A fundamental philosophical query is regarding the nature of the ultimate good that man ought to pursue. Freedom, truth, God-realisation, authentic existence, moksha , and so on have been proposed in a myriad garbs.
When hard-nosed British philosophers of the 17 and 18 centuries proposed that man’s ultimate goal is, simply, happiness, and — the bedrock principle of democracy — the greatest happiness of the greatest number, their more pensive counterparts on the continent cringed. Happiness was too banal for them; certainly too banal a conclusion to lofty philosophical enquiry. One great man said with obvious contempt: “Man does not seek happiness — only the Englishman does.” In England too there were questions — if it is only happiness that ought to be pursued as the ultimate good, then is pushpin (a popular game of chance and skill) equal to poetry and, one may ask in our context, classical music?
This would be the question to agonise over in these times when the classical arts are getting less and less support. Is there in the classical arts something of so great a value that they should be pursued and supported even though when administered the democratic test they might well score abysmally?
How does one describe the experience of seeing a great painting or reading a luminous piece of prose or listening to powerful music? It is best if one does not! There is an ineffable quality to this experience, as has been recognised across cultures. The Kashmir thinker Abhinavagupta said it was alaukika or not of this world — of practical cares and fulfilments... of pushpin.
The initial mystique of a musician’s music or a writer’s writing wears off when we are able to put a finger on the techniques employed and the organising principles used. Yet, the music is never a sum of technique and repertoire et al. A writer is always more than his vocabulary. Much more.
The essential thing perhaps is the mind of the artiste — her mind during the performance, the creation. Beyond technique and skill and virtuosity, the quality of inwardness that he or she manages to attain makes for the difference between very competent music and great music. And this, in a magical way, communicates itself even to the “layest” of listeners — in a hush, unfathomably.
Our best musicians get into this frame of mind — empty until the moment the music begins to flow out. Very rarely, almost never, an entire concert can carry this quality; more commonly, there are a few such moments in some concerts.
It is such music that makes wading through lesser music worthwhile. It is the possibility of such moments that sets the classical arts apart. We sit through an entire concert for those fleeting moments when all — musicians and audience alike — are merged wondrously into one consciousness. It puts us in touch with the deepest and quietest parts of us, and that is its value.
And what is this creation? Especially in something like Carnatic music, which is so rooted in tradition? The musician draws from a tradition, has had years of training and practice, and yet, when he attains that state of inwardness, the creation springs spontaneously — not out of any deliberate effort of memory and cleverness. Even if the form and content are well known, there is still the quality of freshness — like that of spring blossoms that, year after year, come out in the same well-known colours and form and texture, but.... timeless beauty.
And if we don’t value the fragile beauty of our mallipoo and kanakambaram , so what? Nothing really — and everything!
(Lakshmi Sreeram is a Carnatic and Hindustani vocalist, and writer.)
