Why Learn Music?

 Every now and then, this question pops up in my mind, “Why do I learn music?”  Sometimes the answers are not compelling enough.

Yes, I enjoy it.  But I can as well sing on my own, the way I always used to do- snatches of songs, lilts of tunes that enter my mind as I move through the day.  That has always been very enjoyable.

Why go through the rigour, attempting to squeeze practice time into an already overloaded schedule – slipping in ‘palta practice’ while the rice is getting burnt and sitting at the tabla while my son is having a bath, knowing that I will be interrupted periodically, with questions like, “Where is my towel?” and “Do I really need to put cream?”

Trying to learn notations doesn’t come naturally to me. Notes, attempted, often fail to reach the appropriate place.  I hate audiences and don’t particularly enjoy singing in groups or for gatherings.  So… why?

Initially, I started music to help my son sustain his music practice.  And it still does so.  Even when he is not practicing, just hearing me play and sing a raga somehow instills it in his mind and I hear him humming it unconsciously.  But now, our music has evolved to a stage where we are not always learning the same thing together.  And he is old enough to begin an independent practice.  Why then?

My next observation was that practicing music in a focused way made me feel better.  Rigorous practice requires a level of concentration that humming or singing snatches of a song to oneself often doesn’t contain.  In particular, my headaches (which had troubled me a lot) seemed to reduce or recede and I felt more relaxed.  This was certainly a good reason to continue, but, my mind argued, “I could probably feel similar effects with a combination of swimming and yoga, which I already know and enjoy.”

So.. back to square one - dealing with annoying yet persistent thoughts which ask me, “Why, at this age, when you have never done it before?  Why, when you are struggling with keeping pace with compositions learnt months ago?  Why, when learning a simple song takes about eternity?  Why, when there is so much pending work piling up?”

This morning, I thought about it again.  This time I came up with a new answer.

I am learning music because it is the perfect way to express certain moods and feelings.  Each note brings forth a certain energy that I feel within and that reverberates in the air around me.  Each classic composition that I like to learn has something new to offer – in terms of creating different effects with notes.  When I make contact with or approach a note in the right way, it resonates with a certain beauty and clarity.  

I relate to the lyrics of classical songs and the sounds of ancient compositions (several of which were composed without words).  Where words are used, I marvel at the way in which they have been fitted to music- particular words that  are set to specific notes that bring out their relevance or feeling in an extraordinary way.  Sometimes I try to imagine what the composers might have felt while creating this music and I also ask myself what I feel about it, and how best I can express this in my music.  It indulges the poet and imaginer in me.

When I sit at the tabla and try out a taal, something stirs within.  An old rhythm, heard but unheard for a long time.  

Music connects me to a different world- more than outside, it seems to take me to a world inside.  A world that connects me more closely to the things I love- the sounds of nature, the feeling of serenity and the joy of creating or expressing something beautiful.

And that is why, I continue to learn music.

 

Life's Rhythm - Lessons From Music

 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

Our Musical Journey

 On this occasion of Teacher's Day, I sit and recall some of the life changing teachers I have encountered, notably my Yoga teacher and my Music teacher.  In this blog, I will focus upon the musical journey that my son (Nayan) and I embarked upon that began a little over two years ago.

I never planned to learn music.  I had always hoped I might as a child, but there was no opportunity.  I was quite sure, however, that if my son showed the slightest inclination towards music, I would find a teacher to help him.  

When Nayan was about five years old, he attended an ‘Introduction To Music’ course conducted by the Bangalore School of Music, that taught children basic elements of Western classical music. He enjoyed the music immensely, but didn't like being part of a large group with lots of sound and movement that distracted him from the music.  I realised that group classes were not the way for him and a change would be required.

A few months before the course ended, Covid struck and everything was shut down. The music school had no plans of restarting anytime soon, and at this stage, my husband and I felt it would be nice if our son could be exposed to the richness and diversity of Indian music.  Thus began our search for a suitable teacher.

I searched for a couple of months, asking a lot of friends and calling several musicians and music schools, but nothing suitable worked out.

Then, unexpectedly, once when I called my sister-in-law, just to check how she was doing, at the end of the call, she said (as sometimes people say), "What else is happening?"  

What else?  In quarantine times, there was hardly any news.  So I said, "Nothing much.  I have been trying to find a music teacher for Nayan with little success so far."

"Let me send you some numbers," she said.  "Is piano and singing happy songs good for you?"  

I said, "Not really”.  It was not at all what I was looking for.  “I am searching for an Indian music teacher who can teach children.  Nayan is about six and a half now." 

"I have an old number," she said.  "I don't know if it still works.  Try it.”

I called the number.  Someone answered.  They said they would call back the next day.  I hung up with little hope.

The next day, the phone did ring.  It was the music teacher.  He was based in Delhi.  Online classes would not be a problem, but could he see my son first?  A ray of hope went through me.  He was the first teacher who had wanted to meet my son.   

We had our first video call.  My son was busy watching cartoons at the time and I didn't know if I could even get him to take the call.  But when he heard it was a music teacher, he jumped up and answered the call.  

"Soo- do you want to learn music?" the teacher asked.  "Ye-es!" yelled Nayan.  The teacher nodded, "Yes, I can make out from your face.  I think this will be a good thing.  So, when do you want to start?"  And that was that.  I tried to explain that I didn't want any pressure, just a relaxed class where Nayan could enjoy learning, but words were hard to come by, and I finally decided to let go and see how things emerged.

When the classes began, they flowed in a torrent and not the gentle drizzle I had expected.  At the end of the first class, Nayan had a list of songs that he was to watch online.  Before the class ended, the teacher asked me to sing.  Sing?  I was taken aback.  Surely it had been made clear the class was for my son, not for me?  

"You must be knowing the basic notes," he said.  “Everyone knows them.”  

"No," I replied.  I most certainly did not know the basic notes and I had no intention of singing in front of anyone.

"I am asking," he explained, "because it will help your son tremendously if you can support with him with some singing and if there is music in your house.  So please try."

Put like that, it was churlish to refuse.  I heard him singing.  I tried to imitate the sounds, feeling like a baby bird chirping for the first time.  "That's fine," he said, "Now your homework is..."

Thus began my music class, unintended, unasked for, but a gift for my son and more than ever, for me.  It has made a difference to the continuity of Nayan's music.  It has made a difference to my life.

We have barely begun but we seem to have been introduced to so much, so simply.  Soumitra Paul (aka Shomitro Sir) has a gift for teaching, especially children.  It is done rigorously but so gently and joyfully that children don't know how much they are absorbing.  

He is trained in Hindustani classical music- singing and the tabla (a percussion instrument).  Both areas meld together beautifully when he explains notes and rhythms, the teaching is highly personalised and spontaneous.  He is a professional table player and has played with many renowned musicians.  But teaching is his first choice.  

Each class brings something new and unexpected - new insights into previous learning combined with the introduction of a new raga or bol or song.  In fact, they are introduced at so rapid a pace sometimes that I struggle to keep up.  "Two hours, ten minutes of practice every day, Madam", he reminds me.  In my chaotic life strewn with unexpected events everyday, two hours (and ten minutes) are hard to come by.  I struggle and cannot manage but I am learning to stay relaxed even if I am not ready for the next class.  I sing for myself and am learning to enjoy every moment of it, steering away from judgement and doubt.

For Nayan, the routine is completely different.  "Fifteen minutes of whatever you want to play (or sing) is enough."  Nayan has become enthusiastic about the tabla.  "I didn't know I had a gift for the tabla.  But it's so simple and so enjoyable,"- he says with frankness and a disarming naïveté.  

We didn't know either that he had a gift for any form of music, we just sensed that he responded well to it, like so many children do.  We often wonder how our music teacher recognised Nayan’s gift so early on.  According to him, it was glaringly obvious.  But it was not obvious to anyone else.

Whenever we are in Delhi, Shomitro Sir makes it a point to come home every day to teach us music in person.  The classes extend forever, time is forgotten, or just held in abeyance for a while…. It’s a wonderful experience.

Teaching a child to sit and focus on music for close to an hour at a stretch is not easy (especially online).  But, music interspersed with conversation - not just talking to the child, but listening to him, makes all the difference.

"So, are you tired today?  How was school?" Shomitro Sir begins.

“I missed my football game because it was raining,” says Nayan, a bit put out. 

"Maybe we can play a football tukda on the tabla today.  Would you like to hear it?"  Nayan nods.  He is curious.  Soumitra Sir demostrates.  

"See, it is a spherical composition.  Did you understand?"  Nayan gives a thumbs up.  It is perfectly clear to him.  

"Did your mother understand?"  

“No”.  No I definitely did not understand how a composition can be spherical but it is perfectly clear to both of them.  In fact they have gone so far ahead musically that sometimes I can only sit back and marvel.  

"Would you like to play it?"  Nayan begins playing immediately, each note sharp and clear on the tabla as it is in his mind.  They continue in this manner, all fatigue forgotten.  

"Next time we will do a hockey tukda," announces Shomitro Sir.  

"Is there really such a thing as a hockey tukda?" I ask curiously.  

"Now there is," he grins.

"I have composed a tukda also," pipes up Nayan.  

"Let's hear it," says Shomitro Sir.  And effortlessly, the class has shifted from understanding and practicing to composing.  A subtle but noticeable shift.  Nayan's energy and excitement are high now.  The compositions are not random notes or lines picked up from different sources.  They are unique creations that follow the rigour and pattern of the rules of classical Indian music.

Nayan's composition to a beat of four

I am also encouraged to compose.  I don’t find it that simple or spontaneous.  However, in the midst of my practice sometimes, when my mind is still and receptive, a series of notes make themselves known.  It’s a very different experience for me, a bit like writing using notes instead of words.

We also learn folk songs and several songs composed by Rabindranath Tagore because of the haunting lyrics and melodies.  A song about inner longing on seeing the beauty of nature, a song about clouds shifting on a holiday and what the children could do amongst the fields, lakes and forests on such a day.  Ekla chalo re - if no one heeds your call, then walk alone- written by Tagore for Mahatma Gandhi during the freedom struggle.  Whimsical songs - admonishing a sulky cockatoo, songs to bulbuls and other birds (we love to sing this when bulbuls perch outside our window).  Miscellaneous tunes that we are attracted to.  “Okay,” says  Shomitro Sir, “We will learn them all.”

It is the ‘we’ instead of the ‘you’ that makes all the difference.  We are moving along this path together.  I find myself searching for songs I want to learn instead of waiting for instruction.  In this way I have heard an enormous range of music (at the cost of my two hours ten minutes of practice).  It has helped me pay attention to notes and lyrics.  We deconstruct each song, play it on the harmonium and then find our own way to sing it.

Shomitro Sir explains how he approaches each song.  “It’s not just about getting the right notes.  You must put your own inner feelings into it.  It's about sending a vibration,”  he says.  

Song for Nayan- link

Thus, I am introduced to the concept of the energy of music - something I had noticed but not really dwelt upon.  “Call upon each note as you would a friend.”  I realized that each note indeed had its own energy.  Rounding off notes, singing in between notes and interspersing music with moments of silence created different effects.  As I practiced this with some focus, I could sense the amazingly varied energy of music. It could calm me down and ease a lot of troubles away.  It could make my heart race with anticipation.  Sometimes it triggered my imagination.  It often helped me sleep better and if I awoke in the middle of the night, I would find notes playing on in my head, lulling me back to sleep.

Song for Sujata - link

In this manner, Nayan and I have embarked upon our musical journey.  It takes us to unknown places along unchartered terrain, but is always enjoyable.

Music Enters My Life

 It has been about a year since I began my music lessons.  It is very different learning experience compared to those when I was younger.  The path seems considerably steeper, much more strewn with boulders..  Perhaps this is why I appreciate the opportunity to be able to learn more than ever.

I often feel I need to thank life - and my music teacher (Soumitro Sir as he is called) for adding this unexpected new dimension to my life, and my home.  

It began, as many things do nowadays, with my son Nayan who does have a gift for music and a tendency to disregard his gifts.  I searched hard for a music teacher for him, and am glad I finally found the perfect one for Nayan: someone who could introduce him to music gradually, systematically and playfully.  My son often doesn't realise how much he is learning or how gently he is being prodded to continue with his practice when all he wants to do is to veg out.

I began to learn a little later (at the suggestion of the teacher) to support Nayan's music and help him at home.  Thus Hindustani music found its way into our house.  

We had always heard all kinds of music but now we were actually singing (and playing the tanpura and harmonium), and it had a different kind of energy.  Nayan and I practiced singing; my husband periodically searched for similar kinds of music to what we were learning, and other songs that he thought we might like to learn.

For Nayan, singing is almost effortless.  He glides in and out of notes, with minimal practice and complete confidence.

I am completely the opposite.  I plod along, repeating each step innumerable times and I always feel I have a long way to go before I can sing something properly.  Soumitro Sir understands.  He just sits quietly, waiting for me to gather my confidence before I embark.  It is an online class, so he offers to switch off his video so I don't see him there but I say that closing my eyes is an easier option.  Once the momentum builds up and I stop thinking about how I sound, notes flow in a happy way.  

Our classes are oft interrupted as both of us are working from home.  "Ek minute, Madam, aap gate rehiye, main abhi aa raha hoon" ("One minute Madam, please keep singing, I am coming") or "Soumitro Sir, the gas person is here with a cylinder refill," or "The washing machine repair man has finally come.  I will just be back."  Or "I could not practice today.  We had a dinner for ten people and I was cooking."   

Our classes are filled with discussions of life, philosophy, family anecdotes and even food.  Soumitro Sir knows I relate well to food (as he does), so I often hear, "Add a little sweetness Madam, not too much or it will get sickening, just a tiny bit.." Or, "When you make prawn curry, you need to mix the ingredients in the perfect proportions for the right taste.  Music is like that.  It's not just getting each note right, it is the mix of sound and feeling."  He emphasises bringing softness and the right kind of emotion to each composition, which is something I  would love to achieve.  It's like breaking a sheet of ice of uncertainty and hesitation and allowing the warm, spontaneous feelings to burst through.  (I am trying.)

Our classes are varied, keeping in mind a broad theme - streams of notes learnt in different ways that somehow fit into a greater whole that was not obvious to me at the outset.  Often improvised depending on the mood (after months of practicing classical ragas, I have suddenly embarked upon learning a Bengali folk song written by Tagore.  Soumitro Sir sang it for Nayan and the song resonated so much within me that I thought I would look into it, and there's no turning back now).

No turning back.  For months I was full of doubts about my ability to learn singing.  To be able to play the harmonium (and now, my son wants a tabla for his practice, there's no knowing where this journey is taking us).  Now, I know there's no turning back.  I would like to continue and I hope one day to sing freely, with all my heart.  I hope, someday, to lend a voice to all those notes which float in my mind.  Like writing, the words (or notes) seem to have a life of their own- and keeping them true to form while bringing them to paper (or in the air) to be read (or heard) is the main challenge.

When I write, there is no one looking over my shoulder, but when I sing, I am aware that everyone around can hear me.  That is a big difference, and that is what makes me hesitate as I sing.  But then, I remember Soumitro Sir's questions from an early class.

"When you are singing in the class or at home, who are you singing for?"  My invariable answer would be, "I am singing for myself."

"And when you are facing an audience who  has come especially to listen to you, who are you singing for?"

I falter.  The prospect of facing an audience is unnerving.  I say with some hesitation, "For the people who have come?"

"No!  You are singing for yourself.  You are always singing for yourself."

It is something I never forget.  I sing because it opens up something vast and wonderful within me.  I sing because I am filled with joy when I approach the right notes.  I sing to air melodies that linger in my mind.  I sing in deference to extraordinary composers, to the grace of classical music and the spontaneity of folk music.  I sing in memory of all the love and beauty of Nature and of Life itself.  I sing because I want to.

"But, Do You Like It?"

 The eye of the beholder is always subjective.  This is driven home to me each time I see the amazing rug collection of my friend Danny, who travels thousands of miles to search for tribal rugs from Central Asia, some of them over a hundred years old!

This thought also comes back to me with some force when I deal with my seven year old son, Nayan, who hasn't strayed from home since the pandemic began, but whose eye and mind work very differently from mine.

This was reinforced during Nayan's music class, when the teacher would ask him, "Do you like these songs?  Which song would you like to sing?  How do you feel?"

Initially I found these questions rather odd for a regular music class.  "Leaving these decisions to a child is asking for trouble," I thought.  "Nayan is just going to take advantage of this or impulsively say something that he will be stuck with, forever."

But that didn't happen.  Nayan relaxed, sometimes he didn't even reply (and that seemed to be fine with the teacher); sometimes he couldn't give his reasons very clearly.  But during this process, there developed between him and the teacher, a kind of trust and understanding.   Nayan understood and respected the fact that he would not be pushed into learning music and that he was an equal and active participant in the class.  

He began analysing the songs he was to sing, watching all possible versions of them and saying to me, "This one is too fast, this is sooo slow, this tune is not correct, this pronunciation is funny.."  All this helped him learn to listen.

It was a lesson for me on leaving certain decisions to children and trusting them to find their way through the maze of perplexing possibilities.

This struck home again last night when Nayan wandered into his bedroom to sleep on his Very Own Bed.  Within fifteen minutes, he was back by my side, snuggling close to me and saying he couldn't sleep on his bed even though his favourite bear Samatva was by his side.  "No, he was not scared.  No, he was not disturbed.  But he just couldn't sleep.."  

This has been a regular feature with Nayan but tonight something tugged at my memory.

"Nayan," I asked the next morning, "Do you like your room?"

"Hmmm.." he was not sure.  "I can't seem to sleep there."

Looking at the room, I realised that it had none of Nayan's possessions.  Not even his toys (because he usually plays in the living room).  His name (which he had proudly coloured and stuck) was on the door.    There was a picture of tigers high up, looking down at him (because I love tigers) but, apart from that, the walls were bare.  The room was usually just used for ironing clothes during the day so there were piles of clothes everywhere.

"Let's begin," I said, "By removing these clothes and putting all the things that YOU would like into this room.

Nayan pondered.  "We'll begin with the aeroplane cloud that Appa drew for me," he said.  "We can hang it above my name."

There was a very convenient little nail so we could do that quite quickly.

Now Nayan is busy thinking of the other things that he can put up.  While doing so, perhaps he will spend a little more time looking at and getting to know his little room.  And someday, he might even feel comfortable enough to lie on the bed there and happily fall asleep...

Smoky Rice And Imperfect Notes- A Musical Journey

 It has been a couple of months since I began my music classes.  So much seems to have changed since then.  As I dwell on this, I begin to realise that music is really a very potent form of energy.  Though we all know this at some level, we take it for granted many times.  The sense of hearing is linked so closely to our brain that the softest of sounds is capable of triggering memories, affecting moods and even altering breathing patterns.

I began my music classes unintentionally.  As I have written earlier, I was searching for a music teacher to help my little son sing.  But in the very first class, things seemed to be going according to a completely different plan.  After my son had finished his lesson, the music teacher asked me to sit down and sing.  "You must be knowing sa, re ga ma.. (notes of the octave)," he said.  

Yes, almost everyone knows that.

But not me.

My mind went back to school days when I had always been considered a poor singer in my class.  I think there were a lot of talented musicians in my class and the task of making a large, heterogeneous group sing in tune was a Herculean one for the music teacher.  So there were a few students like me, who were asked just to stand there and not really sing much.

I don't think adults mean to influence children so much but over the years this message somehow stayed and got amplified in my mind.  "I cannot sing."

While all this flashed through my mind, I was sitting before the computer during the first music class, wondering how to get out of this excruciatingly embarrassing situation.  The teacher was proceeding to explain that my son would learn considerably more if I could participate in his singing and help him during his practice.

So I began, perhaps where every music student begins, with the first note (sa).  "Apna sa khojo (search for your sa)," said the teacher, as many teachers have said to their students. Thus began my search for a note, and I had no idea where to begin.

"You are doing very well," the teacher said a few weeks later, "even though you have just begun."

Yes, I had just begun.  But was this the real beginning?  While singing, I often found my mind taking me back to the past - the time I was about six years old and I could see my mother practicing music.  I could almost hear her notes.  So the octave was not really unfamiliar,  it was just hidden somewhere inside me.  

I did not have too many more memories of my mother's singing because the next few years of my childhood were those of transition for our family as we moved from place to place.  The musical instruments were lost somewhere in transit and it seemed my mother was not able to find time to continue her singing.  My brother and I moved to my grandfather's house at some moment and singing was forgotten.

My mother passed away when I was twenty three, after a valiant battle with leukaemia.  Though it was a battle she lost, she had given us and many others around, so much strength and happiness that we did not know how to cope with her absence.  

When I began my music practice, these memories suddenly came flooding back.  I had just buried the pain, not finding a way to release it.  It sounds incredible (it felt incredible to me) but as I sang and sang, I felt the pain go.  I was closer to my mother than I had been for years.  I felt her (and my father's) presence somewhere very close to me- as if I could reach out to them anytime I wanted.  This was a big step in healing a source of continuous pain that I had been carrying about for years.

Healing rarely happens in one go.  I felt lighter and was able to practice more joyfully.  But there were other swirling patterns of negativity that I only recognised after some time.  Just as when a pond is stirred, many things seem to rise to the surface, not all at the same time.

Why was I so convinced I could never get the notes right?  What was this strange feeling of guilt telling me I was just indulging myself and neglecting important work at home?  What was the uneasiness that crept in each time I visualised myself learning from the music teacher over a long period of time?

Why, instead of discussing music, as I wanted to, did I find myself sending messages to my teacher like 'Burnt rice again because I was practicing in the kitchen' or 'Very bad headache.  Cannot record anything.'  This did not feel like 'me' but I realised gradually that it was a phase of settling in.  Something new had suddenly entered my life and I had to come to terms with it.  Life was affecting my music, and music, in turn, was affecting my life.

My husband helped tremendously.  Each time I discussed these thoughts and wondered if I should give up, he said, "This is important for you.  It's something you like to do and it is good for you.  You must continue." 

Yes, my son could manage for a little while, finding ways to entertain himself.  Yes, we ate smoky rice for a few meals and I did waste precious water by putting plates under the tap but not washing them until I had finished singing an octave.  Yes, we had to order some food when I ran out of energy. But... I did find my 'sa' (sometimes).

And with it, I discovered many other things I had never experienced before.  I perceived strongly the sense of silence that encompasses everything, the source from where music arises.  I felt I was reaching out to each note, requesting it to make its presence felt.  And to enable me to express its presence in the best way I could - with my voice.

The notes did make their presence felt, most strongly at night just before I drifted off to sleep.  

Sometimes, I hear them in between dreams and many times just before I awake.  They are perfect then because they lie unsung in the stillness.  Singing makes them imperfect but also beautiful in some way.

There is another energy that is driving me on.  Partly within me and partly outside of me, saying, "Don't give up.  Continue.  Everything will be alright."

And so I carry on, as best as I can.  I know that I am fumbling and faltering as each new step comes in sight, but I believe I will find my way.  Until then, we will just have to make do with smoky rice and imperfect notes.  My family doesn't seem to mind.

The Baul's Song

It's Christmas time in Calcutta, everyone is on holiday and making the most of it.  Even the non-resident Bengalis come home to visit old haunts.  Shops and restaurants are packed, loudspeakers are blaring, streets are filled with cars and pedestrians.

In the midst of all this, I feel truly blessed to have our local Baul visit every Sunday morning.  He walks down the street, playing his simple string instrument and singing his soulful songs.  Hardly anyone listens but he always stops in front of our family house, where he knows someone or the other will emerge.  And if I am there, I always do.  I love listening to these down to earth songs with mystic roots.  Songs which remind us that God must be searched for (and discovered) within our own hearts, by ourselves.

Bauls- the wandering mystic minstrels of Bengal used to travel from village to village, bringing these messages and their wonderful music to the common man.  Each village would provide them with food and shelter and take care of their needs.  Now things have changed, the Bauls have to fend for themselves and their travel is restricted.  They are hardly seen in urban settings, except for a few high profile ones, who perform periodically in concerts.  These performances are quite powerful but they often lack the spontaneity and simplicity found in a more natural setting.

This time I was fortunate enough to have my cell phone with me while rushing down to hear the Baul.  And so I made my first recording of one of his songs, the link is given below.  There was plenty of neighbourhood action at the time of the recording (and my hand finally shook when my little son made a beeline for the road).  People were coming and going, the driver was revving the car, the dhobi arrived with his bundle of freshly ironed clothes, an irate crow was demanding his biscuit breakfast and so on.  But the Baul was lost in his music and in his world - which is as it should be - and it reminded me to search for what gives my life meaning and pursue it without distraction (or at least attempt to)!

https://youtu.be/3IZiTYb_YqA 

Masters Of The Sarod

I have never paid much attention to the sarod, I don't know why.  This is a musical string instrument which probably originated from the Afghan 'rubab' and has been modified considerably since. The last time I heard the sarod in a concert, some years ago, it sounded a bit laguorous and didn't capture my attention.

Last week, when we were invited to a concert featuring Amjad Ali Khan and his sons, Amaan and Ayaan, I was not sure what to expect.  There is so much publicity surrounding these artists (and the queue that we had to stand in, even though it was a concert by invitation, was so long) that I began to feel fretful and wonder why I had come.

But it was wonderful - a beautifully explained and presented set of tunes and ragas by Amjad Ali Khan and an inspired performance by his sons and the accompanying percussionist on the tabla.  It opened my mind to the incredible range and depth of this string instrument and the very different style of playing (strings were plucked using only the finger nails).  Amjad Ali Khan's expertise lies in understanding and expressing the mood or emotion of a composition; he displays a certain gentleness and involvement in the process that emanates to the audience.  I attach a link below showing an excerpt of his concert with Zakir Hussain (which he dedicates to great musicians and the memory of those musicians who are no longer with us).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAlEsGPOpB0

Amaan and Ayaan are very skilled and intense players, each with his own style.  Speed is one of their strengths and they went back and forth, effortlessly, with increasing tempo, the tabla player adding his bit, keeping the audience mesmerized.  However, I personally preferred Amjad Ali Khan's music and the way he could express all kinds of things with his instrument.  The link below (showing all three in a concert) gives an indication of this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQ9xzPYE4c8

This family (the Bangash gharana) is only one of several families of music (gharanas) of the sarod.  Amjad Ali Khan's ancestors migrated from Central Asia to India.  Amjad Ali Khan's father, Haafiz Ali Khan, an iconic musician, settled in Gwalior, under the patronage of the royal family.

Ali Akbar Khan, another incredible sarod player (no longer alive), of the Maihar gharana, has left behind wonderful recordings.  His father, Allaudin Khan, left home and moved from Bangladesh to India when he was a child, to learn music.  He eventually became also a royal court musician, an eminent teacher - and could play 200 instruments!  Of these, he selected to teach his son the sarod (which he had structurally modified considerably) - an instrument that he felt could produce the sound of many instruments put together.

I had unwittingly heard Ali Akbar Khan many times over while listening to 'Concert For Bangladesh' - a recording of two incredible benefit concerts held for Bangladesh, by George Harrison and Ravi Shankar in 1971.  The Indian section features Ali Akbar Khan along with Ravi Shankar, but somehow, much of the attention is focussed on Ravi Shankar, perhaps as he was co-organizer.  However if you listen to this folk song (a tune called Bangla Dhun), it begins with Ravi Shankar on the sitar and subsequently Ali Akbar Khan joins in on the sarod, adding a depth and richness that the sitar alone would not provide.  Unfortunately, I could not find a video recording of this and am attaching an audio link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vo7lxXW6tO0

A couple of these recordings are over ten minutes, but you need only to listen to a few minutes of each, if you wish, to get an idea of the sounds.  Steeped though I am in musical ignorance, I feel I have learnt much by attending the last concert and I am glad I impatiently stood in line to do so!

Talkin' bout my generation

Yesterday Osibisa performed in Bangalore.  Osibisa needs no introduction to people of my generation.  This Ghanian Afro pop band made waves in the seventies and eighties with their spirited music and their 1983 India tour was even shown on Doordarshan (the one and only national T.V. channel that existed at the time), which was my introduction to this band.

'Afro pop' doesn't do them justice.  Perhaps their own name is more telling.  Band members explain Osibisa as meaning 'criss cross rhythms that explode with happiness'.  Wikipedia says that this is derived from 'osibisaba', the Fante word for highlife.  (Highlife is a genre of music that originated in Ghana about a century ago and spread to the English speaking countries of Western Africa).  Osibisa's music is full of small explosions - mainly of happiness but also of sounds and beats - chants, jazz, rock, hip hop and lots of percussion.  I had never seen them live before and it was a spirited, fun performance despite the fact that the original remaining members are getting on in years (the founder, Teddy Osei, suffered from a stroke some time ago and seems paralysed waist down; but he can still talk and sing and beat the drums with gusto).  The new members are talented, full of life and deeply involved in their music.  As with most African bands, this one generates music and rhythm effortlessly, making everything look deceptively simple.  In fact, it's very hard to produce such peppy stuff that has a happy, lingering quality.

We were lucky enough to make it to the show despite having read about it just that morning.  I visited the venue after seeing a small, uninformative announcement in the papers and reached to find the place buzzing with activity.  The band was up on stage, dealing with lights and sound.  The local staff couldn't help me with tickets so I finally collared the first person in sight, who was a very pleasant young man from the sound section.  (In fact everyone there except the band and me seemed to be awfully young!  I wondered how it would all work out).  As a matter of fact, it worked out fairly easily, with help from the young generation's favourite instrument - the cell phone.  The girl in charge of tickets called someone, who confirmed that she could not give me any real tickets.   Instead she took my cell number and reserved a couple of seats for me.  She told me to call her when I reached the venue in the evening and reassured me that hard copies were not required until the last mo, that everything would be fine; in a nutshell - that it was cool and I could chill.  So I did.

The concert was fun, with a mix of old and new compositions.  For me a lot of it was new, as I had heard only songs which Doordarshan had condescended to show.  Many others tripped down memory lane (physically tripping as well because they were no longer as young and agile as their minds led them to believe).  Basically everyone had a good time including a large bunch of school kids from an international school who left their seats and began dancing at the base of the stage, in front of the performers (and slightly blocking our view).  Not done in my time (we were meant to be seen not heard and in fact, not even be seen on some occasions).  But then, this is a new world altogether..

I give here a few links to Osibisa's music.  One of their most fun songs is 'Who's got the paper' which (like some of their songs) consists of four lines, most unprofound and quite addictive.  There is no live recording on youtube of this song; I provide a 'down the memory lane' kind of link, with pictures of the group etc.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmLJLuo-wW8

Another link to the same song that reminds me of my most fun, early twirly dances with Rags is

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aau3DKVVbSI
Watch it only for a few minutes (at the danger of getting dizzy) and don't resist the temptation to try out a few steps.

The next link shows Osibisa's skill in percussion, followed by their song Kelele (a song of togetherness) and some funk (a rhythmic kind of music).  This recording is not of very high quality but is a good illustration of their live performances and how energetically they reach out to their audience.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wcup5JKTpOc

And finally, their take on the Indian prayer 'Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram' - a bhajan (devotional song), one of Mahatma Gandhi's favourites.  This is something Osibisa has been playing in India on most of their visits, a kind of tribute and a prayer to a common god, sung in their own style.  And, being an upbeat African style, they have zoomed into the intrinsic rhythm (and brought out the beat!) of this old Indian bhajan.  To me, it sounds good but purists may not agree.  The audience yesterday, comprising largely of people of my generation, who had seen many gentle, liberal days, was thrilled with the song.  The other component of the audience (the schoolkids) had likely never heard this bhajan before and were happy with the beat.  So, we all stood and clapped for this group that has succeeded in reaching out to people of many generations, over many decades through their music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzT_vvA8Igk

Songs of Ends And Beginnings

At the eve of Easter, it is perhaps appropriate that thoughts turn to peace and healing and - music.  To beginnings and ends.  I find myself thinking today of the Neville Brothers - a group of musicians from New Orleans.

Their music has filled our house and all of New Orleans for over two decades now, bringing to the fore issues of black rights, crime and drugs in ghettos, the fate of many African Americans and also beautiful gospel - songs of peace and courage.

For over twenty years this extremely talented family band has been closing the annual jazz festival in New Orleans and their farewell song is looked upon as a kind of benediction for jazz.  This year onwards they will no longer be performing together.  Aaron Neville (the lead singer) says the stress on his system is far too high for him to be able to cope with continuing as a band and singing his own solos.  New Orleans and many jazz lovers feel that things will never be the same no more.  But all good things do come to an end and from this end arise other good beginnings.  Perhaps this what we need to remember.

How can I describe the Neville brothers' music?  In the early seventies, George Landry made an album with the Mardi Gras Indians that included versions of American Indian chants, vocals by Landry (a.k.a. 'Big Chief Jolly') and other members of his tribe, and instrumentation and harmonies by Landry's nephews, the Neville Brothers.  This was the first time that the Neville Brothers performed together - and there was no looking back.  I am giving a link to one of the songs from this album - 'Meet De Boys On The Battlefront' - to give an idea of the incredible energy and vibrancy, the mix of cultures that created such distinctive and soulful music in New Orleans.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=498LZARXzN0

The Neville Brothers went on to make lots more original music and bring out several albums.  Many of their early albums were not very well received - publicity was hard to come by and their work did not fit into an established groove.  But I think they were also finding their own path and their later albums (released in the late 80s and early 90s) show a different (and more mature and unique) kind of music. My personal favourites are Yellow Moon and Brother's Keeper.

The Neville Brothers sang original lyrics that spoke of the pain and bewilderment faced by many innocent black Americans who are caught up in an unequal society, the problem of crime, drugs, guns and more that exist in ghettos, they sang a tribute to Rosa Parks (Sister Rosa, who refused to give up her seat in the coloured section of the bus to a white person, in 1955) and they also sang songs by other well known song writers such as Leonard Cohen (the most famous being Bird On A Wire), Jimmy Cliff (Sitting Here In Limbo).  They are one of the few to have been able to do justice to Bob Dylan's songs (they sang Bob Dylan's song on the impact of wars in history 'With God On Our Side' in a fearfully soul searching way). I give a link to this song just because of its powerful lyrics and singing (this is not a live recording).  I would suggest that you just listen to it without watching the images (that don't really do justice to the artists).  I quote, from one of the stanzas of this song:

'In many a dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side...'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tyIjfE-tIk

I also give a link to 'Bird On A Wire', to show just how original their interpretation was and how it transformed a sad love song into a song of strength and beauty.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9ez80bQW4w

And finally, ending with a haunting hymn - Aaron Neville's version of Amazing Grace, and wishing all a happy Easter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6KYYA8RT9w

The World Sufi Music Festival In Delhi

Yesterday, I attended the first day of the much publicized 11th World Sufi Music Festival in Delhi.  This is an annual event, held in a few cities, organized by Muzaffar Ali (who I learnt later, is a famous film director and fashion designer).  This festival, called 'Jahan-e-Khusrau' (The World of Khusrau) attempts to cut across boundaries and bring together sufi artists from different parts of the world.

The newspapers said that complimentary invites could be collected from certain shops and certainly, when I enquired, complimentary invites were available.  But one could only get them if one bought a cd  that was a part of the invite, which was not exactly cheap.  I ignored the warning bells and mildly told the shop people that I didn't mind paying for tickets but I disliked being compelled to buy multiple copies of a cd that I had no use for.  Anyway, I decided I may as well try and attend one day of the festival as some well known musicians were performing and because the venue was Humayun's tomb, a particularly beautiful location.

We reached a little early, which was just as well as there were no signs indicating the way to the concert (Humayun's tomb covers a large area and there are multiple gates and entrances).  We stood and waited (along with several others) for almost an hour while the organizers arrived and the security agency nailed together plywood board cubicles for searches etc.  The invitation card had said that we could not carry anything to eat or drink and in fact, not even carry any bags (which everyone ignored - this is apparently something that is printed on all passes and means nothing).  I assumed there would be some arrangement for water or tea but there was nothing in sight.  I managed without too much trouble, but there were a lot of elderly people for whom it must not have been easy.

Finally the gates opened after 6.15 p.m. (by which time, the card said, we were all supposed to be seated).  While frisking us, the security people were simultaneously searching all over the place for other things.  It turned out that they were looking for their metal detectors, which had been misplaced!  The announcements (a prelude to the programme) finally began at 7 p.m. with no trace of apology by the compere, instead offering eulogies to the Ministry of Culture, the Delhi Chief Minister, the Indian Council of Cultural Relations and sundry promoters.

The performances were pleasant.  The evening began with Malini Awasthi, a singer of folk and light classical songs that were coordinated with kathak performances by Astha Dixit and her dance group.  I was happy just to sit amongst the old stone ruins (the venue was actually not Humayun's tomb but a smaller monument on the side), watching the darkening sky and the swaying eucalyptus trees in the background.  It was a windy evening that began to turn cold once the sun had set.

The second part of the programme featured the Warsi brothers, a group from Hyderabad who I particularly like to hear.  They sing qawwalis derived from old sufi songs, mixed with some newer (easier to understand) verse.  I find the old compositions (especially of the sufi poet Khusrau) the most appealing and powerful.  The Warsi brothers have a distinctive and compelling sound that adds much to the verses.

That evening, they began, as always, with a soulful qawwali, but it was evident that the senior singer (the elder of the brothers) had some throat trouble.  The cold night air did not help.  He did recover somewhat after periodic sips of water but the strain showed throughout.

As I sat listening and trying to keep warm, I felt that sitting under the night sky, watching the trees and feeling the wind on my face, was happiness enough.  In comparison with all this, the words and music, though enjoyable, seemed inadequate. There are times of tranquility and contentment which come uninduced, of their own accord, and this was one such occasion.

As it was already quite late, we left before the programme finished .  Trying to find our way back was difficult - despite all the government endorsement, the path was uneven and unlit and there were no signs to show us the way back.  If people are planning to attend the next two days of this festival, I suggest they make sure they are well clad and carry a small torch and a disposable water bottle.

Goodbye To A Great Violinist

The violin is a western instrument that eventually gained acceptance (and subsequently, popularity) in classical Indian music.  It is one of my favourite instruments and, amongst those who played it in India, MS Gopalakrishnan is one of my favourite musicians.  Much has been said about his new styles of using his fingers and the bow, his mastery over single string octaves and his ability to play Hindustani as well as Carnatic music (classical music of the northern and southern regions of India respectively) and effortlessly switch over to playing snippets of western classical music for an audience.  I am perhaps not able to  appreciate the technical nuances of his style but it is a style I like very much.  To me, he makes the violin sound sweet and melodious and plays with extraordinary swiftness, precision and rhythm.  He is always incredible to hear - whether performing solo, along with his daughter (and primary disciple) Narmada or when he is accompanying other artists.  After hearing him perform Yehudi Menhuin is said to have exclaimed,"I have not heard such violin in all my travels!  How superbly this young Indian is playing our instrument."

MS Gopalakrishnan was born in 1931 in Mylapore (Chennai).  His father, Parur Sundaram Iyer, a famous violinist, was a strict teacher who instilled a sense of discipline and desire for perfection in his young son.  MS Gopalakrishnan would practice for ten to sixteen hours each day and gave his first performance with his father at the age of eight.  His brother, MS Anantharaman is also a renowned violinist.

MS Gopalakrishnan remained quite active in music circles in a quiet and unassuming way.  He performed almost till the end (immaculately dressed in spotless white).  He passed away yesterday (January 3rd, 2013).  He leaves behind an original and beautiful interpretation of music through his violin.  There are many recordings of his music, I give a link to one of the short pieces available on youtube.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yS9BCWFYbw

Delhi International Arts Festival

Being in Delhi implies being caught up in a flurry of events, each day there is so much happening. This year the government has been particularly active in promoting cultural events as we celebrate the centenary of shifting of the capital (by the British) from Calcutta to Delhi (or to be exact, New Delhi). The city was planned by two British architects, Sir Edwin Lutyens and Sir Herbert Baker and it is in the wondrous 'Lutyen's Delhi', shaded by venerable old trees that many of the cultural events unfold. Now, of course, as the city expands, new venues are identified and some part or the other seems to host a significant programme almost every day.

The Delhi International Arts Festival, organized by the dancer Pratibha Prahlad, has grown enormously over the past seven years and now is a fortnight long event that brings outstanding artists of all ages and countries (the emphasis of course is on Indian artists) and hosts shows that are free and open to all. This time it seemed bigger than ever. We witnessed dance from Spain, Iran, Sri Lanka, Korea, India, music from Egypt, Israel, Australia, India, theatre from Britain, Hungary, Russia, Japan, India, films from Cuba, India, America, art and photography from Hungary, Russia, India and more. Each event was impeccably organized (at least all that I attended). Of course, the international events seemed to draw larger crowds, especially as they were organized in collaboration with various embassies, but what I enjoyed most were a series of classical Indian dance performances held in the outdoor auditorium of Rabindra Bhawan as a tribute to Tagore.

We were seated under the wide open skies with an ancient peepul tree in front that was decorated with garlands of marigold, around which was built a large stage lined with oil lamps that flickered through the evening. Each day had two performances; there was a large repertoire that was displayed and I watched, fascinated to be sitting so close to the dancer. I felt fortunate that I could see both old and young dancers, see a range of styles (many not often accessible outside their own region) and within a style, to be able to compare different schools of dance and see how a dancer's own interpretation and selection of pieces brought about a distinctive stamp of individuality on the performance. I learned a lot.

It is impossible to recreate my experiences through words or through video recordings, they do not do justice to the beauty of the dance and the melody and rhythm of the music. However I am giving a few links below just to show some of the dancers (and dance styles) that are not publicized much. They are not the best recordings but watching them for a couple of minutes will indicate the tremendous diversity of dance that we have in this country.

Bina Devi (Manipuri), looking ethereal (though very small!) on stage-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fL3PNQ5r814

Sangeeta Dash (who learned Odissi from Guru Deba Prasad Das, one of the masters of this dance who has a different, more direct style compared to the better known, curvy style of Guru Kelucharan Mohapatra), in an invocation to the guru-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-XGYkJ2lis

I also show two snippets of kathak (a popular dance form of north India), performed by two different older dancers, just to show subtle differences between different schools of the same dance.

Rani Khanam, the emphasis is on describing a mood.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SqJjget4a8E

Sunayana Hazarilal, the emphasis is on percussion and foot-work.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jt_hfB37hIM&feature=related

Music and Joy

A special concert series called 'Delhi Celebrates' (organized by the Punjabi Academy) began last year and because of the overwhelming response it received, the government decided to make it an annual event. This is a series of free concerts by eminent Indian classical musicians from all over the country and takes place in the beginning of October.

I attended the last two concerts yesterday - they were beautiful, stirring and joyous at different moments - very apt for this time of the year which is full of festivity and celebration. Sharad purnima (the full moon at this time of year) has just turned the corner - it is a harvest moon that bestows happiness and prosperity. The work is over, the renewing rains have left their imprints and it is time to sit down, breathe in the cool air, look up to the clear skies and be thankful.

This is just what the musicians recreated in the large and flower decked Kamani Auditorium yesterday. The concert began with Pt. Laxman Krishnarao Pandit, who is the fifth in a continuous lineage of legendary musicians from Gwalior (a city that has one of the oldest forms of Indian classical music) along with two accompanying maestros (on the tabla and sarangi - the sarangi is a string instrument said to be closest to the human voice, it is now not always used as an accompaniment but is utterly beautiful to hear). The second part of the concert was by Pandit Jasraj, who has an amazing range (three and a half octaves) and style and his own dramatic form of expression which keeps an audience spell bound.

I enjoyed both concerts; the energies and sounds were quite different but the musical genius of each of the artists was evident from beginning to end. It is at times like this that one realizes the sheer power of music (and musicians) to wash away pain, evoke love and peace. As I listened I felt a slowly growing happiness and awe at life and all of creation - something that the musicians themselves seemed to feel and express and communicate to me personally and perhaps to everyone who heard them.

Sufi Kathak

Delhi is always nice at this time of the year, every day there are cultural events that stretch to the festival season and beyond - right upto the end of the year. Many of these are open to a general audience and it was one of these that I attended a few days ago - a new dance form called sufi kathak, that combined the spirit of sufiism with the classical dance of North India, kathak.

Sufiism, a mystical form of Islam moved towards India in the 9th century. Northern India was introduced to this form of spiritual expression through Sufi saints who preached the importance of purifying one's heart and surrendering to God at an individual level. There was no focus on attaining heaven after death as is emphasized in mainstream Islam, instead one strived to experience God in this life, through one's thoughts and actions. Nizamuddin Auliya is one of the most revered Sufi saints of Delhi; he lived in Delhi in the 13th century and his teachings were mainly about the importance of love and compassion. One of his closest disciples, a scholar, musician and royal poet called Amir Khusro, composed a large number of verses in various languages, some of these were set to a distinctive kind of music that he developed (called qawwali) in praise of the teacher, Nizamuddin Auliya or Mehboob e Ilahi (Beloved of God), and his spiritual teachings.

The programme I attended was at the Bahai temple - a beautiful lotus bud structure in white marble with lush lawns and clumps of trees stretching all round. The dance was indoors, but walking past the temple and its picturesque surroundings towards evening, when all colours are altered by the setting sun, with a breeze in the background, was wonderful.

The dance, conceived and arranged by Manjari Chaturvedi (who has begun this new style), was very moving, partly because of her innate grace and partly due to the powerful qawwals from Lucknow, who, through their music, seemed to be beseeching God himself to come down upon the stage. Kathak lends itself well to this form of expression because it naturally has a lot of whirling, akin to that done by Sufi dervishes.

Apparently, this annual programme began last year and it attempts to continue for 22 years, to celebrate the 22 Sufi saints of Delhi. This year, they were focussing on Nizamuddin Aulia (through Amir Khusro's compositions), which was an added treat for me because I love the poetry of Khusro - it is simple and striking (often misleadingly simple) - accessible to all but containing deep spiritual reminders for those who choose to probe beneath the surface. One of my favourites is a two line composition -

Khusrau darya prem ka, ulti wa ki dhaar,
Jo utra so doob gaya, jo dooba so paar.

Oh Khusrau, the river of love
Runs in strange directions.
One who enters it drowns,
And one who drowns, gets across.

This was not sung, but many of his other well known verses were, and by the end of the evening we were all inundated with the music and dance, and walked out rather thoughtfully, past the temple which was now lit up against the dark sky.

Too Early for the Sky

There is so much poetry in songs; we sometimes forget because there is so much else in them too - the music, the voices. The moods they evoke are because of the words but often times it is the way the songs are sung. Happy songs can leave a trace of lingering wistfulness and sometimes, sad songs rekindle memories of hope while burying the past. This is strikingly evident in Johnny Clegg's South African songs - both with his original partner, Sipho Mchunu and their band, Juluka, and later, with his newer band, Savuka.

I had written a little earlier about the magical pairing of Johnny Clegg and Sipho Mchunu ( Blog dated June 12, 2010), http://sujatavaradarajan.blogspot.com/2010/06/in-my-african-dream.html

As I sit and listen to their songs again, I am moved by the strength and positivity they emanate while singing about grave and heartbreaking descriptions of Africa - songs of sadness accepted in a matter of fact manner, but not with resignation. Songs of protest, of justice, of determination, songs of the spirit of men and things beyond. While hearing them, one realizes that these are songs that could only have been written by people of an African country and somehow it is difficult to compare them to the usual songs bemoaning or exulting in the state of the world or one's love life (which is what one often hears!)

I was drawn to the lyrics initially by a song titled 'Too Early for the Sky'. I just couldn't imagine how one could be too early for something that is always there, until I listened carefully-

"I nearly disappeared into the mouth of a crocodile
I nearly touched the rain deep in the heaven on high
I could have been a sad piece of news on the radio
But you remembered me 'cause I'm not ready to go
Oh Halala, I'm home, looks like I've made it, Oh Halalo
Oh Halala, Oh Halala Ngasinda, Oh Halalo

I'm too early for the sky
Wenkunku wami wangisindisa mina
(Oh my Lord, you spared me)

Somewhere some grey computer nearly closed my file
This could have been the last time I ever saw you smile
The darkest night nearly swallowed up my eyes
But you remembered me 'cause I'm not ready for the sky
Oh Halala, I'm home, looks like I've made it, Oh Halalo
Oh Halala, Oh Halala Ngasinda, Oh Halalo

I'm too early for the sky
Wenkunku wami wangisindisa mina
(Oh my Lord, you spared me)"

The Riveting World of Records

With the purchase of a new record player, old memories have burst out unexpectedly. Our previous attempts at installing old record players and speakers in various permutations have always been unsuccessful - something or the other inevitably breaks down. But now, with this new American machine connected to our existing music system, we are able to play (and record from) all the old LPs. And how wonderful it feels to hear those old sounds (and the occasional scratches) blowing through the house.

So far we have just opened a few of our enormous family collection - and memories come drifting in already. We each remember buying our precious few records after painstakingly listening to them in tiny booths or small shops that have since begun selling other things.

I can now fill the house with the lilting Scottish tunes of Kenneth McKellar, the haunting simplicity of the Singing Nun, the whackiness of Peter Sellers and the tongue in cheek songs of Tom Lehrer.

My husband (and his parents') collection is a whole new world. One of the most miraculous finds for me is Glenn Gould (whom I had never heard before) playing The Well-Tempered Clavier. We find ourselves playing it over and over at different occasions - while cooking, at dinner, with friends or even at a party and it sounds perfect each time.

It's not just the sounds of the records which are nostalgic and warm, it's the covers as well. Large, expressive and radiating a certain seriousness of intent or screaming out a distinctive mood, they leave impressions that the modern CDs just cannot. Moods of the sixties and seventies - a stark picture of a starving baby on the cover of the Concert For Bangladesh record is striking, as is the intensity of an album with close ups of Janis Joplin. Gifted to my husband by Simon, a family friend, at a time when no one here had heard of the heartbreakingly intense songs of Janis Joplin. Another gift is a beautiful set of German recordings from the Villa Hugel - I vaguely remember the extremely courteous gentleman who presented it to my grandfather decades ago.

There are also old, original recordings of Indian classical musicians, of unusual concerts at Albert Hall, of music from Spain and Iran. Biddu and Carl Douglas's 'Kung Fu Fighter' docilely reclines against The Monkees and it appears that Frank Sinatra doesn't mind sharing shelf space with Cat Stevens.

All was harmoniously well till yesterday, when our record player mysteriously fell ill. Perhaps it's just fatigue or a sore throat. It now lies quiet, wrapped in bandages, and will soon be taken to a suitable clinic. I wish it a speedy recovery, the house seems very still in its absence.

Delhi Jazz Festival

This year, ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations) embarked on a new venture, in assocation with Seher (a group that has been organizing free music and dance performances in Delhi).  They invited six international and three Indian jazz groups to participate in a three day jazz festival in Delhi.  The performances, free for all, were held in Nehru Park - one of the large and beautifully laid out parks of the city.  I went yesterday, to meet and hear my Bangalorean friend, Amit Heri, and his group play.

The park was lit up by fairy lights- tiny glowing bulbs that marked the way to a large, venerable tree, strung with lanterns, beneath which the musicians were to play.  Chairs had been laid out and next to them, thick waterproof sheets, on which people could sit.  However, eventually the place was so crowded that many people stood along the sides, listening to the music. 

The music began shortly after sunset.  The sky was a purple grey until it darkened and the moon rose.  The night air smelt of - mosquito repellant!  Not too nasty though and it definitely kept the bugs away.

There were three bands, playing for an hour each.  We heard the Ekkehard Wolk Trio, a Berlin based contemporary jazz group, with several of its compositions based on classical pieces and others inspired by literature or the city of Berlin.  It was a treat to hear a proper piano on stage (after ages!)  They were followed by the Amit Heri group, who played several of his jazz compositions.  Amit is a guitarist and composer and often experiments with Indian sounds in his own style of jazz.  He also has a very nice energy on stage which permeates to the other (somewhat changing set of) very accomplished musicians who play along with him.  The last group, Trio AAB+Clandemonium, a Scottish band was performing along with some Indian musicians, but by then we had to leave.  We saw some of their performance at home, on the computer, as it was being shown live through the internet.

The festival had a wonderful atmosphere; the venue and weather were perfect (though the Berlin group did find it a bit warm, more like summer than spring they said!) and the audience appreciative.  ICCR announced that they would probably make this an annual affair, which would be wonderful indeed!  Music played outdoors has its own distinct charm, I think.