Sitting in my son's tabla classes, I am slowly hearing the world in a different way. The tabla is a relatively young entrant to Indian classical music and is an amazingly versatile instrument of percussion and harmony. So much so that when I hear everyday sounds now, I try and imagine how they might be recreated in tabla language (a series of 'bols'). The rustling of leaves in my garden reminds me of the bayan (the left, bass drum) and our bedroom fan creaks out a perfect taal (rhythm cycle) that once irritated me but now fascinates me.
It is spring and the air is full of bird song. This is my favourite form of music, but now I catch myself counting the beats. Is it the same number of beats in each kite call? What is the beat cycle of the bulbuls? Am I taking this a bit too far?? Even my tapping on the keyboard distracts me occasionally from my writing.
I know very little about the tabla, less so about percussion, but a few weeks ago, just by chance, I sat down and began watching a video of Ustad Zakir Hussain, one of the most acclaimed contemporary tabla players. I had a headache and time was moving slowly, but once I was drawn into Zakir's music, the headache and all else were blissfully forgotten for a while. Some of these recordings left a mark on my mind, for there was a haunting depth in what Zakir Hussain was trying to convey, both through his music and his words. Listening to him talking about the tabla was fascinating, and about life, equally so.
An element that Zakir lays great emphasis on is the art of listening. Although tabla has come into its own as a solo instrument, the primary task of a tabla player remains that of an accompanist to another instrument that drives the musical composition (raga). The tabla player needs to follow the lead of the main instrument, and enjoy complementing it, and if the musician invites the tabla player to a musical conversation (a 'jugalbandi'), then the tabla player adds his own musical comments to the composition. If he is not invited, he stays in the background, without forcing himself upon the musician or the audience. In trying to display his own dexterity over the instrument, a tabla player might distract his musical partner from his plans for the composition that is unfolding (Indian classical music, especially that played on stage, is often highly improvised depending upon the mood, the musicians, the audience etc.).
Zakir gave the example of his experiences during the first few concerts with Pandit Ravi Shankar, the renowned sitar player. He thought he had played very well in those concerts, but Ravi Shankar never said a word at the end of each concert. Then, before the third concert, Zakir Hussain mustered up the courage to ask Ravi Shankar if his playing had been satisfactory. Initially Ravi Shankar just nodded. Then, he sat back and asked, "Zakir, do you remember what raga I played in each of the concerts?" And Zakir Hussain thought hard but he couldn't recall what music had been played.
Ravi Shankar continued, "Did you look at me even once during the concert? Did we get a chance to know each other?"
The answer was "No". Zakir (with incredible honesty) recollected that he was so busy trying to showcase his skill on the tabla that he forgot that he was part of a team and that it is not two disjointed monologues but a conversation that is what gives the special energy to a partnership.
I thought this was an important lesson for life as well. The importance of being a good listener, and of being there for another person- sometimes silently, and when required, through your voice or action. Of wholeheartedly and joyfully deciding to take a course that you might not have chosen if you had only yourself to think about.
I also liked Zakir’s description of his own reactions during the initial concerts with Ravi Shankar. Ravi Shankar had played with Zakir Hussain’s father, Ustad Allah Rakha innumerable times, and Zakir was on the stage with his father during many of those concerts.
Zakir went for his first concert with Ravi Shankar, brimming with confidence. He knew exactly what he would play when Ravi Shankar hit those particular notes in specific ragas. But when the concert began, Zakir felt it was a complete disaster - Ravi Shankar did not play as Zakir expected him to, and Zakir had no idea how to proceed. It was frightening. Later, Ravi Shankar told him something like, “Don’t expect me to play with you the way I used to play with your father. This is a new relationship and a we have to chart a new path together.”
Describing this, Zakir said (I quote as best as I can, from a YouTube recording of his) - “How do I prepare? You’ve learnt so much, got all… (the information). Get on the stage, put it away. Put all the information away. But (there is) hesitancy. Inner laya (rhythm) is not strong. How will I ..? That’s okay. That’s alright. It’s alright to look silly. It’s okay to fail. It’s fine to trip and fall flat on your face in front of the audience. All it means is that you know what not to do next. It’s trial and error.
At some point in your life as musicians, you will have to decide, “Do I take the leap of faith? Do I jump off this hill without knowing how far the water is and how deep it is?” You have to do that. That means to stop the memorization. And to understand that it’s okay to fail. And when you get to that point, suddenly you will notice that nothing threatens you. Nothing makes you afraid. That there’s no fear. And when that happens, some door or window would open, which would allow you to experience the music in a light that shines brighter than anything else in the world…”
Deep lessons, that encompass much more than music.
Also interesting was Zakir’s recollection of two parallel incidents while working with famous musicians – the renowned guitarists George Harrison and John McLaughlin. At one moment, Zakir had dreams of being a drummer, perhaps in a rock band. It appeared much more glamorous than being a table playing accompanist. When he worked with George Harrison, Zakir once asked George why he didn’t play the sitar (which he had learnt from Ravi Shankar) on stage and George replied, “I don’t want to insult my teacher by playing bad sitar in a performance. I have taken my learning from the sitar and applied it to my own instrument, which is the guitar, and which I am good at. Similarly, there are a hundred drummers out there, all equally good, and I would have called any one of them if I needed a drummer. I have called you because you have something they don’t have. Why do you want to become the hundred and first when you can be unique?”
John McLaughlin was to express the same thought later, when Zakir asked him why he didn’t play the veena, after having learnt it from veena maestro S. Ramanathan. “The guitar is my voice.” You can hear the veena in his guitar but he cannot use the veena the way a master veena player can and so he chooses not to play it.
Zakir said this was a turning point in his thought process. He was living in the U.S. at this time and being exposed to music he had never heard before, including amazing kinds of percussion from all over the world. He realised that the tabla was an instrument that could allow expression of many of these sounds that had not been tried before. At one moment, he said that he felt he had been imposing his own training and desire to play on the tabla. But the tabla has its own voice and wants to express itself in many ways; we just have to listen and to let that expression emerge.
Sometimes it takes half a lifetime to get to know our instruments. But we still have another half to express ourselves, and to allow something beyond to reveal itself through us. It’s a completely new journey and a greatly satisfying one, when we trust and allow ourselves to move along these paths, however unfamiliar they may seem.
I am adding, at the end, a link to one of my favourite snippets from a concert by the amazing violinist N. Rajam and Zakir Hussain. It is not a high quality recording but it always brings a smile to my face and a warmth in my heart, which is what music is all about, for me.
N. Rajam Zakir Hussain concert
