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Journalism of Courage
I8217;M a little shaky in the home of Pandit Shivkumar Sharma on suburban Mumbai8217;s Zig Zag Road, and I8217;m not exactly sure why. Though the legendary santoor player is tall and looming with a mass of curly grey hair, his demeanour is so unassuming that you immediately feel you can talk to him about anything. Then you inevitably end up thinking fleetingly, of course that maybe, just maybe, you could become as good as he is with a bit of practice.
That8217;s probably a pipe dream for a wayward musician like me who hasn8217;t touched a piano in a decade. Yet, ultimately, I know the piano, like a faithful lover, has gone through practically zero itinerant variations over hundreds of years.
Panditji8217;s instrument, on the other hand, has a different face in every culture and on every continent, from the dulcimer in America to the 45-string version in China, all producing various beautiful melodies similar to a harp or harpsichord.
He told an audience during a workshop last week at Mumbai8217;s National Centre for the Performing Arts that the Iranians still claim the first manifestation of the santoor came from ancient Persia, but according to India8217;s resident expert, the true 100-string santoor calls only the valleys of Kashmir home. After all, the word santoor comes from the ancient Sanskrit name shata tantri veena, meaning an instrument with 100 strings.
Kashmir is also where Sharma learnt to play the instrument, a place 8216;8216;so inspired by nature and beauty that it8217;s exactly the right place for a musician to be8217;8217;.
But with just a 30-minute lesson on the fly with Panditji, in the middle of Mumbai no less, how could I possibly begin to understand the nuances of something so completely mired in its own rich history? Once I get past Panditji8217;s uncanny ability to put my nerves at ease, I realise I have no relationship whatsoever with this instrument, and I feel unworthy of even touching it.
I8217;m also in the company of photographer Paroma Mukherjee, herself a talented musician who can conjure any song, sans sheet music, when the feeling strikes. This student of Western music, who can8217;t play without something to read, needless to say, feels a bit out of place in a musical culture where the ability to improvise is a worshipped commodity.
So to begin, perhaps, a futile exercise, we walk into the music room on Zig Zag Road, with plush silk carpets on the floor and various photographs of father and son Rahul playing together on the walls.
Sharma unfurls his personal santoor from its case, one that has been modified by the Pandit to have 93 strings instead of the usual 100.
He gives me the two wooden mallets made of walnut the instruments to play the santoor which, when held in different ways, produce different sounds as you strike the strings. 8216;8216;First you have to strike, get familiar with the strings,8217;8217; Sharma tells me, and I take one in each hand to play my first-ever santoor note.
If I were to commit myself to dedicated discipleship, Panditji says it would take me at least a year just to get familiar with striking. I8217;d also have to learn the Indian system of musical notation that can reside only in one8217;s memory, eventually facilitating the ability to improvise.
But I8217;m getting ahead of myself. After Panditji8217;s demonstration, I strike the right side of the instrument the major side from the lower D note to the higher octave D, and back down again. It8217;s all repetition8212;I8217;d have to do it thousands of times to execute a flawless gesture without inadvertently striking other strings.
There8217;s no time to even get near the left side of the instrument, which produces minor notes, let alone get into the hundreds of musical phrases or ragas that santoor players use as the basis of improvisation.
I do come away, though, feeling invigorated by music again. Producing music yourself is worlds away from listening to it on your iPod. I might even go out and buy myself a santoor.
