Quest for the perfect note

Siddhartha Gigoo and Jaya Srinivasan

Sa

On the morning of 25 April 1968, Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan sat all by himself in his room, doing riyaz. Something he had done all his life, right from the age of five when he first began receiving education in music from his uncle Ustad Kale Khan. The day was no different than all other days.

He began and ended his days by worshipping the very first swara — Sa. He would kneel before it for hours together before offering it his only ornament — his breath. His nights began and ended with Sa, too.

That day, he did his riyaz with the same energy and zeal that had punctuated the days and nights of his youth.

Later in the day, his students heard a scream come out of their Ustad’s room: ‘Come here, come to me, I have finally got it…’ His students barged into the room, asking what the matter was. They saw their Ustad surrounded by a strange light, his face lit by a beaming smile.

‘What’s the matter?’ they went on, thinking something was wrong.

‘Don’t you realize?’ said the Ustad. ‘I have hit upon it, finally.’

‘Hit upon what?’ his students said.

‘Sa,’ he said. ‘What else?’

He resumed his riyaz. ‘Saaaaaaaaaa.’

None of the students noticed the difference. They thought their teacher was ecstatic because on that particular day his riyaz might have been more satisfying than the riyaz of previous days. He had practiced Sa his entire life — every single moment for 66 years.

But that day was special. The maestro couldn’t stop gushing about his find. He couldn’t conceal his childlike delight. He was all smiles and tears that whole day.

In the evening, the maestro passed away.

Even today, his students, especially those who had a sense of what their teacher had been after his whole life, don’t consider his death as cessation of life or deliverance, but a transition to some other realm or perhaps an attainment of something elusive.

The quest for the right note was what consumed the teacher. It was no coincidence that death came the day he hit upon the right note. Was it ordained? When, after decades of toil and dedication and sacrifice, you hit upon the right note, you can no longer bear its weight or lightness or light, and therefore you give up your body made of flesh, bones and blood and then become one with the note or become the note itself.

Is this the price one must pay for perfection?

Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan’s students and the present day gurus still recount the incident to illustrate a point and the only condition of what it takes to be a student of classical music. It is the only guiding principle of guru-shishya parampara.

The quest for the perfect note could take a lifetime or several lifetimes, depending on the intensity and integrity of your devotion. But if you do find yourself anywhere near it, and you do get to experience it or hold it even for an infinitesimal fraction, you burn instantly. But the burning is no ordinary burning. It is the blessing bestowed upon you for giving a lifetime of your breath to just the sound of Sa.

—

Re

Bhairavi wrote one sentence a day. Just the one, because the perfect sentence takes a while to write. She opened her book, turning to the page where she had left off the previous morning, and re-read her work. She scratched out one word here, another there, frowned at an unpleasant adverb, tutted at the unnecessary adjective. She rewrote the sentence. Before she knew it, it was a new thing, but not yet a living, breathing creature. That would take much longer.

She was eleven when her guru tied the ceremonial thread around her wrist, accepting her as his disciple. He was a well-known musician and had just returned to his tiny hometown, where he intended to spend the rest of his life. His arrival set the town aflutter and students flocked to him. He asked for one thing in return: surrender.

Pushed by her parents, Bhairavi was one of these seekers. Unmoved by the guru’s age or fame, she rebelled openly at the initiation ceremony.

'I don’t want to become a singer! I want to write.’

Bhairavi’s parents quivered; classical musicians had a reputation for temper.

‘But how will you, without knowing what lies at the root of creation?’ — no admonition or anger, only wonder.

And thus began Bhairavi’s training, starting with Sa. A whole year of practicing the first note, tanpura meeting voice till nothing else existed. The exercise frustrated her and drew sweat and tears. After several grueling months, she felt something expand within, give her a tantalizing glimpse of what could be, then disappear. She practiced for those moments.

For five years, swara followed swara, unraveling mysteriously to her wondering senses. Even as other students begged to move onto ragas and gradually left in disappointment, Bhairavi persisted. What was a lifetime of learning if the foundation wavered?

She built her writing on this foundation as she did her music. She dismantled and created sentences until the dissonance faded away. Like the clerk of Camus, Bhairavi wrote for perfection. Unlike him, she glimpsed it occasionally. The notes guided her.

Siddhartha Gigoo is a student of music and literature. (I’m delighted he is on my blog!)