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By:

Rik Amrit

10 September 2025 at 1:11:22 pm

Five Generations, One Sacred Text: Inside the Manuscript Birju Maharaj Guarded Like the Gītā

Some books arrive with the weight of history on their pages. ‘Saṅgīta-darpaṇaḥ’ is one such work; a 200-year-old manuscript that has travelled through five or six generations of the legendary Kalka–Bindādin Gharānā before finding its way to print. Published just weeks after Paṇḍit Birju Mahārāj's passing in January 2022, this book feels less like an academic exercise and more like a parting gift from a maestro to the world of classical arts. The story behind this publication is as compelling...

Five Generations, One Sacred Text: Inside the Manuscript Birju Maharaj Guarded Like the Gītā

Some books arrive with the weight of history on their pages. ‘Saṅgīta-darpaṇaḥ’ is one such work; a 200-year-old manuscript that has travelled through five or six generations of the legendary Kalka–Bindādin Gharānā before finding its way to print. Published just weeks after Paṇḍit Birju Mahārāj's passing in January 2022, this book feels less like an academic exercise and more like a parting gift from a maestro to the world of classical arts. The story behind this publication is as compelling as its contents. Carefully preserved by Pt. Birju Mahārāj's ancestors, the manuscript was written in a difficult-to-decipher calligraphic script, with verses running continuously without spaces, a common practice in pre-modern texts but a nightmare for modern readers. Previous attempts to decode it had failed. It took a dedicated team led by Arjun Bharadwaj, with support and a foreword from the renowned scholar Śatāvadhānī Dr. R. Ganesh, to finally bring this work to light. What makes this edition special is not just the translation but the transparent scholarly apparatus. Bharadwaj doesn't hide the manuscript's imperfections, the scribal errors, the missing verses, the regional dialect influences. Instead, he documents them meticulously, allowing future researchers to revisit his interpretations. In his moving acknowledgment, he describes how Pt. Birju Mahārāj would tap his walking stick to the rhythm of the druta-vilambita meter in which many verses are composed, treating the manuscript with the reverence one reserves for the Bhagavad-gītā. Saṅgīta-darpaṇaḥ is structured as a conversation between Lord Śiva (called Gaurīśvara here) and Tomara, a gandharva-rāja (celestial musician). The text opens with a beautiful creation myth: how Brahmā seeks to see his father Mahāviṣṇu, performs intense tapas, and in the form of Hayagrīva (the horse-headed incarnation), Viṣṇu appears. Nārada impresses everyone not just with his devotion but with his artistic skills, he performs sāmagāna and tāṇḍava-nṛtya with gati-bhedas. This establishes a fundamental principle of the text: artistic excellence can be as powerful as spiritual practice in reaching the divine. Disappointed at receiving fewer divine blessings than Nārada, Tomara, another son of Brahmā, embarks on a cosmic quest to understand why art pleases the divine. His journey takes him through the abodes of various deities until Śiva reveals the answer through the Nāda-vidyā, the knowledge of sound itself. From Śiva's ḍamaru emerge the fourteen and thirteen nādas that birth both Sanskrit grammar and this very treatise. Pārvatī creates rāgas and rāgiṇīs in anthropomorphic form, Viṣṇu blesses the musical knowledge, and finally Gaṇeśa narrates while Śāradā transcribes the entire Saṅgīta-darpaṇa at the dawn of Satya-yuga, making divine knowledge accessible to mortals. A note of personal preference: Chapter 5 holds a special place for this reviewer. There is something deeply satisfying about this particular chapter, and it rewards patient readers who have followed Tomara's journey from his initial disappointment through his cosmic wandering to his ultimate enlightenment. The treatise then moves into technical territory, covering 13 chapters on: The birth and classification of rāgas and rāgiṇīs, svaras, śrutis, and their mystical associations, tālas (36 types are described), mārga-bheda and musical ensembles, gaṇas, prabandhas, and letter classifications, musical instruments including the making of kiṅkiṇī-vīṇā, the emotions of nāyikās and principles of abhinaya, various dance forms and movements. The final section, nine verses on Pt. Durga Prasad’s family lineage connects the divine knowledge transmitted through Tomara to the Mahārāj family, creating a direct link between celestial gandharvas and the earthly practitioners of Kathak. One of the book’s many strengths is how Bharadwaj balances academic precision with accessibility. The critically edited Sanskrit text appears alongside English and Hindi translations, with extensive footnotes explaining technical terms. But what sets this edition apart is the additional material: new compositions by Pt. Birju Mahārāj inspired by the treatise, previously unknown works from Pt. Lachchū Mahārāj's diaries, fresh paintings of rāga–rāgiṇīs, and photographs showing practical applications of dance elements described in the text. The Introduction is itself a valuable contribution. Bharadwaj carefully dates the work to somewhere between 1600–1780 CE, distinguishes it from other similarly named treatises attributed to Catura-dāmodara and Harivallabha, and provides a detailed comparative analysis. He lists 18 specific ways in which Gaurīśvara's work differs from Catura-dāmodara's Saṅgīta-darpaṇa, from unique terms like dvirukta to the presence of Gaṇeśa-kautha (found nowhere else). In his Foreword, Dr. R. Ganesh raises an important point about the mindset needed to approach such texts. He warns against two extremes: scholars who can edit texts but lack understanding of practical performance, and performers who lack philosophical grounding. He praises this edition for bridging that gap as it is the work of someone who understands both śāstra (theory) and prayoga (practice). The book is not without limitations, though. As Bharadwaj frankly acknowledges, medieval treatises like this one provide inadequate information for reconstructing rāga–rāgiṇīs in practice today. The text mentions that all rāgas should have the same aṃśa (predominant note), graha (starting note), and nyāsa (ending note), which is hard to imagine in actual performance. The descriptions of tālas, while detailed, are often so complex and unintuitive that few would be practical for contemporary use. There are also segments that remain difficult to interpret, concepts like āvarta and svalpa-bhedas in Chapter 11, and the entire section on Nāyikā-bhāva-prakaraṇa in Chapter 13, contain material not found elsewhere and require further research. The book is a beginning, not a conclusion. What makes this publication deeply moving is how it demonstrates the continuity of knowledge transmission in Indian classical arts. The manuscript was not locked away in some dusty archive, it was actively consulted by generations of Kathak maestros. Pt. Birju Mahārāj and his students could see parallels between the treatise’s descriptions and their own practice. Some ancestral compositions whose meanings had been forgotten suddenly made sense when read against this text. The book includes comprehensive appendices: a glossary, indices of rāgas, technical terms, poetic meters, geographical locations, and profiles of scholars. There is even a transliteration guide for those unfamiliar with Devanāgarī script. Saṅgīta-darpaṇaḥ is more than an academic publication; it is nothing short of a cultural event. It makes available a text that has remained within one family for two centuries, offers insights into the medieval understanding of music and dance, and provides a foundation for future research into the Lucknow–Ayodhyā school of classical arts. Is it essential reading for every classical arts enthusiast? Perhaps not, its technical nature and the gaps in reconstructing practical applications make it primarily valuable for serious students, performers, and researchers. But for those interested in how our classical traditions have been theorized, preserved, and transmitted across generations, this book is a treasure. The real achievement here is not just bringing an old manuscript to print, but doing so with integrity, transparency, and a deep respect for both the tradition it represents and the questions it leaves unanswered. In an age where we often see either uncritical glorification or dismissive rejection of traditional knowledge, Saṅgīta-darpaṇaḥ offers a model of ‘critical conservatism,’ honouring the past while engaging with it rigorously. As Pt. Birju Mahārāj had hoped in his preface, this work is now available to “the entire Kathak world” and beyond. It deserves a place on the shelves of anyone seriously interested in understanding the theoretical foundations of North Indian classical arts. (The author is a Natyashastra scholar, theatre director and producer whose work bridges traditional Indian performance theory with contemporary theatre economics. Views personal. )

Lingua Pragmatica

Updated: Mar 20

As Southern leaders like M.K. Stalin rage against Hindi, Andhra Pradesh’s Chief Minister Chandrababu Naidu offers a model of pragmatism over parochialism.

Chandrababu Naidu
Andhra Pradesh

Amid the cacophony of opposition in southern states to Hindi, Andhra Pradesh CM N. Chandrababu Naidu has taken a markedly pragmatic stance by remarking recently in the state Assembly that there was no harm in learning other languages. Hindi, Naidu noted, was useful for communication across India, particularly in political and commercial hubs like Delhi. His remarks, though avoiding explicit mention of the NEP, were widely seen as an endorsement of multilingualism and a rebuke to the linguistic chauvinism that has gripped parts of the South.


Few issues in India stir political passions quite like language. It is not merely a means of communication but a marker of identity, a relic of colonial resistance, and a source of political mobilization. In the southern states, where anti-Hindi sentiment has long been entrenched, the National Education Policy (NEP) 2020 and its three-language formula have reignited old tensions. No state embodies this defiance more than Tamil Nadu, where the ruling Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (DMK) led by M.K. Stalin has framed the policy as an assault on its linguistic autonomy.


Naidu’s words, welcomed by his ally and Deputy Chief Minister Pawan Kalyan, mark a sharp contrast with the DMK’s position. Tamil Nadu’s hostility towards Hindi dates back to the 1930s, when C. Rajagopalachari’s attempt to introduce it in schools met with fierce resistance. The anti-Hindi agitations of the 1960s cemented the DMK’s ideological stance, with its first Chief Minister, C.N. Annadurai, famously warning that Hindi imposition could push Tamil Nadu towards secession.


The question, however, is whether this rigid opposition serves Tamil Nadu’s interests. While Stalin, with an eye to the upcoming Tamil Nadu Assembly polls, has been relentlessly portraying Hindi as a threat to his state’s regional identity, Naidu, a partner of the BJP-led Centre, is framing it as a tool for economic mobility. His argument is not that Hindi should replace Telugu or English but that it offers a competitive advantage.


The economic case for multilingualism is compelling. Indians who speak multiple languages tend to have better job prospects, higher earnings and greater geographic mobility. Andhra Pradesh’s Telugu-speaking diaspora is a case in point. Telugus make up a significant proportion of Indian-origin professionals in the United States, the Gulf, and Southeast Asia as Naidu pointed out, hinting that this success story was built not on linguistic rigidity but on adaptability.


In a country where inter-state migration is rising and where Hindi remains the most widely spoken language, refusing to learn it amounts to self-imposed isolation. Tamil Nadu’s approach, by contrast, risks limiting its youth. The DMK government has refused to implement the three-language policy, keeping schools strictly bilingual with Tamil and English. Its justification that Hindi is not necessary for global success could be true in a narrow sense but ignores the domestic context. If Tamil filmmakers can dub their movies into Hindi to expand their audience, why should Tamil students be denied access to the language that could open more doors for them within India?


The DMK has accused successive central governments, particularly under the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), of pushing Hindi at the expense of regional languages. Yet, rejecting Hindi outright is an overcorrection. The reality is that Hindi is an important language in India’s economic and political landscape. Naidu’s position, one of accommodation rather than confrontation, offers a middle ground that other Southern leaders would do well to consider.


Some states already recognize this. Karnataka, despite its own history of linguistic pride, has allowed Hindi to be taught as an optional language. Kerala, whose migrants work in Hindi-speaking regions and the Gulf, has been less hostile to Hindi education. Naidu’s model, balancing regional identity with practical necessity, offers a way forward. Languages should be embraced, not politicized. Southern leaders would do well to listen to him.

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