Guru Shishya Parampara

As the granddaughter and disciple of the legendary vocalist Gāyana Saraswati Kishori Amonkar – whom I lovingly call Ajji (grandmother) – and great-granddaughter of Gaana Tapaswini Mogubai Kurdikar – known to all as Mai – I was immersed in the age-old Guru Shishya Parampara (guru-disciple tradition) from an early age. This traditional mode of imparting knowledge shaped every aspect of my musical journey. In this first-person account, I will share Ajji’s philosophy and Mai’s teachings, and why I believe the Guru-Shishya Parampara is the most effective way of learning Hindustani classical music.

Ajji’s Philosophy: Music as a Spiritual Legacy

Growing up under Ajji’s tutelage meant that music was not just a subject or hobby – it was a way of life. Ajji always emphasized that “music is not just about words and beats. It is also about the emotion behind the rendition”, and that true music becomes “a dialogue with the divine”[1]. In her view, singing was a form of sadhana (spiritual practice), a path to transcendence rather than mere performance. She often reminded me that our music is considered the “fifth Veda,” a sacred knowledge. “You cannot learn that from a machine,” she would say, stressing that this art requires contemplation, meditation, and a living exchange of energy between guru and shishya[2].

Ajji’s approach to teaching was deeply influenced by this philosophy of music as a soulful, almost sacred pursuit. She believed a true Guru is far more than a conventional teacher. “The guru needs to be this good,” she once explained, cautioning that one who is merely coaching for concerts or fame is “a teacher, not a guru”[3]. In her eyes, a Guru’s role is to illuminate the path of inner growth for the student, not just to produce performers. Consequently, our lessons were not about rushing to sing on stage; they were about understanding the soul of each note and each rāga. “One should not teach students the limits of this art… There are none. But one has to understand the grammar – that is why one is taught the ragas,” Ajji argued[4]. This meant she encouraged me to learn the rules and structure (the grammar of music) diligently, but also taught me not to be boxed in by any one school’s “limits.” Music, she felt, should ultimately flow freely and emotionally once the foundation is strong.

Ajji herself had a reputation for perfectionism and intense focus. I remember that before her concerts she would retreat into solitude, bent over her surmandal (harp-like instrument), and immerse herself in music. Her daily riyaaz (practice) sometimes lasted eight to ten hours a day, an incredible display of dedication that set the bar for me as her student[5]. Watching this, I understood that she considered sādhanā (dedicated practice) a sacred act of devotion, not a chore. “Sadhana was sacred to her; it was never mere practice. It was an act of complete devotion to the art,” as one observer noted of Ajji’s approach[6]. She also impressed upon me the difference between mechanical practice and true sādhanā. In her words: “Sadhana makes you see one step ahead and move further. You have to walk and run on your own. The guru gives you strength to be able to do that. If you don’t, then you remain ordinary. My mother made sure I wasn’t ordinary.”[7]. In other words, Ajji could guide and inspire me, but ultimately I had to put in the hard work beyond our sessions to rise above the ordinary.

Perhaps the most beautiful part of Ajji’s philosophy was her insistence that music is a lifelong learning process. Despite her stature, she always described herself as “a learner until her last”[8]. This humility and endless curiosity were infectious. She showed me by example that no matter how much one achieves, one must always remain a student of the art, continually exploring deeper nuances of ragas and emotions.

Mai’s Teachings: The Foundation of Discipline and Purity

Ajji’s own guru was her mother, my great-grandmother Mogubai Kurdikar (Mai), a towering figure of the Jaipur-Atrauli gharana known for her devotion and strict discipline. Although I never trained directly under Mai (she passed away when I was very young), her presence was very much alive in our music room through Ajji’s stories and methods. Ajji would often recount how Mai taught her in the traditional way: “My mother wouldn’t talk about music. She would sing and I would repeat. I would copy her without asking her anything.”[9] If young Kishori (Ajji) ever faltered or asked too many questions, Mai’s response was simply to sing the passage again – but only up to a point. “Aai (mother) was so strict that she would sing the sthāyī and antara only twice and not a third time. I had to get every contour of the piece in those two instances. That taught me concentration,” Ajji told me, recalling Mai’s exacting standards[9]. This vivid anecdote taught me the core of Mai’s philosophy: unwavering focus, keen listening, and learning by absorption. There was no hand-holding beyond a point – the disciple’s ears and mind had to be alert enough to grasp the lesson quickly.

From everything I have heard, Mai was the epitome of a strict but loving guru. She was a “tough teacher” yet “equally loving and caring,” and she looked at music as a “spiritual endeavour, hardly bothering about fame and money”[10]. Her title Gaana Tapaswini (a music ascetic) was well earned – she treated music as tapasya (penance). The values she instilled in Ajji, which were passed to me, centered on purity of the art and total commitment. For Mai, certain compromises were simply unacceptable. For example, in the 1960s Ajji once experimented with singing for a film soundtrack. Mai strongly disapproved of this, believing that film music could dilute the purity of the classical form. In fact, Mai warned her daughter that if she continued working in films, she “would be forbidden from touching her mother’s tanpura” again[11]! This dramatic ultimatum highlights how sacred the tools and repertoire of classical music were to Mai – the tanpura (drone lute) itself symbolized our musical lineage, and touching it was a privilege to be earned by unwavering dedication to classical art. Chastened by Mai’s admonition, Ajji stayed away from film music thereafter, focusing solely on classical and devotional repertoire[11].

Mai also imparted to Ajji a staunchly purist approach to rāga. Even though Ajji later evolved her own style, she often acknowledged that her strict adherence to the core of each rāga was “an endowment from her mother”[12]. I too was taught never to violate the grammar or soulful identity of a rāga. Both Mai and Ajji believed that every swar (musical note) carries an emotional essence and must be rendered with precision and feeling. “Words turn into music when emotions are woven into them. And the notes – not just the basic seven, but the hundreds of other micro-notes – help to bring out the soul of a composition,” Ajji would say[13]. This deep reverence for each note’s purity and expressive power traces back to Mai’s rigorous training.

Importantly, Mai’s legacy wasn’t just about strictness; it was also about integrity and concentration. The training methodology she used – singing phrases for the student to imitate – meant that all knowledge was transmitted verbally and memorized. Nothing was spoon-fed or written down. This oral tradition (guru-mukh vidya) ensured that knowledge was preserved in a very pure form, relatively intact across generations[14]. It also meant that as a student I had to develop a sharp musical memory and cultivate the habit of learning by ear. Ajji followed the same method with me: I was rarely (if ever) given written notations of a composition. Instead, I learned every bandish (composition) by hearing Ajji sing it and repeating it back. If I erred or forgot a phrase, she might sing it once more – but I knew not to rely on a third time[9]. Thus, from day one I was trained to listen intently and internalize music rather than merely reading or intellectually deciphering it.

The Guru-Shishya Way: Rules, Discipline, and Learning Beyond the Classroom

Life as a shishya (disciple) in our family’s tradition came with a strict but rewarding regimen. Under Ajji’s guidance, I followed several unwritten rules and practices that kept me on the true path of our gharana. Some of the key principles included:

Absolute Concentration During Lessons: In the music room, I had to give full attention to every nuance Ajji sang. She often would not repeat a lesson more than twice, just as Mai had trained her[9]. This rule compelled me to develop intense focus and memory. I learned to catch the subtlest microtonal inflections in those precious two repetitions. If my mind wandered even slightly, I would miss the lesson – a mistake I dared not make! Over time this sharpened my concentration to a point where the music imprinted itself in my mind quickly and accurately.

No Written Notes – Learning by Ear and Heart: We never relied on written notation or recording devices during training. Ajji believed that writing down a rāga or a composition can reduce living music to a dry formula. Instead, everything had to be memorized and absorbed orally. As she often told me, “Students nowadays learn dead music” if they rely only on books or tapes, but “learning from a guru is live learning. It is learning with a soul”[15]. Indeed, the music I learned in person carried a certain life-force – the subtle gestures, emotions, and emphasis that no score sheet could ever convey. Thus, I would sit with eyes closed, listening to her sing a phrase, and then reproduce it from memory, gradually building each rāga piece by piece entirely in my mind and voice.

Rigorous Daily Riyaaz (Practice): Consistent practice was non-negotiable. Ajji instilled in me the understanding that “if you don’t walk and run on your own… you remain ordinary”[16]. Every single day, often at the break of dawn, I practiced scales (alankars), bandishes, and taans for hours. In our household it was normal to hear music echoing from the early morning into late hours – Ajji herself would sometimes practice 8–10 hours a day in her prime[5], and while she didn’t expect a child to match that immediately, I was certainly expected to devote many disciplined hours to riyaaz on a daily basis. This daily routine built my vocal stamina and deepened my understanding of each rāga. There were no shortcuts; taiyyari (preparation) was key.
Serving the Guru and Learning by Observation: The guru-shishya relationship extends beyond formal lessons – it is a 24/7 apprenticeship. I was not only a student in class, but an assistant and shadow to Ajji in many aspects of her musical life. From a young age, I would accompany Ajji to her performances, often sitting just behind her on stage tuning and playing the tanpura (the long-necked drone lute) as she sang. This was the same way Kishori-ji had accompanied Mai in her childhood – traveling with her mother to concerts and providing the tanpura drone while intently watching and listening[17]. Those experiences were lessons in themselves: I observed how Ajji handled a live audience, how she improvised in the moment, and even how she dealt with the atmosphere of the concert. Back at home, I was expected to help maintain the instruments (like carefully tuning the tanpuras every day) and to be present during Ajji’s own practice sessions, even if I wasn’t singing. Learning continued outside the designated class time – often, I learned just by quietly soaking in the music that filled our home. For example, if Ajji felt like singing a morning bhairav rāga while having her tea, I treated it as an impromptu class. She might not explicitly say “come, let’s practice,” but if I was alert, I could learn simply from being in her presence as she sang or reflected on music in daily life. In the Guru-Shishya Parampara, every moment with the Guru is an opportunity to learn, whether you are in the formal music room or doing something as mundane as household chores. I remember being told stories of how, in earlier generations, disciples would even do seva (service) like helping with its chores or errands – not as menial work, but as a way to demonstrate humility and soak in the Guru’s wisdom indirectly. In my case, simply helping Ajji organize her music books or prepare for a concert would lead to discussions about music where pearls of wisdom dropped naturally.

Respect, Etiquette, and Devotion: Following the Guru-Shishya Parampara also meant observing certain traditional etiquettes. I began every session by touching Ajji’s feet to seek blessings, and ended with the same gesture of respect. There was a disciplined code of conduct: I would never dream of addressing Ajji by name or challenging her instructions. If she corrected me or even scolded me on occasion, I took it as prasad (grace) because it was for my betterment. The emotional bond in this tradition is very strong – guru is regarded as equal to God in our culture of music. I truly felt that devotion; Ajji was my mentor, grandmother, and a guiding light all in one. This mutual faith and respect created a conducive environment for learning. I felt safe to pour my heart into the music, knowing I had her blessings and guidance. The result was a deep guru-shishya connection that went beyond a contract of classes – it was a lifelong familial bond.

By adhering to these principles, I found that the music blossomed inside me in a very organic way. The Guru-Shishya Parampara’s effectiveness lies in exactly this: the holistic, immersive training it provides. It’s not just techniques or theory that one learns, but the very sanskaar (values and aesthetic sensibility) of the art form. Instead of merely learning how to sing a rāga, I learned how to live a rāga. For instance, rather than just teaching me a scale, Ajji taught me to feel the mood of the rāga – to sense the melancholy of Darbari or the devotional peace of Yaman. This kind of insight can only be transmitted when Guru and shishya spend years closely intertwined, much like a family. I often found that lessons would emerge in the most unexpected moments: Ajji might drop a quick question as we ate dinner – “Which rāga do you think I just hummed?” – testing my ear and understanding casually. Or she might recount an anecdote from her own training days with Mai to illustrate a point about perseverance or humility. Learning was continuous and fluid, not confined to a class timetable.

It was also understood that as a shishya I carried the responsibility of the lineage. Ajji instilled in me a sense of duty to uphold the gharana’s reputation and keep the music pure for the next generation. This meant that the training was sometimes intense, even strict, but always with the purpose of moulding my character as well as talent. I had to be resilient – if I ever became complacent, Ajji would remind me how Mai made sure she “wasn’t ordinary”[16], thereby urging me to push my limits too. The strictness was never out of harshness, but out of love and high expectation. It forged a discipline in me that I carry into all aspects of life.

Outside the Music Room: A Living Education

One of the remarkable aspects of Guru-Shishya Parampara is that learning does not stop at the threshold of the music room. In my journey, I quickly realized that every interaction and observation was part of my education. When I traveled with Ajji, I observed how she interacted with organizers, how she maintained her composure before a concert, and even how she would sit quietly and meditate on the notes. She once told me that “loneliness is an artiste’s virtue”[18][19] – meaning a true artist must embrace solitude to delve deeper into the art. I witnessed this first-hand: on concert days, Ajji preferred to stay quiet and inward-focused, speaking very little, almost conserving her energy for the performance. By watching this routine, I learned the importance of introspection and mental preparation, lessons no theory class would ever teach.

Even during informal times at home, there was always an undercurrent of talim (training). For example, if relatives or students visited, musical discussions would start, and I was expected to listen and occasionally demonstrate what I’d learned. It kept me on my toes – you never knew when you might be called to sing what you learned that morning! Ajji might say, “Teju, sing that bandish in Rageshree for everyone.” There was no concept of being “off-duty” as a student of music; one had to be ready and present always. Initially, as a child, this felt demanding, but over time I realized it simply integrated music into my entire life. There was joy in this too – some of my fondest memories are of late evenings after dinner, when Ajji would reminisce about her own childhood with Mai. She would often sing me rare compositions that Mai had taught her decades ago. These were not formal lessons, but in those storytelling moments I probably learned more about the bhaav (emotion) of music and the devotion behind it than in any technical class.

One particular story that stayed with me was how Mai, despite her formidable strictness, had such reverence for her own gurus and peers. Ajji told me that Mai once declined a prestigious concert opportunity because the organizers had overlooked one of her seniors, Surashri Kesarbai Kerkar. Mai wrote to them asking how they could forget Kerkar, insisting that her senior be given due honor before herself[20]. This taught me that humility and respect in the lineage are paramount – a true artist never forgets their debt to their gurus and the tradition. Thus, outside the music room, I learned lessons of character: humility, respect for peers and elders, and an understanding that our art is bigger than any one individual.

Continuing the Legacy

Today, even after Ajji’s passing in 2017, I continue to follow the path she and Mai set for me. The Guru-Shishya Parampara is not just an old method of the past – it is a living, breathing tradition that I am carrying forward in my own career. I still consider myself Ajji’s student every day, consulting her teachings internally whenever I practice or perform. And as I have matured, I have also taken on the role of guru for a new generation of students. It fills me with pride and a sense of responsibility to impart what I have learned to my own disciples worldwide, following the same age-old principles of personal mentorship[21]. In our family, we established the Kishori Amonkar Foundation to promote this very ethos, ensuring these timeless teachings resonate for generations to come[22].

When I teach my students, I often find Ajji’s words flowing through me. I might catch myself telling them to close their eyes and feel the note, or refusing to write down a musical phrase for them – gently insisting they rely on their ears and memory, as I was taught. I encourage them to treat music as a living conversation, reminding them of what Ajji believed: “Learning from a guru is live learning... a give and take of the souls.”[15] I share anecdotes of Mai and Ajji to inspire them – for instance, how Mai’s two-time repetition rule can train their concentration, or how Ajji’s emotional connect with the music made her who she was. I realize that by teaching in the Parampara style, I am not just teaching techniques; I am shaping their mindset and spirit as musicians.

In conclusion, Guru Shishya Parampara has proven to be the best and most effective way of learning for me because it goes far beyond the transfer of information – it is the transfer of wisdom, tradition, and soul. I often reflect on how different my musical upbringing would have been had I learned from a school or via modern online tutorials. I am convinced I would not have the same depth of understanding or the subtle skills I now possess. The countless hours of one-on-one training, the unspoken lessons outside the classroom, the disciplined lifestyle and the heartfelt bond with my Guru-grandmother have given me something no textbook or video ever could. It has given me a living legacy.

Ajji once said in an interview, “When I am gone, four men will carry me on their shoulders and that’s it – but my music will live on in the memories I leave behind”[23]. As her shishya, I feel it is through the Guru-Shishya Parampara that her music indeed lives on – within me and now within my students. Every time I perform or teach, I sense Mai and Ajji’s presence, as if their voices sing through mine. This is the immortality of our paramparik learning: it is an unbroken thread connecting guru to shishya, generation after generation. I am profoundly grateful to have been nurtured in this system. It has made me not only a better singer but a better human being, imbued with values of dedication, patience, and devotion.

In my journey, I continue to learn every day – because the Guru-Shishya Parampara has taught me that the journey of learning never truly ends. And that, perhaps, is the greatest lesson of all.

Sources:

Kishori Amonkar’s reflections on learning from her mother Mogubai (strict two-iteration teaching)[9][24]
Kishori Amonkar on the difference between a true Guru and a teacher[3]
Kishori Amonkar on the role of sadhana and self-effort in training[7]
Kishori Amonkar’s belief in Guru-Shishya Parampara vs. learning from books/recordings[15]
Mogubai Kurdikar’s strict adherence to classical purity (e.g. forbidding film music)[11]
Guardian obituary noting Kishori Amonkar’s practice habits and emphasis on emotion[5][1]
Chandrakantha forum excerpts on Kishori’s views about guru, music as divine dialogue[15][2]
Baithak Foundation article on Mogubai Kurdikar’s personality and teaching style[10]
Tejashree Amonkar Bio note – continuing the legacy via Guru Shishya Parampara[21].