How would you like to have Stephen Hawking teach you the A-S-T of astrophysics? Rafael Nadal tutor you on a tennis court? Or Salman Rushdie take you through a creative writing workshop? In your dreams, did you say?
Okay, let’s get real. How about having Ustad Amjad Ali Khan walk you through Indian classical music — sing the sargam with you, deconstruct raga s, unravel the intricacies of taal s right from the basic dhin dha , share his memories of the musical greats, correct your wrist technique as you play the sarod , encourage you as you sing (sacrilege!) a popular Bollywood song — and end with a glorious finale as he plays the temperamental, notoriously difficult Raga Bhairavi ?
Those of us who spent two dream-like days being taught the principles of classical music by arguably India’s greatest living musician, scarcely felt worthy of the privilege. How, we asked ourselves, had we got this lucky?
We were a rag-tag bunch that had signed up for this workshop conducted by the Ustad and his sons, Amaan and Ayaan. Many of us had not trained in classical music (my brief interlude with the veena barely qualified). Just a handful played an instrument and a few sang, largely film music. There were businessmen, doctors, corporate types, a couple of journalists and a cartoonist, besides the few students who brought their instruments along. The only thing we all had in common — and it was at the very bottom of the scale — was the simple desire to appreciate Indian classical music.
Turned out those credentials were quite enough for the ustad . “It’s a good thing you don’t understand,” he assured one earnest participant who confessed to her inadequacies. “People come up to me and say, ‘I feel embarrassed that I don’t know anything.’ But no one understands anything! As a listener, you are not supposed to understand music. Bas, anand lena zaroori hai (What’s important is to derive joy from it).”
To make it even easier, he added, “Music is not just about singing or playing an instrument. It is everywhere; in poetry, in a recitation, in our conversation — all this is part of music.”
A silent relief coursed across the room at this declaration. We were instantly liberated from the pressure to learn, to remember, to take notes. Now, all we had to do was sit back and let the magic envelop us. The ustad had only one caveat: “You must always give music your full concentration.”
Another enthusiast spoke for many of us when he said he was untrained and couldn’t identify different raga s — but he did love to sing. So sing, commanded the maestro. Followed a passionate rendition of a film song and the words the singer had hoped for: “You have a good voice.” Later the ustad told me, “What does it matter if he doesn’t know one raga from the other? He enjoys singing. So he sings. And he sings in sur . That’s enough.”
The students were luckier — they did not have it that easy. The maestro made the instrumentalists play, then sing, and keep count with him as he went through various taal s. He watched their hands, their beats and their choice of raga s. One young beginner who played Raga Hamir underwent some gentle questioning: why did she choose this difficult raga at this early stage? “It’s the first one my teacher taught me,” she said, nervously. “Tell your teacher to come and meet me tomorrow,” said the maestro, deadpan. (No, the teacher did not turn up.)
The rest of us, the sincere pretenders, studied vicariously as he analysed the students. When he instructed one sarod player, “Don’t move your whole hand; just the wrist, like this —” we flexed our untrained wrists. When he put another player through his paces: Da ra da /da ra da/ da ra da/ da ra da/ da ra da ra da , we kept beat with them. When he played recordings of some of the greats — his father Haafiz Ali Khan, Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, Rasoolan Bai, M.S. Subbulakshmi, Bhimsen Joshi, Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, Kesarbai Kerkar, Ustad Amir Khan (“He was the musician’s musician; he played for himself”), we sat in rapture with him.
And when he talked of his own experiences with some of these legends, we simply listened. As Srinjoy Chatterjee, who learns the sarod from Amaan Ali Khan, told me, “Even a short conversation with Ustad ji is a lesson.”
Reminiscing about Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, the maestro recounted how the late singer had studied under Haafiz Ali Khan for three years in Gwalior. It was there that he learnt to draw out the subtle differences between the very similar ragas Marwa and Puriya — and declared that it was only then that he could call himself a musician. It was a debt to his guru that he never failed to acknowledge, remarked the ustad pointedly.
As the anecdotes rolled out one after the other, we discovered another of the ustad ’s talents: a wry sense of humour: “Some talk about knowing 2,000 raga s. The question is: how many can you play appealingly? Else, you’ll become a liability, singing your 2,000 raga s.” He took a pithy swipe at musicians who get lost in their onstage experimentation: “We improvise… sometimes more than necessary.” He dismissed the morning raga -evening raga theory (“There’s just no logic to it. Carnatic music doesn’t believe in it; why should we in the North?”). And he reiterated that as listeners, we only had to listen. “Don’t think too much about the music or you’ll lose the enjoyment. We have dedicated our lives to music; leave the thinking to us.”
So we did, and the learning was easy.
But, I wondered, why would this maestro who must be besieged by admirers and students, and who must be knee-deep in invitations from all over the world, devote two whole days to enlightening a bunch of largely confused amateurs, most of whom were not likely to make any dramatic contribution to the world of music?
The ustad viewed it somewhat differently: “This is a very big opportunity for me to spend time with people from so many different walks of life. Whatever their profession, we have music in common. And if this workshop helps make the journey to their goal easier, it will be very satisfying for me.”
Added his son Ayaan, “This is the first time all three of us have done something like this together in India and this interaction has been memorable for us.” Surely he must have heard much of this before? “By and large, yes. But so many new things unfolded today. It’s like music; there’s always a new discovery.”
So it was as much a learning experience for his sons as it was for us? “Absolutely. And to get six hours at a stretch together, to get this undivided attention, to just talk music with our cellphones off—it doesn’t happen!”
His father, however, had moved to a more philosophical level. “The world has become ashant (restless); it is divided, it has lost its peace of mind. We are at a very dangerous point in our history,” he mused. “We need music to bind us together, we need its harmony. Reham ki zaroorat hai (We need more compassion). My mission is to spread joy and the message of togetherness through my music.”
There was plenty of all of that over those two days. With a bit of education thrown in for us in the bargain. Contrary to the ustad ’s diktat, we found ourselves learning about music and old-fashioned stuff like dedication and humility and generosity and patience. Ah, but perhaps that’s how the master had planned it all along.
A mother and a wife
The magic of his first encounter with M.S. Subbulakshmi has stayed with Amjad Ali Khan. “One day, I was driving my car — it was a Fiat I remember — when I heard the most beautiful voice on All India Radio. I was very young, I had only heard of Subbulakshmi ji , I had not heard her sing till then. But when I heard that voice, I knew it had to be her. I stopped my car; I could do nothing but listen to her voice.”
The spell continues, he says: “To this day, I have not heard a voice with such a degree of spirituality.”
For those who don’t know, the ustad ’s wife Subhalakshmi (who studied dance under Rukmini Devi Arundale) was named after the singer. Leading the maestro to once remark that he was honoured to have two Subbulakshmis in his life: one as a mother and the other as his wife.
