This is an article translated from the original by Sanjay Chakrabarty
Pran Sangeet
One
Music
[1] is the soul of Indian civilisation. It always has been. Music was
graced with the status quo among the sixty four formal (and many
informal) arts in ancient India. It snugly held on to its niche, and
being the pinnacle of all arts, blended nicely into the
hyper-polymorphic Hindu culture. Today, fingers from all over the
world are jostling in Gangetic mud to dig out that ancient treasure
trove of India. Indian music has become staple research and a field
of unbridled enthusiasm in Western Universities.
What,
may we ask, were the circumstances in India that have achieved this
level of excellence in music? At the risk of stating the obvious, it
might be said that India has been the melting pot of Asian cultures.
Throughout the ages, immigrants from the middle east (Aryans),
central Asia (Huns, Pathans, Shakas)
and far east (Mongols) have crossed paths in India. Each one has seen
the other through their respective cultural adolescences, and their
fusion (if I might be allowed to use the word) has propounded Indian
music. And guess what, we aren't done yet! In the last two centuries,
European and more recently, American music has slowly but surely
merged into the Indian mainstream.
Its
only recently that the internet has delivered digitalized Indian
music to every corner of the world. But in its analog form, the
cultural globalisation of Indian music was complete by the early days
of the British empire.
To
recollect a few geographical details, India is tropical country. Like
all tropical countries, the humidity has seeped into our
heartstrings, and rusted our lungs. It has made us, among other
things, pensive, indolent and stubbornly romantic. It has also gifted
us our legendary sloth. We have never been lured by the lust of
conquest. Hell, on most occasions we could not even gather up the
energy to put up a decent fight against invaders. We are generous and
forgiving in nature by default. We would rather treat, listen to and
learn from somebody than beat 'em up and shove them out. Which is why
India, as a nation, has never remained free for a century at a time.
Politics does not seem to interest us. More than any other
civilisation, we believe that the whole of the universe is made of a
homogeneous, indiscrete entity, which we call Brahma.
If Brahma
spans
everything - men, beasts, cattle, trees - then there is no point
making artificial distinctions between 'us' and 'them'. It's all 'us'
and no 'them'. And when 'them' ceases to exist, the question of
'Independence' becomes redundant. Whatever 'freedom fighting' has
taken place in India were knee jerk reactions of a few angry young
men, to avenge momentary atrocities performed by 'them'. There has
never been a consolidated revolution spanning the breadth and depth
of India, no mass uprising. Thus time and again we have somehow
managed to drive 'them' out of our land, but never from our heart.
After almost a hundred years of Muhgal-Maratha debacle, when Shibaji
was finally able to dissuade Aurangjeb from his southern mission, you
would have thought even the slightest morsel of Muslim culture would
have been erased from Maharashtra. However, Muslim exponents of
music, and Ragas
such
as Yaman and Multani, still elicit the same encores from a Maratha
audience as they do anywhere else. As Bengalis, we have fought wars
with Clive, bombed Kingsford, and shot at Simpson, all the time
reciting verses from their very countrymen Shakespeare, Keats and
Shelley. We have never been free
in
the truest sense of the word, which is what gives our culture its
riches. The culture shock is most evident when you compare Indian
nihilism with British imperialism and American consumerism. There was
an actual period when the sun did not set over the British empire.
And the discarded remains of an all American feast could feed an
Asian three times over.
However,
very early during the Raj, the British had realised that it was
cultural, not political harmony, that had kept India together for
ages, in spite of its million different customs, languages, rituals
and idiosyncrasies. And the mosaic of Indian culture had been
embroidered by Indian music, because music transcends the boundaries
imposed by language, customs or location. There is no way for a Tamil
to speak with a Bengali, or a Manipuri with an Oriya, without
resorting to an intermediate language, which the English longed to
provide. But to the utter dismay of the British, the diverse races in
the country were already sewn together by a rich heritage of rhythm,
tempo and melodies. By doing away with words and seeping across
languages, Indian music threatened to cripple the 'divide and rule'
policy envisioned by the British. By a sheer stroke of perverted
genius, they came up with a flawless plan to lobotomize music out
from the Indian psyche. They called it the 'education system'. It ran
through hours of dull drones in classrooms, schools and colleges,
stamped a person with random numbers and degrees, and placed him in
clerkship posts where the proximity of the British beckoned him, and
he could console himself with the sordid self-delusion of becoming
one of 'them'. Without having been touched by the Breath of God,
which is music, he was forever condemned to a mental Gulag. Music was
surgically dissected from 'education', and unfortunately it was a few
well endowed Indian musicians who assisted the British. It was in
keeping with our dubious tradition of producing a traitor every now
and while; traitors like Meer Jafar who turned in Nawab
Siraj-Ud-Daulla, and his empire of Bengal to Lord Clive; and traitors
like the Indian leaders who, at the turn of independence, held up the
country in a platter before the British to slice. But petty politics
apart, the British never ignored music in the curriculum when raising
their own kids. Oxford and Eaton and every lesser known school in
England have compulsory music classes back then, as they have now.
From
the hymns of the Geeta
to
the lyrics of Geetanjali,
music has played at the heartstrings of India. It's easy to push
music out of a syllabus, but near impossible to eradicate it out of
the India. Even during and after the British period there were a few
mohicans who stood firm on their ground, struggled against the
onslaught of the new 'education', to hold up the aegis of their
cultural heritage. They ignored the thousand allures of the 'modern'
society, lived in a self induced quarantine, starved and ostracized,
to cling on to whatever remained of music, steadfast as ever. But
despite their valiant efforts, what remained in India after the Raj
was only something like
music,
not music per
se.
And you can't substitute something like
music
for the original thing. For so long the truth dwarfs, it casts
increasingly taller shadows, until it has regressed beyond
recognition. The time then comes for truth to lie dormant, until it
is ready to burst out of its shell again.
What
was the inciting factor that brought the decay of Indian music in the
British period? Lessons from history suggest that it was the very
foundation of culture, language.
Spoken language is the basic, primordial form of language. The
language we speak is a a vulcanized, hardened form of spoken language
suited to go about our daily business. When moulded by the cement of
grammar, it becomes the canonical form, written
language,
destined to create literature. Since the onset of the twentieth
century, written language was effectively blended with logic, numbers
and figures to create the the new discipline of 'technology'. The
surge of technology coincided with the two World Wars, and because
English speaking nations emerged victorious in both, English was the
DE
facto language
of technology. The writing on the wall was clear: master technology,
master the world. The world chose English as lingua
franca,
not because it appreciated English literature, but because English
had a head start on technology. Thus when the 'British' empire had
regressed to the confines of an island in North Europe, the 'English'
empire remained secure, as it is to this day.
The
early twentieth century India had submitted to English language in
the office, in matters of trade, in the schools, colleges. In some
rich households, English had also penetrated conversation. However,
the British faced tremendous resistance while trying to barge into
Indian music with English. While Western Music had its foothold on
most of parts of the World, it stumbled in the orient, especially in
India. The British leveraged their position as rulers to cripple
Indian small industries, social infrastructure and Indian systems of
education. But no amount of political, economic or 'educational'
pressure would make us fall for 'English' music. We bit the bullet
and held our fortress strong.
However,
luck favored the British, finally. Underneath the surface of these
political and economic ripples, a monster much more sinister crept
below our feet. The British had laid out railroads, telephones and
telegraph cable networks all over India. Everybody preferred the new
age 'automobiles' over the horse drawn faetons. We had embraced
technology with all our heart. We had hungrily devoured all the
comfort and facilities it provided. Fate, it seems, is not missing a
sense of irony. The same technology we had thought to be God's gift
to India, was in fact the harbinger of catastrophe to Indian music.
Under the auspices of the English language, several new technologies
merged in a vile orgy, and the hybrid of culture and technology was
born - the cinema.
With its lusture, the cinema captivated the Indian mind, overhauling
every other form of culture. To add to the misery, cinema in India
has never come of its own as a medium. Cinema in Europe is a distinct
art form, a kaleidoscope of moving images. But Indian cinema was
conceived as a random mix of mythology, folk musicals, dance drama
and street opera playing over a western background score. It did not
matter what was playing as long as something
was
playing. All the actors had to do was spend a few minutes in front of
the camera, dancing, or more often making a caricature of dance, to
the beats of some oriental or western rhythm, or maybe no rhythm at
all, maybe just being slapstick; in short, whatever random idea came
to their mind at that moment. It was the wild wild east. The cinema
thus produced was nothing more than a few frames of nonsensical song
and dance sequences held by duct tape. However, it was a hybrid
medium our people had never seen before, and like hybrid tomatoes, it
was a sellout. Music was condemned to playing second fiddle to the
cinema, a jolt which it has not yet recovered from. In this pristine
land music had been the pinnacle of abstraction, the supremo of all
arts, indeed - Saraswati
herself,
the living breath of God. However, with the runaway success of the
cinema, music was reduced to being no more than a score, a 'number'
that played on screen. If music was God, then God himself was
subjected to the direction of a few 'music directors' of Bollywood.
And even the 'music director' was a pawn in the big scheme of things.
A film song is really the collective bastard of the opinions and
prejudices of the financer, the scriptwriter, the director, a third
grade word juggler who calls himself the 'lyricist', a music
arranger, and the humble 'music director'. To add to the misery, the
medium of Cinema lags behind every other art form in maturity. Music,
the finest of the arts, can be blended into the precocious genre of
the Cinema only in its most abridged and mundane form, losing much of
its enigma.
Why
then the mad rush over the Cinema? Why does the box office keep
ringing every friday evening? It is precisely because of the reason
stated above. As an art form, cinema is yet to reach puberty. It is a
novelty. And the human brain is programmed to dig anything new. The
post partum mother provides selfless care to her newborn. The
teenager yearns for the newest fashion. Fashion houses push on new
designs every fortnight. Designers experiment with new fabrics just
to keep the flow going. We become obsessed with anything that is new,
sometimes at the cost of whatever that was old. Cinema is the most
popular medium precisely because it is also the newest. Thus the
hitherto unknown prodigy can attain instant fame on a friday evening
by lending his/ her voice to a film that has, for reasons obscure,
managed to be a 'hit'. Nothing succeeds like success. For the student
of music who aspires to be a singer some day, mastery of tune,
rhythm, tempo, expression and mood is survival ration. But the
playback prodigy, wanting in all departments, never gradautes to be a
singer, and remains forever a student of the 'music director'.
To
playback in films, one needs backing either of a financer, a
producer, a director or a 'music director'. After the music release,
there may be either of two outcomes
- If the film, by virtue of its vices, manages to be a hit, then the hitherto playback singer is catapaulted into instant stardom. All of a sudden he or she is in dire need of buckets of black money. Fortunately, once a star, cash flow is not a problem. It is not uncommon among so called 'playback singers', the aforementioned students, to charge twenty to forty lakhs for an evening. Public money. No license necessary. Even a driver, who earns a mere five to seven thousand over a months work, has to renew his license at a cost of two to four hundred. However, the millions earned by these students of music is entirely duty free.
- On the flipside, if the film sinks at the box office, then the student is broke with nowhere to run. Private tuitions (frankly, the cultural decapitation of a few kids) and dad's pension scheme becomes his lifeline. Often, he will seek luck among the stars and spend whatever little he can on gems. When that fails, there is always alcohol or drugs to resort to. The story of a wannabe copycat.
To
summarise, film music had become a parasite thriving on the success
of the screenplay and cinematography. Heaps of film songs pile up
daily, and the total of films songs in India runs in millions. Songs
prodcued en
masse,
lyrics customized to suit the screenplay, with decades of experience
in plagiarising tunes. Even with all that 'expertise', the musical
value of this mass of film songs is close to nil.
Thus
amongst this multitude of 'songs', very few could actually qualify as
having any musical worth at all. Songs are not integral to life as
music
is.
A song, unlike music, won't elevate you to a higher plane or guide
you in the maze of life. Songs can only be liked or disliked. And
even that 'liking' depends on the cultural upbringing of the
audience. Unfortunately, even that scanty premise of fondness has
been maraudered by the juggernaut of 'films songs'. The stellar
popularity of films has made 'music' and 'song' synonymous terms. The
identity is reflected no better than in stages small and large, where
copycats of varying calibre, dressed up as film actors and swirling
to some western beat, perpetuated the decerebrate song and dance
routine of films. With props, accessories and sets, the stage was
made to resemble a movie as closely as possible. In effect, the 'film
song' was recreated on stage, and branded as being 'music'. Such
'musical programs', 'functions' and 'shows' are the most familiar
images of 'popular music' in India. Such is the power of cultural
imperialism, the remote control of the West over the third world. Who
needs to build political empires when you can reign over the minds of
your subjects? Why go into the perplexities of running the entire
gamut of an administration, an army, a police system, an intelligence
bureau, and a thousand other chores of an empire, when you can loot
all the wealth you want just by intoxicating the culture of your
dominion? Why go into war when business is doing so well? Slowly and
subtly, the West drains our wealth and corrupts our brains, as it did
a century ago, the only difference being now they do it in the
comfort of their own homes, and they call it 'business'.
The
American pop stars don't give Hollywood a damn. They are connoisseurs
of purity. In their market of fresh shrimps and lobsters, canned
prawns hardly find a buyer. They dump all their junk into the third
world and take whatever's fresh and green. The hybrid 'film song' is
of no interest to them. Not only the US, every global pop icon of the
West, whose popularity beats that of our 'playback singers' by
gazillions, despise doing any playback at all. To lend their voice to
some movie hero, and to cash in on the populariity of the film, is an
unimaginable act of blashphemy for them. Michael Jackson, arguably
the pop phenomenon of the last century, has never done playback. His
popularity is not the least bit hurt for the want of it. The west is
born free, like their music is. We have been in shakles for
centuries, our sense of music has likewise remained juvenile. We
cherish our national oxymoron, a 'music director', which reflects
more than anything else, our misliteracy. In European and American
movies, the same person is referred to as a 'composer'. The
'composer' in their films does not have to put tunes over actors'
lips, but set the overall mood of a film, which he is free to do in
his own way. Leaving aside 'music', even the word 'song' fails to
elicit an unique brainwave in us. The vision of musical grandeur, its
stochastic effervescense and ethereal fragrance, have all been
replaced by the moving motifs of the film. Film songs have played
contractors, and borrowed their popularity from the film. The
psycho-acoustics effects of this unholy pair has been danegrous, if
not catastrophic. Popular music in India is of no use to upifting of
the population. For however popular the contractor may be, he will
never replace the president.
In
parallel runs the stream of 'qualified' singers and instrumentalist,
stamped by degrees and diplomas in music. Their lack of popularity is
compensated by their degrees. These people either sing or play some
instruments, but they are solemnly regarded as exponents of 'music'.
Once upon a time it was common knowledge in India that 'singing' is
only a fragment of the kaleidoscope of 'music'. But the certified
experts of music seem to have least grasped this fact. They sing
khayal
or
thumri
'songs',
but are adroned with titles like Sangeet-Visharad,
Sangeet-Martanda,
i.e. monarchs of 'music'. With no scholastic or musical background,
they take up graduation and post graduation courses in music just for
the kicks of singing on stage someday. Alas, the horde of M.Mus and
B.Mus seldom make it to the big league. Professional stages abhor
them; neither do they find a niche in musical research, nor can they
flower as a composer. The only thing that never abandons them are the
volumes of classnotes taken over there degree courses, which in a
slightly remixed version, would serve good to the next generation of
B.Mus and M.Mus. This Mendelian process of transmission of inherited
notes goes on, the university spews out cadres of certified
'musicians', and the Government keeps on spending millions in salary
to these humanoid scanner-printer-copiers. In addition, the same
notes fetches the teacher of 'music' a few extra bucks in private
tuitions. To sum up, the so called 'professors' of music are paid in
cash white and black, respectively, by the Government and private
students. But all they can do is paint a grey portrait of music
before their students, an image conjured of black letters over white
paper. Generations after generations of certified musicians thus pass
out, but the nation shows no sign of coming out of its cultural
hibernation. What is the use of the degrees then?
Obviously,
they are not completely useless. All Indian Radio and Doordarshan
have posts for 'musicologists'. Tabloids and journals pay some pet
experts and critiques for their 'music review' columns. Some of these
people make their living just by 'cultural committee' memberships.
And for those wretched souls who find nowhere else to parasitize, the
only viable option remaining is to do private music tuitions. Without
disparaging any profession, it can safely be stated that the 'music
tutor' is one of many paid servants of the middle class household.
Like the sweeper and the laundry boy, the music tutor visits once
weekly and picks up his dues. The only thing that sets him apart from
the rest is the cold cup of tea, stale snacks and mock respect
offered to him. Through these subtle gestures the middle class fuels
his residual self-image of being a 'gentleman', and not one of the
'sweeper class', a masterful implementation of the 'divide and rule'
policy.
Lastly,
in a country obsesessed with the marriage of their daughters, the
degree certificate shines as an 'extracurricular activity' when
bargaining for the wedding. Thus in degree courses of music, boys are
outnumbered by girls by abstruse ratios. The degree in 'music' might
not be producing any music, but makes wedding bells ring fast, thus
finding some tangible utility.
Two
Standing
out of this mess are the Pandits
and
Ustads
of
Indian classical music.Though lagging much in popularity behind the
playback singers, they excel in their art and occasionally, even in
musical knowledge. They also elicit much more respect from the
educated and intellectual class of listeners. The music of ancient
India, whose expanses far surpassed the present political borders,
once the music of half of Asia, was kept fertile to the modern age by
these few exponents. Without ever inclining to western music, they
were able to express the ideal of Indian music, and often even
western music, to the west.
However,
over recent decades, the rot seems to have spread even in their own
domain. The indifference of Government towards classical music, the
media's lust for quick cash, the film producer's urge to produce
instant 'hits', deliberate hindrance to mass education even in a
democracy - reasons are many.
Who
is a Pandit,
or an Ustad?
There is no official answer, no certificates issued, no trusts,
board, committee, foundation, society to decide the awards. Not a
single piece of document regarding Pandits
and
Ustads.
But Pandits
and
Ustads
are
looming at large. Newspapers, radio and television are abuzz with
Pandits and Ustads whenever a hint of classical music is concerened,
without any formal enunciation of the titles in a documented form. As
if someday a hobo proclaims to be the president, he will henceforth
be called
'President'.
Two,
music education in universities is largely ignored by the Government.
Dozens of universities offer Bachelor and Master degrees in music.
Scholars have pulled out volumes of theses and research work on
music. Even a PhD in music is not unknown. Why are these bright
minds, who have explored the breadth and depth of music, not suitable
for a title? Because they are not performers,
they are unbeknownst to the people. And in a democracy, people are
power. On the flipside, among the many Pandits
and
Ustads
of
classical music, hardly one or two have completed Masters, a handful
did their Bachelors', and that's it. They prosper and continue to be
known as 'maestros' of music, while the Bachelors', Masters' and PhDs
in music have vanished into obscurity.
This
hardly comes as a surprise. Consider a Masters' in mathematics. To
even get close to admission, one has to do his maths since primary
school. An 'F' in high school would close the doors of mathematics
for him even in state universities, let alone the ivy league. But no
such screening applies to a Bachelors' or Masters' in music. Music is
'extracurricular' in primary and high school. Any random combination
of subjects in high school would let you take up a grad course of
music. A handful of high schools offer 'music' as an additional
subjects, but let's not go into 'additionals'. The vast majority of
children pass out of school without the faintest idea of music. But
then any random bloke gets into a B.Mus and climbs upon the stairs of
exams to PhDs. To sum up, musical education in our country is the
proverbial castle on air - no foundation, no basement, a penthouse
beginning at eleventh floor. However, the abundance of 'popular
music' in its diverse forms (audio and audio-visual) in television
almost makes up for its absence in school curriculum. In this age of
'music on the go', it is near impossible to find a public place, car,
bus, train or even a rickshaw, where some song is not playing.
Alongside a thousand other commodities, CDs and DVDs of music albums
are showcased in store windows. Entire libraries of music can be
freely availed off the internet for free. 'Popular music' has become
ubiquitious like air or water is. And like air and water, 'popular
music' is an effective vehicle for disseminating a poison, the
ultimate bio-terrorism. As the toxin of 'performing art' gets infused
into music, the nation sleeps over it, waiting for the bubble to
burst in some distant future. Like jewels over a mummy, an army of
B.Mus. M.Mus, PhDs, Pandits, Ustads, Padmashrees and
Padama-Bibhushans witness, and blissfully ignore, the crepitant decay
of Indian music.
There
are yet more unresolved issues. Even a the post of a peon requires at
least secondary school qualification. However, 'Padmashree' and
'Padma-Bhushan', titles of national recognition, have been rewarded
by Government to rank illiterates. Miles away from any kind of
education, these individuals, mostly 'Ustads' and few 'Pandits', have
been catapaulted to national stature only by their so called
'popularity' among the classes. Democracy makes everything possible,
even if it means making a mockery of the education system.
In
ancient times, when Monarchs ruled India, the award of titles was
governed by a select group of courtesans - the avant
garde of
scholars, poets and researchers among the King's ensemble. The
proficiency and intellectual enigma of an 'Ustad' awarded by the King
was thus never in doubt. In vedic times, the wannabe Pandit had to
prove his mettle by interconverting between forms of energy, or even
transform the inanimate to life, with Para
sounds.
Tansen and Baiju, maestros in the court of Akbar, could beckon wild
animals, set pools of water aflame, and melt stones away, with the
sheer thrust of their music. Even during the Raj, a mere two hundred
years ago - in the fragmented empires of colonial India, Pandits and
Ustads were expected to make people cry, or make trees shed their
leaves, with their music. But what did democracy do to music?
In
the intial few days after independence - the connoisseurs of music,
now released from the King's refuge, took up the responsibility of
selecting the Pandits ans Ustads. In the absence of any official
board, council, society or academies, the drawing rooms of the elite
served effectively as certifying authority in music. When even the
comfort of the drawing room were withdrawn, and post-colonial India
plunged into economic gloom, the maestros as well as their audience,
in gangs of a few, assembled in temples, treesheds, graveyards,
burning ghats - any theque which offered a few hours' silence. The
hours passed by with de
novo compositions,
sharpening of skills and ex
tempore performances.
They escalated into that higher ground of intellect - the ability to
create and alter moods on the fly with the means of music. Members of
such gangs, even in the mid twentieth century, attained superhuman
musical skils. However, the dearth of appreciation has plagued
musicians of the world throughout the ages. To cherish the
spontaneous, ex
tempore flow
of harmony rippling out of the maestros demands a special skill set
on the part of the listener. To the naive brain, such things are too
subtle or intricate to have a grasp upon. To those listeners who were
well up with their cerebral faculties, such Maestros were next to
God. They were the Ustads
in
the truest sense of the word. Like a fleur
de mal,
they lived their life in abject poverty, ignored and often ridiculed
by the masses. Days and nights have gone by in their quest for the
perfect tune, for it is that perfection in pitch that will cleanse
the soul of the listener. They bled from their hearts so that
somebody else could attain divinity. They were saints, e.g. the
venerable Ustad Abdul Karim Khan or Lalan Fakir. In matters of
creating music, they bowed to none except the final creator. No
amount of money, power, fame or 'national award' would lure them away
from the righteous path. In this regard their music were a step in
advance from the King's courtesans; because although the King seldom
interfered with his laureates, some regal influence would always
remain imprinted in contemporary music. With the King's and their
empires gone, music proliferated freely under the auspices of these
Ustads.
The masses will, naturally, struggle to keep pace with their
acheivements and thus their music will be regarded as too eccentric
or incomprehensible.
This
applies not only to the Ustads
of
India, but in general to every great musician. The 'father of
European music', Johann Sebastian Mach, found appreciation in only a
select few contemporaries. While they remarked that the sheer genius
of Bach has gone by unrecognised, the public and newspapers were
quick to retaliate that they didn't care a straw for the genius, nor
did they see any reason for such. All they required was an obedient
pianist, which Bach wouldn't be. How could he? How could a creator
like Bach reiterate the old? Thus he became the Germany's national
dilemma. As a copybook pianist he had a whole nation of fans. As a
composer, the same nation became his adversary. However, foes turn
friends over time. Today, the composer Bach enjoys far more fanfare
than the pianist Bach. But the body being, among other things,
fragile, does not live enough to see the day. Thus Bach died of a
botched catarct operation in the hands of an inexperienced surgeon,
only because he could not afford anybody better. Like all creators of
all ages, Bach was rewarded with indifference and poverty, a modern
day crucifixcion.
On
the death centenary of Mozart, the other forefigure of European
classical music, Bernard Shaw wrote
There are operas and symphonies and even pianoforte sonatas and pages of instrumental scorings of his, on which you can put your finger and say, 'Here is the final perfections in this manner and nobody, whatever his genious may be, will ever get a step further on these lines'
But
what about a a hundred years ago? In his deathbed, on 14th of August
1790, Mozart had written to his friend: "Put yourself in my
shoes, will you, please? I am sick to my stomach, troubled by
circumstances. Just don't seem to recover my prowess by any means.
And I am also broke. Maybe a payement is coming next week. Please,
could you arrange for some money? Whatever little - would be a great
help!" Note the 'whatever little' - the language of beggars,
homeless and hobos. A few hundred years on, the same phrase
reiterated in the Ustads
who
had seeked refuge in the slums of Kolkata. 'Whatever little' or
nothing at all, a loaf of bread, half a glass of wine - the Ustad
won't
mind. He sings for the almighty, and if you are at the right place in
an opportune moment, you can also have a taste of that divinity, and
return with a heartful of frangipani. Even in that wretched state of
existence in the filthy slums of Kolkata, the Ustad
had
kept his spirit aflame, and his brain functional, striving only upon
black tea and bread, for days together. His only demand was a
listener of class, of intact cerebral function, who could transgress
the limits of existence, and accompany him on his journey to the
infinite. This demand being met, the Ustad
would
then launch himself into creation of new universes with music, and
expand his soul until he has become one with the Creator. Sky is the
ambition.
The
period around independance of India was the darkest hour for Indian
classical music. Out in the wide open, devoid of the auspices of the
King, the Ustads and
Pandits had
faced the dual challenge of making a living for themselves, and
keeping music alive. Not surprisingly, the later was their priority.
Their livelihood depended upon the recognition and support by
contemporary public, people who could hardly comprehend, let alone
appreciate, their music. Thus in the period between the last days of
the Raj and the seventies, the Ustads
and
Pandits grew
used to the perennial cash flow problem. As the poet Najrul would
have put it, the 'priceless' creations of these great exponents were
availed by society at no price at all. When the nation ran out of
admirers, the Ustads, on their quest for an appreciative audience,
looked beyond boundaries. They traversed oceans, flew across
continents in the rudimentary aeroplanes of the past, looking for
somebody with an intact cerebrum, somebody who could judge the worth
of their creation. A few of them did not even bother to
merry-go-round around the world. Living in filthy slums, immersed in
drudgery and gloom, often going for days together without a square
meal, they had passed on the art of making music come alive - to
their disciples. In the troubled times following independence, the
motto of the day was simply to make money, a lot of it, in anyway
possible. If engineers, doctors and even upbeat land-sharks could
muscle around with money, why should the poor musician be left
behind? Thus a large cohort of push-sellers and marketing managers
moved into the nascent 'business' of music. Let the 'life' in music
be damned! Life and death hardly matter in business! A tuna made of
gold will fetch a lot more dollars than a live one of similar
proportions. The general perception among the musical fraternity was:
let's forget the living tuna, heap up gold, and purchase any number
of tuna as and when required. Only a handful of maestros realised
that all the world's gold won't get you 'life' in exchange. 'Life'
can not be manufactured, unlike gold. So it was imperative, they
thought, to leave everything aside and keep music alive, because
'life' is too dear, and too short, to be bartered. Like Haridas Swamy
(guru of Tansen), they felt that music was the laughter of God. They
belived that worship, to please, and thus to become one with – God
– is the final destiny of man, a consummunation no mundane
distractions could match.
Such
abstractions belong more to a life of seclusion rather than that of
'society', and maestros of ancient times, such as Haridas Swami,
remained lifelong a recluse in far off woods. However, the likes of
Pandit Gyan Prakash Ghosh, Ustad Badal Khan & Ustad Alauddin Khan
preached and practised this truth in modern times, just half a decade
ago, in the slums of Kolkata and the remote village Myhar. They are,
in the truest sense of the words, 'Ustads' and 'Pandits'. Successive
generations, mainly the sons and disciples of the masters, inherited
thier vocal and instrumental skills, but only a few managed to step
into the domain of 'music'. The rest were lured away by the West,
which by this time had opened its doors to Indian classical
musicians. A generation of 'flying musicians' were born, who spent
the greater part of their careers in international flights and
terminals, rubbing shoulders with their Western counterparts. The
result was a group of singer-players who called their creation a
'fusion' between East and West. However, apart from fuelling the
Western fantasy of the 'oriental' experience, this commercialised
brand of music has failed to leave any residue, let alone philosophy,
behind.
Next
arose a generation of pseudo-Pandits and psuedo-Ustads, who could
aptly be called the 'vultures' of classical music. The saprophytes
lurked behind the real Pandits, following them in their conquests –
native and foreign – hoping for a share of their fame. The big cats
run and hunt down game, but the vultures only scrap out bits and
pieces of the prey when nobody's looking. Likewise the pseudo-Ustads
basked in the reflected glory of their real counterparts, to the
extent as to make the distinction impossible. At the later half of
the last century,when soclialism, feudalism, communism, liberalism
and every other 'ism' had finally merged into one big banner of
'utilitarism', the vultures knew their time had come. They dressed
up, picked up mannerisms, and put on gargantuan wigs to feign as
'Ustads' and 'Pandits'. With an ever-dwindling supply of the real
ones, it was hayday for these pseudo-Ustads and pseudo-Pandits. Never
venturing into the realms of meditation, they picked up whatever
putrified remnants were left in the garbage can of their
predecessors. Their collective cacophony was mistaken to be music by
everybody, young and old, media and Government agencies, and encores
rained down upon them. Thus were born the barage of self-professed
'Pandits' and 'Ustads' of music. In their eccentricities and
fastidiousness, in fashion and exposition, in their regal lifestyle
and princely nonchalance, they surpassed the greatest of Ustads and
Pandits. Like deft salesmen, they specialised in convincing business
houses and industrialist to shower money, music reduced to being only
an afterthought. Add to that the changing course of Business itself
in India. Hitherto it was carried forward by generations of
entreprenaurs and socialites, for whom business was just not the
means to reap profit, but to push India into the modern age, to bring
on the winds of change in the jammed wheels in mud straddled bullock
carts of India. But somewhere in the sixties, business was suddenly
democritised and given an 'academic' status by so called business
schools. The focus on welfare, social upliftment and philanthropy was
erased from the next generation of industrialists; what remained was
only profit. Newly passed out MBAs from business schools ushered in
the 'western' way of doing business in India, and showed how a golden
tuna could be exhcnaged for tonnes of live ones. The combination of
the musical vultures, and marketing managers bent on selling dead
tuna, proved to be lethal. For awhile, 'classical music' in India
sold out to business houses, and money was held more important than
'life' of music itself.
In
the dearth of appreciation of quality music, it is no surprise that
the pseudo-Ustads and pseudo-Pandits attained several times the
popularity of their true counterparts. When film songs became the
musical mantra of the nation, the 'pseudo's quickly adopted the
newest fads. The combination of 'false' film music and 'pseudo'
musicians was an instant hit, so much so that sponsors flocked around
the duo in no time, and this new hybrid was blown into astronomical
proportions. Soon, the pseudo-Ustands and pseudo-Pandits begin to
receive media attention comparable to playback singers. The holy
union between the produced a shoal of hybrid-pseudo-playback-Ustads
and Pandits, and their juggernaut ran over the country. Maybe this
surge will run for a generation or two, but it is downright
nauseating to even think of where things will lead to after
that.
Other
than that, it's heartening to see the collective intelligence of the
audience is growing each decade. The present generation is no longer
wooed by the pseudo-exponents. They are disgruntled listening to
Ustad Bade Ghulam and some random 'Khan' being pronounced in the same
breath. No longer are they lured by the hybrids of classical and film
music. To them, the association is growing to be as revolting as
stale milk rotting in the cupboard, and as irksome as pickpocket. The
tides are slowly turning back, it will not be long before the hybrid
class is refused altogether.
Three
For
a long time now, the scenario of music in India consists of a handful
of singers, a hell lot of music tutors, the elites called Pandits and
Ustads, students of music, and the audience. To be a singer, you need
to sing, and that's it. To play an instruments, just go on playing
it, and you are done. Do these things with some passion, and you may
well turn out to be a Pandit or an Ustad. If not that, there's always
the arena of copy-singers, pseudo-Pandits and pseudo-Ustads. You'll
need a teacher to grow, to tell which things to do when, and you'll
need luck. Success, in music, remains elusive as ever. In a batch of
hundreds of students, only one or two will make it to the big league.
The rest console themselves with the false pretension of 'becoming a
better person' through music. Lady luck is the all-pervasive phantom
of the 'music industry'. Nobody can foretell when and how she will
take sides; whose fortune, among the thousands of aspirants, she is
going to turn. For the rest foresaken by her, there's nothing but
despair, and their own rotten luck to blame. Those among the
failures, who can't adjust to harsh reality, seek refuge in
palmistry, astrology, horoscopes, gems and stargazing – in an
effort to repair their blemished luck, or they surrender to some
addiction, first alcohol, and then drugs. Middle class loathes music
as a 'career' – a profession plagued with unccertainity, depression
and stress. Everybody knows, and expects, singers to have some
tragedy in their life. The corporates groom new singers to face the
challenges of the trade: never say die, never back down. Life, to
them, is much like the sensex, with its hills and troughs. Keep on
pushing. It takes only one reality show to the top.
To
sum up, the life of a singer sways between superstardom and
ignonimity, affluence and bankruptcy, fanfare and hate mails. Few can
endure such frivolous oscillation between the extremes, most just
fall back in the race and give up, disgruntled and diseased.
Meanwhile,
the audience at large votes for the their kind of music. Often the
choice is mistaken due to lack of education, sensibility, or both.
Thus listening to such music serves nothing more than just the ears,
with the accompanying waste of time and money. The ubiquity of music
means even the time and money can be spared! Something's playing on
the DVD or the FM all the time! Be it a temple, rail station, a bar,
or even an auto-rickshaw, 'music' follows you. There's no relief from
the everlasting chatter, the flurry of ads, and the occasional 'hit
song', playing on myriads of FM channels. Music, music everywhere,
not a moment to feel.
There
was a period when classical music blossomed in the 'music
conferences', which were held by independent associations. When these
true cenobites were no longer able, financially, to hold conferences
on their own, they handed it over to corporates, which effectively
killed the spirit of the conference. Now the itinerary were decided
by CEOs, who, amidst their busy time in selling washing machines,
soap, steel or liquor, never really learnt to appreciate music. The
true music buff could not afford an 'Ustad' any more; thus the CEO,
musically impaired by hybrid film music since his childhood, now
takes up the onus of holding up Indian Classial Music. Jesus wept.
Film
songs continue to enjoy their celebrity status, for the plain reason
that they have been lipped by the hero or the heroine, and bask in
their (the hero's) reflected stardom.
Such,
to be succinct, is the scenario of 'music' in India, where even in
graduation courses, 'music' is introduced by the teacher to his
students, to be nothing more than a 'performing art'. It is the
'performance' that captures all the limelight, not the art. All said
and done, 'performance' is what matters in the exam, or on stage.
The
better part of my life has been spent in redemption of this gigantic
misjudgement committed by my predecessors.
To
start with, I have already been tagged as a 'music director', for the
simple reason that I must, as a matter of obligation from within,
make music. Music occupies each of my conscious minutes. But alas,
this being the twenty first century, my creation would not fetch any
material returns without the vehicle of cinema. This material body
would eventually perish without those returns; and I doubt whether my
spirit alone, unaided by my deceased body, could go on with composing
music. I have to bear the dubious honour of being a 'music director',
for the same reason Adam bit the apple. I seriously doubt my stature
as an 'artist', but still occasionally get referred to as a 'Pandit'.
For however little Indian Classical Music may I have learnt, I have
boarded the shoulders, and occasionally the playful laps, of giants.
For the meagre little I have inherited, I still receive the odd
invitation to sing a Khayal
or
a Thumri.
And for this and this alone, the cross of being a 'Pandit' [2] is
thrust upon me. Having never submitted to the household weekly job of
teaching music, I have nevertheless shared my morsels of knowledge
with a select few devotees of music. To my utter dismay, I have been
branded as a 'music teacher', as if that phrase even has
any
meaning.
However,
in reluctant acceptance of all the blemish, as a humble disciple of
music, a composer, as a friend to all friends of music, by virtue of
the meagre abilities bestowed upon me by my ancestors, I beckon you
to arise out of the slumber, to refuse the idea of 'music' as song
and dance, but that it is a way of life, an upliftment towards the
divine.
It
is only since the last century that the onus of perpetuating Indian
'music' has been thrust solely upon performers, both in public and in
private sectors. Granted, a handful of performers have escalated to
'music' in its truest sense, but the legion of singers and
instrumentalists have nothing to do with 'music'. To draw an analogy,
in the countless temples of India reside battalions of priests, the
'performers' of divinity. It is their charisma, their unflinched
utterance of wronged Sanskrit, their quixotic rituals performed
before an idol, that runs the business of religion in India. Like
'music directors, they have effectively trasnformed God into a
commodity. However, even among the inglorious lot of priests, there
will be an occasional Shree Ramakrishna, who was nevertheless a
priest, but a lot more too. He had transcended the boundaries between
the temporal and the perpetual, he had became one with God through
his Puja. In India and the world, he is known to his disciples
simply as 'Param hangsa', the divine incarnation of God. However, the
fact that he was also a priest belies his divinity. There are
thousands of priests, the clan of idol worshippers in India for whom
God is an excuse, and devotion is a career. This is what sets Shree
Ramakrishna apart from the rest. For every million copy singers,
there will rise one Bade Ghulam or one Amir Khan. The rest have only
so much to do with 'music' as your regular priest with God.
For
example, to enumerate the Indian singers who have had the most live
performances around the world in the last few decades - Lata
Mangeshkar, Mohd Rafi and Pandit Rabishankar will top the list. With
their orchestra, glitz and props, they have set fire on stages across
the world. But they are yet to spawn a genre of music of their own.
There is no 'Lata Sangeet', 'Rafi Sangeet' or 'Rabishankar Sangeet'
as yet. But the person who has never set foot on stage has somehow
managed to set his kind of music apart. Rabindra-sangeet. In a
purely conventional sense, his voice did not 'suite' singing, he
remained as one of the audience, not the performer, in most concerts.
He never bothered writing instrumental music, or any orchestration at
all. His prowess lies in his lyrics, which combined with his ethereal
tunes continue to mesmerise. Neither a singer, nor an
instrumentalist, not a 'performer' in any sense, he dealt in pure
sangeet.
This
should not give the impression that being a vocalist or an
instrumentalist is in anyway a hindrance to 'music'. On the contrary,
the vocalist or instrumentalist is at least one step closer to
'music'. The proverbial 'Senia Gharana', which derives its
heritage from Tansen himself, is one of the many forms that
'music' manifests itself. It comes as no surprise that Tansen himself
was a vocalist, performer, instrumentalist and a composer. So was
Lalan Fakir, the quintessential composer of Bengal, a vocal and
instrumental virtuso. But above all, these maestros had captured a
snapshot of the infinite within their mortal pile of flesh and bone,
through their music.
It
may flatly be stated that vocal and instrumental music are only
fractions of the musical continuum. If music as a whole is hundred,
vocal and instrumental music will amount to no more than five.
However, that 'five' fills up its very important role of being a
'five'. Without that five, 'hundred' will fall short by five. The
problem lies in the mass delusion that 'five equals hundred' ! People
in India, and around the world, seem to have taken for granted, that
singing and playing instruments is all that there is to 'music'.
The
Vedic theory of 'music' classifies 'sound' in four strata
- Baikhari
- Madhyma
- Pashyantee
- Para
Baikhari
– The 'sound' of physics
textbooks, i.e. that which is produced by vibrating objects, be it
the strings of a sitar, the larynx of a loudmouth lawyer, exploding
gunpowder of a bullet, blaring horns in traffic, even high frequency
waves beyond our auditory capacity – everything is Baikhari.
You have to be completely deaf to get rid of Baikhari.
Madhyma
– For
every conscious being, there is Madhyama
which
is keeping its consciousness running. Whenever you think of
something, anything,
you are invariably talking to yourself in your head. For every waking
minute the soliloque inside our mind goes on. This
is madhyma,
the silent voice of consciousness. When Madhyma
shuts
down, you are either asleep or dead.
Pashyantee
– The
sound that transforms between the senses, converts different feelings
into one another. According to Hindu and Buddhist scriptures, only
people with some background of Yoga,
either in this life or in previous one, can feel and utter
Pashyantee.
Etymologically, Sangeet
is
Sam
+ geet,
where 'Sam'
means totality, completeness. However, the totality of the cosmos is
beyond the cognitive realms of the hopelessly puny few billion
neurons that we call our brain. Pashyantee
makes
conception possible, it transforms and sums up between experiences to
give is a glimpse of 'entirety', which is known as the stage of
'Dhaaranaa'
in Yoga. For any art to prosper, it is necessary to transcend the
domains imposed by the 'form', and to leap into its 'entirety' or
Dhaaranaa.
Nature has built our neural circuits such that cross talk between our
sense organs is not only seamless, but necessary at times. The sight
of a delicacy is 'mouth watering', even though the eye and salivary
glands are separate organs altogether. Great works of art also elicit
similar feelings. A look at the 'Mona Lisa' and you could almost hear
her chuckle. Pashyantee is the medium for transduction of sensory
information between sensations. One of the essential duties of a
'musician' is to create pictures with sound, i.e. transduce visual to
auditory data with Pashyantee.
Para
– The final yogic plane, the
culmination of human endeavours, Para
can
transform between matter and energy, can reverse entropy, and bend
space-time. Physical processes are typically unidirectional. The
brief candle exhausts into light and heat. Creatures are born, they
live and finally die. The possibility that death can be reverted is
as improbable as a candle being recreated from light and heat. From
the fragments of Indian scriptures that remain, it seems Para
was
not alien to Vedic India. Para
has
been mentioned as the conductor of cosmic fugue, the transformer of
elements. Mortals can feel Para
only
at the pinnacle of Yogic planes, the Samadhi.
And once Para
is
mastered, the physical world becomes his dominion. It is not rare to
find instances from history where disease, or even death has been
reverted by the likes of Jesus or Shree Chaitanya. When we say that
something 'works like a charm', do we mean that charms and spells,
even in if a distant past, actually worked?
Para
is
that spell, that hymn, which when combined with an ordinary arrow,
could transform it to a weapon of mass destruction, as has been
frequently cited in the Indian epics Ramayana
and
Mahabharata.
It is painful to listen to that same Para
spells,
now converted to a few meaningless phrases, vandalized by the lips of
a half-educated priest, for no purpose other than to impress a
clueless audience before an idol of God. Sad but there's no denying
that this is where it all has come to.
Whatever
is being hoarded as 'Sangeet' since independence is almost all
Baikhari
and
hints of Madhyama.
A
few master composers and performers have been able to retain the ever
diminishing flavor of Madhyama
in
their renditions. But most of the 'musical' activity that goes on in
this country, which is singing and playing songs, is Baikhari
to
its brim. One can not board his own shoulders. Baikhari
fails
to explain itself, let along Madhyama,
Pashyantee or
Para.
There
is ample evidence that the practice of Madhyama,
even
Pashyantee
and
Para,
continued
uninterrupted from the Vedic ages till very recent past, the time of
Shree
Chaintanya
as
Keertan
songs.
However, everything except the shrillest Baikhari
was
systematically wiped out by the British, courtersy the 'assistance'
provided by our very own Pandits and Ustads. Like in every other
field, they have drained our best, and stuffed the vacuum with straw.
Our Baikhari
and
Madhyama
have
occupied their
syllabus
since the fifties. 'Acoustics' can be a crude translation of Baikhari
,
anything that can be heard; and the closest discipline, if not exact
word, related to Madhyma,
is
psychology. It is no coincidence that 'psycho-acoustics' occupies a
whole paper in graduate courses in American & British
universities, a subject that Indian universities seem to have
carefully avoided. Pashyantee
and
Para
remain
our last forte, ideas that Euro-Americans are yet to grasp. However,
their enterprising nature will eventually win over us, and the day is
not far when they will master of Pashyantee
and
Para
.
Meanwhile, we being Indians, will sing and dance along with our
'Icons', 'Mahagurus' and 'Lil Champs', while our ancestral treasure
is plundered.
Four
What
we perceive today as 'Sangeet' is a shadow of its forgotten past.
Todays vocal and instrumental music, of whatever calibre, fade away
into oblivion in comparison to the glorius immensity of 'Sangeet'.
Syntactically, sangeet is
the set of 'sounds' that encompass everything,
everywhere. It is the harmonic expression of the fulfilment of human
life, not just an 'item' playing on a track. Sangeet is
life.
To
emphasize my point, let's have a look at the bare necessities of
life. Does sangeet provide
means to our well being in daily life? If not, then there's no use
for sangeet or
whatever. Let's delve into a little detail. Food
is
our primal, animal necessity. The production of adequate amounts of
food to sustain the ever burgeoning human population is one of the
several issues facing the world today. Until we find alternate means
to food production, agriculture remains our principal source of food.
Several decades of research has shown crop increase by several times
with application of music in farmland. Plants, it seems, devour music
more than human beings. Russia has been employing music in its fields
since 1964. America has stepped up music in farming, resulting in
overproduction of wheat each year. Research is on in Europe, Americas
and even in India, regarding effect of music on production of
vegetables. However, 'research' carries so little importance in our
country, that the monthly remuneration of a top notch scientist is
still a split fraction of the money that say, a playback singer,
makes in an evening. Our research projects thus remain chronically
anemic for want of funds. But at least the effectiveness of sound in
practice of agriculture over chemical fertilisers has become known in
India, which is no small achievement.
Food
is followed by health. The commonest diseases of the developed world
today are, predictably, ischemic heart disease, depression,
hypertension and stress syndromes. Medical research has proved that
sangeet can
play the role of a 'vaccine' for this set of non communicable
diseases. However, this won't be sangeet in
its conventional song and dance sense, rather Sangeet
as
a set of related feelings and ideas. Diseases are misplaced feelings,
emotions and ideas, which can be tilted back to normalcy with
specific kinds of Sangeet.
Research regarding the psycho-acoustic aspects of commenced right
after second world war; the fruits of the research has already
afforded protection for millions of people from disease.
In
education, Sangeet
plays
an even more vital role. Exercising the intellectual faculties with
Madhyama and
Pashyantee,
rather than Baikhari,
improves the receptiveness of brain several times. In my little
personal experience I have met students who have improved grades
spectacularly, by exercising Madhyama
and
Pashyantee. In
the present educatio system of ours, which is largely a test of
memory, Sangeet
can
be doubly beneficial. Not only does Sangeet improve
memory, but the theory has earned its proponent, the swedish
neuro-anatomist Roger Perry, a Nobel prize. Again, this Sangeet
will
not be Baikhari;
there's no better distractor of the brain than mindless Baikhari.
It has to be focused Madhyma
or
Pashyantee,
which helps the student to unlock his potential, rather than sway
between feelings.
Housing.
Bigger the better. Period. Or is it? Is a house measured only in
square feets? What makes a house become a 'home'? Is it the best
furniture, or interiors, or architecture? If so, why is it so that
even in such well constructed abodes, people fail to stay together in
harmony? What is the adhesive that has gone missing? Why are families
disintegrating at a frivolous rate? It is peace
which
makes a house a home, irrespective of its building material. Thus
families in rural India stick together under their thatched roofs and
earthen walls, while the urban nuclear family struggles to stay
together even in their 5 BHK flats. Sangeet can
bring piece and calm to any household, and irrespective of sqaure
feet, can convert it to a true 'home'. The spirit of India has always
disregarded the brick and mortar; true homes are not made on 'plots'
but on the terra
firma of
our heartland. Our homes have kept us together, kept our society from
the invasion of 'psychiatrists', as has happened in America. This is
because the stream of Sangeet, narrowed
down by ages of silt into a rivulet, nervetheless still flows in each
one of us.
There
are times when oceans seem to have dried up, the sky becomes a
greyish blur, hope fizzles away into despair. However, the thick
vapour of sobs, the heavy wind of sighs, the tremendous negative
repulsion of hopelessess, all culminate into one big cloud of agony;
and when it finally rains, we are reminded that monsoon is near, that
the river of Sangeet
will
flow in its full vigour again, that God has not abandoned us. Today's
generation, more than ever, has realised that culture
is
what lies at the core of being an Indian, and Sangeet
is
the truest representation of Indian culture. They have flocked around
the one true Sangeet,
leaving aside their careers, fame and sometimes even their formal
life. A revolution is brewing in the cup. Pran sangeet
is
the harbinger of this revolution to the world: India will awaken,
Sangeet will
reinvigorate itself; for at least once, life
will
live true to its name.
__________________________
[1] Still searching for a better transliteration of Sangeet
[1] Still searching for a better transliteration of Sangeet
[2]
In Sanskrit, a party crasher
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