An era passed

This week, the world lost one of the finest Indian classical artists of our time - Pandit Birju Maharaj. I have had the opportunity to witness some of this man's genius - not on the stages of the filled auditoriums to which he regularly performed - but in an intimate 'mehfil,' or gathering. Kathak, a story-telling classical dance from northern India dating back to 400 BCE, was originally performed by traveling bards, or Kathaka's, who traveled from village to village, sharing current events, political news, or stories from the ancient epics. The dance form moved into the temples as a devotional dance, had a renaissance in the Mughal courts when instrumentation and musicality from Persia was incorporated, and prior to its ascension to the proscenium stage, it was performed in small gatherings, or 'mehfil.' It was here that the dancer, musicians, and audience created a triangle of energy. There were no mics, fancy lights, sound checks, or rehearsals. The artists arrived on stage, and let their fierce mastery over the last decades take over. Together, the synergy of hundreds of years of collective experience would create a magic - an experience that could never be repeated, nor captured for later consumption. 

Such was that one magical evening twenty years ago, when I saw Maharaj ji at his finest. Already in his 60's, he sat on the stage with his harmonium (a keyboard instrument with metal reeds). He did not wear ghungroo (ankle bells), and he did not get up from his seat for the next three hours. Yet he enthralled us until the sun went down and the moon rose, with his mellifluous voice singing bhajan (devotional song), thumri (sensual love songs), ghazal (love ballads of loss & separation), scatting complex rhythms, reciting clever kavita (Hindi poetry), and enacting stories. Oh, the stories! I remember laughing, being nearly in tears as he narrated his experiences of trying to understand how to operate water faucets in various sinks throughout the world; particularly his misadventures in a Russian airport when he could not figure out how to turn off the water. His bhaithaki bhao (expressive dance while seated) showed a range of subtle, evocative, and nuanced expressions as he transformed into a beautiful maiden, or a mischievous young Krishna. He melded effortlessly from one character to the next to the next joke to the next song. It was as though he was not 'performing' at all - he was merely 'being.' He had us mesmerized the entire evening. When it ended, we were all left yearning for so much more. Maharaj ji's magic in the room that night far exceeded anything he displayed on the proscenium stage at that point in his career. 

Maharaj ji's passing is particularly of significance not only because of the phenomenal artist that he was, but because he comes from an unbroken lineage of kathak dancers in the Kalka-Bindadin gharana, colloquially referred to as the "Lucknow gharana," dating back to the mid-19th century. (Gharana comes from the word 'ghar,' or home, and Lucknow is the city where the family lived). The Kalka-Bindadin  gharana is the oldest documented record we have of our present-day kathak. Maharaj ji marks the last of a generation where this lineage of kathak was passed on from father to son (or to nephew) in an oral tradition through the guru-shishya (teacher-disciple) tradition. A disciple would traditionally live with a Guru, and learn the art form or craft in a lifelong apprenticeship, like a member of the family. Gurus taught hundreds of students, but the gharana was always carried forward by the immediate male blood line.  

Despite the fact that kathak is practiced and preserved predominantly by women, there are no women acknowledged in this legacy. Even dating back to the origin of the Bindadin gharana, where the gharana was born, in the court of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah (late 1800's), there is barely any mention of any of the over 100 courtesans (women highly trained in music, dance, poetry) that lived and practiced the arts in his harem. One would have to dig around deep into the tattered archives to find the names and histories of the women of kathak.  

Without getting into too much details of the socio-political reasons behind this - British suppression of the highly educated, influential, wealthy courtesans into common 'nautch girls,' post-Colonial confiscation of the courtesans' land, the negative association equating dance with prostitution, leading to the birth of a generation that would never let dance be taught to their daughters ... this simplified list could go on and on. The reality is that the system of the 'gharana' has always been mysogynistic, prejudiced, furtively (or openly) requiring submission to authority, and has led to the inevitable abuse of authority. You would not have to dig deep into any archives to hear the countless stories of aspiring artists, scarred by the 'system.' 

And so, we mourn the loss of a treasured artist - the last of a generation that lived, breathed, walked, slept and emanated Indian classical music, dance, rhythm, poetry from the core of their being. For most of us, we never got to experience the era where arts were given as much, if not more importance than the education one acquired in schools. We missed the era where the title "Maharaj" (great king) was bestowed upon an artist because they truly were like kings - the modern day equivalent of a lifelong-trending celebrity with a touch of royalty. 

And we bid adieu to an era where only men were given the privilege of carrying an artistic legacy. We bid adieu to the artistic monarchy, where bloodline was the foremost consideration as to whether you were worthy of the the most precious teachings of the guru. We bid adieu to a system where "winner takes all," and the word of the doyen is unquestioned, while hundreds of other voices go uncelebrated, unheard. 

Antara Bhardwaj is a kathak artist based in Mountain View, California, where she runs a dance school and company Antara Asthaayi Dance. She sees herself as a kathaka (storyteller), and her mediums of storytelling are dance, film, and writing.