In recent years, composer-violinist Debojyoti Mishra has become somewhat of a sonic conjuror. His music has swept India’s most iconic monuments, weaving through the sculptures of Khajuraho temple in Madhya Pradesh, gathering force beneath the battle-scarred arches of Agra Fort in Uttar Pradesh, and rising in shimmering ripples around the pillars of Ramappa Temple in Telangana. At the Victoria Memorial in Calcutta, his notes settle like dew on marble.
Mishra’s soundscapes have turned historic spaces into living, breathing theatres of memory. Behind these transformation stands creative director Himanshu Sabharwal of Tricolor, who imagines monuments as breathing landscapes of light, sound, and shadow. Conceived in the liminal stillness before the pandemic and realised in the strange, altered world that followed, each project demanded months of relentless chiselling, excavation, and reinvention.
On a sultry afternoon, t2 sat down with Debojyoti to slip into these worlds to trace how he gathers histories and how he shapes them into sound.
How did you translate Ramappa Temple’s architectural and spiritual presence into music?
Composing for Ramappa Temple was an extraordinary experience. It is the only monument in India named after its architect — Ramappa and more a monumental structure than a conventional temple. Eight centuries have passed, yet it stands with astonishing grace.
While composing, I felt as if I were travelling back in time, trying to understand the forces that shaped its creation. My director, Himanshu Sabharwal of Tricolor, guided me towards the musical direction he envisioned. I immersed myself in Telangana’s folk traditions; the South has a vast linguistic and musical spectrum, and even Carnatic music changes flavour across the region. I had to identify what was essential to that land and its narrative.
Light became a character too. I also learnt a great deal from sound engineer Pratik Biswas about creating these immersive sonic environments. Kumaresh Ramgopal, Ambi Subramaniam, S. Sekhar, Rajhesh Vaidhya — so many masters came together.
The challenge, of course, was approaching South Indian idioms as a Bengali, as someone rooted in North Indian musicality. But I followed Ramappa, the sculptor through time. I read deeply about Telangana’s history and culture. That is where the music truly began.
This was your first time crafting an entire soundscape rooted in the South. What did that journey reveal about South Indian musical traditions?
My connection with South Indian music began over 40 years ago. With Salil Chowdhury, I travelled South while he composed for Malayalam, Tamil, and Telugu films; I was his assistant and had the privilege of meeting incredible musicians, extraordinary classical stalwarts. And, of course, L. Subramaniam played a pivotal role in opening that world to me.
Later, I spent five years associated with the Calcutta South India Club in Hindustan Park, where eminent artistes performed regularly. My fascination with this tradition has been lifelong. Ramappa simply pushed me deeper into that ocean.
What was the collaborative process like?
I created a grand musical blueprint, weaving together how the entire piece should be sung and played. Being a violinist myself, I recorded violin lines and sent them across to L. Subramaniam and Kumaresh, but I told them explicitly not to be limited by my North Indian approach.
I wanted them to go beyond, to find the quintessential Telugu violin or veena essence within my composition. I structured the entire musical timeline, and my dear friend Bickram Ghosh made the crucial introductions. He personally reached out, vouched for me, and brought everyone on board.
Once they heard the music, they were eager. They would send me segments, and I would string them together like a garland. There was a lot of back-and-forth, but we functioned with a beautiful sense of teamwork.
How did you translate Khajuraho’s sensuality and spirituality into sound?
I had composed earlier for a documentary on Khajuraho, so I was already familiar with its philosophical depth — the sensuality, the spirituality, the artistry. Music cannot “explain” Khajuraho; it must feel Khajuraho. The more you delve into its sculptures, the more you travel into a different spiritual realm.
For nearly 400 years, Khajuraho lay forgotten. Its rediscovery fascinated me, as did its folk traditions and the history of Madhya Pradesh. Without engaging with these layers, one cannot compose authentically for a light-and-sound show there.
Khajuraho’s sculptures move from physicality to spirituality. To understand that, you must first cherish the body, then transcend it.
After Khajuraho, I worked on Agra Fort under Himanshu’s direction. There, the soundscape needed the weight of Mughal grandeur. I combined bansuri, dholak, and sarangi with Western strings, creating a dialogue between classical elegance and imperial legacy. Regional vocal harmonies enriched the narrative further.
The Khajuraho project featured a 100-piece orchestra and a live choir. How did you ensure Indian instruments like the tabla, sitar, and shehnai retained their soul amid such scale?
Western classical instruments came to us through the British and Armenian communities — they bring grandeur, a certain architectural sonic space. But in my Khajuraho score, the orchestra sings the emotion of the place. The war sequences, the tranquillity, the ceremonial grandeur — everything had to be fractured and fused in ways that honoured the sculptures’ emotional arc. Indian instruments remained the soul. They carried the heritage, while the orchestra provided the vastness.
In Agra Fort, you have blended Mughal heritage with Western strings. What shaped this East-West synthesis?
East is East, West is West, and both bring invaluable perspectives. The West contributes scale, harmony, orchestration; the East contributes emotional nuance and the rootedness of tradition. My task was to orchestrate independence. Western forms provided the impact, while Indian music keeps the emotional core alive. I used the thungri, which existed during Jahangir’s time. I read extensively to remain faithful to the era. Music must be loyal to history, to the people who come to listen.
How has his Himanshu Sabharwal’s creative vision influenced you?
I write, I paint, I compose, but some directors give you space to rediscover yourself. Himanshu reinvented me. He opened up immense possibilities. The Victoria Memorial project, led by him and Tricolor, was a turning point. Jayanta Sengupta, then director of Victoria Memorial, introduced me to it. It marked my formal entry into the world of light-and-sound, and it changed everything for me.
Your journey began under the mentorship of Salil Chowdhury on a Fort William project. What remains with you from that early experience?
Salilda… I still cannot believe he is no longer with us. To me, he is like Mount Everest... the closer you get, the larger he becomes. There cannot be another Salil Chowdhury in India. He was a Renaissance man. During a Fort William project, he taught me my first lessons in light and sound. He would say: “Debu, listen to the speaker in that corner,” and I would run from one pavilion to another. His attention to detail was extraordinary, especially with the limited technology available then. Trumpets on one side, orchestra on another, Indian vocals elsewhere. Salilda’s imagination shaped mine.
Sound designer Pratik Biswas has been pivotal in your growth. Can you recall a moment when his approach shifted your thinking?
He has taught me that the pause in cinema is entirely different from the pause in light-and-sound. Every medium has its own language. Pratik works very differently from Himanshu. He first makes you question your assumptions; he might ask you to treat a painful sequence as joyous or ceremonial. He trains a composer to think in contradictions. He often begins gently, suggesting small changes, and only later do you realise the entire track must evolve.
At Gandhi Mandap and Chanderi Fort, you navigated contrasting emotional terrains, resilience and grandeur. How do you adapt your musical voice to such varied themes?
For Gandhi Mandap in Guwahati, Zubeen Garg helped immensely. I worked in his studio, with his singers and my team from Bengal. Assam has been familiar to me since the ’80s.
Assamese music is very strict. If something is not authentically Assamese, people will tell you immediately. I had to use the pepa, the traditional hornpipe; using any other flute would have been unacceptable. Ramappa, on the other hand, required deep historical study. Gandhi Mandap demanded an understanding of mythologies which takes on a different, more oriental shade.
Pictures: Pabitra Das and courtesy Debojyoti Mishra