Born in Benaras in 1911, Mushtaq Ali Khan was initiated into the sitar by his illustrious father, Ashiq Ali Khan. He later trained under pioneers like Barkatullah Khan, reinvented the Masitkhani gat in his own manner, but remained faithful to the Jaipur Senia style. A rigorous classicism informed the core of his music.

To celebrate the birth centenary of this forgotten maestro, Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture screened a documentary, Ustad Mushtaq Ali Khan — Ekti Anweshan, by Jayanta Chattopadhyay on June 17. Informative and entertaining, the short film vividly recaptured the life and times of the Ustad through amusing, often moving, anecdotes by his disciples, family members and colleagues. A more detailed and lucid exploration of the Ustad’s experiments would have enlightened the common viewers and deepened their appreciation of the artist. It is also significant that Mushtaq Ali Khan’s career coincided with the golden era of 20th-century instrumental music, dominated by legendary figures such as Ravi Shankar and Vilayat Khan. Any appraisal of Mustaq Ali Khan cannot be complete if it does not place him within this great tradition of Indian classical music.

In the second half, Debu Chaudhuri, the Ustad’s best-known disciple, played alap, jod and jhala in Mian ki Malhar, accompanied by his son, Prateek, on the sitar. The invocation, though neatly structured, did not dwell much on the mandra saptak. It was also largely austere, as Chaudhuri pointed out, following his guru’s injunction of not embellishing serious ragas with murkis.

The dheema gat, based on a dhrupad, was a vintage Mushtaq Ali composition. Although not quite in the gayaki ang, it had some lyrical phrases and a profusion of taans. However, there was a clear lack of coordination between the artists, with the son often furiously overshadowing the father’s more restrained style with long stretches of virtuoso playing. This lack of coordination also became palpable when Abhijit Banerjee, on the tabla, started missing his cues. At times, the artists played simultaneously, each absorbed in weaving his own distinct patterns. The result proved to be jarring and cacophonous.

On his own, Pandit Debu Chaudhuri mesmerized the audience with his melodic elegance rather than speed, which seemed to be his son’s forte. (Prateek Chaudhuri could have easily avoided the saath-sangat, which really did give any extra edge to the recital.) In contrast, the elder musician’s emphasis on sur had a powerful effect in the concluding offering in Behag, teasing out exquisite meends and unfamiliar nuances out of this popular melody. Even his play with tempo — when he transposed an ektal gat onto one based on teental —was elegantly understated.