Interviewer:
Okay, so I’m really happy to have you here and to invite you. Thank you so much for joining. I’m also happy to have such a curious guest.

First, let me briefly explain what I’m working on so you can better understand who you’re speaking with. I’m currently in 12th grade, studying humanities, and I’m also a practitioner.

I started a small project—rather than calling it an organisation—called Relearning the Nautch. It focuses on documenting performing communities, including dancers, Kathak traditions, and also musicians associated with Hindustani classical music, like thumri and related traditions, particularly from a colonial perspective.

So far, I’ve conducted several interviews, mainly with Kathak and Odissi practitioners. You’re actually the first person I’m interviewing from a Hindustani classical music perspective. I’m also interacting with scholars from institutions like Jawaharlal Nehru University and Swarthmore College.

So let’s begin. First, I’d like to talk about your journey in music.

Interviewee:
Yes, my journey is actually quite short—just around three or four years.

I started learning Dhrupad in early 2022. Before the COVID period, I had pursued some training in harmonium and completed Visharad-level studies. After finishing school, I got admission into Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda in the music faculty, where I did my bachelor’s degree.

Around 2021–2022, I also began training under my guru, Shri Chintan Upadhyay. During my university years, I started reading ancient musical texts like the Natya Shastra (not the whole text, but selected chapters), as well as Sangeet Ratnakar and Sangeet Parijat, in both Marathi and English.

I completed my bachelor’s in 2024 and then took what people might call a gap year—but it wasn’t really a gap. I continued my Dhrupad practice and riyaaz. During that time, I met Pandit Uday Gowalkar, who is my dada guru (my guru’s guru), and later I got admission in Pune.

Currently, I’m pursuing my master’s in Dhrupad. I’ve also done a few lecture-demonstrations and performances, but not extensively. I wouldn’t say I’m fully authorised to speak on everything, but I have read enough to share my thoughts and opinions.

Interviewer:
I think experience is what matters—every experience counts. Even for me, this is my first time appearing for a Kathak exam, even though I’ve been learning for four years.

So my next question is: since you studied in an academic structure during your bachelor’s and now follow a more traditional Dhrupad training, what differences did you notice between the two?

Interviewee:
In the traditional guru-shishya parampara, there is no fixed course or time limit—only improvement matters.

But in a university system, everything is bound by a syllabus and time constraints. During my bachelor’s, we had to prepare around 10 ragas per semester—so about 20 ragas a year. That was very difficult for me.

At one point, I even kept my harmonium aside and started focusing only on the tanpura. I had to train my voice to align with the tanpura, which was quite challenging initially.

At the same time, I was learning from my guru, Shri Chintan Upadhyay, who gave me proper time and attention. Through that training, I realised that even spending one full year on a single raga is more than enough. There is no real need to rush through 20 ragas in a year.

Now, in my master’s in Dhrupad, we focus on around six ragas per year, which feels much more manageable. Since I am focusing on a specific singing style, I need to internalise its framework and apply it to each raga. It’s more about depth than quantity.

I’m currently studying at Bharati Vidyapeeth in Pune. There, I only attend theory lectures. My practical training happens with my guru. I go to the university mainly for evaluations—viva and stage performances based on what my guru has taught me.

So it’s a mix of academic structure and traditional training. Compared to my bachelor’s, the master’s feels more balanced and easier.

Interviewer:
You mentioned that you trained in Khayal earlier. Do you prefer Khayal or Dhrupad?

Interviewee:
It depends on one’s nature and perspective.

Personally, I seek stillness. I cannot engage with something very dynamic or restless for too long. I prefer staying on a single note and exploring it deeply.

In Dhrupad, I found that space. There is a concept—Advaita—which means oneness or non-duality. I feel that through Dhrupad, I am worshipping that singular sound, that naad.

When I first went to my guru’s place, we spent 30–40 minutes just holding and exploring a single note in the lower octave. It felt like meditation. This kind of depth and repetition is unique to Dhrupad.

In Khayal traditions—whether Gwalior, Agra, or Jaipur—you don’t typically experience this same prolonged stillness. Dhrupad gave me a sense of peace.

That said, every form has its own path of devotion. For example, Bhimsen Joshi—when you listen to him, it feels like pure worship through Khayal. Similarly, Girija Devi expresses devotion through Thumri.

But for me, I cannot find that same connection in more dynamic forms. I needed something stable, meditative, and grounded. That is why I chose Dhrupad.

Interviewee:
I don’t like that chanchal (restless) form. In that kind of form, I cannot worship music. So, I chose Dhrupad.

That is the reason I selected Dhrupad, and I stopped learning Khayal after completing my degree.

Interviewer:
My next question is related to history.

If we talk about the Dhrupad tradition, in ancient times it is often said that it was primarily sung in temples. Then gradually, court patronage developed and it moved into royal courts. Am I correct? Could you tell us a bit about this transition?

Interviewee:
There is not a single text that clearly shows any gradual transformation from temples to royal courts—not a single text.

Most of what we know comes from folklore and a few historical texts like the Ain-i-Akbari and Akbarnama. For example, according to folklore, Tansen was a disciple of Swami Haridas. Swami Haridas used to sing and teach in his temple in Mathura.

Tansen wasfirst associated with the court of the king of Gwalior, and later he moved to the Mughal court. This is mentioned in texts like the Akbarnama, but much of it is still based on oral tradition.

There is also another piece of folklore from my own tradition. During the time of Alauddin Khilji, when he attacked Devagiri (present-day Daulatabad in Maharashtra), there was a court musician named Gopal Nayak, who was also a Dhrupad singer.

It is said that after the invasion, Amir Khusro brought Gopal Nayak to Delhi, where he became a court musician. But again, this is folklore.

Then there is Baiju Bawra. There is a popular belief that he and Tansen were contemporaries, but historically that is not accurate—Tansen was born earlier. Both are associated with Gwalior.

So overall, there is no concrete historical evidence that shows a clear shift of Dhrupad from temples to courts. It is mostly assumed because figures like Swami Haridas were associated with temple singing.

Another important point is that most Dhrupad bandishes are devoted to deities—Ganesha, Shiva, Parvati, Krishna, Ram, and so on. Until composers like Sadarang and Adarang, there were very few compositions dedicated to emperors.

For example:

• A bandish in Raag Suha praises Akbar

• Another in Adana praises Aurangzeb

• A composition attributed to Baiju Bawra praises Queen Mriganayani of Gwalior

But these are very few. So there is no solid evidence proving that Dhrupad moved gradually from temples to courts.

Interviewer:
If we talk about Dhrupad in relation to dance—since Indian classical music is very important for dance, especially in forms like Kathak where we often perform to Thumri—were there any dance traditions performed on Dhrupad?

Interviewee:
Yes, there have been such instances.

For example, my guru’s guru, Pandit Uday Bhawalkar, has performed a traditional Dhrupad composition in Dhrut Shultaal—Shankar Girijapati. There have been Kathak choreographies based on that.

Also, Parvati Kar from Aurangabad (now Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar) has performed Bharatanatyam on Dhrupad compositions.

In Kathak, older compositions in Chautaal—like rela or paran—are already danced upon. This is quite common. So, Dhrupad bandishes can also be used for dance.

For instance, there are Kathak performances on:

• Shankar Girijapati

• A Tansen composition Pujan Chali Mahadev

These have been sung by my guru and grandfather and later adapted for dance.

Interviewer:
When we think of Indian classical music, Dhrupad and Khayal are considered “classical,” while forms like Thumri, Dadra, or Keharwa are often called “semi-classical.” Why do you think this distinction exists?

Interviewee:
This classification comes from a colonial mindset—nothing more than that.

Personally, I don’t prefer the term “classical music.” The idea of “classical” and “non-classical” comes from Western traditions, where “classical” means something bound by certain formal structures or classes.

Our music was not like that. It was for everyone.

Yes, it was performed in courts, but it was not only for courtiers. The same music was also associated with temples, though not always performed publicly. Public concerts, as we know them today, are only about 100–125 years old.

So instead of “classical” and “semi-classical,” I prefer the terms Shastriya (classical in the sense of being based on theory) and Upa-Shastriya.

Historically, when Sultan Hussain Sharqi initiated the Bada Khayal tradition, Dhrupad was considered Shastriya, and Khayal was seen as Upa-Shastriya.

Dhrupad singers were often called Kalavant, while Khayal singers were sometimes referred to as Qawwal (those associated with Qawwali traditions).

Over time, this hierarchy changed. By the early 19th century, during the time of Sadarang and Adarang, Dhrupad was still considered the higher form—associated with deeper sadhana (discipline and practice).

Gradually, however, Khayal gained prominence and the classifications shifted.

Those who used to sing anywhere were often considered of a lower status. These were mostly Khayal singers, and Khayal at that time was associated with Shringar (romantic expression). Because of this, Khayal was seen as Upa-Shastriya.

As time passed, there was a major cultural shift in North India, especially in the Gangetic plains. Delhi went through a very unstable period—first the Marathas attacked, then Ahmad Shah Abdali, and then Nadir Shah. The city became politically and culturally volatile.

As a result, many musicians migrated from Delhi to Lucknow.

At that time, folk forms like Chaiti, Kajri, Dadra, and Thumri were already present in Uttar Pradesh. When musicians moved to Lucknow, these folk traditions began interacting with Khayal. You start seeing small nuances of Khayal entering these forms—like the use of taans, khatkas, murkis, and elements of Shringar.

At the same time, Khayal itself was becoming more popular. In royal courts, you might find two Dhrupad singers but ten Khayal singers. Naturally, Khayal started gaining more prominence.

Earlier, in Delhi, Khayal was limited—there was primarily the Kawwal Bachcho Ka Gharana, which we now refer to as the Delhi Gharana. But as musicians spread out geographically, especially to Lucknow, Khayal diversified and grew.

Now, here’s the important part—this is human nature. We tend to classify and rank things.

Some musicians began to position Khayal as a “higher” or “classical” form. In contrast, Thumri, Dadra, and other forms—despite their richness—were labelled as “lower” or “semi-classical.” Even though artists like Bindadin Maharaj and Kalka Prasad contributed immensely to Thumri, it was still not given the same status.

This created a kind of hierarchy. Folk and expressive forms were not respected equally. But this classification is not inherent—it is constructed.

Originally, the distinction was between Shastriya and Upa-Shastriya. But over time, it became rigid—classical vs semi-classical, high vs low.

Personally, I do not believe in these divisions.

For me, the one who sings from the heart, who is engaged in the worship of Naad, who follows the Indian philosophical idea of dissolving the self—that is what matters. The goal is to remove the ego. If I am singing, my aim is to remove “myself” from the music so that only the music remains.

That is the meditative approach.

Artists like Girija Devi or Begum Akhtar—I do not classify them differently. For me, they are all the same.

Whoever reaches that state of surrender and depth—that is Shastriya for me.

Interviewee:
There is a composition in Raag Jaijaivanti—“Om to chitta chahata hoon, piya ke milan dekhoon.”

This is a very Shringarik (romantic) line. But in the very next line, it shifts—“Om to niras bhayi, Brindavan vasate.” It starts describing places like Vrindavan, Braj Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh.

So yes, there is Shringar, but it is not stand-alone. It is Bhakti-oriented Shringar. It is devotion through love, not just sensuality for its own sake.

And then there are other rasas too—Veer rasa, Laukik rasa—so it is not limited to just one emotional register.

Interviewer:
Since we were talking about Dhrupad—during the Mughal period, do you think there were changes in Dhrupad compared to earlier times?

Interviewee:
I cannot say with certainty whether there were changes or not.

If we look historically, Dhrupad has roots in earlier traditions. In the Natya Shastra, particularly in Chapter 32, there is mention of Dhruva Gita. When I read about it, I found that its traits are very similar to modern Dhrupad.

Later, music moved into Prabandha forms. For example:

• Charchari Prabandha, associated with Holi

• Today, we sing Dhamaar in Dhrupad, which is also linked to Holi

Then there is Shuddha-Salag Prabandha, described in Sangeet Ratnakara. The style of singing described there is even closer to modern Dhrupad.

So, historically, we see a progression:
Gita → Prabandha → Dhrupad

Now, if we talk about historical periods:

• The Natya Shastra period is very ancient

• Sangeet Ratnakara is from the 13th century

These were composed under different kingdoms, but that doesn’t necessarily mean direct stylistic shifts due to political power.

Everything changes with time—thoughts from 80 years ago are different from today. But I don’t believe Dhrupad was fundamentally shaped by Mughal rule.

There was, however, a slight shift during Aurangzeb’s time. For instance, syllables like:
“Om Anand Hari Narayan…”

Gradually transformed into abstract sounds used in alap—
“Nom, Anant → Re, Na, Na…”

These are now part of alapchari. But the compositions themselves remained the same. We still sing:

• Pujan Chali Mahadev

• Shankar Girijapati

• Bansidhar Pinakapani

All of these were composed during the Mughal era and are still performed.

So I wouldn’t say Dhrupad underwent major religious or cultural transformation due to Mughal influence.

I also don’t want to label it as “Hindu music.” It is simply the music of our civilisation—not limited to any one identity. And I don’t see strong Persian influence in Dhrupad.

In contrast, Khayal has absorbed more Persian elements.

Interviewer:
When you were learning Dhrupad, was your learning mostly technical—like theory, alap, structure—or did it include social, cultural, and historical aspects as well?

Interviewee:
No, not in that structured way.

When I began, I didn’t even start from zero—I started from less than zero. I couldn’t sing properly. My guru first made me practise kharaj (lower octave), and then gradually introduced me to Raag Bhinnashadja.

The learning was very organic.

It’s like how we give medicine to a child—we mix it with something sweet so the child doesn’t even realise. In the same way, my guru slowly introduced:

• singing

• theory

• history

• philosophy

Everything came together, not separately.

Even today, my guru may tell me something, and later connect it to something else. Knowledge unfolds over time.

Apart from my guru, I also learn through:

• discussions with scholars (especially when I go to Pune)

• books on Dagarvani, Dhrupad, and Khayal

• interviews available online

If I don’t understand something, I go back to my guru.

For example, my pronunciation of “Ra, Na, Na” was not correct. I am Gujarati, and in Gujarati, the “Ra” sound is softer—we don’t have that strong vibrating “Ra”.

My guru explained that these syllables come from “Om Anant Hari Narayan.” So if I imagine Narayan standing in front of me, I must pronounce it with clarity, respect, and devotion.

That same clarity must come into “Ra, Na, Na.”

So learning is not just technical—it comes through stories, corrections, imagination, and lived experience.

Interviewer:
Do you think that in your training, some things were explained clearly while others were avoided—perhaps because of stigma?

For example, in dance studios, we often avoid discussing courtesans or hereditary performers.
There are certain aspects within performing arts that carry stigma. We may refer to them, but we don’t openly discuss them.

During your training, have you encountered anything like this?

Interviewee:
My training is still ongoing. It has not ended—it will probably continue for the next 10–20 years. So I will continue to learn more over time.

As far as stigma is concerned, in Dhrupad, there wasn’t much of it historically. Unlike Kathak, which became associated with courtly spaces and later with courtesan culture during the time of Wajid Ali Shah—where figures like Bindadin Maharaj and Kalka Prasad were connected to such environments—Dhrupad remained a highly respected art form.

No matter how a king was, whether powerful or struggling, it was almost expected that his court would have at least one Dhrupad singer. So, socially, it retained prestige.

However, there is one important issue that our gurus openly acknowledge:
3–4 generations ago, women were not allowed to sing Dhrupad.

Even women within the household were not permitted to perform it publicly. That is why we do not have records or names of female Dhrupad singers, Veena players, or Pakhawaj players from that period. In fact, across many traditions, we hardly find named female musicians—except in forms like Thumri or other so-called “semi-classical” genres.

This absence itself is something we now regret.

Later, great figures like Zia Mohiuddin Dagar, Fariduddin Dagar, Nasiruddin Dagar, and Allauddin Dagar began teaching women. This was also a time when royal patronage had declined, so there was a need to expand and sustain the tradition.

So, women were gradually included in the pedagogy.

Apart from this, there aren’t really “taboo topics” in the same sense. There are, however, certain habits—like alcohol consumption or other tamasic tendencies—that are discouraged. Gurus don’t emphasise them, but practitioners are expected to stay away from such things.

Interviewer:
While researching courtesans or tawaifs, I found that they played a major role in shaping Thumri and even influenced the stylistic elegance of Kathak.

Do you think tawaifs were limited to these “semi-classical” forms like Thumri, Dadra, or Keharwa? Or did they also engage with Dhrupad or Khayal?

Interviewee:
I don’t know everything in detail, but as far as I understand, we do not find clear historical evidence of tawaifs performing Dhrupad.

There are some folktales—for example, about Niyamat Khan Sadarang in the court of Muhammad Shah Rangila. One version says he was asked to interact or collaborate with tawaifs; another says he was asked to teach them. In some versions, he refused and was expelled from the court.

But these are folktales—we cannot verify them.

More broadly, if we look at history before the British period, we hardly find documented female Dhrupad or Khayal performers. Even when we hear about Tansen’s daughter Saraswati, there is no evidence that she performed publicly. Women often learned music for themselves, not for public performance.

There is one example from Kishangarh in Madhya Pradesh, where a Dhrupad musician named Asgari Bai received patronage through her lineage. But she was not a tawaif—she inherited that space differently.

So overall, we do not find strong historical evidence that tawaifs performed Dhrupad. Their association is much clearer with Thumri and related forms.

Interviewer:
You seem to know a lot about folklore and these narratives. When I do research, I often struggle to access these ground-level stories. How did you learn so much about them?

Interviewee:
A lot of it comes from reading and environment.

When I was studying at Maharaja Sayajirao University in Baroda, the library had many old publications—like those from Sangeet Seva Sadan and Sangeet Karyalaya Hathras. Along with newer books, I read around 30–40 books during my early years.

At that time, I didn’t yet have a guru, so instead of practising incorrectly, I focused on understanding music theoretically and historically. I thought—even if I don’t become a performer, I could become a musicologist.

Apart from books, being in a musical environment helps. Baroda has many scholars, and you hear stories and discussions. Gurus also share anecdotes during teaching.

But one very important thing:
Most folklore is exaggerated.

For example, the famous story of a competition between Tansen and Baiju Bawra—where the loser would be beheaded, and Baiju wins but spares Tansen. There’s even a film titled Baiju Bawra based on this.

But historically, this is not reliable.

So, folklore is interesting, but we should always approach it critically. It often tells us more about imagination and cultural memory than actual history.

That story is based on folklore—and it is completely incorrect.

Baiju Bawra and Tansen belonged to different generations. Tansen lived during the time of Emperor Akbar, but Baiju Bawra received patronage in Gwalior after Akbar’s period. There was a clear generational gap—they never actually met.

At most, Baiju may have known of Tansen, but there was no direct interaction between them.

This shows how folklore works—sometimes it is exaggerated, and sometimes it is simply untrue. But when we don’t have reliable written records, we are often forced to rely on folklore.

And it is human nature: as stories pass from one person to another, they get amplified.

Interviewer:
My last question is about your journey—what you have learned so far, and what you would like to learn in the future.

Interviewee:
My journey is still very short—too small to fully explain. In 3–4 years, nothing substantial really happens in a tradition like this.

What I want is to learn Dhrupad in a deeper, more immersive way.

So far, I have completed:

• Visharad

• A Bachelor’s in Performing Arts (Khayal)

• Currently pursuing a Master’s in Dhrupad

• And continuous training under my Guru

But beyond formal learning, one important realization I’ve had is this:
An artist should not limit themselves to a narrow perspective.

A restricted mindset is not good for an artist.

In my generation, I often see people learning Dagarvani and then becoming very rigid about it—almost wearing it as a badge of superiority, saying it is the “oldest living tradition.” But one should not think of oneself as the greatest.

I am still a student. I will learn from wherever I can.

For example, Ullas Kashalkar is one of the finest Khayal singers of the Gwalior tradition. Even at the age of 70, if he sings for 2–5 hours, not a single person in the audience leaves. That is something to learn from—not just musically, but as a presence.

So as a student of music—not just Dhrupad—the most important thing I want to understand is:

• What should I do in my music?

• And what kind of person should I become in life?

Right now, I feel that if even one person cannot sit and listen to me for an hour, I still have a long way to go.

I don’t just want to inherit a tradition—I want to grow as a person through it.

To enrich myself, I even learned Marathi, because many important music texts are in that language.

That is my journey so far.

Interviewer:
It was a pleasure interviewing you. I would like to publish this interview on our website—do I have your permission?

Interviewee:
Yes, permission granted.

Interviewer:
Thank you for your time and for sharing such valuable insights.

Interviewee:
Thank you. I’m glad to have such a thoughtful host. I fully support your work. If you come across any Marathi texts, feel free to share them with me.