It is hard to achieve unity when two musicians sing a jugalbandi, even when they are exploring the same raga itself. If it is not a power struggle, it could end up being two diverse expressions, often leaving the listener at crossroads. Considering the highly imaginative nature of Indian classical music, this cannot even be seen entirely as the shortcoming of musicians involved, but faulty nature of the very jugalbandi arrangement. What would it be if both the musicians involved sang different ragas? The result at The Hindu’s Friday Review November Fest was spellbinding. The extraordinary Ashwini Bhide Deshpande and the alluring Sanjeev Abhayankar kept the audience intensely involved with their Jasrangi – a jugalbandi that functions on the principle of moorchana . The musically enlightened audience of a nearly full auditorium, absorbed the intensity of the drama that unfurled between the two musicians, with such sensitivity that it almost seemed that the forces had come together to make this moment.
The ancient moorchana principle, reinvigorated by Pandit Jasraj, combines the male and female principles of music. Here, the female singer makes the shadja her take off point (like in the normal course of things), while the male voice makes the madhyama his reference point. Principally, what this results in is two different ragas, but they are effectively dwelling on the same notes. Moorchana, in Carnatic music parlance is the concept of shruti bedha , where you shift your adhara shadja to any other note on the scale and what it produces is a different raga.
Ashwini Bhide Deshpande chose Raga Lalith and Sanjeev Abhyankar, sang the resultant Pooriya Dhanashree. Ashwiniji’s Lalith used the natural dhaivath (shuddh dha) for her rendition of Lalith as opposed to the more commonly heard flat dhaivath (komal dha) these days. According to musicologist Bhatkande’s treatise of Hindustani classical music, Lalith has shuddh dhaivath and therefore belongs to the Marwa That. This naturally bestows the raga with a serious and reflective temperament. Suppose, Ashwiniji had sung Lalith with komal dhaivath, its counterpart would have been Todi.
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With the duo chanting the typical Mewati gharana “Om shri Hari Narayana” the concert opened to an electrifying Lalith, built robustly by Ashwiniji. Slow in its pace, the raga unfolded like the flower which blooms petal by petal to sunlight, spreading its characteristic fragrance. Soaking in the lovely Lalith, Sanjeevji gradually entered into the landscape of Lalith with the poignant notes of Puriya Dhanashree. The lovely bandish “Doondana Jaavu” almost seemed like a metaphor for their own musical search. Their musical improvisations, rooted as it were in ancient Indian classical music tradition, at times invoked ideas of Western classical music – syncopating phrases, and the sa-ma scales played up like chords. When Ashwiniji articulated the melodic improvisations in Lalith, Sanjeev subtly overlapped it with swara patterns in Pooriya Dhanashree. And when Sanjeev dwelt on the melody, Ashwiniji embellished it with immaculate tans. These moments of dissonance dissolved into a unity that kept evolving throughout the delineation. The harmony of temperament that the two musicians achieved in the concert was so remarkable that when Sanjeevji summed up a
Each member of the team (it had two tabliyas and two harmonium players) was filled with a new excitement and it seemed that they had all shed their formulaic musical selves and were walking towards an unknown destination with the wonderment of first time travellers. If either of the artistes – Ashwiniji or Sanjeevji – had sung these ragas independently, it may have had greater profundity. But the very nature of this dialogue was so movingly deep that it laid bare the complexities of such a musical conversation.
The immensely talented Sanjeevji whose music leans towards the popular, seemed to don a different persona in this concert. A musician of great depth, Ashwiniji made the entire exercise soul searching, with fastidious adherence to the principles of khayal presentation. Throughout, it was evident that one raga was casting its shadow on the other, but at no point did it take away their respective identities.
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This masterpiece main piece was followed by a Durga-Bhupali exchange which was summed up by a lilting tarana. The concert drew to a close with a Surdas bhajan which was reminiscent of Lakshmi Shankar’s memorable “Man Har” in Madhukauns.
It was indeed a jugalbandi that altered the prevalent notion of jugalbandi itself.