Is a legendary musical inheritance a blessing, a burden, or both? How does such a legacy shape the artistic practice of the next generation, as they seek to craft their own distinctive voice while contending with inevitable comparisons to their illustrious forebears? How do those without a hereditary claim to this tradition gain entry into the hallowed portals of this exacting art form and carve out a place for themselves? While men are often free to devote themselves entirely to sadhana (discipline and learning), women must navigate the competing demands of rigorous training, performances, marriage, motherhood, household chores, and social expectations. How do they manage this balancing act?
Through eight compelling portraits of Hindustani classical musicians, Priya Purushothaman, herself a practicing vocalist, explores these questions with nuance, resulting in a deeply engaging volume. With this book, she joins a small (but hopefully growing) cadre of writers (among them Namita Devidayal) who combine lucid prose with insight drawn from their own musical journeys to offer an insider’s perspective. These are no ordinary insiders: they are embedded deeply enough to grasp the complexities, the beauty, the ecstasy, the hardship, and the cultural codes of this demanding world, where patience, perseverance, and access to authentic gharana taalim matter as much as innate talent.
Purushothaman’s sensitivity as a writer allows her to zoom out from individual lives and situate them within broader social realities of gender, caste, and community. This wide-angle lens, which acknowledges how both opportunities and constraints shape musical progression, is rarely found in clichéd accounts that resort to tropes of ‘divine calling’ or in hagiographies that blur the line between fact, fiction, and rumour. This refusal to romanticize is what sets the book apart.
Rather than a single sweeping panorama, the book offers a mosaic of eight musical journeys. None of its protagonists has yet reached the absolute pinnacle of their profession, but this is no limitation: together, they represent a cross-section of genres, genders, castes, religions, and starting points, whether born into a musical lineage or entering from the outside. Some have found both critical and commercial success. Others, like Suhail Yusuf Khan (grandson of Ustad Sabri Khan), have chosen to break almost completely with tradition.
The opening chapter narrates the story of Alam Khan, son of legendary sarod maestro Ali Akbar Khan and grandson of Baba Allaudin Khan, the formidable founder of the Maihar gharana. Alam appears weighed down by the crushing expectations of his lineage, complicated further by his upbringing as a mixed-race child in the United States, a perpetual outsider both there and in India, and by the challenge of embracing a tradition that may initially have felt alien. I had not heard him before reading the book, but after watching clips online, it is clear that years of riyaaz have borne fruit. Yet Alam is sceptical of what he calls the over-emphasis on improvisation, claiming that the level of preparation before a concert leaves little room for true spontaneity. Connoisseurs would likely dispute this, arguing that it is precisely the capacity to transcend rehearsed material and innovate in the moment that made his father and other Maihar greats (Vidushi Annapurna Devi, Pandit Ravi Shankar) legendary.
Other legacy musicians featured include violinist Kala Ramnath and tabla maestro Yogesh Samsi, both of whom deviated from the precise paths laid out by their families but succeeded in carving distinctive identities. Suhail Yusuf Khan’s story, meanwhile, vividly illustrates the tension between honouring the family name and forging a personal direction.
Equally fascinating are the accounts of ‘outsiders’ who entered this rarefied world by unconventional routes and made their mark. Shubhada Paradkar, an accomplished khayal exponent, and Shubha Joshi, who pursued the less mainstream tradition of thumri singing, still burdened by traces of its past stigma, faced different challenges. Shubhada ji balanced marriage, motherhood, and domestic responsibilities, aided by a supportive family, while Shubha ji rejected the conventional family path altogether. Both her choices, to specialize in thumri and to remain single, were met with familial resistance, but she held her ground.
The most dramatic and expansive account is that of Sudhindra Bhaumik, one of Purushothaman’s own gurus. A metallurgy student at IIT Kharagpur before embarking on music, he was a late entrant into this world. His two-chapter story, which includes personal tragedy and repeated obstacles, is an extraordinary testament to resilience and grit.
Then there is the profile of Rumi Harish, whose narrative is compelling primarily as a story of gender transformation rather than as a musical chronicle. While I found recordings of Harish’s lectures online, I could not locate music recordings to experience his artistry, which made this portrait feel somewhat incomplete to me. For all the other musicians, I went beyond the curated playlist at the end of the book and explored more of their music, which deepened my engagement with their stories.
The book offers enough insider detail to delight connoisseurs while remaining accessible to the general reader. At its heart, these are stories of aspiration, perseverance, elation, and the occasional heartbreak of falling short of one’s own expectations, or those of family and tradition. In that sense, they speak to a universal human experience. This is a richly rewarding and highly recommended read.