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The Music of Hindostan c8: Chapter III. Legend, History, and the Present Day

The Music of Hindostan c8

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English

Contents

Chapter III. Legend, History, and the Present Day

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‘It is the most distant course that comes
nearest to Thyself; and that training is the
most intricate which leads to the utter sim-
plicity of a tune.’—Tagore.

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THE Indian does not make or read histories, and does not appreciate the value of chronological record. It is the custom to smile at this; but it would be well to understand his point of view first. A whole people is not generally mistaken about its real needs.

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In the first place, Brahman philosophy draws no real distinction between what a thing ‘is’ and what it ‘signifies’. Time and place, so integral a part for the Western of what a thing is, are for the Hindu accidents, not essentials. It is not that he cannot conceive or manipulate their divisions; astronomy, for instance, has been one of his strong points; but that they do not, for him, add to the significance nor therefore to the nature of the phenomenon.

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Secondly, whereas chronologically ordered history enables us to compare the present of a nation with its past and so to predict its future, and to compare one nation at a given moment with another, neither of these motives appeals to the Hindu. His past is like his present and throws little light upon it. If we look at the sculpture of a thousand years ago from Ellora, or the painting from Ajanta, or the carvings of Amravati and Sanchi another thousand years earlier, we see the same mothers carrying babies on their hips, the same graceful little movements of the hands, the same methods of grinding corn, the same kinds and shapes of musical instruments, the same antimony for the same almond-shaped eyes, the same dress, the same symbols of rank. Life in Europe during such space of time has been subject to gusts of fashion or revolution, and we have looked up between the whirlwinds and gratefully murmured ‘e pur si muove’. We thank God that we look before and after; the Indian contemns mushroom growths, and thinks methods of such recent origin and subject to such constant change hardly worth the trouble of acquiring.

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And it does not interest him to compare one nation with another, or to take a side in or strike a balance between competing activities. His life is in the family rather than the state, in idea rather than fact, in the soul rather than the mind. His knowledge is of revelation more than of science; his truth contemplative rather than practical. Compromise is for him not so much the *media via* which emerges from the battle of two forces, as the philosophic calm which without despair can hold in solution two diametrically opposed statements.

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Lastly, he is like Macaulay’s Puritan, the man of a book. That he believes in his *Śāstras* may be argued from the surprising number of cases in which he is prepared to undergo inconvenience and unpleasantness in deference to them. That, further, he believes them may be seen from the way in which the typically Indian mind turns, courteously but peremptorily, from any attempt to impugn them.

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For such reasons as these, and possibly others, the one conspicuous gap in an Indian library is the history shelf. We find it natural, therefore, in the Hindu to ascribe remote antiquity—in point of fact, eternity—to his earliest memories. He does not know any author for his Vedas, but speaks of such and such a *Rishi* as being allowed to ‘hear’ them the last time they were revealed. He does not discriminate between one antiquity and another, or take much interest in the development of ideas, for all development is potentially included in the original revelation, which was either ‘heard’ (*śruti*) or ‘remembered’ (*smṛti*) by the human agency to whom its record was entrusted. Thus he holds that four Vedas have existed from all time, although the Buddhist *Jātakas*¹ never speak of more than three. And what concerns us more particularly here, the *Nāṭyaśāstra* (circ. A. D. 500), the *Ratnākara* (1220?), the *Rāgavibodha* (1609), the *Saṅgīta Darpaṇa* (1625?), and *Parijāta* (early eighteenth century) are all quoted as ‘scriptures’ of practically equal value; while the undated *Nāradaśikṣā*, whose system shows a considerable advance on that of the *Nāṭyaśāstra*, is held, apparently on the strength of its name alone, to have been put forth by that mythical sage himself.

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¹ Circ. 300 B. C. Stories of the former incarnations of the Buddha.

Legend

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On the shore of this eternal past lie fragments of the living rock rounded into pebbles. History’s *sic ibat, sic sedebat* is denied us; but in the legends we may gather some impression of what the reflective mind made of the daily happenings of the life around it.

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‘Once upon a time the great anchorite Nārada thought within himself he had mastered the whole art and science of music. To curb his pride the all-knowing Vishnu took him to visit the abode of the gods. They entered a spacious building the inmates of which were numerous men and women, who were all weeping over their broken limbs. Vishnu stopped short and inquired of them the reason of their lamentation. They answered that they were the *Rāgs* and *Rāgiṇīs* of music, created by Mahādeva; but as one anchorite of the name of Nārada, ignorant of the true knowledge of music and unskilful in performance, had sung them recklessly, their features were distorted and their limbs broken, and that unless Mahādeva or some other discreet and skilful person would sing them properly, there was slender hope of their ever being restored to their former state of body. Nārada, ashamed, kneeled down before Vishnu and asked to be forgiven.’

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So an unnamed Indian treating of undatable personages writes history and criticism in one. Believe, he says, in the divinity of the elements of your art, and know that your carelessness and ignorance will maim them, and you will not murder a song; and it may be doubted whether the well-weighed epithets and refined distinctions of musical ‘appreciations’ do the thing any better, or indeed achieve their object so well.

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With Nārada, the *Rishi* who first ‘heard’ the laws of music, are associated Tumburu, the first singer, and Bharata, the first to draw up rules for the drama, of which music formed a large part. Of Tumburu it is said that he increased the scale in which the *Sāma-veda* was chanted from five notes to six or seven. The treatise which purports to record the doctrines of Nārada, the *Nāradaśikṣā*, is probably of late date¹ and gives no clue whatever to the achievement of the Nārada of legend. The treatise which bears the name of Bharata, the *Nāṭyaśāstra*, is similarly an eponym. One or other of these three names appears probably in every book on music that has been written, and the existence of the authors is held, though in complete absence of any specific doctrine attributed to them, as a pious belief; the belief is equal to that which the Greeks professed in Olympos and Thamyris, the latter of whom some greatly daring philologist has connected with Tumburu, and the piety is something more than that which we accord to Jubal. The locus classicus for this posthumous fame is in Daṇḍin’s Mṛcchakaṭikā (sixth century A. D.), where a servant says:

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¹ The stage of the art which it describes is identical with that referred to in the Pañcatantra, the text of which may be dated circ. A.D. 1000 (see p. 82).

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‘I wish every one to take notice that the harder it rains the more thoroughly do I get ducked, and the colder the wind blows down my back the more do my limbs shiver. A pretty situation for a man of my talents—for one who can play the flute with seven holes and the vīṇā with seven strings, can sing like a jackass, and who acknowledges no musical superior except perhaps Tumburu and Nārada.’

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The musical inhabitants of Indra’s heaven were Gāndharvas,¹ Apsarāsas, Kinnaras, and Nāras. The original Gāndharva, in the singular, dwelt in the fathomless space of air and stood erect on the vault of heaven. He was the guardian of the nectar of the gods (soma). In later Vedic books the Gāndharvas² are many, and espouse the Apsarāsas, whose name describes them as ‘moving in the waters’ (sc. of the clouds). In still later Vedas these frequent the earth, and inhabit especially trees; their mission from Indra is to blunt the edge of human virtue which else, through abstinence and prayer, had grown too overweening; and one of them, Urvaśī, who hovers thus between earth and heaven, is the heroine of Kalidāsa’s Vikramorvaśī (fifth century). The Kinnaras and Nāras, possibly the same, are classed with the Gāndharvas as celestial musicians. Their name³ implies a superhuman form, said to have been a man’s body with a horse’s head. In company with them appear, in the Gāndhāra sculptures and elsewhere, Nāgas (snakes) with musical instruments, whose melodies are represented as coiling themselves about the hearts of men.

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¹ An etymological connexion between Gāndharvas (who, besides being musicians, had to do with horses) and Centaurs (of whom Cheiron is said to have been a musician) is not impossible.

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² In the second book of the Rāmāyaṇa there are summoned to Bharadvāja’s feast the Gāndharvas, Hāhā, Huhū, and ‘the sweet’ Viśvāvasu, and the Apsarāsas Alambuṣā, Ghṛtāchī, Viśvāchī, Hemā, Bhīmā, and Nāgadantā, with Tumburu ‘to lead the strain’. Alambuṣā is the Apsarāsa chosen out of 25,000,000 handmaids to ‘make a breach in the virtue’ of a Brahman of Kāśi.

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³ Kim-nāra, ‘what sort of man?’

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But music in its highest, most emblematic form moves to the sound of Kṛṣṇa’s flute (muralī) and dances to the pulsations of Shiva’s drum (ḍamaru).⁴ With Shiva, who enters the celestial hierarchy in the Brāhmaṇas and wrests the supremacy from Indra and Brahmā, enters too the eternal becoming and ceasing to be of evolution, and to the woven rhythms of his dance the whole creation moves. And in the Rāmāyaṇa it is Kṛṣṇa sporting with his Gopīs ‘qui fait le monde à la ronde’.

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⁴ See Chap. IX, Udukkai.

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Detail from a picture of the Surrender of Kandahar in the collection of Sītārām Lāl of Benares. Seventeenth century.

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In Hindu legend other instruments can scarcely be heard for the din of the drum. It beats the night watches, heralds proclamations, and preludes the sentence of death. Porus (Purusha) posts the drummers with the infantry and archers behind the elephants, who are accustomed to the sound and not in the least alarmed by it¹; and Dionysos in his turn uses cymbals and drums instead of trumpets in making signals, in order to deceive the Indians.² A king of Kanauj progresses accompanied by several hundred men with golden drums, called ‘music-pace-drums’, beating one stroke to each step.³ Of another it is said ‘When king Devānāmpriya practises righteousness the call of his drum (bheri) has become a summons not to war but to righteousness.’⁴ There are many allusions to the ‘five great sounds’ (pañca mahā śabdā), an honour conferred by kings on the greatest of their servants, in which the drum (nāgara, tammaṭa, ḍamaruka) is associated with various forms of horn, gong, and cymbal. These were ‘sounded in front of a chariot which is occupied, but behind one which contains no occupant. The car went solemnly round the palace and up the kettledrum road. They sounded the hundreds of instruments—it was like the noise of the sea.’⁵ Brahmadatta finds a mountain hermit who is annoyed by elephants, and presents him with a drum: ‘if you beat upon this side your enemies will run away, if upon that they will become your firm friends.’⁶ The following remunerations are interesting :—‘One mattar for the sacrificial vessel, two to the horn-blower, four to each of the five courtesans of the temple, twelve to the skilful Pollama who built the temple, and fourteen to the drummer.’⁷

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¹ Quintus Curtius, 1st cent. A. D.

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² Polyainos, 2nd cent. A. D.

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³ Hiouen Tsang, A.D. 629.

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⁴ Aśokan inscription (circ. 250 B. C.), Western India.

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⁵ Mahājanaka Jātaka.

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⁶ Jātaka, bk. ii.

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⁷ Canarese inscription, A. D. 975.

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In the Tamil Pura-Nānnuru (first centuries A. D.) the drum, kept in every chieftain's palace, was treated almost as a lesser divinity.¹ It reposed on a luxurious couch, was constantly cleaned, rubbed with perfumed earth, and garlanded. When used as the prelude to one of the ruler's proclamations it was carried on an elephant. The poet, Nośikaranār, relates how one day he had wandered into the courtyard of the palace and saw the ornamented and cushioned couch on which the royal drums were usually placed. The drums had gone to be cleaned and anointed, and he threw himself on the unoccupied couch and fell fast asleep. The king came by with his courtiers who expected to see the intruder meet with condign punishment. But the king took up a fan and cooled the sleeper's forehead with it till he awoke; and the poet's comment is:

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¹ See also Macdonell, *Sanskrit Literature*, p. 200.

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Surely 'twas not to win applause from earthly bards
But that the deed might echo loud in higher worlds.

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With the drum (*dundubhi*) of the Vedas are mentioned the flute (*vāṇā*), which is heard in the abode of Yāma (death), the lute (*vīṇā*), often called 'seven-stringed' (*saptatantrī*),² which, in the Sūtras, is played at the sacrifice to the Manes, and the cymbals (*āghāṭa*, lit. something struck), to accompany the dance.

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² Cf. Pindar's *heptatonos phorminx*. The modern instrument also has seven, four on the fingerboard, three as the drone.

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In spite of the fame conferred upon it by Kṛṣṇa's performance among his Gopis, the flute seems to fade out of Indian music; at least there are few references to it, and it is seldom to be heard nowadays. Perhaps its mellow tone is not of the kind which appeals to Indian ears; at any rate the *shahnai* and *nagasāram* (both reeds) which have ousted it are stridently nasal; and the buzzing of the *tambura* strings, effected by the insertion of a piece of silk (*jivala*), the jingling of the fifth string of the *satār*, called *laraz*, and made, for this very purpose, of twisted brass, and most of all the nasal tone of voice which is deliberately cultivated for singing, seem to show that so mild a sound as that of the flute-tribe is not thought to be piquant enough.

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To the *vīṇā*, the national instrument, there are so many references, both direct and allusive, that it is difficult to choose. Perhaps one story, from the Jātakas, will be enough. A feeble musician, Mūsila of Ujjain, whose music on the *vīṇā* was 'like scratching on a mat', came to learn of Guttila of Banāras (the Bodhisatta in an earlier birth). Guttila’s parents when they heard him said, ‘Shoo! Shoo! The rats are gnawing the vīṇā to pieces.’ Guttila who, as Bodhisatta, was ‘skilled in discerning from the lineaments of the body’ said, ‘Go, my son, this art is not for you.’ But Mūsila got his way; and Guttila Bodhisatta, who ‘did not stint his knowledge’, at last pronounced his pupil perfect. Mūsila pressed to be taken into the king’s service. This was done; but the king awarded Guttila twice as much as his pupil. Mūsila protested, and forced matters to a contest, of which proclamation was made to tuck of drum. The Bodhisatta reflected that he was old, and that ‘if he beats me, death in the woods is better than the shame which will be my portion’. So to the woods he went; but ‘kept returning through fear of death, and going back to the wood for fear of shame’, so that ‘the grass died as he walked and his feet wore away a path’. In his trouble Sakka, the king of the gods, appeared. Guttila was to break, in the contest, one string after another, beginning at the ‘beestring’, and the music should be as good as before. ‘Then you shall go on playing with nothing but the body; and from the ends of the broken strings the sound shall go forth and fill all the land of Banāras for the space of twelve leagues.’ All happened as was foretold, and the scholar, beaten out of the field, was stoned and torn in pieces by the populace.

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Mughal drawing, seventeenth century, of a bīn-player, from an original in the collection of G. N. Tagore.

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The rest of the picture is filled with horns (śṛṅga), conchs (śaṅkha), gongs (jayaghaṇṭa, lit. bell of victory), cymbals (jallali), pipes (kuṛāl), and various other instruments not identified. We get a glimpse of the scale on which ecclesiastical music was planned from an inscription (A.D. 1051) on the Rājarājeśvara temple at Tanjore:

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‘Apart from the priests the following musicians and attendants are to have a daily allowance for the recitation of the Tiruppadiyam (a form of service) calculated in shares of 3 karuṇi of paddy, as follows:

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| Number employed. | Shares each. | Title. |
| | | ORCHESTRA. |
| 66 | ·5 | Men ‘engaged in drumming’. |
| 32 | ·75 | Musicians. |
| 1 | 1·0 | Large drum. |
| 1 | 1·0 | Small drum. |
| 2 | 1·0 | Large drums (koṭṭi mattaḷam). |
| 48 | 1·0 | Musicians. |
| 2 | 1·5 | Small drums (udukkaī). |
| 3 | 1·5 | Pipe players (vaṅgiyam). |
| 2 | 1·75 | Vīṇā players. |

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| Number employed. | Shares each. | Title. |
| | | CHOIR. |
| 4 | 1·0 | Singers (Tamil). |
| 3 | 1·5 | Singers (Sanskrit). |
| 5 | 1·5 | Singers (male). |
| | | OTHERS. |
| 10 | ·4 | Parasol holders. |
| 7 | ·5 | Lamplighters. |
| 8 | 1·0 | Clerks. |
| 5 | 1·0 | Heralds. |
| 400 | 1·0 | Dancing girls. |
| 6 | 1·5 | Dancing masters. |
| 2 | 2·0 | Female superintendents. |
| 4 | 2·0 | Accountants. |
| | | NOT ASCERTAINABLE. |
| 4 | 1·5 | ? |
| 2 | 1·5 | ? |
| 4 | 2·0 | ? |

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About music and dancing there are two views, the puritan and the utilitarian. In the *Anugītā*, among the ‘actions of the quality of passion’ and ranked with the sins prohibited in the Ten Commandments are ‘devotion to dancing, and instrumental or vocal music’. And in the laws of Manu,¹ ‘a student of the Veda must . . . avoid ointments, collyrium for the eyes, shoes, carrying an umbrella; lust, anger, and greed, dancing, and music’: and again, ‘the sound of the Sāmaveda, which is said to belong to the Manes,² is impure.’ In Cāṇakya’s *Arthaśāstra* (‘Politics’),³ on the other hand, ‘song, instrumental music, recitation, dancing, acting, writing, playing on the *vīṇā*, flute (*venu*), and drum (*mṛdanga*), knowing the mind of others, making scents, and garlands, shampooing, employing alluring words—those who know all these and can teach them to courtesans and actors should be provided with livelihood by the state.’

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¹ Circ. A.D. 200.

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² A strict Brahman purifies himself after seeing a dead body.

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³ Circ. 400 B.C.

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The power of song is a favourite theme; here is the story of the Indian Arion. The minstrel Sagga in search of Queen Sussondī came across certain merchants of Bhārukachha (Broach) who were setting sail for the golden land. He said, ‘I am a minstrel (*magadha*). If you will remit my passage money I will be your minstrel.’ They agreed. When the ship had set sail they called to him to make music for them. ‘I would make music,’ he said, ‘but the fish would be so excited that your vessel would be wrecked.’ ‘Fish’, they said, ‘will not be disturbed by what mortals do. Play on.’ Then tuning his lute and keeping perfect harmony between the words of his song and the accompaniment of the lute-string he made music for them. The fish were maddened, and a certain sea-monster leaping up upon the ship broke it in two.

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Dancing girl, South India.

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And again, purity of singing. A hunter of Banāras captured in the Himālaya a brace of fairies (kinnara). He presented them to the king, who said, ‘Hunter, what kind of creatures (kim-nāra) are these?’ ‘My lord, these can sing with a honey voice, they dance delightfully; no man can dance or sing as they can.’ The king bestowed great reward on the hunter and commanded the fairies to sing and dance. But they thought, ‘If we are not able to convey the full sense of our song, the song will be a failure, they will abuse and hurt us; and then, again, those who speak much, speak falsely.’ So for fear of some falsehood or other they neither sang nor danced. Then the king said, ‘Kill these creatures and cook them and serve them up to me, one for supper and the other for breakfast.’ Then the fairy dame thought within herself, ‘Now the king is angry, without doubt he will kill us. Now is the time to speak’; and she sang:

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A hundred thousand ditties sung all wrong
All are not worth a tithe of one good song.
To sing ill is a crime; and this is why
The seeming-foolish fairy would not try.

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Then the king commanded to let her go, but to have the other one cooked for to-morrow’s breakfast. But the other fairy thought, ‘If I hold my tongue surely the king will kill me; now is the time to speak’; and he recited a couple of stanzas to make it clear that they had been silent not from unwillingness to obey the king’s word, but because they saw that speaking would be a mistake. And the king said, ‘He speaks the truth; ’tis a sapient fairy.’ And he had the two fairies put in a golden cage, and sending for the huntsman made him set them free in the same place where he had caught them.¹

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¹ This and other stories from the Jātaka are taken from Prof. E. B. Cowell’s translations. Cambridge University Press, 1905.

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A fine appreciation of good singing is to be found in the Mṛcchakatika (sixth century). Two friends have just come from a concert; ‘Excellent, excellent indeed; Rebhila sang most excellently.

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Smooth and sweet were the tones, articulate, full of emotion, delicate and mind-pleasing. What do I say? Some girl seemed to be hidden in the sounds. I can hear him still; his notes are well-ordered,¹ his song is soft, and the sound of the strings of the vīṇā is in tune with the voice. The upper notes which are introduced into the middle of the rise and fall of the Aria have a soft close.² He sings it as easily as a child plays with a toy. Although the music is finished, I seem still to hear it as I move.’

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¹ Sankrama; calculated to display the Rāga.

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² He is speaking of the return from the Antara to the Astaï; see chapter on Form.

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And this scene is relieved by one in Kalidāsa’s Mālavikāgnimitra (fifth century) of a mediocre performance, where two musicians are rivals, and one brings forward a pupil who performs a great feat in singing—a piece in four-time (caturpada vastu) and Andante (madhya laya)—the ‘young lady of Rio’, in fact, fifteen centuries ago.

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Pedants are dealt with in the Pañcatantra (fifth century) in the story of the musical ass, who gets out at night into the cucumber fields and joins the jackal in hedge breaking and other delights. Waxing fat and kicking, his joy takes a vocal form, and he asks the jackal in what Rāg he shall sing. ‘Why sing at all?’ said the jackal; ‘people with coughs don’t steal. Besides, your voice is about as good as ——’. ‘What? I don’t know how to sing? Listen to the theory of it. There are seven notes (svara), three scales (grāma), twenty-one modes (mūrcchana), forty-nine melodic figures (tāna), three time units (mātrā), three tempi (laya), three voice registers (sthāna), six ways of singing (āsyāni, lit. mouths), nine emotions (rasa), thirty-six rāgs (varṣma), forty languages (bhāṣa). This sort of singing when well performed embraces all the 185 (?) parts of song.’ ‘My friend,’ said the jackal, ‘if you must have your way I will take up my position at the gate and look out for the farmer and his boy.’ They were not long in coming, and the musician learnt what it was to be an ass.

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The mass of legend relating to music, of which this is a mere handful, does not perhaps prove anything very definite about the state of the art in past times. But we get, in reading, an impression that wherever we look the attitude of the writers and the storytellers towards song and instrument, towards the purpose of music and the general practice of musicians, has for a long time past been much what it is now : and if datable documents were to come to light showing that music, in the form in which we read of it in *Bharata*, existed many centuries before his time we should not be at all surprised.

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راما خان کلاونت

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Portrait of Numa Khan Katawant, a musician of the court of Jahāngīr, from a picture in the collection of A. K. Coomaraswamy.

History

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And now, leaving legend, the first musician we meet with who is anything more than a name is Jayadeva (circ. A. D. 1100) the author of the *Gita Govinda*. He was a native of Kindavilva in Bengal. He assigns to each of his poems a definite *Rāg* and *Tāl*,¹ which are named after the Bengālī fashion. There is no musical notation; and it is open to any musician, now as then, to make or mar them by his treatment. In a poem of such delicate texture as the *Gita Govinda* the musical scheme could hardly fail to be a thoughtful one. The names of *Rāg* and *Tāl* which would be full of association to a Bengālī may connote little to us; but we may see from the mere titles how they have been used as an element in the design. The song of ‘one of Rādhā’s maidens’ in praise of love with which the *Gīta* begins is echoed by the ‘Hymen o Hymenaee’ at the close; both are in *Rāg Vasanta* and *Tāl Yati*. The voice of one ‘fair, but not so fair as Radha’ consoles and breathes hope which finds its fulfilment in Rādhā’s triumphant song of reconciliation (*Ramagiri*; *Yati*). The slighted Rādhā and the flouted Kṛṣṇa utter their sorrows in the same accents, and in these accents they afterwards forget them (*Gurjjari*; *Yati*). Kṛṣṇa’s assuring message is met by Rādhā’s jealousy; and the messenger, who is persuading her to relent, draws forth only a pitiful plaint over his neglect, to which the ‘chorus’ gives a new turn after Kṛṣṇa’s home coming (*Deshivarāḍi*; *Rūpaka*). Again, Rādhā rebukes Kṛṣṇa in the moving tones of *Bhairavi*, and his answer, when she has yielded, is in the ecstasy of *Bibhās*.

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¹ The *Rāgs* are Gurjjari, Deshivarāḍi, Mālava, Bhairavi, Rāmagirī, Mālava-gaṇḍa, Karṇāṭa, Deshāga, Gondakirī, Vasanta, Varāḍi; and the *Tāls* Yati, Rūpaka, Ekatāli, and Aṣṭatāli. They are given here in the order of frequency of occurrence for the seventeen songs.

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Akbar, late sixteenth century, is reported to have loved music as much as Aurungzeb, late seventeenth, hated it. He is said to have been a good player on the *Naqqārah* (a drum, used in pairs) and to have composed more than two hundred melodies. He invited Miyān Tānsen the pupil of Haridās Swāmī from the court of Rājah Rām of Baghelkhand, and loaded him with honours and gold. The Mohammedan *Ain-i-Akbari* says of Tānsen, ‘a singer like him has not been in India for the last thousand years.’ The Hindus, however, hold him principally responsible for the deterioration of Hindu music. He is said to have falsified the *rāgs*, and two, Hindol and Megh, of the original six have disappeared since his time.

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Of Tyagayyar or Tyagarāja or Thiaga Iyar of Tanjore (early nineteenth century) more is known. He was revered by his contemporaries as a perfectly sincere and selfless man; he was an ascetic in the original sense of the word, one who ‘prepared’ his heart for the reception of truth. In Mudaliar Chinnaswami’s *Oriental Music* sixty of his songs (*Kritis*) are printed in staff notation, accompanied by adequate indications of scale, time, and tempo. There is a list also of eight hundred more, and this is probably not exhaustive. They are all in Telugu, the most musical language of the south, as Bengālī is of the north. They exhibit considerable sense of balance, as may be seen from the structure of the song, Ex. 379. They refrain from abusing the ear with excessive compass, and eschew cheap contrasts, both of which are to be found in the compositions of less able musicians. He signs his songs; that is to say, he ends them with words such as ‘This is the last counsel of Tyagarāja’ or ‘You who are the treasure of Tyagarāja’s heart’.

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This is a common practice in the mediaeval songs of Germany, and may be compared with Dufay’s signature ‘Karissime Dufay vous en prye’ or occasionally ‘Du[Figure: musical notation]y’, and with Palestrina’s incorporation of the titles of the 119th Psalm (Aleph, Beth, &c.) into his Lamentations. Two of the syllables of Tyagarāja’s name (ga-rā) would have admitted of the same treatment; but there is no instance of his adopting it. It was also a practice of his time to set the syllables of the song to the notes which they name,¹ as as in the example quoted by Day, p. 72:

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¹ These are called *Svarākshara*’s (note-syllables).

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Ex. 171. [musical notation] Sa - ra - sa sa-ma-muk-ha Pa - ra Ma-va Ma, &c.

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and the Indian form of ‘Ut queant laxis’ is (putting Ra, Ri, Ru for D♭, D, D♯, and Ga, Gi, Gu for E♭♭, E♭, E, and so on):

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Rāgam Dhīraśankarābharaṇa. Tālam Matya. (4 + 2 + 4.)

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Ex. 172.

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But the practice does not appear to have attractions for Tyagarāja; he resists them at any rate in a song beginning Nidāsānu, a word which would have suggested four notes of the scale.¹ Neither does he seem to be particularly in love with Svaras. Svara in the South, Sārgam (i.e. Sa, Ri, Ga, Ma) in the North, means a rapid passage in which the notes are sung to the sol-fa names instead of to words as an amusing feat of skill. It takes the place of our cadenza, and like that was occasionally added by another hand. Svaras occur in only four of his sixty songs.

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¹ B, A, C, H, to be accurate.

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There is a pretty story about Tyagarāja’s meeting with ‘Shatkāla’ Govinda Mārār, a fine musician of Travancore. Shatkāla means ‘six-time’, and ‘time’ is here used in the sense of ‘diminutions’, i.e. that a piece that had been in crotchets was now sung in quavers; and the point is that he could ‘diminish’ six times over, i.e. begin with his theme in semibreves and end with it in semi-demi-semi-quavers. He used to sing to a Tāmbura with seven strings—the ordinary Tāmbura has only four; and this instrument seems to have been a sort of bow of Ulysses to inferior singers; in token of which, apparently, it was adorned with a flag. They met at Tyagarāja’s house at Tiruvaiyyar near Tanjore in 1843, where the great man was sitting with his disciples. Mārār, after listening to the disciples, expressed a wish to hear Tyagarāja himself. ‘Who is the man’, said Tyagarāja in Telugu, ‘that can ask me to sing?’ Apparently the audience were to hear him only when he sang of his own accord. He asked who was the man, pointing to Mārār, who sat with a flagged Tāmbura in his hand; and was told that Mārār could sing a little. A Pallavi was then sung round, and when it came to Govinda Mārār’s turn the other instruments had to be laid aside and his Tāmbura only used, so high was the pitch of the music. He sang it in Shatkāla, and Tyagarāja, after remonstrating with the understatement of Mārār’s powers, improvised on the spot a song in the Śrī Rāgam, which is the Ragam sung at the close of performances, of which the burden was, ‘There are many great men in the world, and I respect them all.’ This contrasts well with the many stories there are of professional jealousy, which are too unlovely to repeat here.

The Present Day

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A few notes may be added upon so much of the present-day music as a hurried traveller might hope to hear. In a land not blessed with concert advertisements or concert notices, it is difficult for a stranger in the first place to find the best music, and in the second to know what the inhabitants themselves think of it. He can only remember with gratitude some of the good things it was his fortune to hear. There was some beautiful vīṇā-playing at Mysore, where the general standard is high. The crisp and expressive touch and imaginative improvisation of Subbanna contrasted well with the smooth tones and solid technique and exact intonation of Seshanna, of whom it was said that he could ‘put Sabbanna in his pocket and shake him about’, a criticism the truth of which I was not in a position to gauge. They got by heart at my dictation ‘Ye banks and braes’, selected because it is in the Mohanna Rāgam, and were to improvise upon it next day, when a concourse assembled to hear the result. They quite entered into the spirit of the thing; Subbanna played the tune more as if he cared for it; Seshanna produced the more ingenious variations. Afterwards they played the following in unison with the utmost accuracy:

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Seshanna, vīṇā-player, Mysore.

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Aiknāth Vishnu Paṇḍit, vīṇā-player, Poona.

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(The page is blank.)

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Rāgam Mohanna (Rāg Bhupkalīān). Tālam Adi. = 120. Allegretto cantabile.

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Ex. 173.

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Rāmachandra of Trivandrum, who was suffering from rheumatism, could not play for long together. He had the expressiveness of Subbanna without his invention, and the smoothness of Seshanna without his execution. He used the lower strings more than either of them; his fingers went down firmly on the strings and gave a clear and precise tone. His favourite ‘grace’ was the ‘Slide’, whereas Seshanna’s was the ‘Deflect’.¹

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¹ See Chapter VII.

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Next to the expressive vīṇā comes the dignified surbahar, which I heard only in Calcutta, where it was played by Sourendro Banerji. Its lower strings, which are freely used, have to be struck hard in order to produce the after effect of gamak

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Ex. 174.

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which is a favourite opening; and this gave it a rather ponderous sound. Its frets are but slightly, it at all, moved; and there are no ‘settings’ (thāṭ) for the different modes as on the satār. Consequently much more is left to be done by gamak, especially the ‘Deflect’ (mīṇḍ, called in Bengal mīrh), and this contributes to its grave and dignified tone. There is also a mandolin stroke, double, with the forefinger and little finger each armed with a plectrum (miṣrab), which, though no less irritating as a continuance than the mandolin itself, provides a good occasional contrast. Banerji was fond of contrasting his gamakked and his fretted note, as a violinist likes to contrast his open and his stopped E. The chanterelle is away from the player’s body, i. e. nearest his fingers (it is the other way on the vīṇā), and this seemed to give better opportunity for the Deflect. Altogether there was much more mystery in the sound of this instrument than in that of the rather commonplace satār or the thin-toned North Indian *bīn*, although I certainly did not hear these so well handled.

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Good drumming is commoner, perhaps, than any other form of music. It is said to take a lifetime to become a good drummer, but the comparative failures manage to give much pleasure. The most interesting exponents of this art I heard at Trivandrum. One was a boy of seven who had won a medal at Ernakulam for his skill, and who played on a drum bound with silver. He played with great solemnity, with funny little poses of the head to right or left as if he were thinking of anything else but what he was giving his whole attention to. His drumming was in the ‘new style’, which seemed to consist of flurry, silence, flurry, silence. After his performance he went to sleep during the rest of the music, and was ordered off to go and play in the verandah. The other was a man of sixty, Somaji Bhāgavatār, who ranks with Rāmachandra as a foremost musician. He was most careful about the tuning of his *Mṛdangam* (in two F’s like the Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony, but an octave higher). The upper F (right hand end) was adjusted by wedge and hammer, and gave the most trouble; the lower, on the left, by application of more or less flour and water to form the *karane* (Hindostani *āṭā*). There were no antics; it was all pure drumming. A good deal of it was a quiet tapping of the time with the forefinger of the left hand; then little points appeared, and a climax, and a solo or two, and the general effect was that of reserve power.

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The difference between Mohammedan and Hindu singing is more easily felt than described. One’s general impression, which a longer stay would no doubt have corrected in detail, is that the Mohammedan prefers the more cheerful *Rāgs*—*Khamāj*, *Kāfi*, and the *Kalians*; and the simpler rhythms, such as *Titāla* and *Dādra*; and the Rondo to the Variation form. With these he takes a considerable amount of liberty, concealing the rhythm, especially, by interspersed rests, and broken phrases that run counter to it, so that it would be unintelligible sometimes without the drummer. He has the performer’s instinct; he rivets the attention of the audience as a whole, and the less able singer is apt to tear a passion to pieces rather than not challenge their admiration. The performance of the best musicians (*Ustāds*) has a wonderful fascination in spite of the language difficulty. The phrases are finished off and fit so well into their place, there is so much variety and so much telling gesture, that the time goes quickly by, although you may find that, with the help of another singer perhaps, he has sung for at least half an hour continuously. All this the Hindu can do too, but he does it in a less vivacious way. He is at his best in the quieter Rāgs like Bhairavī, or the more characteristic such as Vasant or Bilhās or Toḍi, and in the more irregular rhythms such as Surphakta or Aḍachantāla. His singing is less broken up with rests, and he luxuriates in cross-rhythm. His song gives much more the impression of coming from the heart, and of reaching out for sympathy rather than for applause. You can more easily fancy him singing over his work, or her over her household duties; and, as has been mentioned, the Mohammedans have no cradle songs. There are some fine Mohammedan religious songs; they seem to treat religion more deeply and less imaginatively than the Hindus, and to produce it on occasions rather than as the natural expression of their daily life: the two songs, ‘Hādi e illah’ and ‘Cherarāvade-mirā’, Exs. 268, 379, seem typical of the two peoples.

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The singing that appealed to me most was that of Chandra Prabhu at Bhavnagav. She compelled respect at once by refusing on any account to be phonographed; perhaps she thought, amongst other things, that if she committed her soul to a mere piece of wax it might get broken in the train—and my subsequent experience showed that this was only too likely. She sang for an hour, three songs. The most striking of them was in ‘a sort of’ Bhairavī, upon a theme of the Maharajah’s:

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Ex. 175.

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(with the drum at E, of course, all the time). The others were in Imankaliān, to which the descending F♯ gives an indescribably light-hearted touch, and in Bageshri (a Dorian). She used gamak sparingly, and therefore effectively; she detached the notes cleanly without making them too staccato. There was something most satisfying in the sweep of the periods, apparently haphazard but really conforming to strict law. A voice with good tone, as we understand tone, is a rarity in India; but Chandra Prabhu sang with full round notes and variety of quality in addition to the extraordinary flexibility of all her nation. But the musicianship of her song was the most notable thing about it. She never seemed to come across technical difficulties—as that friend of Assheton Smith’s never could ‘think where the young men found all these big things—he never met with them’.

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It is impossible to measure this sort of song by any European standards, the problem is so entirely different. With us, as with them, a singer concentrates into a single song all his knowledge and past experience, and has taken years to learn what it takes a few minutes to sing; but he is only interpreting. It seems as fresher and more convincing thing when, after an equal or perhaps larger number of years training, the song is created there and then; when its message has never been given in quite the same terms before and never will be again. The greatest European singers are apt to be voice-producers first and musicians afterwards; the Indian singer is before all things a musician, who may happen to have a good voice, but seldom has a good tone. And it seems possible to overrate good tone; at any rate, it is surprising how much art can be heard behind a poor one. Then, too, in the absence of orchestration and of counterpoint—except such as the drum provides, and of harmony—and, with that, of a certain terseness of structure, the voice has unaided to supply all the interest and to spread it over a certain lapse of time.

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To maintain this interest recourse is had to all those things of which a description has been attempted in the chapters on *Rāga* and Grace. The result is a kind of full-throated utterance quite unlike the elaborate tremolos of our singers, which often seem to resolve themselves into a battle between the voice and the accompaniment. The nearest analogy we have is perhaps Mr. Henschel playing his own accompaniment, where the whole is under the direction of one mind and it is difficult to say whether voice or instrument is contributing most to the result. Again, the form of the song is wholly diverse: we can hardly imagine a composition without a main climax and perhaps a coda: an Indian simply stops when he has sung enough. It seems as if climax too can be overrated as it certainly is sometimes overdone. Still, though there are plenty of minor crises in the course of the music, this absence of any convincing close remains a difficulty for us.

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A different kind of interest and a still greater pleasure was afforded by a visit to Rabindranāth Tagore, the Bengāli poet. In accordance with the best Indian tradition he is poet and musician in one. His poetry is beginning to speak to us for itself: even in a few scattered translations it is possible to hear the voice of a man who thinks deeply and truly, who sees things as they really are, making invisible things visible as florescence does in optics, and touching them with tenderness and reverence. To hear him recite his poems is to be reminded of the way in which Tennyson is said by his biographer to have recited *Maud*; and indeed such a line as ‘Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere’ has something of the ring of Bengāli verse about it, while the terseness, the inheritance of the Sutras, of a language which is the descendant of that compact wonder, Sanskrit, we could hardly parallel short of Horace. To hear him sing them is to realize the music in a way that it is seldom given to a foreigner to do. The notes of the song are no longer their mere selves, but the vehicle of a personality, and as such they go behind this or that system of music to that beauty of sound which all systems put out their hands to seize. These melodies are such as would have satisfied Plato. ‘I do not know the modes,’ said Socrates, ‘but leave me one that will imitate the tones and accents of a brave man enduring danger or distress, fighting with constancy against fortune; and also one fitted for the work of peace, for prayer heard by the gods, and for the successful persuasion or exhortation of men.’

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The portrait of Mr. Tagore which forms the frontispiece is by Mr. William Rothenstein, who has most generously lent the copyright of it for this book. It was drawn one afternoon while the words and the songs were being transcribed; and perhaps the sympathy and fidelity of it may be taken as some compensation for the limitations imposed by a foreign language and for the inability of musical notation to convey the tones of the living voice.

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Mr. Tagore’s translations of his own poems are given in Examples 176-180.

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Rāg Bhairavī, Tāl Tevra (3 + 2 + 2). ♩ = 100. *Adagietto.*

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Ex. 176. Ji - ba - ne ja - ta pu - jā ha - la - nā sā - rā . . Jā - ni he jā - ni tā - o ha - i - ni hā - rā Je phul nā phu-ti - te jho-re-chhe dha-ra-ni-te Je na - di mo-ru pa - the hā-rā - lo dhā - rā . .

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*Jibane jata.*

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The pujas that have not been finished in this life I know that they are not altogether lost. The flowers that have shed their petals on the dust before being full blown, and the rivers that hid their streams in the desert sand, I know, I know they have not been altogether lost. Those that lag behind in this life I know, I know that even they have not lived uselessly. All my unformed thoughts and all my unstruck melodies are still sounding on the strings of thy *vīṇā*, and I know that they have not been altogether lost.

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*Ba'ul tune,* *Tāl Dadra.* ♩ = 90. *Andantino.*

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Musical notation for "a - klā cha - lo re"

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*Jadi tor dāk.*

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If no one responds to your call then go on alone. And if there is no one to speak out, and if they turn their face and are afraid, then open your heart and speak only you. Speak alone, speak alone.

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If every one goes back and none accompanies you in the difficult path, then tread the thorns with bloody feet alone. Tread alone, tread alone.

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If there is no one to light the lamp, and if every one shuts his door in the stormy dark night, then burn the ribs of your heart with the thunder fire and burn alone, burn alone.

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Rag Khambāj, Tāl Ektāla. = 60. Andante.

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Musical notation for "Ex. 178. Ā - mā-r(a) ka-ra to mā-r(a) bi - nā - la-ha go la-ha tu-"

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Musical notation for "le. . . . Ā - mā - r(a) ka - ra to - mā - r(a) bi - nā. . ."

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Musical notation for "U - thi-be bā - ji tan - tri tan - tri . rā - ji Mo-ha - na an - gu-"

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Musical notation for "le. . . . Ā - mā - r(a) ka - ra to - mā - r(a) bi - nā. . ."

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Ko-ma-la ta-ba ka-ma-la ka-re pa-ra-sa ka-ro pa-rā-na pa-re.

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U-thi-be hi-yā gun-ja-rī - yā ta-ba sra-va-na mu-le . . . .

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Ā - mā - r(a) ka - ra to - mā - r(a) bi - - nā. . . .

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Ka - kha- na su-khe ka-kha-na . . du-khe kān-di - be

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cha-hi to - mā - ri mu-khe Cha-ra-nā pa-rhi ra-be ni . . ra-be

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ra - hi - be ja - be bhu - lo Ke - ho nā

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jā - ne ki na-ba tā . . ne U-thi-be gī - ta shu - nya pā - ne D.C. al

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Ā - nan - de - ra bā-ra-tā jā-be a nan - te - ra ku - le . . . .

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*Āmār kara tomāra binā.*

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Make me thy *vīṇā*; lift me in thine arms. All the strings of my heart will break out at thy finger-touch. With thy tender hands touch my life, and my heart will murmur her secrets in thine ears. In happiness and in sorrow she will gaze on thy face, and cry; and shouldst thou neglect her she will remain silent at thy feet. None knows in what new strains her songs will rise up to the heavens and send a message of joy to the shore of the infinite.

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Rāg Jhijhit, Tāl Ektāla. ♩. = 60. Andante.

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Ex. 179. Ā - mi chi - ni go chi - ni to - mā - re O go bi - de shi- *Ami chini go chini.*

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I know, I know thee, O thou Bideshini¹; thou dwellest on the other shore of the ocean. I have seen thee in the autumn, I have felt thee in the spring night. I have found thee in the midst of my heart, O thou Bideshini. Putting my ear to the sky² I have heard thy music, and I have offered to thee my life, O thou Bideshini. I have roamed all through the world and have come at last into the strange country. Here I am a guest at thy door, O thou Bideshini.³

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¹ O thou stranger lady; perhaps, Intellectual Beauty.

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² *Ākāśa*, space; the source of all sound and speech.

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³ Mr. Tagore writes :—"I heard when I was very young the song "Who dressed you like a foreigner?" and that one line of the song painted such a strange picture in my mind that even now it is sounding in my memory. I once tried to compose a song myself under the spell of that line. As I hummed the tune I wrote the first line of the song "I know thee, thou stranger", and,

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Rāg Kāfi. Tāl Ektāla. ♩ = 80. Andante.

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Ex. 180.

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Ma-ma jau-ba-na ni-kun-je gā-he pā-khi Sa-khi jā-go, jā-go, jā-go Ma-ma jau-ba-na ni-kun-je gā-he pā-khi Me-li rā-ga a-la-sa ān-khi Me-li rā-ga a-la-sa ān-khi Sa-khi jā-go, jā-go Ma-ma jau-ba-na ni- -kun-je gā-he pā-khi Ā-ji chan-cha-la é nih-shi-té jā-go phā-gu-na gu-na gī-té a-yi pra-tha-ma pra-na-ya bhi-te Ma-ma nan-da-na a-ta-bi-te Pi-ka mu-hu-mu-hu u-tthe dā-ki Sa-khi

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if there were no tune to it, I don't know what would be left of the song. But under the spell (mantra) of the tune the mysterious figure of that stranger was evoked in my mind. My heart began to say, "There is a stranger going to and fro in this world of ours; her house is on the further shore of an ocean of mystery. Sometimes she is to be seen in the autumn morning, sometimes in the flowery midnight; sometimes we receive an intimation of her in the depths of our heart, sometimes I hear her voice when I turn my ear to the sky. . . . One day, long afterwards, some one went along the road singing, "How does that unknown bird go to and away from the cage? Could I but catch it, I would put the chain of my mind about its feet!" I saw that that Ba'ul song too said the very same thing. Sometimes the unknown bird comes to the closed cage and speaks a word of the limitless Unknown. Then the mind would keep it for ever, but cannot. What but the tune of a song could report the coming and going of this unknown bird? Because of this I always feel hesitation in publishing a book of songs, for in such a book the main thing is left out. To set forth the music's vehicle and leave out the music itself is just like keeping the mouse and leaving out Ganapati himself.' jā - go, jā - go Ma-ma jau - ba - na ni - kun - je gā - he

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pā - khi Jā-go na-bi-na gau-ra - be Na-ba ba-ku-la sau-ra-

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- bhé Mri-du ma-la-ya bi - ja - né . . jā-go ni-bhri-ta nir - ja-

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- nó Jā-go ā - ku - la phu-la sā - jé jā-go mri-du kam-pi - ta

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lā - jé Ma-mahṛi-da-ya sha-ya-na ma-jhé shu-na ma-dhu-ra mu-ra-ia

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bā - jé Ma-ma an - ta - re thā-ki thā - ki Sa-khi jā - go jā

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- go Ma-ma jau - ba - na ni - kun - je ga - hé pā - khé.

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*Mama jaubana nikunje.*

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In the bower of my youth a bird sings, ‘Wake, my love, wake! Open thy love-languid eyes, my love, and awake.’ There is a tremor in the midnight darkness to-night, and the air is resonant with the praise song of spring. O timorous maiden, thrilling with the mysteries of first love, listen; in my grove of paradise a bird sings in a repeated rapture, ‘Wake my love, wake!’ Wake in the first fullness of thy youth, wake in the lonely stillness of starry night, fanned by the ardent breath of spring drunk with the perfume of *bakula*. Wake in my arms my love, a-tremble with a tender shyness, decked in a wreath of blushing rose. O listen to the sweet piping in my heart, ‘Wake, my sweet love, wake.’

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The rhythm of Indian song is more fluid than that of European. It seems to cost us more, so to say, to be perpetually altering the accent; it produces a certain instability which has to be made up for in other ways. But there is no feeling of instability in these songs. Such a line as, flows quite as naturally as the close of Brahms's *Minnelied* :

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Ex. 181. Jā-go ā - ku - la phu-la sā - jé jā-go mṛi-du kam - pi-ta lā . . jé Ma-ma hṛi-da - ya sha-ya - na ma - jhé &c.

First 139 of 145 passages. Read on

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