So I've decided to get back to blogging after ages. Obviously, the restart had to happen with a very special entry.
I’m both nervous and excited about this journal
entry. Nervous because there’s so much to write about, that I’m not sure if I’ve
even articulated it all in my head or not. Excited because oh god, why didn’t I do
it already!
I’m sipping some green tea as I write this in
the yellow light of the camphor diffuser in my room. It is only befitting that
I play one of the thumris that have been repeatedly transporting me to another
space and time. So I play Shubha Mudgal’s Balam Tere Jhagde Mein. The central idea of this thumri is nothing new. In fact, the idea has been used and re-used many, many times
over. But to me, somehow this seems to be true. It manages to stir something inside
of me in a way that no other expression of the same sentiment ever has. I can
almost visualize myself as the nayika going through several intricate,
interconnected emotions as she sings this thumri sitting under the dark night sky
punctuated with stars.
There was a time when I used to relate to the kind of music that resonated with my current mood. Now the connection happens because the song evokes a particular emotion,
which is free of the mood that I'm going through at that moment, or any particular memory or person. So even though I can
visualize myself as the nayika, there is no nayak. Irrespective, the moment seems to be complete in itself.
The realization - that I feel differently
as compared to most other people – is something that occurred to me much later in life.
That the smallest things make me really happy. Or that I get hurt more deeply
than others. That even my everyday emotions are more intense than what most
other people feel at the most emotional moments. In college, I used to write
poetry in Hindi. I’ve been trying to disown it for over a decade now (it exists
in the digital world in the form of a blog), only to go back to it occasionally. I
think this need to disown is rooted in two reasons – one, most of the ideas and expressions are quite clichéd and I’m
truly embarrassed about those. But also because I don’t know of many people who
would understand the truth of the emotion behind those. I don’t mean this as
a comparison, but how many people connect with the gazillion
emotions that the nayika goes through as she sings Balam Tere Jhagde Mein Rain
Gayi?
I now hear the soulful voice of Prabha Atre,
wondering Kaun Gali Gayo Shyam. A couple of months ago, when I still in
Gurgaon, I was learning a thumri composition in my Kathak classes, in which Radha pleads to Krishna. I would always imagine myself as a rather irritated
Radha. But as we started unraveling
the layers of the composition, came the realization that how it is not a singular emotion
but rather a cluster of ‘micro-emotions’. Radha is (mildly) irritated for sure, but there’s so
much more than that. There’s love, lajja, pleading, helplessness, and so on. This is new because earlier I didn’t spend as much time
with a composition to be able to ponder over all the different possibilities. So
now when I hear Prabha Atre’s voice, it is not just a singular emotion that I
sense. It’s a series of transitioning emotions culminating into a sort of
euphoria that is created when you’re one with the art that you’re experiencing.
There’s more to this. In the last few months (during
the lockdown), I was able to get myself a pair of ghunghroos and a space for
riyaaz. I’ve
been devoting time to my daily riyaaz. I’ve
realised for the first time that drut lay or tatkaar solah gun isn’t something to be afraid of or be intimidated
by, but if befriended it can infuse you with energy. It feels as though some things
have started coming together inside of me in ways I haven’t experienced before. For
instance, Kaun Gali Gayo Shyam helped me in identifying and articulating
certain bhaav that existed inside of me, but the dance vocabulary that I have
built also helped me in expressing it through my body. Not just in terms of
mudras and body movements, but also in terms of my facial expressions, body
language, and so on. And it is probably the effect of my yoga sessions that as I
wonder Kaun Gali Gayo Shyam that I pause to notice the deep exhale that
corresponds with my sigh of having no knowledge where Krishna is. Sometimes I
feel like this is one of the storytelling sessions that I do with kids. I pick
up stories that resonate with me, because then when I’m reading those out to
children, I’m not faking anything. I’m simply sharing with them how I truly
feel about the story. This is important because I feel like children are very
good at spotting the fake.
In an interesting turn of affairs, I’ve started
relooking at all my Hindi poetry from over a decade ago. And I’ve
started recording it in my voice. And in a moment of feeling/ emotion/
inspiration, I composed a new one just a few days ago. This came as a
half-surprise. I mean come on, it's been there all along; I’ve tried to brush it under the carpet all this
while. The part
that did come as a surprise was that this is something that I can still do. I
always thought that writing Hindi poetry was something that I did when I was
younger and that all the ‘creative juices’ had dried up, but clearly not!
Growing up I mostly listened to Bollywood
music, which included the likes of Kishore Kumar and Jagjit Singh. I attended
weekend Kathak classes when I was in primary and middle school, but most
memories of the classes included dancing to the beats of the tabla. There was
some exposure to folk music through wedding songs and so on. There were also occasional
community meets where performing artists were invited to present plays on
themes like Meera or perform a Rajasthani dance sequence.
I think my first close exposure to Hindustani Classical Music was through what I am going to call commercial classical music. I think
some credit to Bollywood is due here. I can actually think of two specific
movies – the first one is Devdas. God knows how many times over I listened to
the entire album! At this point, I’m struggling to remember an earlier or more
powerful memory of music having an indescribable effect on me. Listening to
certain tracks would lead my mood to spiral downhill, into a state of sadness
that would last a while (I want to use the word mood vacuum here, but I don’t
know if that makes any sense!). To this date, I’m wary of listening to more than
a couple of tracks from this movie at one go. The other movie is Hum Dil De
Chuke Sanam, primarily for its composition Albela Sajan. I really liked the
‘mood’ of the song, only to realize very recently that the ‘mood’ of the songs
is evoked by the raga of a composition. So I now know that I enjoy certain
ragas quite a bit. I’m also beginning to understand my preference for certain
types of compositions. For example, when I first listened to a thumri, I didn’t realize that my liking wasn’t simply for that particular
composition but that it extended to the entire genre of thumris. And now I know
I like Shringar Ras compositions.
I don’t think I can bring this entry to a close
without a mention of Pt. Kumar Gandharv. About 3 years ago, Hindustani Classical Music
was completely foreign territory. I first heard a Meera bhajan that his
grandson, Bhuvanesh Komkali, was teaching to some school kids. I still don’t
know what was so special about it all – was it because I was with all
those school kids in the room flooded with sunlight? Was the
magic of Kumar Ji’s music and the fact that his grandson told me that his grandfather used
to sing this to him when he was very young? Or was I simply carried away with the bhaav of the nayika
captured in the lyrics? But it did leave a deep impression on my mind and my heart. I was so overwhelmed that I remember having to fight back my tears. I
didn’t quite manage to find a recording of the bhajan, but I heard it at a
couple of concerts after that – one at an auditorium and another one
online, and I choked up on both these occasions.
About six months ago, a friend shared some gems
from his music collection. These included some thumris – I listened to a few of
those and I just couldn’t shake off the feeling of intoxication! He also shared
a collection of Kumar Ji’s Nirgun Bhajans and I felt that there was a certain
sense of simplicity and truthfulness about them, which made me feel at home.
These didn’t intimidate me the way most other classical music does and I wondered why that was the case.
Then almost as though by design, during the
lockdown period, I chanced upon a fantastic collection of essays written about
Kumar Ji's music. A couple of things stayed with me – that how he was a child prodigy,
but also a huge question mark on the tradition of Hindustani Classical Music.
That his music was that of struggle. That the ‘truth’ in his compositions was by design. That he wasn’t just a singer, but a poet, a painter but many
other things rolled into one. A lot of things suddenly started making sense
after reading just a couple of chapters. There was a distinct realization that what
really is the aim of an integrated approach in the arts and how does it bring
together the various parts of an individual together as a ‘whole’ in terms of
mind and soul. This also means that music isn’t just another thing that I’m
setting out to do, but it’s an integral part of the journey that I’ve already
embarked upon!
