Blowing in the woodwind
TM Krishna’s new book on mrdangam makers moves these Dalit master craftspersons from the margins to the mainstream of Carnatic music discourse
Imentioned to a friend that I was writing about TM Krishna’s new book. She retorted, “Discourse Krishna?” Krishna would perhaps giggle at this but discourse, indeed, seems to be his favourite preoccupation. The word recurs multiple times in this book too. And so it is that Krishna has earned a new sobriquet – discourse .Itisa much loved coinage for many of us working in the humanities or social sciences, which encourage discourse – to discuss, debate, dialogue about something. The term also indicates a temperament which is largely missing in writing about the classical performing arts in India. Look at the paeans that pass as biography or at the writing on gharanas or other historical traditions. Few of these authors ask critical questions of their traditions. Do the classical arts breed subservience or humble submission? I will let you figure that out for yourself. In such a vacuum, a voice like TM Krishna’s, both as performer and writer, is of great significance. Jeer at him; disdain him for singing less, talking more; comment on his performances as you
Sebastian & Sons – A Brief History of Mrdangam Makers
TM Krishna PP366, ~799
Westland like -- I too was disappointed at the last recital I attended in Pune -- but Krishna must discourse and inspire many more to follow suit. He also destabilises the popular perception of a classical music virtuoso who might raise questions or critique tradition through practice alone. His last two books, though with their limitations, are worthy interventions by a practitioner who does not rely on archives or recorded history alone for his writing. These are books which incorporate the experience of the performer. His latest, Sebastian & Sons , is a thoughtful treatise on Karnatic music and caste. Krishna presents his thesis through the history of mrdangam makers like Sevittian or Sebastian and his sons, Shengol, Parlandu and Antony, amongst many other artists engaged in the making of the mrdangam, the primary percussion instrument integral to Carnatic music. Buffalo, goat and cow skin are used to make the instrument.
What is common about the makers? They are dalits and thus invisible from the gentle discourse that pervades the classical music ecosystem. We endlessly speak about the instrument, the mastery of the performers and their musical sensibilities without ever referring to the maker or creator such as Parlandu and his brothers. Who made the instrument then? Did it drop out of heaven straight into the lap of the performers? We also don’t tire of talking about the sound of percussion instruments. Is the sound created by the performer alone? Does the maker play no role in the process? Or is it the result of a collaboration, such as the one that Krishna mentions in the book between the celebrated mrdangam maestro Palghat Mani Iyer and Parlandu?
Krishna informs the reader that there are no retirement benefits for these artists. Most suffer from back problems. Some, who attempted to perform, were shunned and told to concentrate on making the instrument. Many are routinely troubled by the police on suspicion that they are dealing in illegal animal skins. While we have numerous stories about the performers, the makers are conspicuous by their absence. Krishna tries to correct this historical wrong and wonders where the performers would be without the makers. Based on observations, interviews, discussions and findings from extensive field work across parts of Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Kerala and Andhra Pradesh, he admirably unravels the history of the instrument, its makers, their lives, different styles, traditions of making, and the perennial invisibility of the maker owing to his caste and associated notions of purity. There is a particularly moving account of the author’s visit to an abattoir to see and understand where the animal skin used in making mrdangams comes from. How many performing artists, even in the course of writing a book, would do something similar? Throughout these visits and interactions, the author is acutely aware of his Brahmin upbringing and caste privilege. In the book, a mrdangam maker speaks of not being allowed inside the house of a performer while the instrument he made was worshipped in the puja room. Another wonders if performers ever think of the makers during their performances. The instrument, which connects the performer and their audience to divinity, is made by people who are invisible in their music.
Through many such anecdotes, reminisces, accounts and memories, Krishna presents a story of oppression validated through the rigid structures of Karnatic music and society. “As a practitioner of vocal music, I have met some of them over the years and have heard folklores of their abilities. But they were not an integral constituent of Karnatik music’s history or mythology. We knew very little about the people, their lives, struggles or indeed, their creativity and workmanship,” Krishna writes. “Little did I realise then that this was going to be a far more complex and messy investigation that I had envisaged.”
The book is crowded with characters and laborious details about the making of the instrument. The intention is to document and archive. There are also parts that read like a field journal, which could have been further polished. Nevertheless, these are minor concerns. TM Krishna deserves applause for his attempt to move mrdangam makers from the margins to the mainstream of Carnatic music discourse.
Kunal Ray is a culture critic. He teaches literary
& cultural studies at FLAME University, Pune
Having settled into his job with All India Radio in Cuttack, Orissa, in 1957, flautist Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia was devastated when he was transferred to Bombay five years later. He decided to give it a shot for a month, and resign if it didn’t work out. As things turned out, Chaurasia became the most sought after flautist in both Hindustani classical and Hindi film music within a short span. From musician to music director to revered guru, his career has had many highs.
Sathya Saran narrates the story of the master flautist with fluency in her biography, Hariprasad Chaurasia: Breath Of Gold. Apart from his musical achievements, through a series of anecdotes, she brings across his warmth, friendliness and sense of humour. Saran’s smooth and engrossing style was evident in her earlier music biographies of ghazal maestro Jagjit Singh and ace composer SD Burman, and here, she effortlessly brings out Chaurasia’s musical personality.
Many followers of Hindustani classical music are aware of the main events of Chaurasia’s life and career, like his upbringing in a wrestler’s family, the early opportunities, his marriage to Anuradha Chaurasia, his learning under surbahar exponent Annapurna Devi, his collaborations and friendship with santoor maestro Pandit Shivkumar Sharma, and his role in imparting bansuri education at his gurukuls in Mumbai and Bhubaneswar, and the conservatory in Rotterdam, the Netherlands. The earlier biographies
Woodwinds Of Change by Surjit Singh and Romance Of The Bamboo Reed by Uma Vasudev have covered his contribution elaborately, and Saran quotes widely from the former. These are besides the documentary Romancing The Bansuri by his son Rajeev Chaurasia.
Saran adds to this by blending chronologically phased developments with interludes talking of specific incidents. Sections are devoted to the musician’s upbringing in Allahabad, his days in Cuttack and Bombay, his classical career, film music, international concerts and his role as a guru.
Breath Of Gold is preceded by a Hindi poem by Maya Govind, translated into English by Saran, an introduction by sarod maestro Ustad Amjad Ali Khan, and a prelude by tabla wizard Ustad Zakir Hussain, who describes Chaurasia as one of his mentors, someone whom along with Shivkumar Sharma, helped him “to decipher and arrive at the understanding of how my tabla playing should be”.
Early chapters talk of how the young Chaurasia fell in love with music. He listened closely to his mother as she sang lullabies. After her death, his father, Chedilal Pehelwan, took care of the three children. Though he was a wrestler, who wanted his two sons to follow in his footsteps, Chedilal could sing bhajans too. The young Chaurasia hid his fascination for the flute, while he looked for a guru.
The world of bansuri was earlier ruled by Pandit Pannalal Ghosh, who died in 1960. When 19-year-old Chaurasia got his AIR job for the then-decent salary of Rs180, his father let him go, thinking he wouldn’t manage living alone in Cuttack and would soon return. As luck would have it, he was the only flautist among violin, sitar, surbahar, sarangi and tabla players at the radio station. He was flooded with work, and the experience gave him confidence.
The book talks at length about Chaurasia’s work in films, beginning with a phone call from Master Sonik, who assisted music director Madan Mohan, asking him to rush to the studio as the original flautist hadn’t arrived. Soon, assignments began pouring in. “Everybody wanted me,” Chaurasia is quoted as saying, referring to top composers of the time.
His association with Shivkumar Sharma in the 1967 album Call Of The Valley, which also features guitarist Brij Bhushan Kabra, is described in detail. So is the association of the Shiv-hari team with filmmaker Yash Chopra, beginning with Silsila in 1981, where they convinced Amitabh Bachchan to sing.
The creation of the famous flute tune in Subhash Ghai’s Hero is recalled, though it is strange that the director claims to have first heard Chaurasia’s music on CDS, a format, which was not released in India before the film’s release in 1983. A few other inaccuracies crop up in the well-structured book. There is a reference to Ustad Hafiz Ali Khan singing, though he was actually a sarod maestro. Annapurna Devi’s building Akash Ganga is on Warden Road, Mumbai, and not Pedder Road as mentioned. The initials of senior HMV officials are wrong – they are VK Dubey (not UK) and GN (not JN) Joshi. Umrao Jaan was released in 1981 and not 1986. Though readers might not notice these flaws, a little more care would have been in order. Of course, they do not detract from the larger purpose of the book, which is to provide a detailed account of Chaurasia’s magnificent and immense contribution. For classical music fans, this is worth collecting. Narendra Kusnur is a music critic.
He lives in Mumbai.
Hariprasad Chaurasia: Breath Of Gold
Sathya Saran PP256, ~599
Penguin