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SANTOOR SPLENDOUR
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The santoor turned classical in the hands of Pandit Shivkumar Sharma. GOWRI RAMNARAYAN chats with the musician
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If you change your music from
place to place, you lose
your identity
THE YOUNG man defied his father for the first time, declined secure local jobs, and ran away from his Jammu home to fulfil his `Bombay dreams.' His only companion was the santoor, the instrument first put into his hands by the father who was also his guru.
In the big city, financial struggles could be overcome with assignments in film orchestras. But that was not what he wanted to do. He spurned offers of screen roles ("God gave me the strength to forego easy solutions").
The young man was aiming at his own stars. He was skilled in the tabla, he could have excelled in the sitar or sarod, as senior musicians urged him to do. Neither their scepticism nor setbacks could diminish his commitment to the santoor, a then unknown multi-stringed folk instrument of his native mountains.
With help from old craftsmen, he improved the santoor's tonal quality and succeeded in adapting it to play Hindustani classical music, including the slow alaap. Santoor took its place alongside the sitar, sarod, flute and shehnai.
Global reach
No stranger to Chennai, Pandit Shivkumar Sharma was in the city recently to participate in "Tiranga," a musical show. The occasion triggered thoughts about the erosion of culture in the globalised world. "I think Indian classical music still maintains values lost in other fields."
Sharma shot into the limelight with `Call of the Valley,' the LP where his santoor interacted with the flute and the guitar. Though mostly with the classical genre, fusion forays saw him with George Harrison and Billy Preston, or composing a piece for Shakti. After establishing himself as a classical musician, he undertook music direction in films with flautist Hariprasad Chaurasia.
His concerts with Chaurasia set new standards of excellence, their perfect understanding eliminating competition. "We met in 1959 as struggling newcomers. With some people you feel you've known them forever. We've different temperaments but we could create the kind of music we did, on the stage, for albums, and in films like "Silsila," because we've this inexplicable bond that continues from our previous births. That's what I believe."
Sharma notes that Indian classical music is now respected internationally, no longer an exotic genre. "Once, after my concert in Cologne, a young German talked to me about the stylistic differences in Ravi Shankar and Nikhil Banerji."
Any loss, compromise, in music going global? "That's a personal matter," he reflects. "If I want to entertain, my music will be different from what I play if I want to share my enjoyment. You can ask me, then why don't you play at home? My answer is that I get a satisfaction in sharing. If you change your music from place to place, you lose your identity."
Haunted by memories of his dreamy Yaman, Purya or Pahadi, and of the delicate, feather-light santoor's ability to more than match any kind of percussion, you wonder if Sharma's class and assurance are born out of enduring hardships. "My son Rahul hasn't had financial problems. But when we play together, people compare him with me, forgetting that I have 50 years of experience to his 10. Every generation faces its own hardships," he smiles. "They are different, that's all."
Do his disciples have his unshakeable focus, single-minded sadhana? "When I came on the scene, there were enough people to say, what do these youngsters know." He laughs. "There's one major difference between then and now though. We didn't have the distractions of so many television channels, gym, tennis court,s cricket match and disco! The young have to grapple with growing materialism, greed and competitiveness."
Though he has diasporic disciples, Sharma believes music can be absorbed only when its milieu is understood. "You can experience the soul of music only when you feel and understand the place to which it belongs."
What about foreign disciples? How far can they go? The answer comes with a smile.
"Westerners wear saris, but how awkwardly! Takes time to move naturally in the new costume. Music is far more profound than outfits. I have students from many countries. My Japanese student and I talk only through music. Technique-wise, she is very good. I don't think she can go beyond that."
The rewards
When he took the train to Mumbai long ago, Pandit Shivkumar Sharma didn't know that he was going to become a celebrity. "Doesn't the Gita say don't think of rewards? When I look back I know it is not I, but God who has helped achieve my dream."
The rewards? The gentle, elegant musician pauses before answering. "Not always... but sometimes... when everything is all right — acoustics, stage, accompanists, my instrument perfectly tuned — then, after a while, I forget where I am... who's sitting in front... I'm lost in music. After the concert I'm physically on the stage, but mentally somewhere else. People come up to talk to me, I can't respond. They think I'm rude. But I'm not there! Can't explain in words what happens, but this thing which happens sometimes, rarely, is the most rewarding thing in my life."
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