Requiem in Raga Janki

by Neelum Saran Gaur

  Hassu demonstrated. Janki replicated. Raga Yaman it would be for months.

  ‘My close kin, Bahadur Hussain Khan, yes, the selfsame maestro who found serpents in his bedroom, taught Inayat Hussain Khan only one raga for years and that was the Gaud-Sarang. Each raga has its own character and personality, its hour and estate, and must be realized in profound communing with it. And there are individual histories too, bearing the signature of teachers both divine and human.’

  After Raga Yaman Hassu moved on to Raga Todi, of which there were eighteen different kinds.

  ‘Some time back you asked me why the emperor Aurangzeb banned music and I commanded you to be patient, which you most admirably were,’ went on Hassu. ‘The moment is come when I shall answer your question, and to that end I shall speak of Raga Todi. There is a whole extended family of Todis. The one invented by Tansen, Akbar’s durbar singer, fondly called “Mian” by the emperor, has the name “Mian ki Todi”.

  ‘Tansen didn’t come willingly to Akbar’s court. He was compelled to leave his original patron, Raja Ram Chandra of Rewa, and move to the Imperial Mughal’s capital at Agra. Which he did most reluctantly. He was seventy years old and wanted to retire and renounce the world, but he had no choice. But once established in the Great Mughal’s durbar he shone like the brightest star in the firmament.

  ‘When the time came to depart the earth he wondered which of his four sons should succeed him as first musician. Surat Sen, Sharat Sen, Taranga and Vilas Khan were each singers of skill and distinction, so it was hard to choose. His time approaching, Tansen summoned his four sons and told them: “It is time for me to leave this life, my sons, and my heart grows faint. Just a few moments remain to me, after which the breath shall leave my body. Then, when that has happened, sing to me, my sons. Sing one by one beside my lifeless form. He that shall sing the best shall move my corpse to raise its hand in benediction. He shall be my successor.” So it transpired. It is said that when the youngest son, Vilas Khan, sang his own version of Todi, Tansen’s lifeless hand rose of its own volition and blessed the lad. That Todi is called the Vilas Khani Todi and its notes are saturated with the grief of loss and bereavement. Vilas Khan’s descendants inherited the position of court maestros at the Mughal durbar. Two generations later, the emperor Shah Jahan faced a quandary similar to the one faced by Tansen long ago: how to choose a successor between four contending sons. Once again the Raga Todi made history. In the war of succession between the sons of Shah Jahan, the chief vazeer, Ali Mardan Khan, predicted that whichever of Shah Jahan’s sons had the services of a particular official, Murshid Quli Khan, that son would succeed him as emperor. Shah Jahan had intended attaching him to Dara, his eldest and noblest son. But Aurangzeb, the youngest son of Shah Jahan, bribed Khushal Khan, who was Vilas Khan’s son-in-law and court musician then, with a lakh of rupees. Together they hatched an ingenious plot. Everyone knew of Shah Jahan’s love for Raga Todi. It was said that the emperor always grew rapt, on listening to Todi sung or played, that he grew quite heedless of the world. On the Nauroz festival, while Khushal Khan outdid himself singing Todi, Ali Mardan Khan quietly slipped the document regarding Murshid Quli Khan’s transfer to Aurangzeb in the Deccan before the emperor, who, without so much as a glance at it, promptly affixed his signature, while immersed in the mysteries of the raga. Later, on discovering his gaffe, he was deeply embarrassed. But an emperor could not show himself up as so careless as to sign a document without reading, nor could he withdraw his orders on that plea. So Aurangzeb, the fourth son, by craft and design, acquired the general who would help him seize the throne. Khushal Khan was disgraced, allowed to retain his title of “guna-samundar”, or “ocean of merit”, but prohibited from ever singing in the future. For Aurangzeb, once he ascended the throne, grew acutely suspicious of music, which was always associated in his mind with Khushal Khan’s treachery and Shah Jahan’s carelessness. If a maestro could betray his master’s salt with a song for a lakh rupees, if music could turn an emperor so irresponsible as to make him sign an important state document without looking at it, then music was a most pernicious influence. But Aurangzeb actually did not hate music, no. Banning music was a political decision, an eccentric reaction, that’s all. See, had Khushal Khan’s Todi not impaired the emperor’s wits, the history of our land might have been otherwise. Maybe the saintly Dara might have been emperor and what would Indian history have been then? That’s Todi for you.

  ‘And our next object of study, Malhar. Of course you know the story of Tansen singing Raga Deepak that invoked the celestial fire and found his body in flames and that two women instantly sang Raga Megh Malhar that called down the rain from the clouds and doused the deadly flames. But in truth that’s just a doubtful old wives’ tale. For Raga Deepak was created not by Tansen but by Haji Sujan Khan on whom Akbar bestowed the title Deepak-Jyot—Light of the Lamp. And Raga Malhar, for some reason, you’ll be interested to know, has several avatars mostly associated with women. Like Todi there are several Malhars—Meera ki Malhar, Birju ka Malhar and, my favourite story, the one about the courtesan in Gujarat. She, it was said, was the greater maestro, far surpassing the legendary Tansen. She’d slip off her nose ring and drop it into a dry well. Then she’d start her song, and as she sang, the mighty clouds burst and the rain roared down and filled the well to overflowing, and the pretty little nose ring came floating up to the surface, and she ceased her song and retrieved it with an artful smile that threw a triumphant challenge to the awestruck Tansen. It is said that he learnt how to sing Raga Malhar from her, though her name is lost and his is writ large in the history of music. And there was another Malhar, this one invented by that saintly madman, Baiju, contemporary to Tansen, the one whose singing stopped a massacre. The one who went seeking his adopted son, Gopal, who’d basely run away and refused to recognize him. There are various accounts of Gopal’s desertion. In one account Baiju had arranged a match for him with a girl named Prabha, a disciple of his. A daughter was born to them and they named her Meera. Then Gopal disappeared and Baiju went in desperate search and eventually traced him. He’d been appointed durbar singer at the Kashmir court (though a parallel account would have him in Jodhpur) and on Baiju’s appearance there, he strongly denied that Baiju had ever been his teacher. A contest was organized by the maharaja’s orders and Baiju sang a poignant composition in Raga Bhimpalasi, the words of which were: “Wherefore this fake vanity, oh ye that are called virtuous?” The composition ended with a direct address to Gopal’s conscience: “Sayeth Baiju, the music-crazed, O hear me, Son Gopal, what availed thee thus to deny thy teacher?”

  ‘The song left Gopal deeply disturbed and he sprang forward and fell at Baiju’s feet. It is said that Gopal perished of guilt, so violently did his heart beat in shame and penitence. His body was cremated in Baiju’s broken-hearted presence on the banks of the river Indus, and his ashes immersed in the waters of the river. Neither his wife Prabha nor his daughter Meera were there and when they learnt of Gopal’s death, they hastened, frantic with grief, to Kashmir, and wept bitterly on discovering that no trace remained of Gopal, not even his ashes, that they had had no part in his funeral rites. If only we could have performed his last rites, they mourned. Baiju was moved by their distress and he taught Meera a special kind of Malhar. He asked her to seat herself on the riverbank and sing the raga he’d taught her. She obeyed. She closed her eyes and sang and lo! The river Indus stopped flowing and listened. Then it began flowing upstream, reversing the way of nature. It returned Gopal’s ashes to the bank from which they had been cast for Gopal’s wife and daughter to gather in an urn and perform the rituals they so much longed to do. That raga is known as Meera ki Malhar. For the next six months, daughter, we shall practise the various kinds of Malhar. Hear me demonstrate the basic scale.’

  Hassu guided Janki through a lengthy and intensive course. There were ragas which had their origins in folk tunes, he told her. Like Raga Tilak Kamod, for example, created by the master Pyar Khan. Once, tr
avelling through a village, he heard a woman singing at her grindstone. He was taken with the melody, the way it was configured, the way the notes were strung along. He returned home and tried them out. And created a new raga, Tilak Kamod. ‘There are hundreds of ragas, daughter,’ said Hassu. ‘The names of their creators are oftentimes writ in ancient and medieval texts. Hussain Shah Sharqi, king of Jaunpur, was a musician. Remember, kings were often maestros in their own right, and tutored musicians. Babur played the veena, which was then called the been, and Akbar played nagara-drums. And we aren’t even looking further into history which has conquerors like Samudragupta strumming the strings. Hussain Shah Sharqi is said to have invented twelve ragas—the Gaur Shyam, the Malar Shyam, the Bhopal Shyam and four Todis of his own, including the Jaunpuri Todi. And Ibrahim Adil Shah of Bijapur is believed to have invented Bhopali, Bhairav, Asawari, Desi, Poorvi, Kalyan and Kedar. Amir Khusrau, Man Singh Tomar, Nemat Khan Sadarang—there are many shining names that come to mind. Other ragas there are whose origins are misted in mythology. Pleased with Sage Narada’s austerities, Shiva is said to have bestowed five instantly created ragas, one from each of his five mouths. These ragas are Bhairav, Hindol, Megh, Deepak and Shree. Then his consort, Parvati, awoke. She’d been fast asleep and Shiva, meanwhile, had created the rudraveena in her slumbering-woman’s shape. Waking, she contributed a sixth raga to Narada’s store, the Kaushik raga. Mark you, the same raga has multiple traditions of origin, depending on which text is consulted. Mark also that several ragas may have identical notes but the manner of singing and the style of rendition distinguishes them one from the other. Take for instance Bhairavi, Ramkali and Kalingada. What distinguishes them is fine points of rendition, shifting raag-bhaava, by which we mean the disposition, the sensibility of the raga, its temperament, its soul-shade.

  ‘After the ragas, the forms. Raga-sensibility and rhythm-artistry—ragadari and layakari—are like the two streams of the Ganga and the Yamuna meeting and blending in a mighty single stream at Allahabad. They blend in various time-honoured forms developed over the centuries. Dhrupad is the one every serious student of music must begin with, yes, even women I say, though it hasn’t been traditionally regarded as a women’s mode. Dhrupad has thousands of ancient compositions that exercise the singer’s range. Stylized songs in praise of the gods. The sixteen varieties of dhrupad have their syllabic rules, their ruling rasas and their fruits, which include longevity, prosperity, progeny, fame, joy, sexual fulfilment, victory and enthusiasm. Khayal or a meandering exposition of a raga, exploring, improvising, along certain conventional routes, taking certain customary variations of pace and design. Thumri, or the plaint of longing cast into verse and refrain. Dadra, which is a faster-paced poem of the heart sung as a raga. Ghazal, or the cry of the gazelle in unrequited yearning. Bhajan, which is prayer. For each there are thousands of ancestral compositions, or bandishes, brief lines of verse redolent of the seasons of nature and the ardours and agonies of the human heart. The more bandishes a singer practises, the better is one’s training. Those compositions were the treasured property of the music clans, the feudal gharanas, and maestros were possessive about their rich collections, gifting them as wedding endowments to favoured daughters, or bestowing them as precious trophies to deserving disciples. Alladiya Khan was made to practise all night long, and he had ten thousand to twelve thousand bandishes in his repertoire. To address the bandish from eight angles, the ashta-disha, that is the classic grooming of a true singer, and to adhere to its integrity in every particular, that is the test.

  ‘And there are devices of the voice to be mastered, tricks of the vocal cords to add that many delightful dimensions to what a human voice can do. Melodic trills, taans, those whirlwind ladders of notes that the voice races up in vibrating circuits and spirals and plunging cataracts of descent. And delicate traceries of tremolo, smooth, pliant glissandos. There are many kinds of taans, daughter. The deep, ground-quaking boom of the halaq taan, the throaty reverberation of the gamak taan which sounds like throbs of water pouring out of a broad-mouthed earthen pitcher. The swift elasticity of the fikra and firat taans. The mukh-bandi taan that is performed with mouth closed, and the jabra taan that is executed with tongue hanging out. The larazdar taan is grand and steady with a rhythmic pulse in its grain that weaves in and out in clever tanglings and untanglings. The hikka taans move in pulsating shocks of hiccupping jerks. Then there are chhoot taans and sapaat taans and taans with awesome names—the crackle-of-lightning or kadak-bijli taan, the haathhi-chinghar or the trumpeting elephant and the nangi-talwar or the naked sword. Aside from taans there are the embellishment or alangkars, the harkat or vocal sleight, the khatka or quick toss, the murki or fine ripple like the breeze blowing along a woman’s silk headcloth. The kampa or tremolo, the murchhana or modulation, the andolan or stir of pleasing complication, the sooth or slide and the meend or deep glide. The zamzama which creates the shimmer of a celestial stream glimmering in the noonday sun. All this the voice must be trained to do, aside from vistar and behlawa, expanding and diversion. And dum-saans or breath control. We used to hang earthen pots from the ceilings of our riyaz chamber. They gave a nice resonance to the rooms we practised in,’ said Hassu to Janki. ‘Also, we were careful about what we ate or drank. Never you drink the water cooling in a new pitcher, a kora matka. It is vile for the vocal cords. Eat lots of desi ghee and almonds. Do you know what my elder brother Haddu Khan’s diet is? Half a seer of milk in a bucket with four jalebis aswim in it. That’s his morning meal on waking. He has korma and rotis for lunch, the rotis piled up and measured in hand-spans. He does a hundred sit-ups every daybreak and then practises for hours, producing taans fit to rattle the arches of heaven! Another maestro of my acquaintance always has finely ground almonds in the mornings, and once, when his sprightly young daughter-in-law ground in peanuts instead, he spat it out in deep disgust, declaring: “My business is to tell the true note from the false, Bibi. I know a peanut from an almond!” So eat well, I say, and exercise well, for music needs power and endurance, as every singer knows. Then put in your best, practise and practise and practise till absolute virtuosity is yours and the Sayyad of Mausiqui is compelled to visit your chamber in the dark watches of your sleep and bless you. Do not be discouraged, though, when you can’t. Many of the best have been awful when they started out. Khuda Baksha, the son of Mian Shyam Rang, had earned the nickname of “Ghaghghay”—his voice was so hoarse. He received his taalim under my reverend grandfather. Fourteen years he put in and lo! His voice turned so sweet that people sat with bedewed eyes when he sang. And there was a sarangi player named Mirach Khan who’d practised so hard at his sarangi outside the shrine of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia in Dilli that his arm had grown bent along the shape of the bow. We need commitment like that.

  ‘But most of all we need God’s grace. When all the labour has been put in and all the concentrated will, remember that the ultimate shine is a gift from Allah, if He so pleases. The old dhrupadiyas used to sing Pratham Man Omkar, by which is meant “The first honoured is the sacred om syllable”. And the Muslim dhrupadiya Haji Sujan Khan adapted it to “Pratham Man Allah”. Do not forget, daughter, that human effort alone won’t do, you need the descent of grace. Be sure that shall come when you have submitted your best for divine acceptance, making of your music an offering, not an achievement.’

  9

  Janki’s biography mentions four siblings, Kashi, Paraga, Mahadei and Beni Prasad. Kashi, Paraga and Mahadei died before the relocation from Benaras to Allahabad but Beni Prasad came along. Janki mentions him fondly.

  Life in a women’s kotha couldn’t have been comfortable for Beni Prasad. There were a few boys in the household but they had been born in the kotha and grown up there, having known no other identity save that of ‘our boys about the house’. Beni Prasad couldn’t fit in, couldn’t stomach the transformation that came over his mother and sister or unlearn his former existence as a respectable householder’s only son. Manki was mindful of h
is torment and arranged for lessons.

  Tutors had been hired for Janki. A maulvi sahib came from Daryabad to teach her Persian and Urdu. A panditji came to teach her Sanskrit and an English-knowing master sahib had been appointed to impart lessons in English. Janki was an apt and eager pupil and uncannily quick to learn. But when Manki suggested that Beni sit in at the lessons the experiment failed. Beni had no interest and seemed wanting in basic intelligence. Bored, he stole away and flew kites on the terrace with a bunch of kotha lads. He was older than them all and usually kept his distance, maintaining a surly aloofness in his dealings with them. They mimicked him behind his back and made up nicknames for him but behaved with reserved deference in his presence. If the Sahib Bahadur, as they called him, was a snob and thought himself superior and separate, there was at least one thing about him that they genuinely respected—his kite-flying skills. This he taught them on winter afternoons and when the first rains came and a little team of kotha boys came up who excelled in stalking and assaulting every kite in the sky, cutting off their strings and sending them reeling across the horizon like wing-shredded birds, teetering to a fall in one of the narrow lanes, attracting a horde of screaming captors, who tore down the backstairs and scampered down the alleys, tracing the drifting descent of the unmoored kite.