(From left) Joy Goswami, Pandit Ulhas Kashalkar and Bratya Basu

Three strong emotions pouring out of their three different art forms: music, poetry and theatre, was reason enough for three eminent artistes: vocalist Pandit Ulhas Kashalkar, poet Joy Goswami and playwright-director-actor Bratya Basu to flow together as Triveni — the confluence of three streams. Picasso organised this extremely well received experiment on the 28 th July at Birla Sabhagar.

Among all of India’s creative inheritance, its classical music is perhaps the only art that transforms not only the artistes but also its listener because music, essentially, has always been sadhana or riyaaz for the musicians. When practice becomes faith, it yields astounding results like peace, meditation, sharpened intellect, psychosomatic therapy, blissful state of a creative spirit and its radiating beauty.

Beauty in itself is a potent art. It was, therefore, natural that Goswami and Basu, two exceptionally sensitive writers, got charmed by the ethereal beauty of the ageless ragas and weaved a theme around a few of them. To match the intangible form of these ragas they narrowed down on three most intriguing subjects: death, divinity and love and stringed them together by the tanpura. Its resonance appeared to be the source of emotional nourishment and support in their journey together that delved deep in positive as well as negative aspects of human intellect along with its immense force of sublimity and creativity.

The multi-layered petals of this abstract dialogue started unfurling with Kashalkar’s alap in Puria that emanated peace related to renunciation. Riding those waves of serenity Goswami, in an emotive, hushed tone described Pracheen mayaal as death personified. Next raga Marwa, true to its nature, did not find shelter in the tonic. The sa kept on eluding like the knowledge of death. Basu’s husky baritone captured that restlessness in Mrityur dharan and Balo ki jante chao — an echo of Yama’s question to Nachiketa. But one could cut the despair and pain with a knife in Goswami’s Sei sab brishtipaat. The stark reality of death, as narrated by both, found a mysterious cover in the long glides of Shri.

While the distinctly diverse shades of the common re–ma combination of these three evening ragas painted separate moods, the inimitable splendour of the oscillating re-dha of Bhairav, rarely heard these days, automatically etched the scenic piety of the dawn. The maestro, splendidly aided by Gopal Misra and Jyoti Goho on the tabla and harmonium respectively, sang E prabhu daata invoking God. One could not help visualising an open cyclorama with a hint of pink at this point. Imaginative light effect displaying meditation being titillated by seductive spring during the superb rendition of Bhairav Bahar and that of rain during Miyan Malhar could have done wonders.

The poet excelled in Shikar, Alo and the musical Jhaupata. The gaiety of love spilled from the fast, intricate taans adorning the evergreen Bahar bandish Kaliyan sanga karta . All this changed the reticent monotone of the dramatist who opened up in Or kathagulo. The forbidden love bared its irresistible universal appeal in Goswami’s concluding piece further highlighted by an electrifying rendition in Desh by Kashalkar.