Veejay Sai is an award-winning writer, editor, columnist and culture critic. He has written and published extensively on Indian classical performing arts, cultural history and heritage, and Sanskrit. He is the author of 'Drama Queens: Women Who Created History On Stage' (Roli Books-2017) and ‘The Many Lives of Mangalampalli Balamuralikrishna' (Penguin Random House -2022). He lives in New Delhi.
Sai attended INDICA’s Meta-retreat on the Cultural Appropriation of Carnatic Music held at Tiruvannamalai recently. In this interview, he speaks about his journey as a writer and the current stage of writing on art and culture today.
What are your thoughts on the Cultural Appropriation of Carnatic Music?
There are many today who say, “Carnatic music is just an art form.” But this is a shallow and incomplete understanding. Carnatic music doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It is not “just music.” It comes from a specific context - a sacred, devotional, culturally rooted context. And when you remove it from that foundation, you are not simply adapting it - you are appropriating it.
Carnatic music is born from bhakti. Its foundation is built on devotion - to Rama, Krishna, Shiva, Devi. The kritis of Thyagaraja, Muthuswami Dikshitar, and Shyama Shastri are not mere compositions—they are acts of surrender, of spiritual yearning, of intense emotional communion with the divine.
You can take the rāga Todi or Varali or Kalyani and sing, “My phone is black in colour,” and yes, technically it might be in tune. But it will have zero rasa, zero impact. The rāga is not just a melodic structure. It is a spiritual vehicle. When you sing of Ramanāma, of Krishna, of Premālila, the effect is transformative. The bhāva is embedded in the very DNA of our music.
This is not a limitation—it is the strength of the tradition.
But today, we are witnessing appropriation at multiple levels—through institutions, through individuals, through seemingly well-meaning experiments that slowly chip away at the cultural core of the art form. There's a growing discomfort, even shame, in acknowledging the devotional roots of Carnatic music. Performers are praised for "decontextualizing" it, for making it “secular,” for using it in abstract or activist frameworks without a trace of its original meaning. This is cultural dilution, not evolution.
We are not against experimentation. But it must come from within the tradition, with deep knowledge and reverence. You cannot distort the foundation and claim innovation. You cannot ignore the sampradaya and call it progress.
There is also a parallel movement happening—of artists, rasikas, and scholars who are fighting to bring the music back to its roots. Who understand that true respect for the art comes from respecting its context. We are not gatekeepers. We are caretakers. What we seek is integrity.
Carnatic music is not just to be performed. It is to be lived. And for that, we must protect its soul. Because without bhakti, without dharma, without its spiritual center—Carnatic music ceases to be what it is. It becomes sound without soul. And that is the greatest loss of all.
With Bharatanatyam legends Shanta and VP Dhananjayan outside Padmanabhaswamy temple
Can studying art with a scholar’s eye also lead to deep, personal insights, where art feels like a turning point or inner journey, not just something to analyse?
Over time, I’ve come to realize that engaging with art goes far beyond academic study or critique—it demands personal involvement. Whether it is music, dance, or visual arts, true understanding only comes when you immerse yourself in the form, when you live it.
Take music, for example. You cannot fully grasp it unless you learn it - unless you understand what a rāga is, what tālam is. The art becomes a part of you through your own indulgence, discipline, and surrender. It’s not just about appreciation from the outside; it's about being moved from within.
For years, I’ve felt a calling to write about art not just as an observer, but as a seeker -wanting to preserve the stories, the journeys, the spirit of art as service. Meeting great artists, learning from their life experiences, you begin to see how art shapes them - and, in turn, shapes you. Art begins to lead you. It takes you along on its own path.
I remember something the legendary Kelucharan Mohapatra ji once said to me. He said, "It is very good karma to be born an artist. One must have done many noble deeds in past lives to be born with the ability to create or even appreciate art." I believe this to be deeply true.
Just look at the world—of the billions of people, how many are truly able to experience the aesthetic joy, the rasa that art offers? It is rare. And when you begin to feel that joy, when you experience rasa svādhana (tasting the essence) or witness rasa siddhi (the perfection of that expression) in a great artist, you recognize it as a turning point. Art begins to touch something deep within you. It awakens you, uplifts you, moves you - especially in life’s most unpredictable moments.
And this is where art goes beyond scholarship, beyond theory. When you begin to walk toward understanding it sincerely, art meets you there. It reveals itself—not just to your intellect, but to your spirit.
With the great Mandolin U Shrinivas and Rajesh
How did the trainee reporter of Mumbai become the wise art celebrity writer of today? How has your journey been?
Bombay at that time was a different place—calmer, more intimate. The Internet hadn’t arrived yet. Communication was personal: landline phones, handwritten letters, and face-to-face meetings. Mobile phones had just started to make an appearance around 1995–2000. The city was vibrant, but without the rush and detachment we now associate with it.
Back then, artists were far more accessible. There was no air of ego, no “I am so-and-so and you are not.” Yes, there were boundaries, but they were soft, almost invisible. I had the good fortune of meeting and interacting with some of the greatest stalwarts of Indian classical music and dance.
In music, there was Pandit Bhimsen Joshi ji, Pandit Jasraj ji, Pandit Ravi Shankar ji, Kishori Amonkar ji, and her mother, Mogubai Kurdikar ji. Titans of Hindustani music. I’d meet dancers at the NCPA, at the Worli Centre—Pandit Birju Maharaj ji, Kalyanasundaram Pillai sir, Kadri Velu master. These were masters with profound dedication to their art. And yet, they were so welcoming. At that time, I was just a junior journalist working for a local afternoon paper, trying to carve a space for arts writing. I had to approach them, explain what I wanted to do—and they always received me with warmth and generosity.
I had also written about cinema and had the privilege of meeting legendary film music directors like O.P. Nayyar, Naushad, Anil Biswas, and singers like Lata ji, Asha ji, Shamshad Begum. These were icons, yet they spoke freely. It all came down to the rapport you built. There were no fixed rules. You had to know instinctively when to approach an artist and when to simply observe, listen, and learn.
Even among actors, I developed close friendships—Dev Anand saab, for instance. I wasn’t star-struck; my respect came from a different place. Painters at the Jehangir Art Gallery, theatre personalities like Pearl Padamsee, the vibrant scene at Prithvi Theatre—it was all part of a living, breathing arts ecosystem. I was also deeply involved in theatre myself at the time, though I wasn’t yet fully aware of the politics behind the scenes. I was simply taking in the performances.
Many from the older generation of artists were incredibly open—Ustad Allah Rakha, Girija Devi ji, and so many others. Even the smaller sabhas and lesser-known festivals had a kind of purity. I used to travel to Pune often—especially to Bhimsen ji’s home. Musicians would share rare recordings, offer insights, sometimes give me a cassette and ask for my thoughts. They’d sit with me for hours, explaining the intricacies of taal, the subtle nuances of their craft. These experiences are etched in memory.
One project I hold close to my heart is Utsav: A Celebration of Indian Music, produced by Star TV and anchored by Zakir bhai (Ustad Zakir Hussain). I did the research and scriptwriting for it, and we had a wonderful time filming on sets in Gurgaon.
That Bombay no longer exists. The city, true to its nature, has moved ahead—as it always does. But those years were special. They were personal. They were full of learning, warmth, and discovery. I carry them with me always.
You have stopped writing for some mainstream publications because of their public bashing of our value systems. Are there other spaces and forums for Dharmic writers today?
To start with, there are very few genuine spaces left today to write about the arts. That in itself is a sad commentary on where we stand. Most of the remaining platforms are either owned or completely taken over by what I would broadly call the left-liberal ecosystem.
For many years, I wrote for The Hindu. I contributed to websites like Scroll, even though their ideological bent is, frankly, rabidly left. But when a window opened for writing on art and culture, I never let it go—regardless of the tilt. We simply couldn’t afford to turn down the opportunity.
Today, such spaces are becoming rarer by the day. And I find it surprising—deeply disappointing, even—that in this day and age, no one has thought to start a serious magazine dedicated solely to art and culture. Where are the investors? Where is the vision? What are we doing with our cultural capital?
For several years, I also wrote for Narthaki, an important online platform for dance, founded by Anita Ratnam. Her leanings are known—left liberal—but again, where else does one go? The more frustrating question, to me, is: why hasn’t anyone from the so-called right-of-center or culturally conservative space created an alternative? Why hasn’t that ecosystem stepped up?
We have Swarajya, yes—but how much can one magazine cover? Politics consumes everything, and art and culture get pushed to the margins. There’s a vacuum waiting to be filled, and yet no one seems to be stepping in.
The other side of the problem is even more worrying: where are the writers? There are so few of them today. It takes time, patience, and discipline to become an arts writer. You have to watch the same performance for the 500th time, listen to the same krithi, the same rāga, over and over. You must develop a critical eye, and that doesn’t happen overnight. If you don’t cultivate that patience early, it’s not going to appear magically one day.
I had the good fortune of being mentored by editors who understood this. People like Behram “Busybee” Contractor, who told me early on: “Stick to art and culture. That’s your forte. It will pay off one day. Don’t give up.”
And he was right. Today, after more than two decades of writing—20, maybe 22 years—I can say that every bit of exposure, every review, every conversation with an artist has added to the texture and depth of my writing. But it’s been a slow, unglamorous journey.
That’s the irony of the moment: we live in a world that is expanding faster than ever—digitally, globally, politically—and yet the spaces for serious, sustained writing on art and culture are shrinking. And that should worry us all.
What is the philosophy of Bharateeya art? Is it to be discovered anew or just be understood better? How are artists navigating this today?
In my understanding today, Bharateeya art is not merely art for art’s sake - it is art in the service of dharma. Without bhakti, it may be skillful, it may be refined, but it remains hollow at its core. This realization didn’t come to me overnight. Like many others, I too came from what you might call a woke-secular ecosystem, where art was viewed “objectively” -detached from the spiritual or cultural foundations that actually gave it meaning.
But over time, I began to see the limitations of that approach. You can watch a performance and walk away, treating it like just another show. Or you can choose to open yourself to it - allow the art to move you, to change you, to speak to something deep within. That is where the transformation lies.
In the Indian tradition, rasa is not just a response - it is a revelation. And there are artists, even among the younger generation in Carnatic and Hindustani music, who are steeped in this spirit. They have tasted that rasa and are generous enough to share it with those willing to receive.
At this stage in my journey, I find myself drawn more and more toward these artists. I no longer seek out quantity, or novelty for its own sake. Now, it is about quality—of intent, of depth, of resonance. And I’ve come to believe that, in Indian art, quantity is not the enemy of quality; rather, it is through repeated immersion, over time, that quality reveals itself. That is the journey within Bharateeya art - a journey not just of technique, but of the self.
Why did you explore the performing arts? What draws you to them? In your earliest interactions with stalwarts what were the core values they espoused that shaped you?
One of the most striking things you realize when interacting with the stalwarts of Indian classical art is that many of them share certain unmistakable traits. Simplicity is one. Humility is another. Despite their towering stature in the world of music or dance, they live life casually—day by day—with art always occupying a sacred, central place.
In my conversations and interactions with legends like Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, Ustad Bismillah Khan, Dr. Balamuralikrishna, Lalgudi Jayaraman sir, and others, I began to understand just how rare and valuable these qualities are. It’s easy to be pompous, to put on airs, to project brilliance. But to be truly simple—that takes effort, depth, and character. Art teaches you that. Art chooses you when you are humble.
All of them had that touch of grace. On stage, they could create magic—music that brought audiences to tears or transported them beyond the mundane. And off stage? They’d be sitting around, sharing chai, cracking jokes, completely grounded in everyday reality. Their greatness wasn’t something they wore—it was something they were, almost unaware of it.
I remember Pandit Ravi Shankar once saying, “You are only as good as your last performance.” That kind of humility isn’t performative—it’s a way of life. Before going on stage, you pray. You hope. You surrender. And you say, “May this also go well.”
These are not just artistic lessons—they’re life lessons. And as a writer documenting the arts, you try to absorb and reflect that spirit in your work. My editors often reminded me: “You’ll be dead and gone someday, but your line—your sentence—will remain. It will either carry your voice with integrity or shame you long after you’re gone.”
That’s the discipline. Use simple language. Don’t try to impress. Don’t show off. Through your writing, a reader should be able to experience an art form they may never have seen or heard.
You try to write with the clarity of Bhimsen ji’s voice, the sharp, discerning eye of Kishori Amonkar tai, the playful innovation of Balamuralikrishna sir, the spiritual reverence of Lalgudi sir. These masters teach you - not just how to listen to music, but how to live with art. Day in, day out.
And when you listen, really listen - you begin to carry a small part of their rasa into your own life and work.
Who are the artist of today for whom you would travel far to listen. Why are they special?
At the very top of my list is Abhishek Raghuram. His music is an acquired taste—uncompromising, deeply introspective, and intellectually layered. What makes him extraordinary is not just the virtuosity, but the distillation of musical thought. Listening to him is like entering a conversation—between Abhishek and Thyagaraja, or between Abhishek and Muthuswami Dikshitar—and you, the listener, are allowed in. He is, in my view, the finest living Carnatic vocalist today.
Another voice that captivates me is Trichy Pradeep Kumar. While he has gained wide recognition through his work in cinema, his Carnatic grounding is profound. There’s a certain mesmerism in his voice, a texture that lingers. When he sings classical, it’s nothing short of transportive.
Among flautists, Shruti Sagar brings a remarkable clarity and emotional intelligence to his playing. On the Veena Ramana Balachandran is a revelation. His music is not just mature beyond his years—it is meditative, precise, and deeply moving. He's a fantastic vainika whose performances offer a rare stillness and beauty.
On the violin, Ganesh and Kumaresh continue to innovate within tradition, and Mysore Nagaraj and Manjunath offer brilliance that borders on the telepathic. Jayanti Kumaresh akka on the veena is both graceful and commanding—her music is grounded in sampradaya, yet fresh with each recital.
Giridhar Udupa on the ghatam is another name that instantly comes to mind—an artist who knows how to listen as much as he plays. His presence elevates every ensemble.
Bombay Jayashri remains one of the most dignified and soulful voices of our time. And Vishaka Hari is extraordinary—not in the traditional Harikatha format, which has its own conventions—but as a performer of Sangeetha Upanyasam, where she blends music and storytelling with unmatched elegance and precision.
Dushyant Sridhar, while not a musician in the strictest sense, brings profound clarity and conviction to his pravachanams. He is a scholar-performer whose command of text and context makes every discourse a deeply enriching experience.
Among younger Hindustani musicians, Amaan Ali and Ayaan Ali continue the majestic sarod legacy of their father Amjad Ali Khan. Their concerts carry both reverence and boldness, a beautiful balance that defines great lineage.
These are not just performers. They are seekers. Their art pushes boundaries but remains rooted in tradition. They are the kind of artists who make you stop, listen, reflect. The kind of artists I would cross cities for, without a second thought.
With Bharatanatyam dancer and guru Dr Vyjayanthimala Bali
In debates about rare or popular krithis, kutcheri formats, part time or full time artistes, what is it that we must not lose sight of?
I’ve never quite understood this obsession with “rare” kṛtis. Just because you haven’t sung it—or just because someone in the audience hasn’t heard it—doesn’t suddenly make it rare. If you’ve been in the field long enough, very few compositions are truly rare. They’ve all been sung at some point, by someone, somewhere.
And in today’s world, where we’re swimming in technology, resources, books, and recordings, there’s really no excuse. Almost everything is accessible—if not immediately, then with a little effort. So let’s be honest: there are no “rare” songs, only singers who choose to present certain works well or poorly.
Labeling something as “rare” has become a clever marketing trick. You hear it everywhere—“a rare padam,” “a rare jāvali.” Many of these compositions have been around for 200, 300, even 400 years. There’s nothing rare about them. What is rare, however, is sincerity. What is rare is depth. What is rare is honesty in presentation.
The real question we must ask is: Is the artist conveying what the composer intended? Is the emotional truth of the piece intact, or is it being distorted in the name of novelty? I don’t have a problem with traditional kutcheri formats, nor with experimentation—as long as the music stands strong. If the music is fine, everything is fine.
We are here for the music. Not for labels. Not for gimmicks.
The ultimate artist, in my view, is one who disappears into the art. Their ego steps back, and the music takes the front seat. They do not demand attention—they become the medium. And yes, such artists are few. On the other hand, there are performers who believe they are singing, they are the center. But art is always bigger than the artist. Those with big egos vanish quickly. Art, like dharma, endures.
And that is the heart of the matter: Art is not separate from dharma. In Bharateeya parampara, art is a form of service. It is an offering, not a product. As long as dharma survives, art will survive. They are inseparable.
