Personifying Raag Bhoopali

I have always felt that raags are not things I compose on, but beings I sit with.

For me, each raag is a divine, living personality—subtle, mysterious, and full of its own will. It is not something I “use” as much as someone I humbly invite. When I close my eyes and begin, I do not think, “Now I will sing Bhoopali.” I think, “Let me call Bhoopali gently and see if he chooses to arrive, even for a few moments.”

Over the years, I found that students often met raags first as structure: aroha, avaroha, pakad, time, vadi–samvadi. Useful, yes—but dry and distant if left there. I began to give my raags faces, voices, and stories so that they could be felt, not just analysed. Bhoopali became, in my heart, a detached yet compassionate king who rules with only five loyal ministers, renouncing Ma–Ni—“money”—with a quiet smile. Another raag might appear as a playful child, another as a wandering mystic, another as a radiant, meditative queen.

When I introduce raags this way, something softens in the room. Students stop worrying about “getting it right” and start wondering, “Who is this being I am about to meet?” Personification becomes my bridge between grammar and grace. The notes, phrases, and chalan are still there, but they now belong to someone—a presence with a mood, a gait, a way of breathing.

I see raags as divine visitors. My job, as an artist and teacher, is to prepare the space: tune the tanpura, quiet the mind, shape the imagination, and then invoke them with sincerity. When they are pleased, they give us a brief glimpse of themselves—through a single phrase that lands perfectly, a silence that suddenly feels full, a tear in a listener’s eye. Those are the moments I live for.

This is why I personify raags: not as a clever teaching trick, but as an honest reflection of how I experience them—walking, blessing, teasing, consoling, and occasionally, gracing me with their presence on stage and in class when I teach.