The Artist

 An artist is the one who is tethered to the pole of his passion. This pole is no ordinary, logically definable axis; rather it is ever shifting, ever broadening, ever enfolding entity that envelops the artist from all dimensions. His life then becomes a luxurious escapade into the mystically mazy horizons cajoling him forever and forever; the melodious mix of such courteous calls leaves him an infatuated follower of the lady of his heart and mind. His soul gets a unique imprint. The domain of his art holds him in a firm grip and he turns almost a slave to it. 

In the not too big hall of his two-storeyed house, the head of the family served as the head of an institution as well. Madhav Mishra, defying all diktats of materialism and modern culture, still worshipped his beloved form of art through his Kathak Kendra. Those who registered themselves there were easily carried away on his path, the guru leading the way in full-length traditional costumes.

Well, this little whitewashed hall opened on a not so prosperous street in Indore. As you entered the threshold, you came across a fantastic portrait of Guru Birju Maharaj. The achievement-bound people said the head of this tiny, barely surviving Kendra was a gross under-achiever. While the sensitive arts people still didn’t dither from paying homage to him.

The nondescript persona had in fact performed at a few Lok Utsavas and festivals of India organised in foreign countries. But then all the stars—though equally bright—cannot shine with equal brilliance in the sky’s art-frame; for the world, expecting the true artistic breed to be found in the rarest of rare cases, allows only a few stars to rule the skies; or put it this way, as society needs little doses of artistic sips and that too during those artificially imposed moments by the so called ‘culture-crats’, they select just a few ones for the so called polished and cultured form of entertainment.

Nonetheless, starhood or not, it should not make an artist bigger or smaller. All true artists know this. In this quest for excellence—mostly unrewarding—there are no goalposts to be reached in the shortest time at the greatest of speed. Here, maintaining a run in full earnest is the winning itself. The ever-retreating creative urge is the almost unachievable finishing line. In this game, either all are winners or all losers. Logically, hence, all are winners in their own ways.

The other day, one of his disciples, serving both her artistic passion and the practical means to survival in her capacity as a trained Kathak dancer-cum-journalist, arrived with much gusto at her guru’s place. She had met the Secretary of the Sangeet Natak Akadami at a cultural event she had gone to cover. During the conversation, it had befallen her ears that the post for the Director of a prestigious government funded Kathak Kendra had fallen vacant. Expecting some good to fall in the kitty of her unremunerated guru she had recommended his name.

‘Make sure Anjali that while you run fast and haphazardly to recommend me, the rhythm and movement of Kathak doesn’t escape from the soles of your feet. At my age, I can either have a few fine steps for myself and my trainees, or run after a job. Maybe in youth it is possible, but for now I prefer to do the former only!’ the wise artist calmed down her enthusiasm.

The episode let loose a wave of disappointment through the old maestro’s family.

‘You always kick away whatever good chances come your way!’ they chorused their protest.

‘Mine are no ordinary feet walking in a part of an avenue. I ought to kick away everything that might hamper the fluidity of my movements!’ he hit back his artistic dart.

****

Like the truest of artists—for only they can fall in love with the fullest of force, which either makes (less probably) or breaks (more probably) them—he had fallen deeply in love with a girl when his artistic passion upped the slope on each morning he woke up.

He came from a musical family, the gharana as we call it. His father was the last head of the court musicians of the local ruling family. So he trained each of his four sons and the daughter in classical music and dance. During those days, the princely luxury did find ample accomplishments in artists. So as a child, along with his siblings, he would go for the musical parties arranged by the Maharaja for the high officials and special dignitaries from the British government.

To put a bit of shade on the face of art, the eminent dancers of the court served as mistresses of the noblemen also.

His father held equal expertise in both Hindustani and Carnatic music. One eminent dancer of the court took her dancing steps to the whirlwind of majesty as the handsome moustached Keshava Nath Mishra accompanied her steps to the mystique heights of grandeur. Sometimes as a dance accompanist both he and Leela Bai danced with such synchronism and energy that it left sweat marks on the polished floor. Since Leela Bai was one of the most favoured courtesans, her special status being recognised in the form of a little luxurious palace placed at her disposal, their special chemistry was an eyesore to the ruler’s eyes. Still the relations between the courtesan and the elder Mishra were known to everyone.

Young Madhav was more interested in orchestra that accompanied the steps from an ornately raised platform. Flute was his first item of attraction. His uncle Bhuvaneshwar being the flautist, he took initial lessons from him. Sujata, the beautiful little daughter of Leela Bai, would laugh at him listening to his initial tentative, rough-hewn notes of percussion. In childish disgust he threw away the flute. Nonetheless, his likes and dislikes seemed to share a path with the courtesan’s little daughter, who lived like a princess, being the daughter of one of the Maharaja’s favourite lady of the court.

Following the footsteps of her mother, little Sujata was also being trained as a classical dancer. Although full of childish manners and pranks, her force of dedication to the art was evident in her subtle facial expressions on her beautiful, pink, round face, the fast and expertly unfolding mudras and the fluidity of the movements of her little limbs.

A statue of Bharatamuni (the eminent ancient writer on natya) adorned her little luxuriant room. An eminent exponent of the true tradition trained her under the Maharaja’s special instructions. In fact, the Maharaja loved her like any of her legal daughters. It was a proud day when she led her dance troupe of children—little Madhav being one of them—in honour of a musical party for the British resident of the Central Indian princely states. In this dance drama, Madhav was the Krishna and Sujata played the part of Radha. The legendary drama unfolded to synchronise his heart’s soft soufflés for the little dancing princess. Thus was laid the foundation of a true artistic passion—the love of a woman and love of Kathak.

****

With independence, the princely world with its dreamy charms was broken. Gone were those days of musically saturated, beatifically stagnated luxurious moments. In the changed order of things, the erstwhile ruling families got busy in exploring new roles and esteem in a free, democratic India. This was the time of real struggle for Keshav Nath as the head of a large musical family. The prospects of dance and music as a profession had rapidly dwindled. Art was no longer a spiritual thing to be worshipped like a Goddess during these critical times when more practical things occupied space in people’s mind.

During those moments of riyaz, the necessity of keeping the hearth kindled pulled with its begging bowl at their aprons. The stalwart’s love for his art became merely a series of frustrated movements to and fro to get a chance to perform at festivals and concerts. The time that ought to have gone into regular riyaz to create something new was now utilised for seeking favours with the artists in demand so that he could accompany as a vocalist at concerts.

With his fall in position, he lost the favour of Leela Bai as well, who—thanks to those years of gifts and showers of the Maharaja’s favours, enabling her to live quite comfortably even now—dropped him out of her list of attention. Madhav’s heart was broken as he could no longer visit his childhood favourite’s luxurious apartment. They were now poor after all, he consoled himself.

The father was much worried about the future of his kids. So the eldest son was left as an apprentice-cum-domestic help with a pioneer of tabla gharana. So Kishan, as his name was, put his young palms on the tabla and mundane household chores. He grew up with stars in his eyes to perform one day as a soloist, as a star. However, as the time will tell him, a tabla player’s beats are more fitting as an accompanist—a nondescript entity in the orchestra, while the hero artist bundled up all the accolades to his share.

The other one, Ganesh his name, went as an apprentice to a local doyen of khayal, whom his father knew, to pay his part in the musical homage. After his endless recitals and doing a lot of household work for his guruji, he returned one night as a spent boy. Though in his tone and tenor, the melodic strain was brilliant and aesthetic, yet instead of polishing it the guruji spent most of his flirting time with a European lady—a daughter of some political agent of the British government before independence, who had spent her childhood in the cities of central India and now after having a full swing at the occidental charms had come back to enjoy the oriental enigma of her childhood. Now the guruji trained her as a light classical vocalist. The old doyen of old heritage now trained this white lady with dreams in his eyes of sleeping with her some day. The talent in Ganesh withered with the passage of each day. His guruji won’t so much as give him the slightest attention. As the months passed, he turned into a house servant.  

The third one, Dhruva, had a fling with sitar, sarangi and sarod respectively for some years, and when none of their soundboards talked to him in amorous, sacred tones, he dumped these; and took a spiritual dive into vocal music. This virtuoso of nothing and master of everything put the ageing patriarch in such a situation that the fatherly artist, whom the circumstances were constantly beating to make a real man of him, started beating his child prodigy.

‘You are fit for only a menial job. This sadhna won’t survive with you!’ the much aggrieved father shouted finally.

A pall of gloom descended over the family when one morning they found him missing. They searched for him, but he was not to be found. He was gone to explore his own dream in an unrealistic world galoring with numerous possibilities and prospects.

That leaves us with our very own Madhav. During the fifties of free India, he was growing up with sweet-sour love-strains haunting him. Those were painfully throbbing adolescent days; the pain aggravated by the fact that now they had degenerated into low class. Their lowly status was pinchingly brandished by the fact of their avoidance by those with whom they mixed freely during childhood.

Leela Bai who had been the classical consort of the Maharaja during his royal heydays still enjoyed his favour; his physical and artistic affection for the erstwhile courtesan now changed to fatherly feelings for her daughter Sujata whom he wished to provide the best of education and classical training. The mother and the daughter lived in a luxurious apartment in the city’s affluent section and when the Maharaja—who now enjoyed most of his time holidaying in Europe—returned and spent some time with them, it was just like a family get together.

A young Madhav painfully struggled to yoke himself to the twin purposes of survival and Kathak, his chosen field of art. Sujata, beautiful like a rose and educated like a lady of class, left their city to pursue and hone her skills at the Delhi University’s Faculty of Music and Fine Arts.

Sangeet Natak Akadami arranged a tour of the student artists to Europe. At these festivals, Sujata performed remarkably well.

‘These handpicked Deans and Heads of the Music and Performing Arts Department will soak away juice from the ripe fruit of art to satiate their bulging bellies!’ Madhav would grumble as a new class of culture-crats took leadership in their hands like the erstwhile ruling class and the nobility did earlier.

Music and performing arts now seemed ever eager to get accolades from the affluent sections in the Western world; while the so called cultured class of India leered from the backseats in such a close proximity to the persons of the race that a short while ago in history ruled the country. The spiritual base meanwhile got buried under their well managed, manicured talks in plush auditoriums and fantastically furnished theatres.

Sujata’s young heart had stumbled upon the classical recitals of a young vocalist at the campus. Like the young couples embrace, cuddle, caress and kiss, their explorative steps on the love-path took the medium of their arts. During their free time with each other, under the lyrical and emotively throbbing vocal support provided by her love-accompanist—Kanak was his name—this freshly emerging Kathak exponent honed her repertoire. Time watched mutely at the synchronicity of her limb movements. Many were the eyes that kissed the soft, lyrical waves fleeting around her slanderous body.

The passionate intensity of these love-sessions meant that every performance was meticulously rehearsed. It made her a good student at the most; however, the real artistry is honed during those solacing fine moments when the panged-to-the-core artist creates symmetry around him, isolating himself from the pinching asymmetry of his life otherwise.

One summer she took Kanak to her native town. Showcasing the chaotic, mundane bazaars to her lover—who for the courtesy’s sake praised each and everything they came across—they happened to come across Madhav, time-beaten and worn out by the fruitless passion of his art. Both were struck by the change each one had undergone since they had seen each other last time a few years ago. She was more beautiful than ever; more suave, educated, urbane and dressed untraditionally. Kanak too was in a suit and patent leather shoes; exquisitely showing that their art was no burden on them. They carried it lightly on their light shoulders while they donned those artistic clothes under the light and refreshing guidance of the professionals.

The poor, jealous, silent lover vented out his pathos—as is expected—through the medium of art.

‘These days art needs a paper to prove his/her credentials. Damn the degree. I tell you, they are making this field of music and performing arts cheap and mundane like any other field of study. Good student may you become, but not great artists,’ he blurted out.

Kanak came to the aid of his baffled lover, ‘Dear young man, if being an artist only means wearing heavy wooden sandals then I congratulate you on your simple and concise definition of art,’ with a mocking expression he stared at the jealous lover’s dusted half-worn footwear.

‘And since we have fallen into each other’s way, I’m trying to find an iota of art in the modern, Western trappings around both of you,’ the aggrieved lover almost sneered.

‘Is it art only when one reaches the brink of hunger, without applaud, praise and money. Does dying in oblivion is the only mark of a true artist?’ Sujata retorted, again driving the prong of his adverse situation into his heart.

‘If such fates deter you, then there are manifold lucrative professions in the world where one can put his part-time for great monetary favours. My sweat and toil gives me the trophy of satisfaction. I may appear famished outside, but my interior is furnished with extensive, elaborate, unchecked, unhindered trimmings of my self-taught, self-rehearsed, self-derived artistry,’ Madhav was panting almost with rage that he could barely hide.

‘And just say on whom such art leaves any impression? It makes art fit for nothing in people’s eyes, and that is why they are flocking away from it like the rats from a sinking ship. Art, thus, needs to be showcased, organised at a well fed-up lucrative platform, so that people do look at it with respect instead of mocking at it as you people end up doing!’ Sujata the student, the affluent one, and already used to praise, countered with her pink colour flushing up with anger.

‘Again speaking from the point of art as a mere profession! Lady, art is no mere profession. It is penance. In tapasya there is no part-time. It is just full-time. As per your aspects, art becomes just a part-time thing, while something inartistic takes the centre stage,’ Madhav won’t budge from his point.

‘Then what is the use of devoting your whole life to something if you don’t get recognised?’ the lover couple chattered almost at the same time, and looked at each other with more affection in their eyes for saying the same thing.

‘A true artist is recognised by his own inner self first and foremost!’ Madhav took a deep breath as if to have the same feeling.

‘But one is supposed to be an artist only when the others say that for him. It is the society that has to provide the tab. After all we are social animals,’ Sujata spoke as a very bright student.

‘No, no...no! A true artist is concerned about the eyes of his Goddess of art,’ Madhav spoke a bit louder to subdue her studiousness.

‘Only time and society will tell who of us is right!’ Kanak intervened to close the chapter.

‘What can time and society say regarding art? Both have terribly missed the mark always!’ Madhav said with an ironical sigh, indicating a reconciliation to the adversity in love—like a true artist—and shook hands with his rival in a resigned, genteel manner.

****

To Madhav the tradition related to Kathak was the only definition of religion. Its fundamentals, its presentation, majestic postures, those narrative envisions of myths and legends, those divine themes of natya, those glittering costumes, all these and much more were sacred, inviolable and pure beyond any tinkering. People began to say that he is an art fundamentalist. More than his worship of art, his radicalism regarding it fetched him a bit of fame.

To his critics he countered:

‘There is infinite scope for improvement and dynamism in Kathak. By merely following the real classical form, we may end where we started from. We may spend hundred years of our individual lives in perfecting the art. The generations might pass but the perfection might not descend on us.’

His Kathak Kendra—he as its sole master—provided him with infinite leeway to hone and rehearse his own and other’s skills. It also fetched him survival crumbs along the way. His was a balanced lamp that was glowing steadily in a mundane hall looking over a poor market.

Sujata, meanwhile entrepreneurly aided by her vocalist husband, whose khayals and dhrupads in their varying entertaining tones through music mixing, galloped over the culture scene like a swift mare both as a solo artist and group dancer. As a successful art entrepreneur, cross-pollination of different art forms was her hallmark. So those lightly, laughingly carried out group choreographies involving Kathaka, Mohiniattam, Odissi and other tribal and folklore elements grabbed mass fancy. It was eclectic. It was inclusive. She became the queen of cultural events. Many fusion elements were mixed up to cash in the natya hype. Her troupe’s contemporary and ever-changing costumes, in addition, ended up making a terse and effective fashion statement.

All these untidy, unsymmetrical experimentations spread the artistic dish over a wider horizon to be enjoyed by a greater section of people. Its character was pan Indian, her singing and dancing minstrels fetching immense praise from art critics. The troupe travelled worldwide. Her choreographic placements were fabulous as those clusters of limbs cut air like slowly moving swords. On top of it, their exotic costumes made her an artistic leader for film choreography as well. Her fame flashed like lightning; its glitter spreading far and wide. The cultural season would provide fiesta time to music and dance lovers. There was no strain either on the performers or the audience. It was tantalising experimentation. And it fetched the artist couple fame and money in big halls.

Meanwhile, fixed at a point, the puritan’s lamp kept on glowing steadily.

Sujata’s husband rose academically to become the Dean of Faculty of Performing Arts and Music at a prominent university. While delving in diverse genres of body movements, thanks to her jugalbandi and fusion of artistic coordination from different dance and music forms, she became the brand ambassador of Indian music and dance festivals in big theatres and plush halls.

As an influential Director of a government-funded Dance and Music Academy, this exquisite Malaika scaled one peak of fame after the other. Seeing her rise and the glitter of her career, it seemed as if all the boons and benefits of many centuries owed by the society to all those famished creative geniuses, who died impoverished and tormented by the contemporary society, had fallen in her corporate lap.

The groups trained by her won prizes at national youth competitions. Many of her pupils—both in solo and group choreography—went onto make a film career in song and dance sequences. Her array of fusion provided such entertainment to people that the earlier boring ghazals, thumris, ragas and classical dance movements acquired mass acceptance under the foot-tapping notes of jazzy drums, keyboards, tabla, violin and bass. These music and dance jugalbandis cropped up as a watershed separating the classical from the modern. This distinct tapestry was too glittering, across which the flirting art-senses of the modern generation couldn’t see the softly reverberating verses of the real classical dance and music whose balance, swara and laya, both in verbal and dance forms, took a backseat and existed only in classical books like some obsolete forms.

Even culture in its brand, corporate form can be over-sweeping. So this tradition, twisted to suit the Westernised and invigorated needs of the modern audience, lifted the now flimsy weight of the classical art on its nimbly swaying head and ran redeemingly to make up for the economic losses.

The puritan Madhav but—a worshipper of his art—kept guarding his tiny battlefront. Against the frantic excellence of mixed dance—the all-abuzz modern dance scene—he kept on honing the rhythmic nuances of balance, harmony and quietude. His relaxed prowess and stillness defining those expressional subtleties of Kathak created good classical dancers, but rarely the successful ones, in the monetary sense of the term. Success after all has come to be defined by the amount of money earned by a person, in any profession, with whatever means deployed. The crowded, jarred senses required some obliviating dives into the tuneful, rhythmic poignancy of notes and footwork. Glittering and dramatic costumes were more important than the poise, grace, laya, balance, discipline, and undisturbed and restful fluidity.

Indian artists, ever eager to reach out to the Western audiences, dubbed their endeavours as abridgement of Western and Indian classical forms. So the sharp lift movements and high-pitched abstract acrobatic and athletic movements of the Western dance were being interjected into the fluid grace of classical steps.

****

Sujata’s troupe of agile, nimble, high-vaunting dancers, attired in uncharacteristically bright and varying costumes, arrived at her native city for a performance. It was a group of confident, successful dancers. These versatile dancers, flirting with aesthetics, dexterous in multi-pronged ability to blend swirling legs, leg splits, attractive formations, geometrical patterns with chocolate-mild softer versions of un-intricate light classical steps. If their legs cut air like scissors on the one hand, they glided with—if not with perfection—tolerable tradition as well.

At long last, Madhav’s puritanical, untainted art world came to be shoved from so near. He had been feeling the repercussions—in his eyes it was sacrilegious to art—of this art-blend for a long time. To him these were choppy tugs at the traditional body of music and dance to dismantle it piece by piece and then erect a poor, contrived behemoth attractive to the public from a distance.

As an old guru of the trade, he had been fighting the battle by training his small group of disciples in his strict ways and writing articles for the dance and music sections of newspapers and magazines. All this but sounded a kind of eulogy to the bygone art and those exquisite times.

Now when the fire arrived so near, he feared that the last bastion of classicism will be conquered by the marauders. The maestro waited anxiously for the visitor’s first performance. At least in the city he was respected for his passion and puritanical dedication to his art. With some inexplicable instinct, the people seemed to bow before him. That was enough of a reward to him. Now he grew apprehensive that even this little reward will be robbed from him.

Just like a dog is stuck-up with his bone, an artist in his proud and passionate capacity as an artistic canine is glued to the bone of his art. Similar was the case with Madhav. Every ounce of his soul rebelled against this transgression into the pure domain of his art. In a way, it was not just about art. It also mattered who the transgressor was. He had many grievances to nurse against her even now after many decades since his one-sided love was crushed by her and the circumstances.

Through the vernacular tongues of the local media, he condemned the blatant overtures of the visiting troupe. He termed their effort as the plundering manoeuvre of dismantling the ornate, aesthetically massive monolith of pure art; a crash course in business to dress the tiny pieces hastily to lure the superficial senses of non-serious masses. By flirting so vagrantly with the classical form, they will make it a dirt cheap, hasty movement of limbs, he noted with much dissent. Through an open letter, he challenged the visitors in the erstwhile royal auditorium—now furnished in modern style—for a competition. He proposed that the auditorium will be thrown open to all and sundry without any tickets and the sheer amount of applauding noise will decide the winner.

Sujata accepted the challenge thrown by the erstwhile lover. The dancing and musical duel was fixed a week hence; and both parties got into the sweat-drenched process of rehearsing. The artistic juices that had been ornately concretised in the cocoons of his chambers glittered like gold under his competition-driven skills. The maestro virtually laid his entire worth bare before his group of disciples.

‘You have the responsibility to prove that art is greater and purer than any hastily, greedily bastard begotten by some vagabonds and tramps,’ he mustered up the army of classical dancers.

On the appointed day, his disciples performed with the honesty, steadiness, dignity and sedateness of an oil lamp lighting up the small interiors of a Godly shrine. Its focus was too pious, too deep, too profound and multi-fold powerful in proportion to its appearance. If beauty is truth and truth requires no explanation, then sheer beauty and truth emanating from the classical presentation reached every part of every mundane, inartistic heart. All of us have an inherent, even if unseen and not felt directly, respect for some soul’s pious dedication irrespective of our likes and dislikes.

While the energetic versatile troupe in attractive costumes waited for its turn to strike at the classical facade with modern vengeance, they and Sujata in particular saw the fury of classicism in its silent torrents. They were young performers, not too experienced, but the force of their master’s dedication oozed through every movement of their limb. Each step and every moment of the performance made her realise the fantasised and glamorised trivialness of her experiments. Here was an artist who had steadily honed his art for decades to remain poor. She on the other hand had leaped from platform to platform to win accolades and money.

‘The people of entire earth might gyrate to our modern forms; but if Gods are watching from somewhere, they will shower rose petals on this one!’ she sighed.

The dedicated iron-rod of the puritan shattered her glittering, glassed world in one silent strike.

‘I know that this crazy mass of people will respond more thunderously to our crazy gyrations. The crowd always chooses the wrong!’ the softer cords of her conscience were touching her heart.

She had pity on him, felt sad for his unrequited love and almost got a drop of tear for his almost wasted life.

Just after the performance was over—while the decent round of applauding was subsiding (she knew that these very mouths and hands still have more potential in them that she could harness through the spiced-up versions)—she took the mike and gave one of the finest ever compliment to the performers and their masters.

‘It’s only due to the steady, pure light of guru Madhav that petty professionals like us also make a living at the fringe of his light. To compete against the perfect art would be self-defeating. So even without putting up a challenge, we accept defeat and still feel privileged in losing!’ she couldn’t control tears of pity for him, for his dedication to a cause, and still more importantly, his unrequited love.

This time there was still larger, noisier round of applauds.

In her humble self she too had been victorious in her own way.

‘More than anything else, guruji’s unflinching dedication makes him the winner. It’s a prize in itself to lose to such a piously lit shrine of artistry!’ she could barely control her emotions now.

There were tears in the old maestro’s eyes. His moment had arrived—though late. However, it arrived with such splashing resurgence as if it had been accumulating all the potential energy worth tapping at the high level the worshipper had been busy in chiselling the classical dance form for the last few decades.