SANGEET SADHNA KENDRA

SANGEET SADHNA KENDRA
Maharishi Vidya Mandir, B-64 B, B Block, Sector 36, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India
http://sangeetsadhnakendra.com/
Sangeet Sadhna Kendra rises at the quiet southern end of Lake Road in Kolkata, a late-afternoon shaft of sunlight catching the terracotta swirls along its arched doorway. The lane smells faintly of marigold and wet stone, because every Tuesday the resident cats are coaxed into a visitor’s lap while the flower-girls next door sprinkle gulāl across the footpath.

Inside, a single-ceiling hall of polished teak opens out, high enough for afternoon talam-patterns to shimmer off the rafters. Along the east wall, tanpura pegs are kept fragrant with sandalwood oil; the west wall carries a five-foot likeness of Bismillah Khan listening intently, framed in banyan-leaf green. Here, thirty students sit in staggered semicircles, each foot measuring tala on a slate scratched with rice-paste numbers. Guru Uday Ranjankar cups his palm to correct a young sitarist’s meend, murmuring “lautana nahin, zara sonch”—do not return; first reflect.
A small antechamber at the back, entered through a bead curtain strung with tiny ghungroo bells, serves as instrument hospital. Rattling Kanjeera membranes are steamed, sarod nuts filed with rainwater. The fragrance of besan and mogra drifts in from the adjoining kitchen where widowed mothers simmer khichdi for post-class langar—everyone eats here; instruments are disinfected with the same turmeric used in the dal.

Evening riyaaz starts at 6.30 sharp: the first syllable of Sa emerges from the pakhawaj and circles the ceiling fans like a radio kite. Mondays are dhrupad, Tuesdays thumri-dadra; but Fridays are open dais, when Ruby Das, a burqa-clad qawwali-bani vocalist, trades voice throws with a fourth-generation baul boy from Shantiniketan, while the tabla-dayaan hums like train wheels. Overhead, moths cast shadows that change raag with every clap. The only rule is absolute silence while the tanpura is being tuned; a sign at the doorway says “Swar hi Bandhan, Swar hi Mukti.”

Upstairs, three modest lodging rooms let touring Bengali teens store veena and tanpuri in case someone misses the late-night Shovabazar metro. Hindu, Muslim, Manowari, Chinese and Japanese students share the same meals on banana leaf, cracking jokes in pidgin Banglo-Japanese. Once every three months they hold an open baithak in the backyard mango grove; passers-by are given small leaf-bowls of mishti doi and asked to suggest the next alaap like 19th-century drunk scholars. Visitors leave carrying the echo of jatiswaram patterns, a faint tickle of resin on their fingertips, and the unspoken promise that the drone of C# will not fade before the next kal, whenever they next pass through the city.

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