering rain draws veil upon veil over the stillness of the slumbering earth, this monotony of the rain patter seems to be the darkness of sound itself. The gloom of the dim and the dense line of trees, the thorny bushes scattered in the bare heath like floating heads of swimmers with bedraggled hair, the smell of the damp grass and the wet earth, the spire of the temple rising above the undefined mass of blackness grouped around the village huts – everything seems like notes rising from the heart of the night, mingling and losing themselves in the one sound of ceaseless rain filling the sky.

Therefore the true poets, they who are seers, seek to express the universe in terms of music.

They rarely use symbols of painting to express the unfolding of forms, the mingling of endless lines and colours that goes on every moment on the canvas of the blue sky. They have their reasons. For the man who paints must have canvas, brush and colour-box. The first touch of his brush is very far from the complete idea. And, then when the work is finished and the artist is gone, the widowed picture stands alone, the incessant touches of love of the creative hand are withdrawn.

But, the singer has everything within him. The notes come out from his very life. They are not materials gathered from outside. His idea and his expression are brother and sister; very often they are born as twins. In music the heart reveals itself immediately; it suffers not from any barrier of alien material. Therefore, though music has to wait for its completeness like any other art, yet at every step it gives out beauty to of the whole. As the material of expression, even words are barriers, for their meaning has to be construed or thought. But, music never has to depend upon any obvious meaning; it expresses what no words can reveal.

What is more, music and the musician are inseparable. When the singer departs, his singing dies with him; it is in eternal union with the life and joy of the master. This world-song is never separated from its singer. It is not fashioned from any outward material. It is his joy itself taking never-ending form. It is the great heart sending the tremor of its thrill over the sky. There is perfection in each individual strain of this music, which is the revelation of completion in the incomplete. No one of its notes is final, yet each reflects the infinite.

What does it matter if we fail to derive the exact meaning of this great harmony? Is it not like the hand meeting the string and drawing out at once all its tones at the touch? It is the language of beauty, the caress, that comes from the heart of the world, and straightaway reaches our heart.

Last night, in the silence which pervaded the darkness, I stood alone and heard the voice of the singer of the eternal melodies. When I went to sleep, I closed my eyes with this last thought in my mind, that even when I remain unconscious in slumber the dance of life will still go on in the hushed arena of my sleeping body, keeping step with the stars. The heart will throb, the blood will leap in the veins, and the millions of living atoms of my body will vibrate in tune with the note of the harp-string that thrills at the touch of the master.

© Macmillan and Co. Ltd., London. 1964

Shamsuddin Faridi Desai – "The Qadri Sufis regard music as a pathway to God"

Shamsuddin Faridi Desai,  amongst the last Rudra Veena players of the pre-independence generation, was not an easy man to interview. I tried once, and failed. But, Lyle Wachovsky, of India Archive Music Ltd., New York, managed to get something out of him. His finest recordings have been published by India Archive Music.

Excerpts from interview with Lyle Wachovsky, April 2004

I was born in 1936. My father, Mohammad Faridi Desai, was a court musician in the princely state of Bhavnagar in Gujarat (Western India), and tutor to the queen. He played the Been and was also adept at playing the violin, the piano, and the sarangi. He had studied with Ustad Waheed Khan of Indore, a disciple of the legendary Beenkar, Ustad Bande Ali Khan. My grandfather, Abdul Rehman, was in the army, but had also been trained as a Beenkar under Waheed Khan. In my early days, I played the violin and the mandolin, and switched on later simultaneously to the sitar and the Been.

I did my first concert on the Been in the presence of eminent musicians, and princes, when I was 15. It was very well received, and encouraged me to pursue the instrument. For a while I flirted with acting as a junior to Prithviraj Kapoor at Prithvi Theatres. But, once I got hooked on the Been, I lost interest in everything else.

I studied the Been under my father as long as he lived. After that, I studied, for five years, with Maharana Jaswant Singh (ruler of Sanand, near Ahmedabad in Gujarat), who was a fine Been player. Ustad Ghulam Qadir, who was the son of my father’s Guru, Waheed Khan, also guided me after my father’s demise. I started broadcasting from Ahmedabad radio station in 1957 (age: 21).

In 1959, Thakur Jaidev Singh, the well-known musicologist, who was advisor to the government, arranged for me to join the National Orchestra of All India Radio, based in Delhi. The orchestra has a full-time staff of 40 musicians. At the National Orchestra, I played the sitar and Been under great composers and conductors like Pandit Ravi Shankar, and Emani Shankar Shastri. I served the orchestra for 38 years, and retired in 1997. After retirement, I perform as a Beenkar, and am training my sons and a couple of students on the Been as well as the sitar.

My family’s style of the Been follows the Gauhar Bani, founded by Gopal Nayak. In our style, we are permitted only five forms of melodic execution – Soonth, Meend, Gamak, Lehek, and Dehek. Two forms -- Zamzama and Murki -- are explicitly prohibited. Our speciality is the richness of our jhala. We are taught 26 different strokes of the mizrab, and 18 different chikari perforation patterns.

An important part of our music is the link between our spiritual beliefs and pursuit of music. We belong to the Qadri sect of Sufism, which regards music as a path to the realization of God. The fountainhead of our gharana, Ustad Bande Ali Khan is reported to offered penance at the shrine of the Sufi saint, Khwaja Garibnawaz at Ajmer, and obtained a boon that he and his heirs would have the power to make people laugh or cry at will. It is that boon that inspires our music.

(c) India Archive Music Ltd.New York, producers of the finest recordings of Shamsuddin Faridi Desai.

Raga Darbari Kanada – the majestic gait and its tonal geometry

Raga Darbari Kanada has often been described as the Emperor of Ragas and the Raga of Emperors. These descriptions recall the raga’s association with Miya Tansen at Akbar’s court, and the majesty of the Mughal Empire at its zenith. But, such imagery could not have either surfaced, or survived through the centuries, if it had not also been supported by the melodic character of the raga.

The key to the majestic aloofness of the raga lies in the ponderous deliberateness with which it has to be rendered. This “ponderous deliberateness” of musical expression owes itself primarily to the “andolit” (oscillated) treatment of two swaras – komal Ga, and komal Dh – in the ascent as well as the descent. These two oscillations are fundamental to the sculpting of the two phrases which virtually define the melodic personality of Darbari Kanada – [g M R] and [d n P].

These oscillations around (komal) Ga and Dh swaras define a very specific treatment or intonation of these swaras in Darbari. Some authorities even believe that Darbari does not use the common (komal) Ga and Dh pitch-ratios to base-Sa. Instead, it uses their suppressed micro-swaras (shrutis). According to this view, these suppressed micro-swaras are accessible only as suggestions arising from an oscillation between the natural Re and the flat Ga (for komal Ga) and between Pa and the flat Dh (for komal Dh).

In imparting a sensitivity to these nuances of Darbari Kanada to their disciples, traditionally trained Gurus have often used very obscure language and imagery. The logic of these oscillations is, however, easily understood through acoustic principles -- essentially, the tonal geometry of the two pivotal phrases of the raga: g-M-R and d-n-P.

The first and last swaras in these phrases, Re-Pa and Ma-Ni, are in perfect first-fourth correspondence with a ratio of 1.333 between them. But, the linking swaras, (komal) Ga and (komal) Dh are only in near-perfect correspondence with a ratio of 1.367 between them.

To achieve a symmetry between the lower and upper halves of the Darbari Kanada scale, the two pivotal phrases need to be in perfect phraseological congruence. This is not possible until (komal) Ga and (komal) Dh are brought into perfect acoustic correspondence with each other.

The oscillated treatment of (komal) Ga and Dh explores the relevant microtonal regions for the possibility of tonal correspondence and phraseological congruence. The melodic soul of the raga expresses itself in these explorations.

The aesthetic demands of this tonal geometry might explain why great musicians often favour slow tempo renditions in this raga, and avoid the flattening out of the prescribed oscillations in ultra high-density melodic execution.

© Deepak S. Raja