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Musicians: Zakir Hussain, Padma Bushan, tabla; Utpal Ghosh, tabla; Chandrachur Bhattacharya, Sitar; Deepak Maharaj, Birju Mahahraj, vocalists

As evocation of cultivated Indian life style, it simply could not be bested. Indian evening concerts traditionally start early and end when mood and rasa have spent themselves and the artist signals ‘That’s all, folks,’ in whatever style is being performed. In between, it usually is artist’s choice and, frequently, as on June 28, there was no program.

This was a special evening not just because Anuradha Nag had ventured to present Birju outside the area more familiar with Indians in the Bay Area; i.e. from Palo Alto to San Jose; up to Fremont on the East Bay, and over to Livermore. Here, in towns sprawling in much the same manner as Indian ones, minus tall buildings, Indians have gathered, thanks to professional immigration regulations, in positions created by the computer, bio tech industries and industries spawned by aerospace research. These educated Indians partake of Indian music and dance as a de rigeur component in their cultivated leisure package, the sheer numbers astonishing and healthy. Even in the early Nineties, fourteen teachers were training young Indo-American girls in the complexities of Bharata Natyam.

It was special because the front row of Palace seats might have been a royal box; in the middle sat Ali Akbhar Khan and his American wife; to one side the Indian Consul Generaland, on arrayed the other side, Antonia Minnecola, wife of Zakir Hussain,herself a gifted Kathak exponent, and one daughter. Watching well wishers move between seats and the stage apron bore the air of understated pomp, almost a command performance, for all that Indians wear their protocol in apparently casual style. When Zakir Hussain emerged, before he seated himself to start tuning his tablas, he moved forward in obvious acknowledgement and deference to Khan. It was almost the first act of Birju when he emerged. Whether the entire audience was cognizant,I’m not sure, but three traditions and bearers of major dynasties of north Indian performing arts traditions live in Khan, Hussain and Maharaj. That, my friends, is one very special aesthetic stratosphere.

Birju Maharaj
© Rodolfo Lo Bianco

What does Birju look like? Rodolfo Lo Bianco’s photographs capture him with amazing accuracy. Somewhere between caramel and milk chocolate in color, he is a man small physically, whom you, somehow, never regard as less than an artistic giant.

This is not the first time I’ve seen Birju. At varying stages in in his performing career, I've seen him dance. The first was in 1966 in India, at the Kathak Kendra, where he teaches, and later in a concert in Bombay. The second was when the Kendra troupe appeared at U.C., Berkeley, with Kudmudini Lakhia as guest artist. The third, perhaps five or six years ago, was at Stanford University, during one of the first appearances which Anuradha Nag and her Tarangini School of Dance sponsored.

Having tuned the verbal tablas, let me assert each performance informed his audience of a deepening of Birju’s interpretive capacities, above and beyond the usual display of thundering or a single bell tone, parans taken at single, double or triple speed. The bols were there, recited in variations lengthy and versatile. They rolled out, not just in the traditional words, but amazing sounds, soon reflected in a stunning drag of the feet. Birju worked up slowly to parans with his recitations and execution. His Hindi comments set the predominantly Indian audience chuckling. Birju managed in English to convey to the audience he felt comfortable in our presence, verbally acknowledging Khan Sahib’s presence. Khan nodded; he was identified and had given a namaste before the performance started.

Zakir Hussain, sent to Kathak Kendra by his father the late Alla Rakha to learn the intricacies of a Kathak concert, matched and energized Birju’s every nuance and sound. Zakir had tuned up with his own surpassing brilliance after the initial appearance of Birju’s supporting artists; the audience responded with roaring applause.

From a Mughal miniature, Saswati Sen has become an imposing Begum, still refined, still precise in gesture and turns, appearing now as part of an ensemble, with solo variations. Deepak Maharaj, Birju youngest son, joined her; a tall, slender young man whose multifaceted skills (tabla and vocal) reinforce the Maharaj lineage (Grandfather Aachen was a member of the court at Lucknow before being lured to New Delhi by the Malik family). Mohua Shankar and Parna Ghosh completed the ensemble.

Birju Maharaj
© Rodolfo Lo Bianco

The group pieces were executed to recorded music and involved themes not accommodating collaboration between musicians and performer. The most intriguing involved a piece of iron, picked up and formed into a piece of destruction, making it unhappy and envious of another piece formed into a bell, calling people to prayer. An unusual anti-war subject matter, it was visually quite effective in utilizing turns and thrusts of Kathak style.

One never remembers everything about a concert, but three particular items linger with enchantment. One was in the first half where Birju discussed ‘the nature,’ illustrating in wondrous measure with the subtlety of his bells, the tide and roll of the ocean, and rain from deluge to a single drop. The second was his portrayal of Lord Krishna, an amazing cultural crossover in this joint Hindu-Muslim dance form. Using the butter stealing episode of the Krishna as a little boy, Birju mimed a small gang of boys providing a support for Krishna’s purloining the butter, hung in a pot from the ceiling. When caught, Krishna proceeds to relate a most implausible story. He had lost his cow. Hunting for it,when he saw a few drops of butter on the kitchen floor, he thought to climb up to investigate whether the cow had decided to curl up in the pot. In the tradition of endless variations on a theme, so beloved by Indians, that was one of the wildest. It delighted the entire audience as Birju/Krishna faced the housewife and explained the situation, his recitation deadpan of this genuinely crucial problem: a lost cow. The final special moment came not only once, but twice, when, Birju executed the spontanteous, brief Kathak- style vertical jump in perfect keeping to rhythm and theme. We enjoyed one in both halves of the program.

The concert started about half-past seven; we began to exit the Palace of Fine Arts about eleven-fifteen. With a twenty-minute intermission, fully half was occupied with Birju’s mesmorizing artistry.

Western dance lovers don’t know what they are missing. I’d like to see Birju and Misha share a stage. Their virtuosity and artistic maturity are halves from the same walnut.