Indian School of Art

Indian School of Art
Oxford Square, Supertech Ecovillage 3, E 026, Greater Noida W Rd, Greater Noida West, Bhangel, Greater Noida, Ghaziabad, Uttar Pradesh 201318, India

Indian School of Art (ISA) is not a classroom with lined desks; it is a micro-universe on the first floor of an old art-deco mansion in Versova, Mumbai. The battered brass nameplate is almost hidden behind bougainvillea, so most visitors follow the sound instead—a bright, shifting lattice of tabla syllables, violin glides and electronic bass that spills from a latticed balcony every evening after six.

Inside, the 1,200-square-foot space feels larger than it is. One wall is a living mural: concentric circles of night-flowering jasmine are painted directly onto exposed brick, each petal numbered to correspond with a raga syllable. At dusk an attendant pins fresh blossoms over the painted ones; the air is suddenly heady with raat-ki-rani, and students instinctively modulate their alaaps to match the perfume.

Acoustics are deceivingly sophisticated. Co-founder and architect-musician Ira Gadgil embedded clay pots of varying thickness into the ceiling; when a tanpura plays, sympathetic resonance blooms from the earthenware and the room appears to exhale. A second trick is the floor: narrow strips of teak alternate with brass rails that carry a barely audible electric hum. Walking barefoot triggers subtle reverb, so even latecomers become inadvertent percussion.

Classes reject the gurukul cliché. Instead of linear progression, students—who range from nine-year-old prodigies to retired bankers—move laterally between four “sound labs” that mutate weekly. Lab A might pair esraj with ableton loops commanded by a motion sensor; Lab B can turn into a silent ‘konnakol duel’ where participants mouth complex tala patterns, scored by an overhead camera that converts jawlines into light graffiti on the opposite wall. The only constant is the daily 7 p.m. Raag Sandhya, fifteen minutes where every speaker is muted and every participant simply listens to handmade instruments breathe—veena strings warming, swamp-grown reeds finding pitch, the drone box releasing its last buzz like a sigh.

The faculty is deliberately hybrid. Morning sessions are led by third-generation dhrupad singer Ustad Bilal Ali, who insists on teaching outdoors, arguing that crows adjust pitch better than any harmonium. Afternoons belong to Goa-based electronic producer Kimaya, who samples the crows and stretches them into pad textures overnight. A sprightly 83-year-old thumri vocalist named Shanta-ma keeps a bucket of water near the microphone; she believes wet uvula equals fluid taan and proves it daily, to the delight—and terror—of hydration-shy students.

ISA also operates as an instrument clinic. A rear alcove houses luthier Ramesh Kaka, surrounded by what looks like a surreal orchid garden: sitar necks hanging like vines, mridangam shells stacked like terraced paddy. Repairs are performed in open sight while students watch, learning that ragas live not only in throats but in the tension of strings and the breath of goat-skin.

The night always ends the same way: lights dim except for a single green bulb trained on the jasmine mural. Everyone, visitor or veteran, places a hand on the cool brick and sings one syllable: “Sa”. The note is never the same twice; the wall takes it in, petal by painted petal, and before the final reverb fades the watchman pockets the keys, letting the jasmine finish the last alaap in total darkness.

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