Growing up in Dewas, you were surrounded by an atmosphere steeped in music. How would you describe your earliest experiences—not just of learning music, but of literally living inside it?

One thing I would like to confess: although I was surrounded by music from the moment I was born—both my parents were accomplished musicians, and our home was always filled with disciples and friends, people who were stalwarts from literature, poetry, and music—I was not at all drawn to it. As the youngest in the family, I was completely indifferent.

Whenever I woke up in the morning, I never found my mother beside me. That was the only time she could claim for herself, for her riyaz. So the moment I woke up, I would hear her practising in the next room. My baba would be in another room, immersed in his music, and I would be crying alone on the bed, wanting my mother next to me.

At that time, music felt like my enemy. I had no interest in it; I actually hated it.

Even at night, my parents would make us sleep early so that they could practise again. If I woke up in the middle of the night—around 10.30 or 11—I would find no one around. They would be busy with their music. I would then run to the sadhana kaksh [practice room], where my father taught his students. There, I would see my mother sitting with the tanpura, in front of my father, who was teaching her.

I would place my palm over Baba’s mouth and start crying. My father would immediately tell my mother to stop because I was crying. That was my childhood—completely surrounded by music, never singing, never interested, though everyone around me was.

Trained by both her parents—Pandit Kumar Gandharva and Vidushi Vasundhara Komkali—Kalapini Komkali’s musical formation was shaped as much by listening as by formal instruction. Here, she is at a performance in Kerala. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

How, then, did your initiation into music come about?

Even though I disliked all that practice, what I absorbed unconsciously through my parents’ music was far more powerful than what one often receives through formal training. Music entered me very slowly, without my realising it.

Those were the days when my father’s Triveni album was released and became widely known—this was in the early 1970s. The album was played constantly in our house; many people came and discussed it. My parents were also practising these compositions for performances.

The album contained bhajans by Kabir, Mirabai, and Surdas, the great poet-saints of the medieval Bhakti movement, which is why it was called Triveni. It was so melodious that I began listening very attentively, and without being aware of it, I started liking it deeply.

One day, when my father was sitting at the dining table, I went up to him and said, “Baba, do you know, I can also sing Triveni.” He was surprised. “Really? I never knew that. Tell me what you know,” he said.

And there, right in front of him, I sang all the bhajans from the album. He was completely amazed. He had never imagined I had learned them on my own. That moment became my first true interaction with music—and with my baba.

Kalapini Komkali with her father, Pandit Kumar Gandharva. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

Over the years, did you evolve a style of your own?

I do not think so, and I will tell you why. Everyone has a style. But when you learn from your guru, you must follow exactly what you are taught, at least up to a certain point. After that, something else begins to happen, and that part is crucial.

When we speak of developing one’s own style, it depends on one’s ability. Whatever my gurus taught, I always felt it was perfect. I wanted to sing in the same way—if not exactly, then as close as possible.

But my ability also counts. I cannot sing the way they did, and that difference matters. Yet, through the combination of what they gave me and what I am capable of, something new has happened in my singing.

How do you look at your father’s musical journey?

He passed away on January 12, 1992. Until then—and long after—my mother was a tremendous force in helping me understand his vision. She always told me that my father was completely different from others, and it was she who slowly made me understand who he was and what set him apart. Because of her, I began to truly know him. Otherwise, I would never have been able to grasp what he meant in his field, or why his work was so significant.

My early lessons were with my mother. Later, when I started sitting in front of my father, it became very difficult. It was not easy to reproduce what he was teaching. I was completely unaware of the finer points he spoke about, though he himself was very clear.

When he taught me, I would repeat what he said while playing the tanpura. It was acceptable, but never quite right. All the while, my mother would be in the kitchen, listening carefully. After the session, I would go to her and cry, saying, “There is nothing in my head!” His teaching was so abstract that I could not grasp even its essence. Although I could repeat what he taught, if someone asked me to sing independently, I would go blank.

That is where my mother helped me. In the evenings, she would teach me the same lesson again, breaking it down so that the next time I sat in front of my baba, I could at least begin to understand what he was saying. Slowly, very slowly, I started to understand a little of it—only a tiny portion of the Everest, I must say.

Kalapini Komkali with her mother, Vasundhara Komkali. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

In a sense, your mother was a bridge between you and your father.

Exactly. My baba passed away thirty four years ago and yet, day by day, I feel I am getting closer to him. Physically, he is no longer with me, but in another sense, I feel nearer to him now than ever before.

I think I am slowly beginning to understand him. Often, unconsciously, I thank him for whatever little elevation I have reached—though I am nowhere near him. This gradual, inward development is what is happening within me, and I believe it is exactly what he wanted from his disciples.

Who are the musicians, apart from the family, who carry his legacy forward?

Apart from me, my eldest brother Mukul continues that line. Beyond the family, musicians like Pandit Satyasheel Deshpande and Madhup Mudgal also carry forward his musical thought.

But they are not many, especially when it comes to performance. My father was not someone who trained people only to perform on stage. He was someone who made people understand music.

Did you ever try deviating from or improvising on your parents’ style?

I am so deeply held by their style that the more I sing, the more fascinated I become by it. So I cannot really say that I ever tried to deviate from it. But yes, while remaining within their style, I do try to add a few things here and there. That is not deviation—it is a kind of elaboration, because music allows that.

Kalapini Komkali as an infant with her parents. She says that what she absorbed unconsciously through her parents’ music was far more powerful than what one often receives through formal training. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

It is often said of Kumar Gandharva that, “if he had not been an ocean, he would have become a storm”, implying that he could never be confined by orthodoxy. You also prefer to keep away from orthodoxy. How do you interpret this spirit in your own work?

Here I must add something. Kumar Gandharva maintained orthodoxy in music at a very positive level. But his orthodoxy was never stagnant; it was a continuation of tradition that had movement and flow, and therefore always remained fresh.

He was deeply aware of the science of music and the beauty of tradition—the tradition of composition and the tradition of ragas. But he did not want to stop there. He wanted to explore further, to introduce improvisation, and he did so with great awareness. That is why some people wrongly interpret him as someone who did not follow tradition. That is not true. He was a staunch follower of tradition and, at the same time, a genuine innovator.

How do you personally navigate the balance between respecting tradition and finding space for experimentation?

According to him, you need not do the same thing again and again. But if you truly want to create something, you have to spend a large part of your life on it. You may have to practise the same thing repeatedly until you reach what you are searching for.

Practice is the only path. And while practising, you may discover something one day—only God knows when. That is the beauty of it. You may find it in a year, or you may never find it at all.

Kalapini Komkali at a performance. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

What possibilities do live concerts offer that recorded music cannot?

Whatever we listen to on streaming platforms or through recordings, nothing can replace the experience of live music. When people come to a concert—whether in an auditorium or a small gathering—there is a direct, one-to-one interaction. We can see each other, sense each other and, in a way, converse. That is very important.

My baba used to say that a performance is a dialogue between the artist and the audience. As long as the performance continues, this interaction keeps flowing—and that is its beauty.

I am not questioning the relevance of recorded music. Everyone cannot attend live concerts all the time. But those who do attend will agree that the vibration one receives there cannot be experienced through a recording. For a musician too, the presence of the audience, the atmosphere, even the mood in the air, shapes the improvisation.

I remember once my baba went to Mumbai and stayed with the structural engineer Shirish Patel. Knowing his curiosity for experiencing different things, Shirish kaka took him to the Gateway of India and then, by ferry, to Mumbai High where oil extraction was under way. As Shirish kaka explained the engineering processes, my father listened quietly and attentively. Later, when asked what he felt, my baba said he was amazed by the marvel before him. He added: “I was wondering whether I would be able to do something like this in my music.”

That kind of thinking comes only when we step out and experience the world. You may feel wonder in front of nature or human achievement, but how you respond to it through your own work—that is the real question. That, I feel, is the beauty of poetry, and of music.

Kumar Gandharva used to say he could connect deeply with sculptures and works of art. How do you see this aspect of his sensibility?

Yes, that was very much his way of engaging with the world. His music was inspired by many things beyond sound alone. When you visit an art gallery and closely observe works of art, they leave a deep impression. Sculptures, architecture, and visual forms spoke to him at a profound level.

Music, in many ways, is always connected to society. It can act as a means of relief and reflection—a window through which one glimpses different inner landscapes. At the same time, I personally prefer to keep music away from politics.

When people listen to music, they should be able to forget their burdens for that moment. They should simply listen, without distraction. That pure act of listening is where music truly works.

How do you look at the current state of classical music in India?

There are many new and promising voices—talented, dedicated, doing good work. But they have to cope with the realities of life.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to survive as a freelance artist. Unlike someone in technology or business, they do not receive a steady income. How can they sustain a life devoted to music under such circumstances?

As a society, we need to ensure that these voices are not left behind. No artist in any field can survive on creativity alone. Support, encouragement, and opportunity are essential to keep the art alive.