Taal Se Taal Mila

There is music wherever there is a rhythm, as there is life wherever there beats a pulse

Igor Stravinsky

It all began nine years ago with a phone call by the offspring’s music teacher from school. Until then, I (a self- confessed ignoramus when it came to the vast world of music) had reveled in her participation in the annual school functions like the Parent’s Day where she occupied a small space in the orchestra pit with a pair of cymbals, a triangle neatly by her side, changing dexterously between the two, keeping up with the rhythm.

Like a typical mother, I only kept my ears open to the ominous sound of silence, which normally meant some mischief in the offing. Her singing was slightly off-key according to the neighborhood music teacher and seeing her reluctance to give throat to any song, I, in search of greener pastures had withdrawn her altogether. Therefore, this call had importance. She had an innate sense of rhythm, the music teacher patiently explained, and it would be put to good use in the world of percussion. Thus, began her (and by default, my) tryst with the Tabla. Six-and-a-half years of training, three exams and a dozen performances later, she has learnt to march to the beat of her own drums, as I now look on from the sidelines.

In the midst of all this, she did get an opportunity, barely six months into her training to attend the live performance of the individual whose name and identity were synonymous with the Tabla….Ustad Zakir Hussain.

 I remember gawking at his television persona as a wide-eyed child of the eighties. Back then, only dear old Doordarshan graced our narrow screen television sets with their flimsy antennae. His performance in the song ‘Baje Sargam Har Taraf Se, Goonje Bankar Desh Raag’ was as famous for his shock of curly hair as the dexterity with which his fingers flew over the Tabla. In a firmament which was lined by the brightest of Indian musicians, he managed to carve out his own niche, thanks perhaps to the avid enjoyment which was apparent in his playing.

Brooke Bond also cashed in its chips early, when it recognized the potential of getting him to advertise its most famous brand of tea…Taj Mahal. “Pehle meri Taj, baaki sab uske baad” and “Arre huzoor, wah Taj boliye” became household lines and everyone queued up to get a taste of the beverage which added so much zest to this famous musician’s percussion.

Cue to February 2016 and it was precisely with this in mind, that I managed to book three tickets (the spouse being a last- minute addition after the usual shilly-shallying and pulling many sad faces about being left to his own devices since the offspring and I refused to budge about attending) and we found ourselves ensconced in the tenth row of the Kashinath Ghanekar Auditorium. The offspring’s Guru had played his role in exhorting us to not miss this performance by ‘Zakhir Bhai’ as he called him. The performance itself was a joint one, between the sitarist, Pandit Niladri Kumar and Usatdji.

When the lights dimmed and the curtains went up though, it was only Pandit Niladri Kumar on stage. The offspring offered a disgruntled little pout. She was only nine and the thought of listening to another classical instrument did not sit very well in her scheme of things. The spouse and I, having once been students of the sitar in the hoary past, were thrilled though and a lot of shushing and telling the offspring to listen followed. Pandit Niladri Kumar, a wonderful exponent of the sitar and the pioneer who invented the Zitar, an electric version of the sitar was almost ascetic in his demeanor. Telling the audience not to applaud too loudly, he began to play. It was easy to see that he had entered a different plane of existence and was communing with the deity of music. It was ethereal and unworldly, and lesser beings like us were soon left far behind.

Mid way though, the lights brightened, because another figure sidled onto the stage. Trademark shock of curly dark hair, a blue salwar-kurta and a grey shawl draped over his shoulders. But what caught everyone’s attention was not just the familiar face, but the twinkle in the eyes, and the child-like innocence. Putting a finger to his lips to avoid disturbing his co-artist, he quietly settled into a corner. Perhaps the Gods of music sensed his presence, and warned him because Pandit Niladri Kumar reached a crescendo, returned to earth, opened his eyes, and touched the feet of the figure. Ustadji had arrived.

The offspring perked up immediately and waved her feelers around. A heartfelt apology for his tardiness (thanks to the horrendous Mumbai traffic, what else?) later, Ustadji began to tune his Tabla. After satisfying himself, he knocked himself on the head a couple of times (without the hammer, luckily) and declared happily that he had tuned himself as well. And then what unfolded was something which was even beyond magic. The Tabla started to talk. Through the beats and the rhythm, it gradually told us its own story. About why it was initially like the damru and the pakhawaj and then bifurcated into the ‘Dayan’ and the ‘Bayan’ and how two instruments could so perfectly complement each other that they were considered whole only if they were together and how they lost their individual identity without each other. I sneaked a quick peek at the offspring, who only a couple of minutes before, had been yawning and rubbing her eyes sleepily (back then, 10.30 in the night was bed-time for her) only to see her sitting bolt upright in her seat, mouth slightly agape, her stubby little fingers tapping on the edge of her seat-rest. A picture imprinted in my mind for years to come.

Those dexterous fingers of Ustad Zakir Hussain have been stilled forever now. Obituaries have poured in, memorial services have been held all over the world and everyone who can, has recounted their close encounters with him. His qualities, his dedication to his art, his musical journey, anecdotes of him and his father and family, co-artists, and the kind of person he was have been laid bare over and over.

For me, as someone who has only read about him and attended only a single live concert, only two stories stand out. One recounted by the acclaimed singer, Manik Varma, who spoke about how the crying child was gently disciplined by his illustrious father who made him begin his Riyaaz at 4 am in the bitter winters of North India and the other which I luckily witnessed, of how more than fifty years later, he kept a sleepy child of nine awake till well past midnight on a not-so- chill night in a Thane auditorium because when he entered a different plane of existence, he had the power to take us all along.

His greatness lies in the power of complete ‘Samarpan’ which he probably imbibed from the ‘Dayan’ and ‘Bayan’ tabla. The courage to lose the ‘you’ in yourself so that the whole identifies itself with you. So, the next time you hear a thunderstorm, or the rain beating down on a tiled roof, try to hear the echoes of Ustad Zakir Hussain’s tabla, playing an eternal rhythm.

And if the beat falters, causing you to say

‘Dil ye bechain ve,

Raste pe nain ve

Jindi behaal hai

Sur hai na taal hai’

Who knows, Ustadji might reply, saying ‘Taal se taal mila’