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.
