Have Banarasi baithaks lost their soul?

The past couple of weeks in Banaras saw an array of impressive concerts that brought some of India’s best artists – Kishori Amonkar, Birju Maharaj, Amjad Ali Khan – to the city. On November 3, 4 and 5, there was Ganga Mahotsav, organised by UP Tourism. On November 7, 8, 9 and 10, there was Naman, organised collectively by the private organisations Sangeet Parishad, Jnana Pravaha, and Swarangana, which marked Girija Devi’s 86th birthday.

The presence of world-renowned artists is nothing unusual for Banarasis, for there are concerts with such artists all year round. But both Ganga Mahotsav and Naman marked a striking departure from the old-style concerts that comprise the traditional concert culture of Banaras. These Banarasi baithaks, which take place mostly in temples and homes, are characterised by their informal, relaxed air: the audience sits close to the stage or even surrounding the artists. The artists interact freely with each other and the audience. The audience expresses its appreciation – "Wah!" "Kya baat hai!" – and demand favourite compositions of the artists. Everyone savours small rituals together: pan is served, rosewater and rose petals sprinkled on the listeners and artists, and itr (perfume) passed around. There are probably fewer such baithaks today than, say, 50 years ago, but they still happen quite regularly, continuing a lovely tradition and distinguishing Banaras from other cities.

Ganga Mahotsav and Naman both diverged from this concert tradition in their emphasis on the large, the formal and the commercial. Both festivals had stages at least 15 feet long, seating for hundreds, fancy lighting and powerful amplification. In both cases, the onstage décor and the banners above the stages demonstrated a design sense new for Banaras: a starkness and sparseness of lettering and image that contrasted with the crowded neon lettering, fluorescent imagery and uniform rows of flowers that have been common in concerts so far. Then, the audience was seated in chairs, rather than on the ground. In the case of Ganga Mahotsav, the chairs were cordoned into three sections – the front for VIPs, the middle for, seemingly, families and "foreigners", and the one furthest back a standing one occupied only by young men (who were cheering and being held back by the police).

All in all, the style of the stage, lighting, and seating – the separation of the stage from the audience through distance and sophisticated lighting and décor, the effort to control and organise the audience – resembled concerts in Delhi, Kolkata and Mumbai, and, indeed, the West, rather than most that have happened in Banaras so far.

Of course, Ganga Mahotsav has never fallen into the category of the baithak, because it is a large-scale concert. It was begun only about two decades ago, so it is also not very old. But despite these facts, it has always retained particular aspects, and thus the feel, of a Banarasi musical sitting. Until last year, it took place on Rajendra Prasad Ghat, where the steps, covered in carpeting for the occasion, formed natural seating for the audience. People could sit wherever and however they chose, save for the single row of VIP seats in the front (at concerts in Banaras, people sometimes feel so relaxed that they even stretch out and take a nap!). The river, flowing behind the stage, formed its backdrop, rather than an impressive banner, and was the full focus of the audience and the event, giving meaning to the name "Ganga Mahotsav". (The new Ganga Mahotsav takes place on an elevated platform on Malviya Ghat, with the river flowing by on the side rather than behind the stage. Far below and overwhelmed by the size of the stage and lights, Gangaji cannot be seen.) Because of the focus on the river, the style of audience seating, and the lack of a flashy stage and lights, the old Ganga Mahotsav felt like a particularly Banarasi event.

I have nothing against an event managed or produced well, or against well-designed banners. There is no dearth of badly-organised events in Banaras, over which I despair, and so I, in fact, found the new efficiency and professionalism of Naman and the new Ganga Mahotsav admirable, a desirable step towards bringing our generally technically-incompetent and overly-casual city up to par with the rest of India and the world. But I also found myself missing the spirit of those older Banarasi baithaks. At the new Ganga Mahotsav and at Naman, there was none of the intimacy, intermingling, carefree laughter and conversation, and playful rituals that have always characterised Banarasi concerts.

Ironically, what these two festivals also had in common was an appeal to Banaras as a special place and Banarasis as special people. The announcer in each case would launch periodically into a long and impassioned (but sadly, rehearsed and so not stirring at all) speech about the glorious history and virtues of Banaras, its arts and culture, its people. These speeches sounded exaggerated and misplaced not only because they were rather badly written but also because, despite their claims, Banaras itself, its soul, seemed missing from the event. They made me nostalgic for the heartfelt, largely extempore speeches that a rasik, or music-loving individual, generally delivers at a baithak, complete with poetry, jokes and irony, that seem to emerge organically from the event and the group itself.

Yes, Ganga Mahotsav and Naman were managed and produced well, but behind their showy façade, there was a void, of thought and imagination – like many of our Bollywood films. I had the sense of a new trend being set, of change on the way. All Banarasis, with the rest of India, want to be smart and modern. But surely we can become all this while actively choosing to retain the best of our quirks and qualities. How can we creatively reinvent ourselves while remaining equally true to our past, present and future?