Artists are often a forgotten lot; more so if they are practitioners of the classical. This year again the Union budget had no mention of art or culture. Even our census puts down all artists under the category ‘others’; a skewed view, and unfortunate. Vidya Shah, delivering the second inaugural lecture-demonstration at the HSS Conference, 2018, thus began on a strong note. Much like her resonating, refined voice, this note was to linger throughout the course of her lecture, and even afterward.
Thumri has found a dedicated exponent in Shah, who is also a writer and social activist. She has trained under music icon Shubha Mudgal in Khayal Gayaki and with Shanti Hiranand in Thumri, Dadra and Ghazal. On the evening of February 1st, at the conference, Ms. Shah commenced by citing the hierarchy of forms of singing in Hindustani Classical: at the top lies Dhrupad, then comes Khayal, and then the semi-classical genres like Thumri. Thumri is described as the light-hearted, romantic dessert after a meal of intense classical singing. Yet in describing it so we might fall into the trap of belittling the rigour and skill of this unique style. It is of relatively recent origin and was patronized in the courtrooms of royalty in North India, encouraged because it is cadenced and lyrical, thereby lending it the possibility of being accompanied by courtesan-dancing. It is popularly sung in the ‘Bandish’ form, which is an influence from Khayal; ‘Bandish’ implies being tied, here, to a particular form of rhythm. To exhibit this Shah performed a Thumri in Teentaal, remarking how it could easily pass for an old item song, with its light hearted, ‘spicy’ wording: Baalam matwaare, Ye kaisa jaadoo daala (O charming lover, what magic have you spun on me).
Themes in Thumri have typically comprised evocative love, mild eroticism and the less vigorous aesthetics (rasas). Shah related how, as someone who practices this singing in 21st century India, it is essential to know about its evolution as a form, how it has become comfortable for consumption, how it has become carefree about the social baggage attached to it, and how it transforms the performer. She then delved into history. Thumri served as a vehicle for dance, an avenue for emotional expression. The aristocracy of Awadh (Lucknow) preferred Thumri and dance to the serious Dhrupad, for entertainment. This is where the famous Tawayaf tradition flourished, in the 19th century. However, after the exile of the patron Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, who wrote Thumris himself, under the British Raj, this tradition fell into gradual decline. The colonial rule banned dance and declared the Tawayaf debauchery. Yet there was resilience in these female musicians, and Thumri was reinvented to become socially respectable- the ‘Bol-Banao’ form (literally meaning ‘fashioning the words’) evolved in Varanasi. Shah showcased this by singing a popular leisurely rendition: Dekhe bina nahi chaen suratiya (I know no rest until I see your face). This weaving of ‘acceptable’ words into the lyric brought it out of being described as ‘adulterous entertainment’.
Ms. Shah also focussed on how singing was given a higher stature than dance, which was more or less taboo. Gender constructs played a role as well in making Thumri a female domain, for it was supposed to be amorous, an ultimate feminine erotic expression. When this was subjugated, certain changes happened. Sooni sejariya (deserted bed) became Sooni nagariya (deserted town), and was given a spiritual flavour. Thus all evocations of love were manipulated into invocations to Krishna; a process of sanitizing the language was underway. Towards the beginning of the 20th century, new technology would arrive as a saviour. The gramophone enabled this group of women, called ‘baijis’, to assert themselves. It was an important instrument for documentation and liberation and offered anonymity. The first gramophone recording was made by the diva of the gramophone era, Gauhar Jaan. Ms. Shah played a small music clip of one such recording, where at the end Gauhar Jaan can be heard announcing her name as ‘Gauhar Jaan Champion’, declaring her stardom and glamour. It was a standard practice in those times, so the technician knew the names of the artists. Gramophone recordings had to be short, so the Thumri-performing baijis dexterously abstracted the colours of the Raga into their singing in brief. They trained under Ustads, who often taught them less, considering their inferior social status. Here again, these ingenious women concocted their own lyrics and sang. Another doyen of this tradition was Zohrabai Agrewali, whose singing has inspired greats like Ustad Fayyaz Khan and Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan. With this, Shah performed a rendition sung by the renowned Begum Akhtar, who, even though she sang it, was not comfortable with the fact that she did! No wonder, for the lyrics go: Patli qamar lambe baal, chalun jaise kaamaliyaan (lean waist, long hair; treading like a lily).
In 1931, something happened for the first time. Sound came to film. For these already famed musicians, it was an expected transition into the film industry. Saraswati Devi, who was Parsi by birth (but changed her name into a Hindu one) composed and sung the song Kit gaye ho kewanhaar for the film Acchut Kannya. Ms. Shah performed a small excerpt of the same. She commented on how pop music, which has a temporary character (which she called a ‘Snapchat version’) is killing traditional musical forms. A lesser known fact is that these Thumri stars actively contributed to the freedom struggle. Gauhar Jaan performed in congress rallies. Siddheshwari Devi sang Vande Mataram. So did Mogubai Kurdikar, mother of the legendary Kishori Amonkar. Shah presented the first stanza, displaying how it was sung in Thumri. The efforts of these vocalists, though not acknowledged in the mainstream and deliberately marginalized by certain structures and committees put in place, are not unknown. Shah herself has initiated a project called ‘Women on Record’, which aims, as the name indicates, to put these women maestros of Thumri singing on the record. She performed two pieces in conclusion. The first was Deewan-i-Janaki, a rendering in Raga Bhairavi, and composed by Janakibai of Allahabad, better known as Janakibai ‘Chhappanchori’. Next, she performed the widely enjoyed romantic bandish: Raseeli tori akhiyaan, jiya lalchaaye (your luscious eyes, entice my heart), even as a slideshow of portraits of post-Independence Thumri singers played on the screen behind. Ms. Shah also gifted her book, titled Jalsa, to the library.
She closed her enriching talk with a few remarks on how modern-day musicians, when they experiment with classical music, blatantly do not acknowledge the contributions of the original artists or give them credit, and this has led to a loss and lack of context and due appreciation which these subjugated knowledges merit. As Begum Akhtar used to say- “People don’t want to listen to an imitation. If they want to listen to my style, they will go buy my records.”
Report by Jayat Joshi.
Photograph by Olivia Joshi.
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