The drone of the tambura, the resonant tap of the mridangam and the vocalist clearing her throat are the soundtrack of every dancer’s pre-performance jitters. As these instruments get tuned at different frequencies, the dancer too occupies a comfortable muzhumandi in anticipation, her salangai delicately chiming with every movement. Was this always the soundscape of Bharatanatyam?
A piece of rare footage from the court of Baroda (filmed between 1930-1935, published by BritishPathe) shows two rather charming dancers performing a range of repertoire with live musicians behind them. The musical instruments are of particular interest, however, as there appears to be a bagpipe, a harmonium, a mridangam and a pair of cymbals, possibly wielded by the nattuvanar. The musicians are standing behind the dancers, and even though this footage has no audio, it appears that the dancers sing certain pieces. How did the bagpipe and harmonium find their way into the classical dance soundscape? And how did they disappear from dance performances?
Chapters on music
In the quest for answers, it is useful to go back to the Natya Shastra, which contains six complete chapters on the subject of music. In his analysis of instruments, Bharatha describes four categories which are so potent and universal that they still hold today. Instruments are described as “tata” – stringed, “avanadha” — covered percussion, “sushira” — hollow ( such as a flute), and “ghana” — rhythmic support, such as cymbals. An instrument from every category is not mandated in a performance, but in contemporary times it is usually the case that a full orchestra exhibits every typology.
The early dance orchestra, known as the chinna melam in Tamil , consisted of the mukhavina, the mridangam and a bagpipe drone known as the tutti. The tutti was an interesting instrument that fell out of vogue as the tambura became prominent, and explains the mystery of the bagpipe in the Baroda footage. The tutti was so prominent, it is said that legendary dancer Balasaraswati’s arangetram was conducted with one in her orchestra in 1925. Scholar Davesh Soneji postulates that the instrument was used uniquely to accompany devadasis of the Pudukottai region.
The multi-armed Badami Nataraja. | Photo Credit: Gayatri Iyer
The mukhavina, a smaller cousin of the nagaswaram, finds representation in several paintings of devadasi troupes that travelled abroad. The earthy, serpentine sounds of this wind instrument are lost today in favour of the more structured musical patterns of the flute and the veena. While the melodic stylings of modern dance orchestras are enjoyable, one still questions whether this relates to the authentic experience of Bharatanatyam as performed by the courtesans.
Not all wind instruments used traditionally has the rustic quality of the mukhavina, however. Great Carnatic composers like Muthuswami Dikshitar and the Thanjavur Quartet brought the violin into Carnatic performance during the era of the British Raj. Yet, a lesser-known story narrated by historian Sriram Venkatakrishnan is that of the clarinet coming to India, courtesy, King Sarabhoji II of Thanjavur. His training in western music and his vision of Thanjavur as a seat of culture inspired him to include the instrument in his court music. Mahadeva Nattuvanar, an ancestor of the Thanjavur Quartet, was the first to use the clarinet in performance as a part of the chinna melam. While the violin gained mainstream prominence, the clarinet was not accepted as easily, but remained a feature of the dance tradition for several years.
Varieties of instruments used for dance performance date back to as early the fifth century AD, when sculptors commissioned by the Chalukya dynasty created the famous Badami Nataraja. Next to the main figure, we see a figure of Nandi playing two vertical drums that share a likeness to modern bongos. In today’s classical repertoire, a drum like this does not even exist. What kind of sound would it have produced?
While traditions are living, breathing, dynamic entities that reflect their contexts, we must ask whether a change in tradition has incurred a loss of a certain kind of aesthetic. How would Bharatanatyam look when danced with a harmonium? A bagpipe? A clarinet? How would the changing soundscape of the form reflect aesthetic changes in the bodies of dancers? How would sancharis be elaborated upon differently? Would the choice of ragam change with the instrument?
These inquiries pose an interesting challenge for young dancers who always seek the next innovative concept. Perhaps the real lesson lies in understanding that true innovation comes from a thorough immersion in tradition. More specifically, we must change what tradition “sounds” like.
The Bengaluru-based writer is a dancer and research scholar.
