Magic of the musical minstrels

The setting sun paints the sky in myriad hues, the colours contrasting with the bandhani turbans of the Manganiyar troupe on the open air stage at Jodhpur's Mehrangarh fort. The lead singer, Ghazi Khan Manganiyar, calls out 'dhola re' with a longing that goes straight to your heart, giving you goose bumps. Emotions hidden deep swirl to the surface as the kamaicha, khartal and dholak join in and you wonder if it's only the cold draft blowing in from the desert that makes you huddle in your shawl as you surrender to the embrace of the music.

Post-performance, Ghazi Khan thanks the audience who are full of praise. Asked about the secret of his troupe's enchanting music, he points his hands skywards in supplication and laughs, "In our community, even a new-born lets out his first wail in perfect pitch and scale. Music comes to us as a legacy from the mother's womb."

He suddenly spots Meherdin Langa whose troupe performed before his. They hug warmly, call each other 'ustad,' back-slap and guffaw. Both artists represent not just their communities but a centuries old tradition of music from the desert sands.

"Like the Manganiyars, we too converted from Hinduism during Emperor Aurangzeb's reign. Yet, we traditionally don't touch percussion instruments in keeping with our ancient Sufi tradition. Like the Manganiyars who have their own bowed instrument, the kamaicha, we use the Sindhi sarangi and the algoza ( the double flute), for accompaniment," says Meherdin.

The Langas (literally 'song givers') are an accomplished community of poets, singers, and musicians from the Barmer district of Rajasthan.

Known for their formidable voices, which can leap from the lowest to highest octave in a trice, both the Langas and the Manganiyars are invited to perform at births and weddings. "Our patrons, whom we call kings, are all feudal lords of yore. These wealthy cattle breeders, farmers and land-owners have kept both us and Manganiyars in demand. In exchange for our music, they reward us with grain, wheat, goat, camel, sheep, horse and/or cash."

The 42-year-old Ghazi who breaks into a rhythmic song to illustrate any point he makes, jumps back into the conversation.

"It was the work of Komal Kothari in the mid 70s that brought both our communities to international attention," he says, referring to the late legendary ethnomusicologist from Jodhpur. Khan has never been to school yet his musical sojourns across the world (all of Europe, the US, Brazil, South Africa, Israel, Malaysia, Tokyo and Russia) have taught him enough French, Spanish, English, Hebrew and Russian to hold a conversation. "Language is like music. You stay with it and it begins to seep in," he says humbly, his kohl-lined eyes twinkling with native wisdom.

Yet these nomadic desert musicians were called Manganiyars with contemptuous derision in the past. "The name of our community comes from those who ask for alms," explains Khan, "Through the desert's heat and dust, through its harsh cold winters there wasn't a single occasion when we wouldn't be summoned to our patrons' palaces and havelis to sing and be rewarded. Not only marriages and births, we'd accompany patrons to war and entertainment them and their armies both before and after battles singing ballads of valour and inspiring them. So much so that in the event of the patron's death, the Manganiyars would perform at the ruler's vigil day and night until the mourning was over."

Now the toast of the music cognoscenti, both these groups are practising Muslims whose families trees broke because of Partition in 1947. "Across the border, our patrons are Muslim Sindhi Sipahis, whereas here they are Hindus. While those in Pakistan rue the increasing Wahabisation and fear of radical Taliban which frowns on musical traditions like theirs, here we have our own problems," says Khan. When we try to dig more, he just shrugs his shoulders, "Let it be."

Samandarkhan Manganiyar, from across the border in Umerkot, is more forthcoming on the phone. "The scenario is changing fast. Now we're suddenly being told that this musical tradition which is like breathing, is haram."
His concerns find an echo with Meherdin, who says, "After 1992-93, we see ourselves being stretched from both sides who cannot understand that we are what we are because of our syncretism."

Emboldened, Khan joins in, "The biggest danger comes from the crass commercialisation that Bollywood and TV are bringing in its sway," he says, verbalising his fears for the ancient twin musical tradition which has seen these soulful, full-throated voices fill the cold desert nights for centuries.

Anwar Khan, who has sung for several Bollywood films, says the younger lot doesn't want to take the traditional route of shagirdi before seeking fame or money.

"Today, we see really young children pushed into music reality shows on TV. They burn out quickly and languish forgotten."

He adds, "Our music survived Alexander, Ghazni and the Mughals too. I hope it survives the current onslaught of commerce and communalism too."