The Quiet Virtuosity of Khayal: Beyond the Spotlight of Classical Music

A new book by Sumana Ramanan offers a lens into the rigorous, often invisible world of Hindustani classical masters who shun the demands of modern commercialism.

The air inside Chennai’s Lab @ Shanta auditorium on June 7 felt remarkably still, insulated from the city’s cacophony. As Vishal Moghe began a lilting aalap in Raag Jhinjhoti, the audience seemed to collectively lean in. This was not the high-octane, social-media-ready performance typically marketed to modern urbanites; it was khayal in its most unadulterated form. For an hour and a half, as the tempo—the laya—shifted with mathematical precision, the room buzzed with the quiet, knowing appreciation of true aficionados. It was a performance that felt like a deliberate pushback against a culture that prioritizes showmanship over substance.

The Secret Master behind the music

The recital served as a live coda to The Secret Master: Arun Kashalkar and a Journey to the Edge of Music, a book by author and journalist Sumana Ramanan. The work is both a biography of her guru, Kashalkar—a musician who has spent his life navigating the fringe circles of Mumbai’s classical ecosystem—and a deep dive into the evolution of Hindustani music. By documenting the life of a "reluctant maestro," the book forces a necessary conversation about the state of Indian classical arts today.

At a recent discussion, Carnatic music exponent TM Krishna noted that the book captures the brutal isolation required to master such a form. It is a meditation on the struggle of learning, existing in a space where the pursuit of excellence often demands turning away from the glare of fame. For Ramanan, who has spent the last decade learning the craft, the appeal lies in the sheer technical range of khayal. It is a form built on improvisation, one that demands a unique combination of vigor and restraint that is increasingly rare in our profit-driven cultural economy.

Why it matters: The bigger picture

The implications of this shift are profound. We are witnessing a divergence between "classical music as a commodity" and "classical music as a practice." When a form becomes a product, it inevitably bends toward accessibility, often sacrificing the slow-burn patience that khayal demands. The "secret masters" like Kashalkar, often tucked away in suburban pockets like Mulund or Dombivli, represent a vanishing infrastructure of traditional pedagogy.

If we lose this ecosystem of intense, private rigor, we risk turning our classical heritage into a shallow performance art meant for consumption rather than contemplation. The call for a more sustained, symbiotic interaction between Hindustani and Carnatic traditions—as suggested by Ramanan—might be the only way to insulate these arts from total erasure. The future of Indian classical music may well depend on whether we choose to reward the performer who dazzles on a screen or the one who spends a lifetime perfecting the sam.