A Meeting of Worlds

Recently, I attended an event at the Asia Society in New York, to mark the U.S. release of Namita Devidayal’s book The Music Room. This book – which I highly recommend – is a story of several musical journeys and lives: the author’s, from being reluctantly pushed into it by her mother, to the music becoming something that she could not live without, a source of solace in times of melancholy or trouble, an escape to a zone of serenity and beauty; that of her guru, the modest and reserved Dhondutai Kulkarni, who dedicated herself wholly to her music and never married, blessed with the voice of a nightingale, bearer of the keys to the magic, riches and glory of the Jaipur gharana of Hindustani music, yet who struggled to make ends meet, uncaressed by fame and fortune; of the flamboyant and theatrical Kesarbai Kerkar, she of dazzling musical brilliance, beloved and worshipped by hordes of admirers, male and female, inheritor of a precious musical legacy from the hands of the great maestro Alladiya Khan, who brought this style to life; of Alladiya Khan himself, and his gharana, distinguished by its lilting eloquence, seamless melding of double ragas, serpentine taans of filigreed intricacy and beauty, and variety of swara patterns.

The author herself was present, and she started by singing a song, in the Jaipur gharana, after which she read out several passages from the book. This was followed by a conversation and discussion, and finally, a question and answer session. It was a most enjoyable evening, and I listened with great pleasure and admiration – mixed with the teeniest twinge of envy, that someone so intelligent and articulate, attractive and down-to-earth, could both write and sing so well, so movingly. A lot of what she said touched a chord in me, and I could relate to and understand perfectly well what she was trying to convey.

She spoke of the many worlds – worlds that would normally have nothing to do with one another - that came together because of the unifying force of music.  These were not fleeting interactions, but powerful, intimate ones, where often the accepted social hierarchies were turned upside down. Namita and her teacher.  Her teacher and her teacher. And so on. Rich and poor. Hindu and Muslim. Conservative, respectable middle-class Brahmin and devadasi. Yet, it was the rich who bowed their heads and touched the feet of the poor, humbly seeking blessings and knowledge; Hindu and Muslim ascended together to an enchanted sphere where music was god; and value judgments about lifestyle were left at the door, as the Brahmin sought the secrets of musical wisdom and enlightenment from the courtesan.

I could relate fully. In my own music and dance education, I entered worlds entirely different from my own. Mine was a good, solid, middle-class life, augmented with things that would have been considered luxuries by most Indians.  Things like a private school education, a car and driver, company bungalow and cook, vacations in hill-stations, birthday parties and the occasional visit to a fancy restaurant. And music and dance lessons. People like me piously and sanctimoniously did not consider ourselves – heaven forbid – rich: that label belonged to those who went to Europe or America for their holidays, returning with flower-scented foreign shampoos and perfectly tailored brand-name jeans and foreign pencil boxes filled with foreign pencils and rubbers, whose fathers made money (no doubt crookedly, we convinced ourselves) running their own (shudder) businesses, who threw late-night parties that were probably orgies of alcohol-drinking and other unmentionable activities. Rich was a dirty word, something to be ashamed of then.

But compared to my music teachers, I was rich. Only, that thought never occurred to me. I never ever thought that my teachers were any less privileged than I was. I was awed by their erudition, their accomplishments, their dedication to their art. My first music teacher lived in a tiny home (it was probably just a couple of rooms) off a narrow dirt path in an unfancy part of Madras. The path was too narrow for a car to pass; the only traffic on it was bullock cart and cycle.  My mother told me that her husband had abandoned her and their children, and so this lady had to teach music in order to keep her head above water, to make ends meet. None of this mattered to me.  To me, she was a beloved music teacher who sang like an angel, and who was soft and kind and patient with me, and put up with my fusses and whims.  One of her daughters wrote down all the songs and their notation in English for me in impeccably neat handwriting, as my music teacher spoke and wrote no English. Three times a week I went to her street after school, driven there by our driver, and she came home with me to our big company bungalow with its huge lawns and many rooms. It was probably the only time she traveled in a driver-driven car. Or entered a home as large as ours. But – and this was something that nobody taught me, or told me to feel – she was the guru, and I, the humble shishya. The wealth that she possessed was what I hungered for, what I respected and revered.

Years later I moved on to another guru. He was a legendary musician, the shishya of one of Carnatic music’s greatest legends, Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar. He composed sublime music, mostly for dance, inspired by his great devotion and piety for the mother goddess, Devi. He was deeply knowledgeable not only in music, but also in religious scriptures and several languages. At the home of his master he had been cocooned in the most glorious music imaginable; the most eminent musical legends of the era dropped in regularly for impromptu musical sessions and discussions. He would recount incident after incident, paan juices swirling around his mouth, while I, a moody teenager impatient to go home for lunch, barely paid any attention.  It is only now, all these years later, that I cherish those talks, realize their value. This guru also lived in a nondescript home, near the Kapaleeswara Temple tank in Mylapore. He had had no formal schooling, as far as I knew, yet knew more than I could ever hope to learn in a lifetime, through his single-minded passion and commitment to his art. He never seemed to care or keep track of the payments for his lessons. On some days, the lesson went on for several hours. Other days, he never showed up. Or he lost interest and wound up after a mere ten minutes. But he was always conscious of the value of his legacy whereas often, I felt overwhelmed and utterly undeserving of inheriting it and passing it on.

I lack that unbending determination, that relentless, unwavering focus. But it never ceases to awe me that from such a poverty of material riches, squalor even, such beauty has blossomed, such wealth that cannot be measured. And I will always have immense respect for our guru-shishya tradition, where what truly matters is what is venerated and treasured. Where different worlds come together and are enriched by the encounter. Where the social order is all topsy-turvy, and looks just right.

(c) Kamini Dandapani