Moving my fingers on the pristine ‘pudis’ of my brand new instrument, I would sometimes wonder, “While in the West, they play ‘Steinways,’ why can’t we in India, play ‘Sadanands’?” The former referred to the world’s finest pianos and the latter were tablas crafted by one of India’s best artisans, the late Sadanand Kashikar, fondly called ‘Sadabhau.’
Whenever I am saddened by the thought of such unsung geniuses who, instead of being hailed as international icons, live and die in poverty and obscurity, the temple-bell tone of his right hand (dayan) treble drum would instantly elevate my spirit.
Whether it is the majestic thaap of Ustad Ahmedjan Thirakwa and the spiritual resonance of Ustad Amir Hussain Khan or the ethereal aans (continuity of sound) of Pandit Nikhil Ghosh, the sound owed it to the skill of Sadabhau, the master designer.
Although he crafted tablas for several generations of artists right from those mentioned above to Ustads Alla Rakha and Zakir Hussain, Pandits Samta Prasad and Anindo Chaterjee, and even those after them, the jovial maverick lived and died in humble surroundings.
At his cramped home-cum-workshop in a chawl in Pratiksha Nagar in Mumbai’s Sion Koliwada area, the clink of cups brimming with the typical Maharashtrian style strong ginger tea would precede the open, ringing sound of his newly prepared instruments.
With an infectious smile and a radiant face, Sadabhau would spend hours talking to clients about his rendezvous with stalwarts, their idiosyncrasies, and how an ideal tabla must sound. “While the ‘dayan’ should have an open, clear, ringing, sweet tone, the ‘bayan’ (left hand bass drum) must produce a deep, basal, open ‘ghom’ sound,” he would explain.
After Sadabhau’s death, his son Ramakant carries on his legacy. Ever-smiling and a man of few words, Ramakant is hard to spot in a crowd. His monosyllabic responses are in contrast to his speed of delivery and impeccable quality, which has impressed many maestros. One of the world’s finest tabla makers to be around, he is humility pesonified. humble. Ramakant goes that extra mile by visiting his customer’s home even for a simple ‘khenchi’ (pull-tuning) that will take only a few minutes. “My father, under the mentorship of the late Pandit Pandharinath Nageshkar, disciple of Ustad Amir Hussain Khan, had worked with generations of artists and had been an integral part of their sadhana. Each shared a unique rapport with him and assisted him for decades, and I imbibed the nuances of the skill,” he explains in rustic Marathi. Having accompanied his father to the homes and concerts of great tabla players, Ramakant has a fine sense of tune and pitch required for a perfect stage performance. “There were times when my father had prepared brand new pairs and delivered them at the concert venues directly. Maestros would just try them, approve them on the spot and take them to stage straightway, only to play some of their life’s memorable mehfils,” he smiles.
Explaining how tablas are made from scratch, Ramakant demonstrates the miracle of making tough goat skin sound like what legendary Persian mystic Rumi experienced, “Har tabla ke goshaayam, zaan qand e bikaraan ast” (every tabla that I play, boundless sweetness emerges from it).
Right from cutting to size, sheets of goat hide and smoothening them, boring holes along their diameter, passing tough buffalo-hide straps through them, tempering the skin, carving out the kinaar (outer edge), sur (inner edge) and black circular center, the siyaahi, to tuning it to pitch, an incredible amount of physical strength and patience is required to make one of the world’s most evolved percussion instruments.
“Years of practice, training and the relentless passion for the craft, and a part of your soul begins to resound in these drums,” says Ramakant. No wonder his bayans are considered among the best in the country.
While quick-tearing drum tops are every tabla player’s nightmare, a large, low pitched, D sharp-E dayan gifted to me by Sadabhau as a teenager, lasted me well over a decade, even first-time listeners in far-off countries were moved by its spiritual tone. As I recently played at a soiree on Ramakant’s sparkling new pair, still in perfect tune despite a nerve-freezing European winter, Rumi truly spoke through its soulful Dhwani, “Dar gush e jaanam rasad, tabl e raheel az aasmaan” (in the ears of my soul did resound, the tabla cascading from the heavens).
