Ghatam: Magic of the musical clay pot

 

Editor’s note: Song of the Clay Pot by Sumana Chandrashekar is part memoir, part travelogue, part historical account of the ghatam, a traditional clay pot used as a percussion instrument in Carnatic music in particular.

 

Chandrashekar—respected ghatam player, writer, and researcher—draws a thoughtful and lively portrait of her life learning and playing the ghatam, and her love affair with the instrument. She walks us through its history, its lore, her journey with it. 

 

Here, she describes her very first lesson with her guru, Sukanya Ramgopal, the first woman ghatam maestro in Carnatic music—and the moment of connection shared by the two women, across generations.

 

The following passage from Song of the Clay Pot by Sumana Chandrashekar has been excerpted with permission from Speaking Tiger Books. 

 

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On that chosen Thursday of Shukla Paksha, I went to Sukanya ji’s house. With excitement and nervousness, I rolled out the mat on the floor, like I had always done in music class.

 

‘Take that one,’ Sukanya ji said, pointing to a dark brown large-bellied ghatam. You could tell he was an ancient pot. The thin film of dust on top meant he had not been played recently. He must have had his heydays, performed in concerts, toured places and was now retired, a wise old sage. Anticipating the heaviness, I lifted the ghata with both my hands, placed it carefully on the floor and sat down cross-legged. My guru sat in front of me.

 

‘Press the left heel onto the inside of the right thigh. Bring your right heel in front. Now place the ghatam in the gap,’ she said.

 

I did as I was told. The ghata, easily about twelve kilos, sat on me like a solid rock.

 

More instructions followed.

 

‘Keep the ghatam close to the body. She is not separate from you.’ (I would soon realise that to my guru, all her ghatams are ‘daughters’ and she always refers to them in the feminine.) I adjusted my posture.

 

All things auspicious, we are told, begin with the right hand. The first note on the ghata began with the left. As instructed, I brought the little, ring and middle fingers of my left hand to play the first note ta. It sounded so faint and imperceptible; nothing like what I had been hearing in my head all the while. But a wave of thrill went spiralling from the tip of my fingers all the way to my spine. I learnt the first notes—ta dhi thom num.

 

It is believed that an act of new beginnings must be re performed the next consecutive day for smooth progress and continuity without hurdles. So, I was back in class the next day too. I played carefully, each time replaying in my head every instruction I had heard the previous day.

 

Ta is three fingers on the left hand. Dhi is three fingers on the right. Thom is the left wrist. Num is the right index finger. I was slowly beginning to connect the spoken syllables ta dhi thom num with the played sounds. The terms are onomatopoeic, that is, the syllables suggest the sound. In any bodily practice, posture is key. I had to first align the posture of my spine, arms and fingers before beginning the movements. With ta and dhi, the fingers should not curve upwards. The power must first concentrate at the tip of the fingers and then get released.

 

For the wrist strike thom, the fist is not clenched. The palm is open and the fingers curl inwards at the knuckle like the hood of a snake. Num is a powerful sharp single-finger strike.

 

As a singer, I could never ‘see’ my voice. To be able to visualise the production of sound felt like a new dimension to learning.

 

Mindful of all the instructions, I continued ta dhi thom num… ta dhi thom num. Visually, the four notes, alternating between the two hands, map a trapezium on the ghata. But repetition transforms the linear into circular. As the fingers played ta dhi thom num I could feel the spine break into a circular dance, like a dervish going round and round in deep prayer.

 

At times, my arms would feel weak and drop to the sides of the ghatam as though I were playing a double-sided drum. ‘Don’t let your hands slip. Keep them on the top central region,’ Sukanya ji reminded me. It was hard. The shoulder muscles, giving in to gravity, kept pulling the arms down. ‘It’s okay, it will come with practice,’ she said.

 

I continued playing ta dhi thom num.

 

I must have been playing for about twenty minutes, before my shoulders, arms and fingers became utterly numb and powerless. It is a feeling of being defeated; the feeling when the body gives up. I stopped playing and looked up. Sukanya ji’s eyes were gently closed, each trying to hold back a teardrop.

 

‘Ma’am, what happened?’ I asked meekly. She opened her eyes. Two teardrops fell on her lap.

 

‘For thirty-five years, I was waiting for a woman student. You are here now.’

 

My throat choked. Two teardrops escaped my eyes too. What providence brings teacher and student together like this?

 

*

 

The mystic vachana poet Allama Prabhu asks:

 

ettana maamara ettana kogile

ettanindetta sambandhavayya?

bettada melana nellikayi samudradolagana uppu

ettanindetta sambandhavayya?

guheshwara lingakkuu namaguu

ettanindetta sambandhavayya?

 

Where was the mango tree,

Where the koel bird?

When were they kin?

Mountain gooseberry

and sea salt:

when

were they kin?

And when was I

Kin to the Lord

Of Caves?

 

As I was leaving, I asked her where I could buy a ghata for practice.

 

‘I’ll tell you. For now, take this one,’ she said, pointing to the dark brown large-bellied ghata I had played on. That wise old sage came home. 

 

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Editor’s postscript: This passage from Song of the Clay Pot by Sumana Chandrashekar has been excerpted with permission from Speaking Tiger Books.

 

If you’re curious, watch this short video of Sukanya Ramgopal and Sumana Chandrashekar playing the ghatam together. 

 

Cover photo courtesy of the author.