Essay on the Purabi Kalyan concert by George Ruckert
We are in Wheeler Auditorium at the University of California,
Berkeley, in the autumn of 1982. The hall is full-sitar master
Nikhil Banerjee has a number of students in the San Francisco
Bay area, and he has taught and played here regularly since 1967.
I am announcing the program this evening, and I ask Mr. Banerjee
(as he always liked to be addressed) what he wishes me to say.
"Simply introduce the artists by name. Nothing else,"
he replies.
In many cases Indian artists prefer to tell the audience themselves
about the rag to be played, or say a few words, so I find nothing
unusual about the request. My opening remarks are therefore very
short: I say the artists' names and walk off the stage.
They tune their instruments for a while, and the alap (introduction)
begins without a word of further introduction. I don't recognize
the rag. For many students of this music, not knowing the name
of the rag becomes a challenge to identify it, and perhaps Mr.
Banerjee is having fun with us. The rag seems to have the notes
and features of the popular rag, Puriya Kalyan, but has in addition
the slight use of the natural fourth degree (shuddh ma).
The alap unfolds in the style characteristic of Mr. Banerjee's
playing: an unhurried, careful exposition of the rag phrase by
phrase with long sustained tones. His sitar is adjusted especially
for this style of development, and the important feature of a
sitar's timbre-the buzzing sound called the jawari-is "closed."
That is, the buzz is kept to a minimum so that the sustain of
the notes is more pronounced. This sweet sustain sacrifices the
sparkle in the attack of the tone which characterizes the sound
of other sitarists, notably that of Pandit Ravi Shankar.
After a full treatment of the low to high registers in the alap
proper, which has no rhythmic pulse, the jor begins. In this particular
performance this section begins in a medium tempo, the note motion
is faster, and there is a greater exploration of the range of
the rag in each phrase. As in the alap, the jor descends to the
lowest notes of the sitar's register after a short while, which
causes the sympathetic strings on the instrument to ring out in
cascades of sound.
The gat begins, wherein Swapan Chaudhuri, the renowned tabla player,
enters. The gat is a fixed composition in meter, in this case
the sixteen-beat rhythmic cycle known as tintal. The shape of
this composition, with its somewhat unusual repeated notes in
the opening ascending phrase, suggests the contour of some other
tal than the familiar tintal, whose four-four beat patterns often
have a more conventional rhythmic symmetry. Swapan Chaudhuri's
feeling for the development of the rag and the instrumentalist
are always outstanding, and never more so than here, as he tailors
the tempo and intensity of his own inventions to Mr. Banerjee's.
These two musicians from Calcutta played often together and are
here in a satisfying harmony with each other. The gat meanders
slowly with sweet, arrhythmic vistars (developmental expansions
of the rag), until Mr. Banerjee follows one of the tabla solos
with a brilliant gamak tan (fast run with shakes). We are then
in a section of the rag's performance in which this master always
has full sway. It is due to his particular gift and intense practice
that the tans are fresh, incredibly accurate, and sparkling with
invention. Frequently they end with a clever or suspenseful tihai-a
short phrase repeated three time which leads miraculously to the
downbeat of the rhythmic cycle.
The gat doubles in tempo to fast tintal, and after some passages
in tora style (plucked patterns with the right hand), the rapid
tans reappear and ascend to the highest register of the sitar.
These high notes are difficult to play on a sitar, for there are
no frets to guide the player: every note must be articulated by
pulling the string sideways. Then begins the final movement, known
as the jhalla (sparkling). Typical of the playing style of this
master, this movement begins slowly, and gathers momentum steadily
to a thrilling climax with a final tihai. The audience has been
held spellbound, and they respond with a loud ovation. This was
an extraordinary display of musical depth and virtuosity.
In the tiny dressing room, Mr. Banerjee tries to acknowledge the
enthusiastic praises and displays of reverent affection. Old students,
reviewers, friends, and people he has not seen for a while shower
him with happy greetings.
"How wonderful to hear you again, Mr. Banerjee..."
"Nikhilda, that was awesome..."
"Are you in town for long this time, Mr. Baner..."
"Mr. Banerjee, this is my wife, Am..."
"Panditji, what rag was..."
"Mr. Banerjee, I want you to meet my friend, Nicholas Alexander..."
"Mr. Banerjee, will it be possible while you are in town
to..."
And on and on, throughout the short intermission. Some less well-wishing
people have come directly to me, the announcer. They seem somewhat
less than charitable:
"Why have you not announced the name of the rag? It is somewhat
rude to leave us all guessing, you know. It is only proper for
you as emcee to include telling us something of the performance,
certainly the name of the rag. Otherwise, there should have been
a program..."
In truth, I was burning to know the name of the rag myself. Just
before walking on stage for the second half of the program, I
said to Mr. Banerjee that some people wished to know the name
of the rag in the first half.
He paused. A twinkle came to his eye.
"Tell them...tell them it was...Nicholas Alexander."
Swapan Chaudhuri burst out laughing. Mr. Banerjee continued after
a pause:
"Why do they need to know? This rag is quite rare, and they
will not know it, anyhow. Sometimes the naming of the rag can
spoil the magic. The people start to think this and that, and
they don't hear the beauty right in front of them." He paused
again, thinking. He sighed. "You may say that I have played
Purabi Kalyan."
Mr. Banerjee, we will ever miss you. -- George Ruckert