Geetanjali Krishna: The art of tabla-making

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It's funny what preconceived notions can do to you. When I was going to the lane in Benares where tablas are made and sold, I visualised a wonderful old place resounding with the beats of tablas, a couple of photogenic old tabla makers (photographers always seem to have these great pictures of old men with weathered faces) and tall columns of gleaming tablas.

Instead, my rickshaw-wala deposited me in front of this narrow lane off the main Chowk area in Benares, bespattered liberally with red betel juice stains and cow dung of varying vintage. Tinny Bollywood music was clashing horribly with the klaxon of horns and expletives that characterise Benares traffic at all times. "This can't be it," I said disappointedly. But he and the next-door paanwala insisted it was, so I walked in, quite certain it wasn't.

As I went deeper into the lane, the traffic sounds faded, to be replaced by a somnolent quietness. Then I noticed a tall column of tablas peeping out from behind a dark door. Nobody seemed to be looking after the shop. The next few doors were equally dark, equally unmanned and equally full of tablas and other percussion instruments of all shapes and sizes. I stopped at one of them, and a young fellow came out presently. He was Nasim Ahmed, a fourth generation tabla maker.

"Even if I say so myself," he said, showing me different types of tablas, "Benarsi tablas are the best in the country!" The secret, he said, was that they are handmade. "How," I asked ignorantly, "can a tabla be machine-made?" So we went to his workshop across the lane so he could explain.

"First, we soak the leather and stretch it over a hollowed piece of wood to make the basic form of the tabla. While we hollow out the wood by hand, some use a machine to do this," he said, showing me both sorts. The machine-made one had a smooth under-surface, while the handmade one was rougher. "Handmade ones always sound better to purists," he said.

I tapped away on both; they sounded different even to my untrained ears. The timbre of the tabla also depends upon its diameter "" the bigger the diameter of a tabla, the deeper is its sound. "The material we use to cover the tabla "" copper, brass or clay "" also alters the tabla's sound," said Nasim.

Brass tablas sound harder, while the ones of copper, a much softer metal, are prized for their noticeably sweeter notes. "But the best tablas are the ones made of clay "" they carry the richness of the earth in them!" he said. "If only they weren't so fragile..." Most of all, Nasim said, the sound of the tabla depended on the artistry of its creator: "Having grown up with tablas, I can recognise every note that emanates from them," he added.

Benarsi tablas, said Nasim, cost between Rs 2,200 for brass to Rs 4,000 for the copper varieties. Their local market is booming, thanks to Benares's strong music tradition. "Western tourists also like to buy tablas," Nasim said, adding, "though they go to the bigger shops we supply to, and pay a lot more too!"

To whom did the other tabla shops in the lane belong, I asked. He laughed: "they're all ours! We're five brothers, all tabla-makers." Between them, the brothers made and sold over fifty tablas a month. Their children were all learning the trade too. "Things don't change easily in Benares "" I can visualise many more generations after ours living right here and making these very tablas for a living!" was Nasim's parting shot.