Why the Rhythm Still Holds and Haunts us !

On the Enduring Spell of the Tabla and the Renewed Recognition of the Pakhawaj

                  Shree Swapnil Bhise                                                       Shree Shubham Ugale

There is a certain moment in every classical concert when the listener settles. It may come early or late, but when it arrives, the body relaxes into the music. Breathing slows, attention sharpens, and the mind stops wandering. More often than not, this moment is ushered in by rhythm.

Indian classical music has never treated rhythm as secondary. Long before melody unfolds fully, rhythm establishes trust. It tells the listener where they are, how long they must stay, and what kind of journey lies ahead. Two instruments have carried this responsibility across centuries in distinct yet deeply connected ways. The tabla, widely familiar and endlessly adaptive. The pakhawaj, ancient and authoritative, for long heard mainly within inward looking musical circles, now receiving attention that reflects its true stature.

The tabla’s appeal is often described as versatility, but this does not quite capture the matter. Its real strength lies in its conversational nature. It does not merely accompany melody. It listens, responds, nudges, sometimes challenges, sometimes consoles.

For a scholar, this becomes clear when observing how tabla functions across genres. In khayal, it shapes time around the singer’s breath. In thumri, it softens its edges. In instrumental music, it mirrors phrasing with sensitivity. In solo performance, it reveals an entire universe built from a handful of syllables.

This flexibility is not accidental. The structure of the tabla encourages dialogue. Two drums with distinct tonal identities create a natural question and response. Even a simple theka contains contrasts of openness and restraint, resonance and closure. The listener may not analyze these consciously, but the ear responds instinctively.

What has ensured the tabla’s continuity is not only technical sophistication, but emotional accessibility. One does not need training to feel when a tihai resolves correctly. The sense of arrival is physical. The body knows before the mind names it. This is why even first time listeners often respond most visibly during rhythmic passages.

The pakhawaj belongs to a different order of listening.

It is among the oldest percussion instruments of the subcontinent, shaped over centuries alongside the gravest musical forms. For a long period, its life unfolded largely within highly disciplined traditions, most notably dhrupad and the abhang parampara. This inwardness was never a limitation. It was an aesthetic choice.

The pakhawaj does not seek immediacy. It seeks inevitability. Its sound carries weight, not merely in volume, but in authority. Each stroke occupies space. Silence around the stroke is integral to meaning. The resonance does not decorate time, it anchors it.

For students encountering it seriously, the contrast with the tabla is striking. Where the tabla thrives on responsiveness, the pakhawaj insists on steadiness. Where the tabla delights in agility, the pakhawaj demands control. Physical stamina, measured strength, and an unhurried mind are central to its grammar.

From a scholarly perspective, the rhythmic philosophy is clear. Rhythm here is architectural. Tala is not something that moves beneath the music. It is something upon which the music stands. The pakhawaj player does not embellish time. He bears it.

What has changed in recent years is not the instrument, but the listening environment around it.

As audiences grow more patient and perhaps more fatigued by speed and density, the pakhawaj’s full expressive range registers more clearly. Its solo presentations and expanded accompaniment roles have revealed to wider audiences what practitioners always knew. This is not the rise of the pakhawaj. It is its recognition.

Listeners often describe a grounding effect when they hear it. The sound is felt in the body, especially at slower tempos. There is reassurance in its unhurried confidence. Nothing feels rushed. Time regains its natural proportions.

It would be misleading to frame tabla and pakhawaj as competitors. Historically and aesthetically, they represent different articulations of the same rhythmic consciousness.The tabla embodies dialogue and responsiveness. The pakhawaj embodies depth and structural gravity.

For musicians, engagement with both leads to rhythmic maturity. The tabla sharpens alertness. The pakhawaj cultivates patience and long form thinking. Each tempers the excesses of the other.

For listeners, exposure to both reshapes taste. A fast tabla passage gains meaning after sustained pakhawaj listening. A slow pakhawaj elaboration reveals its power more clearly to ears trained by the elasticity of tabla play.

The present moment feels important not because something new has appeared, but because something enduring is being heard more fully.

Rhythm is not an accessory to music. It is one of its deepest teachers.The tabla continues to enchant because it evolves without losing sensitivity. The pakhawaj commands attention because it has never compromised its depth. Together, they remind us that Indian classical music has always trusted time, discipline, and the listener’s capacity to grow.

And the listener, it seems, is ready.