Gender and Indian Classical Music : An edited version of this appeared in the Indian Express as the “Songs they Sang, and the Songs they Didn’t”
Jalsaghar is the National Award winning Satyajit Ray film, that tells the story of one man and his obsession. The man in question is Biswambhar Roy (Chhabi Biswas), an elderly zamindar who is sees his way of life coming to an end. Set in the 1930’s, the era marked by the height of the people’s movement that led to independence, the period marked the decline of the zamindari system, not just as a method of collecting tax, but as a way of life. Marked by decadence, and indolence, the era was slowly wiping out a way of life, which is what Biswambhar Roy wants to resist. On a declining estate, with just two loyal servants left, he decides to organise a grand musical soiree in the music room (Jalsaghar). One of the key performances in the musical part of the film, that illustrates the grandeur of the music room, is the one by Durga Bai (Begum Akhtar). A gathering of men is sitting, smoking, drinking, waiting for the performance by Durga Bai, a sari clad, head covered, singer. And her music transports them to a sort of bliss.
Begum Akhtar in Jalsaghar
A similar pose is struck in the Muzzafar Ali film Umrao Jaan. Umrao (Rekha), is all alone singing for a room full of men. The lonliness of both women, strikes you. They are talented, desired, possibly rich and able to choose their path, unlike most married women. And yet, there is an immense isolation about them. They belong neither with the men, because they are women, nor with the women, because they are performers. All that they can do, is be with other women like themselves, all equally isolate They are all alone.
Rekha as Umrao Jaan
Singing, like most professions in India, was carried out by specific families or gharanas. Whether you call it caste, or tradition, is immaterial, but the idea of women performing in public was not taboo for women of these families. These immensely talented women, were brought up in the tradition of music – both vocal and instrumental. They got married to men of other gharanas, produced children who were artists, and the tradition of music continued. If you remember the story of Tansen, who is tricked into singing raga Deepak that would set him on fire, he teaches raga megh (the rain bringing raga) to his daughter, that when sung, would douse the flames. Women who came from musical families, were not just respected, but also in a fair few cases, married into nobility, usually as the second or third wife. These women were considered almost equal to men, in that they could leave the system of purdah, that separated the remaining wives from outsiders, and step out. As long as there was thriving monarchy in India – right until the time of the British arriving – the musical gharanas were supported by various kings and their courts.
The term courtesan, actually referred to a female courtier. The female courtiers, did not just sing and dance. They participated in the work of the court, they gave advice, they earned money, and sometimes, like the men, they also exercised their sexuality. The breakdown of royalty, in India, led to a 200 year period, where the action moved to the market areas of various cities and towns. Popularly called the kothas, where they became the Bais who entertained men at their home. As Gangubai Hangal, the doyenne of the Kirana Gharana (her guru bandhu was Bhimsen Joshi) would point out, a Muslim male musician would be an ustad, a Hindu male musician would be a Pandit, but a woman musician remained a bai.
Till the 20th century, for a woman from a non musical gharana to practise music, was unthinkable. It was simply not the kind of stuff that ‘good’ women from ‘good’ families did. And, even for women born and brought up in the various gharanas, it wasn’t always easy to perform. The patriarchy was just too strong. A story is told of Ustad Bande Ali Khan, in the mid 1800’s, the most famous beenkar (Veena Player) of his generation. He declared only accomplished musicians would marry his two daughters (also accomplished musicians). When he found the two men, who were as good as his daughters, he arranged their marriage with them. However, the new sons-in-law, Ustad Zakiruddin Khan and Ustad Allabandi Khan, forbade their wives from singing explicitly. Religion does not permit it, they said. And, the talent of two extremely gifted women was doused.
A similar story is told a century later. A story that had less to do with religion, and more to do with ego. Annapurna Devi was the immensely talented daughter of Ustad Allauddin Khan, and sister to Ali Akbar Khan. Her talent was so great, her brother said of her
“Put Ravi Shankar, Pannalal (Ghosh) and me on one side and put Annapurna on the other and yet her side of the scale will be heavier.”
Her father arranged her marriage to musical prodigy Ravi Shankar, his student. That marriage is said to have run into difficulties, because the applause she use to receive, was much louder than the applause Ravi Shankar received. For the sake of marital stability, Annapurna Devi stopped performing and became reclusive. Another talent doused.
What really liberated the Indian woman singer of classical music was the introduction of technology. The gramophone. For the first time, women could enter the homes of ‘respectable’ folk – albeit as a disembodied voice. They no longer had to perform before all and sundry. Surprisingly, the male musicians of that era saw the gramophone and recording techniques with a hint of disdain. The women saw it as liberation. From the first recording in 1902 (made by Guahar Jaan), the enthusiasm of female singers for the new medium was evident. Technology, then, as now, liberated the classical singer, and moved her from the confines of the kotha, to the respectability of the home.
A Gauhar Jaan Recording from 1905
But the moment music enters the home, then the nature of the music itself changes. For example, many Thumris are exceedingly flirtatious. Many sing about the love of Krishna and the gopis. Depending on the way it is sung, and who sigs it – the same song can either be incredibly erotic, or exceedingly devotional. As music began entering the household, the focus on the erotic decreased. The music itself became much more devotional in nature.
Kesarbai Kerkar
Recently, singer TM Krishna got into an awful lot of trouble for suggesting that MS Subhalakshmi’s fame came at the expense of her disowning her devdasi origins and becoming ‘Brahminised’. He isn’t wrong. If MS continued to sing the songs that she did when she was growing up, in the way she sang them, it is unlikely that she would have received the measure of success she did. Most south indian homes, even today, start their mornings with her singing the suprabhatam. To enter the average Indian home, the female musician had to give up on her sexuality, and subsume her music into spirituality. When you listen to MS Subhalakshmi’s music that spiritual connect is unmistakable. But, what people, especially men who mean well forget, is that is also a choice. Maybe asserting one’s sexuality is not vitally important to many women. And, to be fair, the male musicians who entered the home through their music, also form part of the spiritualtradition. The more courtly singers, are relegated to be heard at the concert recording.
Today’s female musicians have come a long way. From being known as bai, they moved up the ladder to be known as tai (sister) or vidushi (wise) to being called Pandita (a female form of pandit, an archaic term that had fallen into disuse). They can command their price. They can be imperious. They can be flirtatious. They can be single. They can be married. They can choose to sing. Or Not to sing. And of course, They can be immersed in the rasa that exists when the singer sees the raga as God, and subsumes herself in it. They can be who they choose to be, and they can choose to be all of it.
Gauri Pathare