A very striking set of sketches of Kumar Gandharva—done in bold strokes by his devoted friend, the artist Vishnu Chinchalkar—was first published in the 1992 issue of the children’s science magazine, Chakmak. Reprinted for the centenary, this beautifully produced little book is a collector’s item.
Chinchalkar’s unique sketches capture Kumar Gandharva in performance with remarkable accuracy—his expansive gestures: the tilt of the head, the way his body leaned, the raising of the arm. His minimalist approach emphasizes the thinking musician—the broad forehead, the distinctive jowl, the crease of the kurta. There is no face, yet this is unmistakably Kumar Gandharva.
Like his music, the power of the unsaid is manifest in these sketches. They invoke personality, and it is possible to imagine why listeners were drawn to more than just the music. Accompanying the drawings are a handful of lyrics around Holi, from the Braj repertoire sung by Kumar Gandharva.
In an essay that is also a kind of statement, Chinchalkar marvels at the detritus of nature—broken twigs, fallen leaves, seeds, fruits, even dust—and their ability to suggest pattern and design. He reflects on the power of quotidian objects to communicate and express the human condition. Perhaps this is also a suggestion about the organic nature of Kumar Gandharva’s music—its deep roots in the lived experience of the folk. Elsewhere (Kaljayee Kumar Gandharva, 2014), Chinchalkar paid tribute, hinting that his lifelong connection and association helped him absorb a way of life and thinking from his ‘guru’.
the author presents a rich mine of information on various performing communities and their distinctive musical traditions: Bidesia (Bihar), Langas and Manganiyars (Rajasthan), Bhand Pather (Kashmir), Qawwals (Delhi), Pandavani (Chhattisgarh), Lavani (Maharashtra), Jogappas (Karnataka), Kabir Vaani (Kutch), Bhatiyali (Bengal), and Li singing (Nagaland).
I can’t think of another recent account that brings together so much on the subaltern traditions of Indian music—combining depth with accessibility. Nainy’s narrative is not only informative but also animated by a strong social conscience. Especially compelling are the curated YouTube links and the carefully selected readings that accompany each chapter.
The book also makes several insightful and unexpected connections. For instance, in her discussion of Bhand Pather in Kashmir, Nainy traces a tradition of political satire from medieval literature through Premchand to contemporary figures like Shashi Tharoor. Her exploration of Sufi cultures around Nizamuddin Auliya’s dargah in Delhi includes a thoughtful reflection on the legend of Amir Khusrau and the Qawwal Bacche tradition—a refreshing alternative to the often uncritical and romanticized accounts of the Khusrawi legacy found in conventional music histories. I was especially fascinated by the chapter on Naga musical traditions and the libuh, an ektara-like instrument.
To borrow Satyajit Ray’s evocative phrase—this is a book for everyone, from eight to eighty.